For many years, he was there. He was part of my collective. He was part of my life. He was my little brother. He was my best friends first love. He was a fellow autism parent. He was kind. He was sensitive. He was my friend.
I'm struggling with so many feelings surrounding his passing. I'm full of so many words that feel so hollow and so much silence that feels so solid.
Some people are angry with him for ending his life the way he did. He left his son to walk this world without him. He left his father to grieve his remaining days for another child that he outlived. He left his friends to mourn a deeply loved person who was there one minute and gone the next. On his way out, he left a painful goodbye on Facebook. His agonized final words forever immortalized in those black and white letters.
Steve was one of the people who shaped me into being me. He influenced me. His essence is a part of who I am. His fingerprint is on my life. They say that you should choose your friends wisely because you become most like those you have around you. And I chose them well. So many years of sitting in my bedroom, listening to music, inventing games, sharing pain, sharing laughs, sharing silence, sharing parts of books, poetry, drinks, joints, sharing who we were. Every memory contains a part of him. He was there for everything. He was there every day until I divorced my first husband when I was 21. Almost every single day from the time I was 15 until I was 21 - Steve was a staple of my every day. Of course, we saw each other here and there since then. We live in the same city. We interacted on social media. We talked about our sons' autism and the struggles. We mourned the loss of each one of our fallen brothers together. Our last conversation was discussing his appreciation for life after some near death experiences and the passing of other dear ones. I didn't know that the last thing I would ever say to him would be that I was glad that he was alive.
Some people are struggling with why he ended his life the way he did. He walked out to the garage and in one trigger pull, he was gone. I hid in that very garage once when I was dealing with parents who just didn't understand. Why did he do it? What set him off? What drove him to that point? What pushed him?
Having known Steve for as long as I have in the way that I did - I'm neither angry or curious. Because, I understand. I almost was Steve. I'm just sad. There isn't a word powerful enough to express it. I'm just sad. And I feel guilty. I know that anguish. I almost put my family through it. Knowing how this feels - to be on the other side of suicide - I'm so sorry that I ever, ever, ever even contemplated it for a second. I feel so tremendously awful for considering doing this to my loved ones. I feel selfish for feeling that way when my focus should be him.
But I feel so guilty that I wasn't able to do something to help Steve. How can I call myself a friend? I didn't know that it was this bad for him. But I did, in a way. I was not surprised. Because, deep down, I knew. After all, I knew that Steve was always sad. He always struggled. He had many moments of happiness when we were kids. But, he was not ever the kind of person that would outwardly express much of what he was feeling. He felt so much. He felt everything. It was like a radio on full blast for him all the time. He couldn't shut off the sounds. He could just go numb to it every now and then. We just accepted that he wasn't the type to smile much. We all met when we were going through the worst of the worst so we just kind of held each other together. It is because we were all there together that we all made it as far as we did.
I also just get it. I have been so low that nothing else mattered. I have felt that weight. Part of me wishes that the part of my soul that understands could hug the part of his soul that was so tortured - just to say goodbye. As much as it hurts me that he is gone - I completely just understand. Some pain is just so insurmountable. Some coping mechanisms just lose their potency over time. Sometimes, your soul just grows so weary that you can't take another day. Sometimes, the drugs aren't strong enough. Sometimes, the volume is just too loud. Sometimes the treble is so high your ears bleed. Sometimes, the bass is so deep that it rattles your insides. Sometimes, the balance is just too far away. Suicide is not weakness. Suicide is being strong for so long that your knees give. There's a reason that holding up the heavens was a punishment for Atlas. No one volunteers to carry that burden.
I just wish there was some way that I could have helped lighten the load. Even for just a minute.
((Hugs))
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