I cry every single day now. Not just in the bath, or while I’m driving. I woke up crying this morning. After a while of laying there sobbing, tired from all the sadness, I couldn’t see anything else to do except get up and get on with things.
I wept from room to room, picking up laundry and dirty dishes, transferring clothes from the washer to the dryer, stuffing the dried dill and thyme into their glass jars.
I’m crying now. I pray I can find help.
I was thinking about suicide a lot yesterday. Not doing it. I wouldn’t, not with a child. But just thinking about it. Understanding the choice, the relief when relief is no longer visible; deeply understanding the weight of living, the hollowed out feeling in the chest that goes on for too long.
I don’t judge people who make the decision. What could be more personal or more within an individual’s right, than the question of their own life, especially when they no longer wish to live it. I think it’s a humbleness to admit defeat and to lay down the terrible, terrible fight. It seems an indignity to try to prevent people from it. An arrogance. Though, of course, I so often wish Che were still here.