5: The Suicide and the Death of an Artist

April 2017.
Sometimes we lose our fight with our darkness. Some of us go kicking and screaming, reluctant to except our end is inevitable and others go more peacefully, calmly, knowing that we’ve lived our lives to the fullest. And others still -as you know by having read this far- go of their own choice. Quietly, without notice or pause from the outside world. Cold and alone. Why alone? Who would-… I suppose I cannot or should not question that myself. It seems no matter what I do or who I surround myself with, suicide is not something I can never escape.
It was only yesterday that I learned someone that I once considered my family has taken his own life. No one knows if it was an accident or on purpose. The only thing anyone is certain of right now is that he lost his life at his own hand.
Yet again I get a small glimpse into the repercussions of taking your own life. My former partner turned roommate, as emotionless as he seems, is broken on the inside. He lost a good friend to poor choices and an unhealthy addiction.
This is a terrible way to start the non-hospitalized portion of this journal, but life has a funny way of shoving things down our throats.
-~~~-
May 2017.
It has been about a month since I have returned to work from being hospitalized. I’m still a cocktail of medications. I have to take thirteen pills a day. So many meds, some the mellow me out and they, others the lift my mood and make me more energetic. I call it my “prescriptions speedball”… Oh, I am so clever.
I feel evened out there is one side effect but slow reviewing my goal. In the up-and-down moments of my depression and my “mania”, and such artistic inspiration that I was creating pieces left and right. My roommates enjoyed it because most of my creations were poor them. They would happily them from my sketchbook and put them into their own private collections to show off to their friends in an attempt to get me some commission work. But now, I can’t even bring myself to doodle. I don’t draw faces on my work papers to make my boxes chuckle. Nothing.
So simply enough, my plan for today is to pen over my journaling when I was in the second hospital. Golf pencils are terrible for chronicling anything you want to have last longer than six months.