Last night, sitting, thinking, writing in my journal, I had a thought that was at first a little soothing, but which has since become more and more troubling to me:
If they kill themselves, I will get over it.
This really bugs me.
Right now, it feels like if something happens to them, my world will split in two. My chest will spill open and my guts will come spilling out. But then I think about Chicago Bob, and Cocaine Bob, my Grandmother, and all of the other deaths in my life. People who, at one time or another, I felt just as close to as I feel to this person in this moment. And I remember, vividly, the way that I felt like my whole soul was nothing more than fingernails on a chalkboard when Cocaine Bob died, and yet now, a mere five months later, that screaming and throbbing has subsided to a dull ache.
As horrified and terrified as I am of the prospect of this person committing suicide, I am suddenly, momentarily stopped, struck by the awful realization that if it does happen, my world will actually go on. Time will pass, and I'll get over it.
Why does that make me feel worse?