Fuck. F U C K.
It's really the only word that fits. My headache is acting up. Tiny, tiny men run around inside my head, between my right temple and my right eye, and play with teeny tiny jackhammers.
Go here for more info on the headache of headaches.
This week is one of contrasts. On Thursday I go north for three days of creative writing with my class, which is always inspiring and fills me with energy. The same day it's two years ago my friend Henrik took his own life. Again...fuck.
I've only had to deal with a handful of deaths in my life, so I don't really have a frame of reference, but I do know that his death affected me harder than others have, and probably will. The main reason why is probably that he was like me, in a lot of ways, and if I can see myself in him, then chances are I could probably recognise at least some of the reasons why he decided to end his life.
Now, I've never contemplated suicide, but as far as anyone could tell, friends, family, everyone, neither had Henrik. Then again, they do say that people that do commit suicide never talk about it, but that might be a cliché. Put together with the fact that no one knows why Henrik killed himself, I find myself faced with the possibility that things may surface in my life that sends my thoughts in that very dark direction.
I know this is unreasonable. But feelings often are.
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3 comments:
I say you should write about Henrik at your retreat.
Fan va jobbigt med kronisk huvudvärk. Och död.
Hoppas att du får en trevlig skrivvistelse!
ege: That was the cure after three months of complete writer's block, after it happened. I wrote a text, just stream of consciousness writing, which I never ever do, and it was a release. I haven't gone back to that text since, haven't edited a single word, which I also never ever refrain from doing. I'm leaving the text at the cemetery on Thursday. And I might write something more this weekend.
ladym: Tack!
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