Rage

This is not about me. This is not my story. This story belongs to J and J's family. My only role is to stand on the periphery and be silent. Listen, but not speak. Keep whatever little wisdom and counsel I think I can impart to myself.

There was a tragedy this past week. A member of J's family died, by his own hand. He was mentally ill for almost 30 years. So deeply ill that he refused to believe it, refused to acknowledge it. So deep in denial that all attempts to get him help were rebuffed. So bad that in the end, at the end, his own children did not feel safe.

His illness was a secret from almost everyone until almost the end. Until first his children, then his wife, decided they had enough. Thinking that he had nothing left he killed himself.

Now J's family questions everything. They say that he was a stranger, that they never knew him. They wavier between thankfulness that he did not hurt anyone else and rage at the cruelty of his act.

And they cry. Even the men, they cry.