The crisis counselor said that often suicidal people make plans, and that things may seem a lot better right before it happens, because they have made that decision. They are at peace, the end is in sight.
I didn’t believe it, but I do now. I think maybe he decided Wednesday night after we talked. He was out of money, and they wouldn’t let me help him. He was due to check out Friday morning, and he had nowhere to go, he thought. His case manager had told him he’d probably be in the motel three days, until they could get an apartment arranged for him. Once he was in the apartment, they were going to START making arrangements for him to get visits with Hope.
It had been two weeks in the motel, three since he’d seen her, before he made his own arrangements.
He was down Wednesday night. That was the day he went swimming, and couldn’t enjoy it without Hope. I think swimming had been one of his greatest joys, before.
Light bulb: he felt how I feel. Everything reminds me of him, and the things that used to bring me joy are incredibly painful alone. I can, and will, go on. I must. But he didn’t see it that way. In the back of his mind, no matter how I tried to love it away, he always believed he was an albatross about my neck, a horrible reminder of a huge mistake. He was in the greatest pain he’d ever known, and he thought he could ease my pain. Oh, my love, if ever there was gift I didn’t want!
He called me Thursday, only once. We usually talked at least three times a day. But he called me and said he needed a razor, he’d lost his in the move. Now I think he’d decided if he was going to die, he was going to look good when they found him. We bought the razor, and argued over what turned out to be his last meal. I wanted to buy him lunch, but I didn’t want to spend much, and I didn’t want to be away from work too long. I only get a half hour for lunch.
We bought lunch at the deli in Fry’s, and he got seafood salad and some ribs. The ribs were $8 a pound, the pieces he asked for just under $4. But that, with his favorite razor, put us over the $20 I’d decided we could spend. So I didn’t get anything for myself, and he got mad. He put the ribs back, but I refused to buy anything for me. I wasn’t hungry anymore.
I wish I’d bought the ribs. But if I’d had any idea at all, I’d have tossed the ribs, and tossed him in the car, and driven him to the mental health crisis center three blocks from the grocery store.
He called me that night. I think he’d already taken the pills, and he wanted me to see him off, as it were. But he told me he’d sold his $700 computer, and I got mad. He didn’t, and if I’d had any clues before, that would have been the clincher, and I’d have known something was wrong. But he’d learned over the years, and become a very good liar. I used to always catch him in his lies, but he got better.
I wish he hadn’t told me about the computer. I wish I could have talked him into that sleep, giving him a last testament of love to see him on his journey.
But maybe that’s why he told me. So I would get mad, and convince him he’d made the right decision.
I don’t blame myself. Some people seem to think I should–not that they think I am guilty of anything, but because he suicided, and survivors are supposed to feel guilt. I don’t. I did everything I possibly could to help him, while being pushed from nearly every direction to cut the ties and let him sink or swim.
I can and do take comfort in that. But it is scant and cold comfort.