She did it. Killed herself this week. Couldn’t take this world’s offerings a minute longer.
Pretty little girl, I frequently feel like I’ve reached my end; like there‘s no way out. But you upped your game on me and took matters—a gun in your case—into your own hands leaving the world bereft; picking up pieces; sorting through your remains. Those who wronged you are forever trapped in a world of guilt and anguish, searching for ways they could have made things right with you. That’s your hope, isn’t it?
Will they take the time to put aside their grief to rummage through their life to see how they contributed to your pain, your demise, your end? Who knows?
What’s your setup like over there on the other side? Were you welcomed? Are you cast into more pain, isolation, and even less hope than you felt on this side? Hopefully you’re experiencing the joy and freedom you so desperately needed.
Little one, like I tried to say: On this side, the pain gets too great to manage at times. Often the tools we’re given don’t help us, at least not for long or to our satisfaction. Well-meaning people tell us to just wait it out, but, they don’t feel the endless agony; the nonstop monologue of:
• I can’t suffer like this any longer.
• I’ve got to do the best, the best I can, even if it’s with a gun, a gun resting in my hand waiting, waiting to connect, connect with my head.
Boom. I’m out…
PS: Pretty little girl, you may have erased your mark; but, never, never your memory from deep, deep within our hearts.