It was 20 years ago today that my dear friend T___ took cyanide, ending her own life.
She’d been a model, but her vicious ex-husband had burned her whole portfolio -- actually everything, her whole past. She had
memories of her youth. though; he couldn’t take those. Such vibrancy as she told of her younger days. I felt only the slightest twinge of jealousy as she told of being a groupie to the Moody Blues, though she would never reveal which member she slept with.
She still retained her beauty and vitality as the years passed. And it wasn’t only looks. The conversations we’d have long into the night, into the hours of the next morning, were fascinating.
But life also weighed on her.
She couldn’t escape the pain of facing each day. And the chronic physical pain, too.
She tried to end it once before, but a meddling motel clerk reported her license plate as her car sat in the parking lot all day, and the police “rescued†her. Oh, how angry and upset she was at that. She was determined to use a better way next time.
She kept a .357 by her, too, in case someone tried to get the police to intervene again. It pained her to think of shooting an innocent cop, but nobody was going to stop her!
I knew it was a possibility, a likelihood, but I guess I didn’t really face the reality of it at first. She’d pushed things off so many times. I promised I wouldn’t stop her, but oh, how I subtly tried to make her want to stick around. But looking back, I know I couldn’t have -- even professionals couldn't.
Things seemed to be going well for a bit. Then Customs or the DEA intercepted the drugs she’d ordered from India. And then Bev, the anti-suicide zealot she’d argue with online, pushed it. Her note told us
that was the last straw.
I was on a job site and couldn’t be there. I asked to be able to leave, but was told they needed their best geologist on the rig so I couldn’t leave. Killed by competence.
From that pay phone, I last heard her voice. She assured me all was okay and she wouldn’t do anything.
What a liar.
She knew I’d break my promise and try to intervene. And I hate myself, realizing I would have. She wanted to save me the dilemma.
I went through the stages of grief, though they were complex. My anger was more that she’d not let me go with her than her, herself, going. But fortunately, I cared enough about her to quickly realize that I was happy for her. She got what she wanted, and who would I be to want anything else for her?
She said the first thing she’d do after leaving was to plead her case to Jesus, and then plead mine. I hope He heard her and let her rest peacefully.
Who knows why I’m writing this? Twenty years is just another day; a day is a day, like any other.
Maybe it’s to honor her, because I admire her so much for taking charge of her life and doing what she wanted, not just letting life control her. She
managed her life instead of just enduring suffering and leaving everything to chance. Maybe it's something else...I'm not a psychologist...
In her note, she left me two songs: “Go Rest High On That Mountain†by Vince Gill, and “I Honestly Love You†by Olivia Newton-John. I guess I’ll end with those.
Sorry...Sorry...
