8/07/2016

Grief

Before starting this post I want to warn that this post is potentially triggering for depression and suicide. Proceed at you own discretion.






















Today my grandfather died. Not only did he die, but he committed suicide. How he did it, doesn't matter. What matters is that he is dead.

When someone dies there is always a rush of people around the family, trying to fix things, trying to help, to ease the grief. When someone dies in this situation there is also other people around, policemen, forensics, judges. We had to wait for hours until they could take him away. Hours that were spent trying to calm down my grandmother, who had found him. Hours spent wondering why he did it. Wondering how he did it.

I don't care. Yes, my grandmother is hurt because she's left alone. Yes, we all hurt because, although he was ill, we weren't ready for this. No one is ever ready for this. He had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson and never accepted the diagnosis. I want to think that he thought that was the only solution, that he did think about my grandmother when he planned for it, that he didn't want to be a burden to anyone. Part of me understands it, part of me has at one point wondered who would miss me if I were no more. Part of me wants to go back in time and stop it.

It doesn't matter. It was his choice. A choice that has hurt many people, but his choice in the end. Yet, I wish I could have helped. I wish there had been something that I could have done. And it was not my fault, nor anyone's, but when something like this happens, you wonder if you could have done more.

However, his end was not his life, and I will not remember him by his end. And yet, I will be constantly reminded of it. And my family will be constantly reminded of it, both my grandmother and my mother who have been battling depression for years will be reminded of it. This is what we have to care for from now on, he is gone, but we are not, we must keep on, we must embrace life, we must live for what he couldn't.









8/04/2016

Drink

The couch is too hard and the cushions too soft, I lie awkwardly facing the ceiling, my legs dangling from the armrest as I mindlessly swing them. I focus on a crack on the ceiling, following it all the way to the wall.

"You know? I almost died before I was born. In a parallel universe, I don't exist. Actually, in several parallel universes. But I got a second chance, that's why I think I always give people a second chance."

I pull a cushion and place it under my head. I can hear her on the other sofa, shifting her weight.

"But some people don't deserve second chances." She says, the smoke of her cigarette trails in the air in front of my eyes.

"I know, but I can't help it." I extend my neck and look at her. "I have tried to, but every time I convince myself that it was a mistake and they deserve a second chance. That's why it is so hard for me to let go, too."

"You need to learn, this is only hurting you."

I guess she's right. I stay in silence for a long while.

"There's a street in Barcelona that is always windy. Not many people realize it. Most people just walk around, more worried about whether they are late or if the wind gets their hair in front their faces. Most of them also never look up, they go into buildings buying expensive clothes never realizing the beauty of them. They go to the beach because it's there, a prefabricated beach where they can tan in the sun."

She sighs.

"What's your point?"

I sit up and hug the cushion.

"Maybe I'm the one who is crazy. Maybe I'm the one who tries too hard. Maybe something is wrong with me. Maybe that's why I always give second chances because I think I see what no one else sees, but what if it is superfluous?"

She shooks her head.

"Stop thinking and let's go for a drink."