There’s so much going on right now it’s a bit overwhelming.
- I have a cold.
- I have a tooth infection which said tooth will require extraction (a pulling, if you will) and then grafting and a fake tooth installed later on.
- I am home from work sick.
Then there’s the women’s retreat, which happened last weekend. I wanted it to be light, and airy, and fluffy even. But there were a lot of really serious conversations which were beautiful and necessary. But that wasn’t what I was hoping for. And, head cold. So I was grumpy.
There was a young person in our congregation who tried to commit suicide last week, the week before the retreat. He was 16 or 17 I think. His father found him the next morning, and they were not sure if he was going to pull through and live. It’s so scary. I heard this story over the retreat, and I was reminded of the time my father tried to commit suicide. Yes, I have lived through that. Yes. I know what that’s like. It’s the worst kind of horrible.
So my father tried to commit suicide in 2007. That was awful. I think I’m finally at a point where I can write about it for public consumption. But I don’t want to break his privacy, because his privacy is important to me. That leaves me with a few options.
I can barrel through and offend everyone, like my brother did when he wrote about it in 2008. From which we have The Fight That Was Long-Coming and We Still Aren’t Talking to Each Other Because of It. Yes, that fight between me and my older brother. Who will be named by the initial S because that’s a nice vague one.
I can write about it in code – which is to say, initials instead of names. Details changed to protect the identity of people.
I could ask. “Hey dad, do you mind if I write about your suicide attempt? Publicly, I mean? Okay, great, thanks.”
I think there are a variety of ways to handle it. Right now, I’m writing on a private WordPress blog post, which feels a teensy bit secure, but it’s on the internet, so someone who really knew what they were doing could break into it.
So here goes.
I was talking to my minister, the ever-plucky Richard, who was from New York and fantastic, and he really “got it.” I was telling him that I had the right amount of stress in my life. Not too much. Not too little. Because if you have too much, then you shut down, too little, and you sit on the couch all day.
Then I got a few calls during the course of the conversation. One was from my mother. When I checked my voicemail, it was her saying “Come to the hospital.”