Thoughts on the Suicide of a Friend
She stopped by one evening last winter after boxing at Gold’s, for a cheery chat. She told me all about her beloved rescue dog, a pitbull. I must meet her new guy. She’d finally managed the NYC magic combo for happiness — good body, good apartment, good dog, good man. She’d searched for it for years.
She had been taking SSRI’s for more than a decade. I could hardly remember what she’d been like when the weather of her unmediated personality dipped into the subtle space between us. I knew she felt better, but her drug regimen blunted my senses. I realized I could never bridge that subtle gap, because her quiet tentacles, mangled by Prozac, couldn’t clasp mine. Being with her was almost as bad, or worse in some ways, than internet socializing. There she was, sitting in the room with me, but our subterranean connection was all cotton candy — looks big but disappears in a lick.
Yes, she felt better, but obviously not all of the time because she ‘took her own life’, as the phrase goes. She took it where?
For me, real life exists mostly in raw person. In that rich, sticky sauce of immediate flesh; the smells, sounds, tastes, touches, looks, invisibilities, inscrutibilities. I wonder when, exactly, she really left…