There is no Box

Family has become such a fascinating concept. Especially at this moment in history. There are all kinds of families, no limit to who we consider our family, they are a living, breathing, ever-changing entity. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Mine is a bit complicated. It's had great-grandparents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, sisters, spouses, children, all the usual cast of characters.

But mine has had a few more additions too. Subtractions as well. My home(s) have had walls, but also a bit of a swinging door.

My parents divorced when I was in my teens. Both remarried and were able to find the loves of their lives. It wasn't each other and that's OK. I'm just so grateful that they moved on to people who made them happy in the long run. I've had a step-father, step-mothers, step-brothers and a step-sister all come through that swinging door and into my life.

But for me that door has not just swung in, but also out.

After my parents divorced and before my dad married for life, there was a second marriage. Marla (not her real name) was young, brilliant, funny, scatter-brained, and full of life. She had a little orange 2-seater convertible and I still picture her zipping around in that thing with a big smile on her face. Marla had a little girl, Kathryn (not her real name either). Kathryn was sweet, very quiet and reserved. I lived with them over a summer and would take care of Kathryn while Dad and Marla were at work. I have fond memories of this time, even though it did end.

After the divorce I didn't have occasion to see Marla and Kathryn. There was no animosity, just everyone going their own way. I went off to college. Marla remarried, as did my dad. I ran into Marla once, many years later, at a mall. We stopped and chatted for quite a while. It was great to see her, to hear about Kathryn, to catch up.

Many, many, many years later, Kathryn and I both grown and married, we found each other on Facebook. I was so happy to see her, see pictures of her mom, her business, her husband, her life, how she had turned out. She was an outdoor girl, she'd summited Mt. Kilimanjaro! We had both moved from the East Coast to the middle of the country, one state apart. We spoke through Facebook status and also through private messages.

Until the day she disappeared. I knew her marriage was ending and I know a lot of people disappear from social media during tough times. I'd wait her out, she'd be back.

But well over a year passed and she wasn't. I thought about her, looked for her, worried about her. Her business has a website, I could have tried to contact her through it, but we were peripheral in each others lives so I didn't.

I didn't.

Regret is caustic.

The text came from my sister last week. She and Kathryn had friends in common so my sister got the news. Kathryn was gone.

I exploded in tears. So overcome I almost missed the rest of the message. Suicide.

Most of you know I lost my dad in December. The fallout has been enormous. There's not just the loss, there are all of those other pieces; coming to terms with the relationship, hurting for my step-mother who's alone now, so much to reconcile or to accept will never be reconciled. I could lose my mind, I really could.

In those moments when I just cannot take any more, I lovingly place that loss into a box. Not to forget it, not to refuse to deal with it, just to give myself a short break. It's self-preservation, really. I have just the box, the "generations before me" box. We lose generations before us, we don't dwell on it but we've always known it would happen. My great-grandmother, grandmothers, grandfather, step-father and now my dad. It's a well worn box. Filled with love and memories. Never completely closed because my memories often open it.

And there's the "cancer sucks" box. These days it seems we all have one. My step-brother Peter died way too young and just like any other loss, it provided me a way to deal in bits and pieces. An emotional time-out now and then.

But suicide. There is no box for this, not even an empty one. I cannot find a place to put this.

I do not know how things got that bad, I don't pretend to know Kathryn's demons. I do know that she had passions: the outdoors, her dogs, her business and volunteer work, hiking, biking and snowboarding. I wish they had been enough to sustain her through whatever she was going through. What little I know about suicide, it can be the result of so many things; mental illness, chemical imbalance, temporary or long term physical or emotional pain. It can seem, in moments of desperation, like the only escape from overwhelming despair. Suicide is an act of finality, a desolate act.

It is that desolation, the fact that someone I still picture as the little girl in pig-tails waving to the camera at the end of that long driveway was hurting to that degree, that is haunting me.

And even more than that, I am heartbroken for Marla. I mourn Kathryn's loss as a person, a former step-sister, someone who had meandered in and out of my life. All nothing compared to what I imagine Marla must feel. Every time I shut my eyes, every time I turn my head, every time I take a breath in, let one out, I put myself in Marla's place. I keep frantically trying to jerk myself away from that level of excruciation, but I can't. My eyes are swollen, my face is chapped, but I am unable to shut off this damn mom-empathy switch.

I just cannot.

So I am resigned to crafting a box, Kathryn. It is for you. It will be as beautiful as you were. I will take out the memories from time to time, this I promise. But I will also tell you now that it will be small. Because, so help me G-d, I cannot ever have to put another soul into the suicide box. Ever.

I am so sorry.

PS: If you are considering suicide, please reach out. There are people who love you, places where they know how to help you. You are not alone.

    If someone you know may be contemplating suicide, please reach out. You may not be able to impact the situation but try. After all, we are not responsible for the actions of others, but we are responsible for our own.