The unspeakable loss that must be spoken

My nephew’s best friend ended his life last week. The fellow he travelled Europe with. They were in a band together. Sometimes, they talked long into the night. They understood each other like no one else. They ate pizza. They played video games. They went skating. They hung out. They did normal stuff that young adults do.

The young man was funny. He meant much to young kids as a camp counsellor. He was a gifted musician. He was bright. He was a son, a brother, a friend.

And he had horrible depression.

And now he’s gone.

Nicholas Wolterstorff, in Lament for a Son, writes:

“The pain of his life was intense, he took the life that gave the pain”

The pain of completed suicide is a sucker punch to the gut…it takes one’s breath away.

Blown away by numb sudden grief.

Guiltily angry for such a seemingly unnecessary act.

Compassion for a troubled spirit now at rest. His parent’s say, “We rest assured that the grief is now ours, not[our son’s]”.

And the missing…oh the pain of the missing…the hole that aches cavernous, not to be filled.

And the “what ifs”, the second guessing, the wondering of what was missed, what coulda/shoulda/woulda been done to create a different outcome. The anguish at the unknown, the longing to roll back time and do something different…to show more care, ask more questions, spend more time…because maybe, just maybe…

Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and also more hard to bear. The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden: it is easier to say “My tooth is aching” than to say “My heart is broken.” ― C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain