I am having trouble writing a post today. We heard yesterday that the nephew of a good friend of ours had committed suicide Tuesday night. We saw him quite frequently as a little boy, but I hadn't seen him in a decade or so. After we met him, as an almost-adult, three weeks ago, Justin and I were saying what a nice boy he was. Only 17. It just breaks my heart. And makes anything I start to say seem banal and frivolous. I am so lucky. There are people who either live lives that are horrid beyond description, or those who live "lives of quiet desperation;" people who, although having a seemingly fine and normal life, see only wretchedness through the lens of mental illness. And here I am, contemplating my 57th (or so) post about spring because I find it all so delightful and satisfying. I don't deserve this much satisfaction and joy in life, but I am so very, very thankful that I have them. I know I take it for granted every single, solitary day. Life is so unfair. I don't know how I struck the genetic/circumstantial lottery just right and ended up on this side of joy, but I wish everyone else could be here with me. I wish it was possible, through strength of will, to pull other people from their despair. But since it isn't, my heart can only ache. I know none of us can claim permanent immunity to desperation. And none of us are far enough removed from mental illness that we can feel above it. We can only be thankful, at this moment, that we see a world of possibility and interest where others can only see hopeless darkness.
Oh my heart. The hearts of his parents, his aunt, his friends. I ache for them all.