Two weeks, give or take a day. . . that's how long before I could return to my new normal. I'm going to yoga. I'm going to work. I'm cooking again.
But, my mind isn't very far from turning my friend's suicide over and over in my mind. Some moments, I can understand that my friend had tried everything everyone told him would make his life comfortable, easy, livable. He exercised. He ate right. He stayed away from booze and pills. He worked on his art. He tried, hard, to find work. He kept in touch with loved ones. And, in the end, nothing brought him joy. Nothing felt like living. I get that. But I don't. But, did I truly expect him to continue on being miserable because it was easier for me? Not really. But. BUT.
I hung his art up in my home. I love them. But, I'd give them up happily if he could have found some peace while living.
What I really struggle with is word tense. I cannot, just like with the Old Woman, bring myself to refer to him in the past tense. I know it is the appropriate thing to do . . . and largely, it's selfish on my part . . . I fear I'll start crying if I use the past tense. But, even while I use the present tense, my mind tells me that the past is appropriate . . . and I have to swallow hard to hold it together.
My new normal.