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Day 671

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It leaves me tattered and torn.
It puts me back together again.
It makes me completely worn.
Yet keeps me somewhat sane.

It’s a constant force within.
It flows and ebbs away.
It wears me paper thin.
And gives me strength to stay.

It’s everywhere and all around.
It makes up everything I see.
It can’t be lost and can’t be found.
How could that possibly be?

It’s what makes the world go round.
It makes time stand completely still.
It heeds no voice and needs no sound
One can happily die and readily kill.

It’s you and it’s me.
It’s us and it’s we.
It’s everything that used to be.
And infinite till eternity.

Day 670

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One blue ankle sock, two rolls of string- one open and the other sealed, one fine-tipped black sharpie pen, one portable cycle pump, one drum stick, three beer bottle caps – one Carlsberg and two Desperados, one black bow-tie, one black wallet with an ID and a few receipts from a college bar, a paperback in French by Jacques Godbout called ‘Salut Galarneau!’, an English translation of an Egyptian book called ‘Maze of Justice : Diary of a Country Prosecutor’ by Tawfik Al-Hakim and a hardback black journal partly covered in his hand-writing and a purple hair colour spray.

And the smell of old things.

These things were unearthed from the bottom of his cymbal bags today just before I was about to give them away to his friend and drum teacher who he had great admiration for. Each one of these things was a thread from different stories from various parts of his life. I couldn’t remember them all but these were familiar things – real but distant. Seeing all these random things on the table, I felt he was here, reaching out to me. They encapsulated him so utterly completely and beautifully. He felt heart-breakingly close.

I want to ask him to remind me the things I am forgetting. Please. Remind me. Please.

Day 669

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“It’s the small steps that walk us through this.

It’s the knockdown with the ability to stand.

We may be very shaken after our fall, but we stand in pride for those we loved, that ended it all.

It’s the counting of days, weeks and years we focus on; but we must count the days, weeks and years that they lived.

We can’t forget the time they did live, for that is why we loved them enough to have this pain of ours.

Their leaving moment does not outweigh their living moments. We grieve for many reasons: we grieve for their pain and our loss. Celebrating their life was longer than that moment of passing. Which shall I dwell upon? Their life, their living, their happiness, their achievements… that is where I should dwell. Imagine all the time they carried their pain and their force to live through it. That will never be trumped by their moment of death, for we are still here to stand for their namesake. Their name was never suicide and it should never be that way. Carry them with you no matter how heavily it weighs you down. You are their storyteller now.”

– SNY

Day 668

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A dozen of them arrived hidden inside a suitcase. Smuggled across borders in the name of love. True love. Covered in yellow and green skins holding the sunshine of the tropics and the sweetness of the people within. Carrying the essence of lazy summer afternoons spent back home waiting for the power supply to come back, fanning ourselves with hand-woven rectangular fans, for many hours.

They sit invitingly in a clear glass bowl. My most cherished possessions! Sadly perishable! Can hardly stop myself from digging into them and yet want them to last for as long as possible. Can hardly bear the thought that one day they will all be gone. Finished. The aroma they ooze tingles the senses and unknowingly I hang around the fruit bowl just to be within the sphere of that aroma.

Each bite, a taste of heaven. Beyond all description. The juicy firmness, disappearing into sublime lusciousness leaving me in state of ecstatic bliss. I take small mouthfuls to make it last longer. The juice drips in thick yellow drops from my knuckles as I devour the pulp around the stone. The whole world disappears when I am one with the mango. Move over Sally. (Ref: ‘When Harry met Sally’).

Summer is synonymous with mangos. Saagar used to love them ever since he first tasted them when he was 8 months old. He called them ‘ambu’, baby lingo for ‘aam’ which means mango in Hindi. I call Si ‘Tarzan’ when it’s hot and he roams around t-shirtless. He calls me ‘Mango’.

 

Day 667

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Clarke Carlisle, a former footballer speaks openly about his experience of depression and two failed suicide attempts. His honesty comes through very clearly in this film titled:

‘The Silence of Suicide’
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f86rz60Jcso&feature=youtu.be)

As he speaks, it breaks my heart to watch the tears roll down this handsome young man’s cheeks. I admire him for normalising vulnerability. He shares how depression makes one believe that everyone would be better off without them. He thinks that the stigma associated with suicide comes from the ‘mystery’ associated with the condition. Those left behind search within themselves and ask many questions but there are no answers. It is impossible to not personalise it. That makes it very hard for us to talk about it as individuals. Because it is so hard to speak about suicide for us as individuals, it is the same for us as a society. But it is essential and urgent for us all to talk about suicide. It is of paramount importance.

How can we encourage people to do this?

By ‘normalising’ it.
Statistics say that 1 in 4 people suffer from mental ill-health. However this may be a gross underestimation as many people are not very aware of how they feel. They may not really know and recognise their feelings.

His advice for anyone who might be thinking of ending their life is – Tell someone. Tell anyone. Once you do that, the power of that thought over you diminishes.