Tag: Suicide

Anniversary

Anniversary of death looms like doomsday

How do you get through the first anniversary of the death of your wife, your life companion, your soulmate?

You can’t be with friends who knew her, and celebrate her life together because none of them lives anywhere near you.

So, since you’ll be alone, do you tough it out and re-live the good times in your mind and get good and drunk in the process?

Do you try and ignore it and pretend it’s just another day in the 364 days of sorrow and loneliness that preceded it?

Or do you decide to handle it with poetic tragedy and on the day of her death fire a bullet into your brain?

The day looms in your mind as a personal doomsday that could “turn” either way.

I say “turn” because “anniversary” is from the Latin words annus for year and versus, past particle of vertere meaning “to turn.”

Drawing from another etymological tidbit, the Old English word for anniversary is mynddæg, which means “mind-day.”

Which brings one back to dealing with the day by reliving the good times in your mind, drinking to her memory and so forth. That would clearly be a “mind-day.”

Trying to ignore the day just wouldn’t work. So it seems the two choices are to end the loss and the sorrow once and for all, or to get out the Jack Daniels and deal with the loss and the sorrow by making it a mind-day.

I say let’s be a gentleman about this.

First anniversary of wife’s death

 

‘Nothin’ lasts forever Even cold November rain’

SAVED BY A GREEN-EYED GIRL FROM DETROIT

When a son dies it rips your heart out. When a son kills himself it rips you all to pieces.

Grief has been joined by anger and guilt. Anger because a young man of twenty would throw away the gift of life. Guilt because you didn’t pick up that last phone call.

It was late, you were in bed with your second wife Susan. The phone was in another room.

“Do you want me to get that?” Susan asked. “It might be Will.”

Will was your son from your first disastrous marriage. He lived in Toronto with his mother. You lived in Miami with Susan.

“I just talked to him earlier for two hours, he wore me out,” you said to her.

You had talked to him several times that week, each time for one or two hours. He was confused, lonely, totally fucked up. In the last call you told him you were exhausted and that you’d call him the next day and talk about his situation some more.

You felt like you were on a not-so-merry fucking merry-go-round. His mother had said in a separate phone call that you were “coddling him,” that he’d never make it on his own in life if you kept doing that. She told you it was time to use some “tough love.”

You let that last call go to voicemail.

The next morning you checked the phone. There was no message.

You were sitting down to breakfast with Susan when the phone rang. It was your ex-wife. She said: “Prepare yourself for a shock.” She told you outright. “Will is dead.”

There was no immediate shockwave. Only a surreal numbness in the mind. You got the details. Enough barbiturates to kill himself three times over.

You hung up the phone and that’s when you cried. You wailed, you screamed. Susan held you tight.

The anguish was replaced in the next days by “arrangements.” You took a plane to Toronto. Your older brother was one of the pallbearers. A beautiful voice inside the church sang ‘Ave Maria.’ There was a lonely ceremony on a hill outside Toronto. You took a plane back to Miami. 

That’s when the horror set in. You woke every morning to the same nightmare. Your son was dead. Your son killed himself. “I could have saved him,” you said over and over to Susan.  

You kept hearing the phone ringing, ringing, that last call, you didn’t pick up. You didn’t pick up. You told Susan you were going to kill yourself. She held you firm and told you straight: “You can’t do that to the rest of your family, you can’t do that to me.”

The nightmare went on for a year. The only reason you survived is Susan kept you alive. She saved your life.

The two of you went on and had a life together, thirty years. You travelled—to Europe, Australia, Canada, all over America. It was a turbulent marriage, great and grisly, but always steadfast. 

Now it is many years later. The rest of your family is dead. Susan is dead. The love of your life.

You live alone in a bungalow with ghosts. You drink a lot. You live the 80-proof life. You smoke purple haze.

On this night, two days before Thanksgiving, your first without Susan, a voice in your head says, “Do you know why you’re still here?”

“No, I don’t,” you answer. It’s a question you have asked yourself many times.

“To honor your son and your two brothers and your mother and your father, and most of all to honor Susan for giving you the strength to go on.”

With thanks to Renata and Outosego.

-30-

“Everybody has a story—and a scream.”

Welsh actress Rachel Roberts, Academy Award nominee for ‘This Sporting Life,’ killed herself on this day, November 26, 1980. 

She died from an overdose of barbiturates at her home in Studio City, California. She was 53 years old.

Rachel Roberts received an Academy Award nomination as Best Actress and BAFTA (British Academy of Film and Television Arts) award for the 1963 film ‘This Sporting Life’ with Richard Harris.

She also won a BAFTA award her for her role in ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning” with Albert Finney.

Other critically acclaimed film appearances included ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ (1974), ‘Picnic at Hanging Rock’ (1975), and  ‘Yanks’ (1979).

Rachel Roberts, a legendary alcoholic with a history of eccentric behavior, married actor Rex Harrison in 1961 in what turned out to be a rowdy relationship. Both Roberts and Harrison drank to excess and engaged in public fights. They divorced in 1971.

The divorce hit her hard and her alcoholism and depression reached a critical level, culminating with her suicide.

In 1992, her ashes, along with those of her friend, British actress Jill Bennett who committed suicide in 1990, were scattered on the Thames River in London.

WIKI BIO HERE