Trigger alert: this thread is about suicide and loss.
After a great night last night, celebrating the Navy's 242nd birthday, I was given a swift dose of the opposite side of that coin at about 0730 this morning.
I was notified that a Sailor in another part of the country, a man who started as an enlisted man and worked his way into the mustang officer ranks, took his own life last night, and someone needed to go notify his father, who lives about 90 minutes from my NOSC. So, I was that someone.
I got into my dress white uniform, drove the van into the mountains of Northern GA, and found the home of a man I had never met before, who didn't know me from Adam, but who was about to be introduced in probably the worst way possible.
When we got there (I had a wingman), we found a cute little place tucked off a secondary road, on a gravel path, up against the side of a hill, with trees all around, a sweet little brook running at the foot of the driveway, and what I could only describe as an idyllic setting. And I couldn't help but feel the darkness around me as I carried the burden of death up the driveway like an unwanted prized possession.
He was graceful in his agony. Composed, still a little disbelieving (he had already heard from his daughter, but didn't believe it yet), obviously hurting but not ugly about it. I haven't wanted to scream in a long time like I wanted to today from the sheer weight of the feelings inside me. I was the ultimate unwanted guest, but also oddly welcomed as a link to an organization he was proud of on account of his son, and also as someone who might be able to provide him some answers, and maybe eventually some closure. I carried none with me today. He was disappointed, but gracious. I won't ever forget the kindness he showed to the man who no-one ever wants to see.
"On behalf of the Secretary of the Navy, I regret to inform you..." That has got to be the worst script in the world.
The man I met today will never again get to hug his son, tell him he's proud of him, or that he loves him. I don't know if they had that relationship, but whatever they had, it is permanently frozen in time.
The man I didn't meet today also had kids, two young sons, by two different women, both broken relationships. Those boys will never again hear their father's voice or feel his arms embrace them. Again, I don't know what those relationships were, but they are as lost now as the faded echo of the last gunshot that man ever heard. I don't know which generation these tears are for right now, but I suspect the latter. They are paying the ultimate price for the sins of their father's demons.
I don't know what ugly words those demons were whispering, or what poison they poured into his dreams when he closed his eyes at night. It doesn't really matter. The finality of his last decision is set in the impossibly permanent stone grasp of history, regardless of the "why."
We all carry demons of one breed or another. Mine are vile and evil creatures, as I'm sure the same is true with others of you. You don't have to fight alone. Ask for help. There are many resources available, of all different flavors and smells. There is help available, I promise. And if you can't find the right one, or don't have the spoons available to try to do it yourself, (and if you don't understand that reference, it's ok), send me a PM if you need the help digging out of a hole. I'll listen, without judgment, and if you want the help, we'll find it together.
Which takes me back to the final item in my plea for you to listen to. Hug your kids. Call them. Send them a text. Whatever it is, do it - don't wait. Life is too short to squander in darkness and lost opportunities.
