Usually, I take this tiny corner of my internet and talk about whatever cool things in the technology world caught my attention. We had a couple of those things happen this week, too, like the Galaxy S21, which I think will be one of the best Android phones you can buy, especially once we see those inevitable sales and price drops in a few months. But I’m not going to write about any of those things today. I’m going to write about misery.
I know that we all go through something heartbreaking once in a while and that I’m not exceptional, but this felt like the worst week of my life. A family member and her husband committed suicide. She had been in and out of rehab, and yes, she died from an overdose, but the notes left no doubt that this was not an accidental overdose.
Many people take their lives every day, and this particular double-suicide isn’t any more significant than any other, except this one was in my family. And I can’t help but shake the feeling that somehow it was my fault. Or someone else in my family’s fault. How in the name of Christ could things get so bad and none of us noticed? Why didn’t my phone start ringing to tell me she needed me instead of her mother telling me she was dead? But most of all, why didn’t I call her to let her know I loved her and I was there?
I lost people I love because they didn’t reach out for the right help. And I didn’t offer it enough.
Losing someone you love is hard. We’ll all go through it at least once in our lives. And we’ll all work our way through it and carry on. I’m starting to get to that part, but most of this week has been a family trying to convince themselves that this wasn’t its fault. She never let anyone know how bad things inside her head were or that her husband was in a dark place. She was … expected. As normal as someone struggling with addiction could be. The real worry was that she’d stumble and go back to the needle, not that she would be able to go there and hide it until it took her past the brink.