Vol IV: #47 A Death and a Baby
On Saturday, mere moments apart, I existed at each end of the life cycle. Both in the extreme. In the first, I learned of a dream made reality, when I happened upon posted pictures of a newborn baby girl and her smiling adoptive parents. What a joyful surprise. My friends tried for nearly a decade to produce a child, managed several failed adoptions, and now they have their blessing. I thanked the Lord and messaged several friends to spread the good news. And then as life does, a few minutes later I received a call, the kind you know isn’t good and you brace for the worst. In this case, a step-cousin only a few years younger than me gave into to his hopelessness. His father found his body that morning.
Ever since, I’ve felt ripped open, my thoughts and emotions spilling out randomly. I didn’t know my step-cousin very well, but I know his father, my uncle, and his step-mom, my aunt. And I hate what they’re going through. But, more than that, I hate that my step-cousin gave up. To be clear, I’m not mad at him. And if you- my reader- can hear this, suicide is last act of a once compassionate person. Someone who listened to the sirens for far too long. They falsely assume they are worthless and empty and unloveable, and that their death will no bare effect on the world. The hole labeled suicide is a nasty dark pit of lies and pain. Once inside it, the logic of suicide becomes clear: there is no way out, if I die, I will not feel any more pain. Psychopaths take their pain out on the world. My step-cousin took his pain out on himself. And even though I can rationalize all of this shit, I’m still angry. Feels like the enemy got one.
To counter my grief, I’ve tried to kept the miracle baby near the front of my mind. It helps soothe my spirit, to remember the goodness of God, and to anticipate more updates from my friends. I can’t wait to hear their stories and anecdotes related to parenting, a future joy in waiting. What a wonderfully shitty place to be in life.
