Around a Year Ago...

...now, I walked out of the third floor satellite office of Lab Corp, having involuntarily offered up my blood in the continuing quest to determine why I was waking up in the middle of the night sweat-drenched and shivering.

There were two stores on the first floor of the building, a Tomasina bridal salon and an art gallery called the Art Loft. With the rest of the day ahead of me and no place to be, I decided to step into the gallery take a look around.

The Art Loft had several cases of artisan jewelry, the kind of dear little pieces made out of "found objects" such as old typewriter keys. Funky, fun, occasionally moving, intentionally inspiring pieces.

What caught my eyes was a series of cuff bracelets and small pendants. Both the bracelets and the pendants were stamped with quotes or a single word. The intent was to impart the wearer with a sort of invisible armor to aid them in getting through the day.

As I looked at the pieces, I thought about the misery of the past weeks. About the worry I pushed down deep, in a desire not to be overly dramatic about the short gauntlet of tests various doctors were putting me through. About how nice it was to feel that I was at the end of the pass through the gauntlet, not any wiser, but reassured that I did not have TB, thyroid issues or, most frightening because of my family history, lymphoma.

I purchased two pieces that day. A thin, sterling sliver cuff bracelet stamped with a quote attributed to Socrates, "Wisdom begins with wonder", and a small pendant stamped with a single word, "STRENGTH".

I convinced myself that I needed these pieces, to remind me that I was fine and would remain fine. To remind myself that the emotional cost of gaining wisdom was worth the wondering.

As I walked out of the store, up towards my car, I thought about my friend Bill. I had not written to him in the past weeks, not wanting to add worry about my health to his all ready heavy load of burdens. I was looking forward to getting good results from this final round of blood tests, forward to writing an email telling him of my adventures in medicine, that I was not perfect, but I was as close to fine as my doctors could determine me to be.

I never got a chance to send that email. Between that day and March 12, my friend Bill put a loaded shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I know, distinctly, which gun he used to end his life. I saw it sitting in his apartment four months earlier.

Harsh, is it not, the way I describe my friend's death? Harsh of me to not gloss over his violent journey from life to death? To refuse to speak in code, to say that he "passed away suddenly" or "took his life" or "committed suicide".

My friend lied to me. For years. Lied about the reasons surrounding his divorce. Lied about the reasons he was no longer permitted to talk to his son. Lied about his mental health.

My friend suffered from bipolar disorder. Like J's cousin-in-law, he refused to take medication consistently. Refused to stay in therapy. Drank to much. Became violent and abusive during the lows. And was somehow successfully able to hid this from employers, friends and most family.

Like J's cousin, my friend's wife decided she had enough. Was tired of the violence and the abuse. Was tired of watching their child suffer. While he was away on a free lance assignment, she told him not to come home. She didn't love him any more.

J's cousin-in-law and my friend took their respective lives within three weeks of each other, using the same method, under similar life circumstances. The catalyst for J's cousin-in-law was receiving divorce papers. For Bill, it was learning that he was responsible for his ex-wife's legal bills.

I say catalyst, but really, the catalyst occurred long, long before those events. It was made when they refused to stay on their medication. Refused to continue with therapy. Brought into the ridiculous cultural notion of how men should behave. Men don't get depressed. Men don't go into therapy. Men don't take medications.

I have written of my own difficulties with depression. I know, intimately, what it feels like to be suicidal. I know the kind of toll it takes on the people I love, the ones who love me. I know the burden that J carries in loving me, even in my mad, hopeless, depressed states*, charges me to do the very best I can to keep myself healthy mentally.

I have been angry with Bill for almost a year. For lying to me. For making the people he was supposed to love and protect the most suffer. For killing himself.

Earlier this week, while searching for something else, I came across a couple of his emails. And I felt the loss of my friend, the way I could not feel it for the past year. This morning, while riding into work, I started talking to J about Bill, after refusing to say anything about his death for almost a year. I started to cry.

And the woman across the aisle, the one who I thought had a mean face, she handed me two tissues so I could wipe the tears from my eyes.






*Hyperbole, people. Coping mechanism.