I heard a few hours ago a friend of mine committed suicide. She apparently blew herself away with a gun — I didn’t get the full details. I’m not sure I really want to know.
Her name was Deborah. I will not be able to go to her funeral later this week.
I met her in Star Wars terms: a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. I am fairly confident the first time I met her was in a bar on Dickson Street and that I thought then what I still think now — that is a strikingly beautiful woman.
Except now she is less superficially beautiful, because she’ll have a closed casket as a result of a bullet being sent through her brain. By her own hand.
What a waste.
I got the news at around midnight here in Berlin, from a mutual friend that thoughtfully wanted me to hear it from a friend, rather than through the grapevine. I’d meet Deborah with this friend, I am pretty sure, back a decade or so ago in that bar in Fayetteville. Stir was the name of the bar, I think.
Stir. Odd to see those letters on the screen right now for some reason. They just don’t look right. It is an odd combination of letters that does not look like a real word.
We talked about once a month online. She wanted to know about my travels and I wanted to know about her life. Had she sold her condo? How was the job hunt? Any interesting guys in her life? Did she manage to get to Fayetteville to see friends or was she mostly hanging out up north in Benton County?
I know she hadn’t been happy for quite some time. One of my roles in life is to be a sounding board for my friends — the shit I know about people would boggle your mind. I’d like to think the reason that people tell me everything… and I mean everything… is because I was raised in the lawyer culture of confidentiality. You can tell me whatever you wish. I shall not judge. I shall attempt to listen, understand, and help. If you wish.
She never told me she was contemplating this “solution.”
I am the person she should have talked to about this. This is why I am here. I talk. I listen. I help. This is my function. My place in life. God DAMN IT — this is what I do.
I am sitting here at 1:30 in the morning in tears — pissed off. Angry. I could have helped. I am totally frustrated. Who did she talk to? Why did she never mention it to me? I review the entire log of my Facebook chats with her. Was there any sign? Yes, she was unhappy. She had problems. But was there a point I could have listened more.
And I am not sure.
What a fracking waste.
The last message I got from her on Facebook was on March 15th, less than two weeks ago:
Deborah — Hope all is well!! Miss ya!
I just went ahead and left her a message back right now:
Michael Hodson — Damn it, girl. Hate you did that! Uggg. Miss you.
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