No chance for a cheeseburger

Anyone who reads a few entries on this blog knows I'm wide-open about my life, my doubts, insecurities, everything. Only on this website, though — in the company of other actual humans, I am always behind a wall, sometimes multiple walls.

Even people who know me, don't really know me. To friends, flatmates, and co-workers (when I'm working), I'm that fat guy who doesn't talk much. To my family, I'm the sibling who ran away for thirty years, and they don't even wonder why.

Stephanie, my wife, died five years ago. She knew me, and I knew her, and our lives were wrapped around each other entirely. Without her, everything that's left sucks. Sure, there are still laughs, good times, and life is worth living, but the best day now is never half as good as a dull day with her.

Two weeks ago this morning, my friend Joe killed himself. I'm still, as people annoying say, 'processing it,' and always will be. You don't get over the death of a loved one, but like Old Man River, you just keep rolling along.

Joe was the last person who knew me, really knew me, from the real world. There's no-one now who knows me both deeply and in person. Being unknown is a strange feeling, but I've always enjoyed being anonymous. Now I'll be even more anonymous, and to everyone.

♦ ♦ ♦

I am still angry at my dead buddy Joe, and always will be, but not because he killed himself. Philosophically, no-one has standing to argue that he shouldn't have. The most basic freedom is control over your own life, which includes deciding when it's over.

What angers me is, he never called and said, "Hey, I think it's time to die."

If he'd said that, said anything, I would've been in Pennsylvania quick as a plane could get me there. I would've made some clumsy attempt to talk him out of suicide, but I wouldn't have done all the talking — I would've listened, too, heard and respected whatever he said.

I would not have dialed 9-1-1 and sent my best friend to psychiatrists who'd fuck with his mind — or to the police who'd simply kill him, as they're always likely to do when called for a "mental health crisis."

And also it needs to be said: Whatever was happening inside Joe's head, it wasn't a mental health crisis. Dude was more mentally healthy than me, and if he'd told me why he wanted death, I'll wager his reasoning would've made sense. I wouldn't have wasted time arguing.

All I would've wanted was a last afternoon with him, to buy him a cheeseburger and fries, and share some laughs about the old days, telling each other truths like most people never do.

I wanted a chance to say goodbye, that's all, and he didn't give me that chance. For that I'll always say, Fuck you, Joe.

♦ ♦ ♦

Never been suicidal myself, even in my bleakest depressions, but toss enough insurmountables at me and I could change my mind.

If ever it comes to that, this I pledge: Unless I'm unexpectedly flattened by a truck, there's no frickin' way I'd leave without saying sayonara.

I would give goodbyes to the people in my life, and let them say goodbye, too. Even if it's only a hug for anyone in my family still alive, and a toodle-doo page for the few readers of this blog, I want to say and hear some last words. My life's been a fun story; it deserves a decent ending.

And after posting that final page, I promise to stick around long enough to read and reply to a few comments, before leaving.

8/31/2023   

 itsdougholland.com
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