Thursday, June 24, 2010

The Devil's Weblog

I saw a Reader's Digest cartoon the other day entitled "The Devil's Weblog." It pictured a devil-like caricature typing at his desktop. The screen read:

"Monday: Today was hell.
Tuesday: Today was hell.
Wednesday: Today was hell.
Thursday: Today was hell."


Now, I'm not saying I'm the devil, although I know for certain I have a couple of ex-boyfriends who would beg to differ.

And I'm not saying every day is hell. Far form it. There is life and health and peace.

But my blog has gone dormant mostly because, if I were to post frequently, it would look like this:

Monday: I thought about my dad.
Tuesday: I thought about my dad.
Wednesday: I thought about my dad.

Or like this:

Thursday: I went for another walk
Friday: I went for another walk.
Saturday: I went for another walk.

Or like this:

Monday: I sorted Mom's stuff.
Tuesday: I sorted Mom's stuff.
Wednesday: I sorted Mom's stuff.

You get the idea. I'm sure you got it a long time ago. I just like to hear myself type. It makes really cool tappety-tap clicking noises.

Well, I do have things to post about, but they either seem superfluous or sad. I feel either maddeningly fluffy, or like a big, fat Debbie Downer.

I thought about Dad? Now *there's* a big shock.

I went for a walk? Whoop-de-frickin'-do.

I sorted Mom's stuff? Yup. And found another card from Dad to Mom in which he promises to stay with her forever.

Then, the other day, I picked up a new booklet from the Daily Bread booklet series my parents always kept in their guest bathroom. It was called "When You're Left Behind: Surviving the Aftermath of Suicide".

It said there are triggers, causes, and predispositions. It said triggers are almost never ever the cause of suicide, and the complexities of coming to that decision take years, not singular events. This was good news to me, whose last interaction with Dad was not happy.

It also said, "Suicide doesn't end pain, it just transfers it to the survivors." Too true.

It said the loved ones of those who commit suicide are actually called survivors, just like everyone who goes through a hurricane or a flood or a car accident. When my grandpa died of pulmonary fibrosis at age 88, I was not a survivor of pulmonary fibrosis. When my friend died in a car accident during my freshman year of college, I was not a survivor of that car accident. But the aftermath of suicide is so intense that it is as if Dad and me and Mom and my siblings and his siblings and everyone who was close to him all went through the same hurricane. Or the same car accident. And he didn't survive.

It also said someone takes their own life every 30 seconds, and that means there are a lot of survivors out there.

Which means I am not alone.

So even though I feel like this is the devil's weblog because I have nothing to talk about except Dad's death and how I'm walking through my grief, and even though I'm tired of listening to myself process this (not tired of hearing myself type, mind you), I'm posting anyway, for those of you who feel alone.

You're not.