I can barely do this one

I can’t and won’t come up with an “angrier than” today and you’ll see why.  Today, I am sadder than.  Yesterday, someone I knew committed died by suicide and I probably definitely could have done something to stop it.  I’m so sorry to her parents, fellow students and everyone else.  I am so, so sorry.  I am not worthy of life and the rest of my years in this miserable wretched existence will be years of regret, sadness and inability to forgive myself for what I did, or what I failed to do.

There won’t be any other blog posts today (and in her memory, not for a while), and if you can’t handle what’s coming right about now, leave.  I don’t give damn one.  The rest of you, here we go.

My eyes are filled with tears right now, to the point I can’t see anything. I can’t
stop crying.  This is a nightmare from which I cannot escape. I don’t know how I’m typing this.

I feel like I’m the one who should be dead, not an
innocent teenage girl who was obviously (well, now it’s obvious) going through some major emotional and mental pain. Having dealt with mental illness most of my life, I, more than anyone, should have seen the signs the last time I saw her.

If it’s any comfort to her family, friends and church family, I didn’t sleep much last night and I feel
worthless right now.  I don’t deserve happiness ever again.  I’ll never get over this.  It’s my fault and I’ll
never forgive myself.  I feel worthless to the point that it’s not fair
that I’m alive.  But I am, and all I can do is get through life living with this every day.

No one needs to call anyone; I won’t hurt myself, but I am the adult.  I should have seen it.  If anyone should have been in a
bathroom stall slowly bleeding to death, alone and suffering physically
and mentally, it should have been me.  Not her. If I could trade places with her, if I could take her pain upon my shoulders so that she’d be the one to live, I would.  She deserved life.  I don’t.  I’ll carry this with me for the rest of my life, knowing I’m unworthy of life.

Last week, a young woman whom I met in church to prepare me to be an altar server was feeling depressed and I didn’t see the signs.  I thought she looked down, so I asked her if she was okay.  And by the way, she was 14 years old.

Fourteen years old and her life is gone.  Gone because I’m too much of a retard to see what’s happening right in front of me.  She was more than just some girl who helped me out at church.  In time, we became friends. We confided in each other and we’d just talk outside of church.  I don’t feel that our relationship crossed any lines, but there are those who say that a 14-year-old girl and a 46-year-old guy being friends is creepy.  Bite me.  And get your mind out of the gutter.

By the way, to the Mormons from the Albany 2nd Ward (yes, I see you in my stats, and I know who is who because it narrows it down to the neighborhood) who are wondering what I’m doing being an altar server, obviously not a Mormon thing, surprise…I’m Catholic now. I’ve been Catholic for over two years now.  Baptized, confirmed, First Communion…it’s been official for a long time.  I’m still on the Mormon church’s rolls because I am being forced to refrain from formally resigning.

I only come to your church (it’s no longer mine) because Beth makes me. And because she’s in baptismal denial.  She doesn’t get it. No one gets it.  If I officially remove my records, she’ll leave me.  Hmmm…on second thought…

I have to keep up appearances, so I still work in the library and I play the role of the good little Mormon boy for my wife. I have a temple recommend, but I don’t use it.  I never want to set foot in a temple again. I don’t even want to step in a meetinghouse ever again.  I don’t take the sacrament, I don’t give talks, I don’t pray, no nothing.

Now, sooner or later, I’m going to snap and stop coming no matter how much it hurts my wife. And if she leaves me, you know what?  Let her. She keeps hogging the bed anyway.

I’m so done with your church but that’s another post. Just so you know.  But this isn’t about me, it’s about the young lady who’s dead.

I don’t know why I rambled like that, it doesn’t have anything to do with this topic, but I’m leaving it in,  I don’t care. I don’t care about anything anymore.  I just don’t.  I could have a fatal seizure right now and I wouldn’t care one bit.

While preparing the Communion the last time I saw her, I said something like, “How are you doing today?”  She said, “Life sucks.  I’m tired of it sometimes.”  I missed the sign that was so obvious. All I did was hug her (relax, pervs, it was a friendly hug) and I said something stupid, like, “well, things will get better.”  Things will get better?  By that point, I knew her well enough that one would think I’d catch something like that.

If I’d done something, said something or….I don’t know. And I don’t care if I’m not punctuating correctly or spelling correctly…I just don’t care right now.  Forget proofreading.  If you can’t deal with that, piss off.

All that I care about is that, excuse the language, I fucked up.  I completely fucked up.  And she paid the price yesterday. I owed her better than what she got from me.  I have no tears.  I’m numb.  I’m staring at the laptop screen yet I see nothing.

I’ll never forget the day I met this awesome, beautiful and amazing young woman.  She was leading the processional one Sunday Mass and tripped on the carpet, carrying the cross and all.  She was clumsy so much it was non-creepy cute.

I was in the front row and I was able to get to her and break her fall before she faceplanted on the floor.  She was embarrassed and thanked me and she picked right up and barely skipped a beat.  After, she ran up to me, gave me a friendly hug and thanked me.

How am I coping with the fact that, by omission, I killed an innocent girl with her whole life ahead of her?  I don’t know, but what I have been doing is listening to the LDS arrangement of How Firm A Foundation, on an endless loop, which is…was…whatever her favorite hymn. Of course, her favorite would have been the traditional arrangement.  The LDS arrangement is a different animal altogether.

One of the last times that we were preparing together, she was elated when, shaking the bulletin excitedly, she pointed to that hymn that would be the processional that afternoon. Anyone could see it was as if it were her birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.

Her eyes lit up and she said she could hardly wait to lead the processional, holding the cross and proceeding to the front.  Indeed, when she did get ready, the smile and the look in her eyes were palpable.  Because the other altar server was out, I was offered the chance to help lead the processional, something that’s never happened before. They kept me busy that day.

As we got to know each other inside of and outside of church, I got to know her and I could see her love of the hymn radiated throughout the building whenever they chose that hymn.  As the procession ambled towards the front, anyone could tell she enjoyed what she did.

Then, before this tragedy happened, she seemed happy. Someone who loved what she did.  Smiling at everyone, perky, happy.  Before we went to the back to prepare to come forward, before I stood behind her, she was close enough to me that I could see a tear streaming down her face.  But a tear of joy.  The hymn may have just been a hymn to everyone else, but to her, it was her hymn.  The way she led us, she owned the hymn that Saturday afternoon.

No matter how I feel about the Mormon church, I will always love their rendition of the hymn, which I have been playing on and endless loop last night and today.  It’s how I’m coping right now.  Here’s theirs and here’s the mainstream Christian version.  One part of the song goes:

Fear not, I am with thee; oh, be not dismayed,

For I am thy God and will still give thee aid.

I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,

Upheld by my righteous, upheld by my righteous,

Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.

The bold is my emphasis.

I’ve been listening to this on an endless loop and these words always give me comfort when I’m sad.  But it’s not working right now.  It just isn’t.

God is, even in our worst, most awful moment, with us. He loves us and he hates to see us suffer.  Does it bring you any comfort that we don’t need to be dismayed, He is with us?  It does me.  It’s of little comfort right now though.

If I had audience with her parents, I would quote this. Not that that would help right now.  It would actually make things worse.  I can’t imagine what they think of me when they found out I might have been the last person to have been able to stop it.

They’ll never forgive me and I’ll never forgive myself.  I should be dead, not her.  Can you imagine how this is going to be?  Going another thirty years or whatever carrying this?  Somehow, I’ll get through this, but I don’t deserve forgiveness.

But more than anything, I would apologize.  I failed her.  Maybe if I’d said something, she’d be getting treatment right now instead of going to a bathroom stall to slit her wrists.  Blood everywhere.  Pain in her eyes.  Tears of what had to be deep, profound misery down her face.  I’m numb.  You could hit me and I wouldn’t feel a thing.

I’m so sorry to the student who found her bloody body.  I failed you, too.  I can’t imagine the emotional and physical pain filled her body with her dying breaths.  I slit my wrists when I was in 8th grade and it hurt like hell.  I barely made it.

As for this young lady, I was told that there was a lot of blood and there was nothing anyone could have done for her.  I might have been the last lifeline she reached out to.  I don’t know.  So, yeah, there was something someone could have done for her and I blame myself.

I failed in what I did and what I failed to do.   She is dead through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

What good am I?  I’m bipolar one, and I’ve had my suicidal moments, so when I say I know what she was going through, I mean that I have a good idea.  I’ve been taken to the crisis center and put in the hospital for a few days before. I’m medicated now, unlike the time that I sliced and diced my wrists. I, more than anyone, should have recognized the damn signs.  I should have seen it.

Right now, I have no more tears to cry. I hate this. I hate that she did it. I hate that I didn’t stop her. Did she have the knife on her when we spoke?  Could I have given her a hug and taken it from her?  Could I have told the priest?  Called the crisis line?  Anything?  Anything?



Am I going to kill myself like she did?  I briefly thought it last night as a way to apologize for her death, blood atonement, but no, no, I won’t. I have to stay alive to see how the Trump drama plays out after all.
Of course, I didn’t know her beyond working with her for maybe fifteen minutes here and there.  But the time we did spend together was time where I saw what a remarkable and beautiful, attractive young woman she was.  Well-spoken, a lover of sweats and hoodies, a smile that would make the saddest person happy.  She was happiest, I think, when she was leading the processional.  She did it often, almost every week, and she loved it.
I’m rambling and rambling. I don’t know how I’m supposed to forgive myself for all of this. In a few days, there’ll be a funeral Mass, and I just don’t think I can show my useless face. According to the email I got a bit ago, she will be buried in her family plot in another state, so I probably couldn’t go anyway, even if I dared to go given what I did, or rather didn’t do.
I don’t know how to end this…so just..whatever. Whatever.