Buy a t-shirt and re-post.

So I bought the shirt because I knew I should, would feel guilty if I didn’t. Then, I logged onto FB and saw all these posts asking me to re-post so people know I’m listening.

Suicide Awareness. IMG_2162

Apparently, Sept. 22 is the one day we humans are to stop and show awareness for this act that creates a tornado of despair, shock, and complete and utter disruption of the soul. On this day, Sept. 22, we are to stop and buy t-shirts and re-post messages to let people know we are here, we are listening, and there’s an 800 number to call.

I truly don’t mean to sound cynical, but I did listen. I listened almost every single day. I called almost every single day. I visited as often as I could. I loved. I prayed. I wept. And I did all these things over and over, and it wasn’t enough.

He pulled the trigger despite my efforts. Despite my love. Despite my prayers. Despite my calls and visits. Despite my listening. He soaked in physical pain and mental anguish everyday, despite my efforts.

He slowly, unknowingly fell in love with Depression, and she had Her way. She robbed him of peace, of all he knew to be true. She robbed him of direction, of purpose, and he got lost in the rabbit hole, and I say to you today, on Sept 22, my listening, my loving, my talking and visiting and doing, served as a futile match to Her.

So today, I continue to honor my Daddy and continue to stay in the Word so as not to get lost in unfounded guilt and anger, because I do not blame my Daddy. For in my mind, Depression pulled the trigger, and I will continue on this journey of healing and will practice not blaming myself, for by the grace of God, all will be well.

All will be well, and I will continue to listen and to love for all those who need it and for all those who can still see the light from the bottom of the rabbit hole. For these people and for my Daddy, my best friend, I will continue to listen.

The Last Simple Sentence

In her script that he would so often say he couldn’t read, she writes the words that hopefully he will understand. Determined to make the last simple sentence be the first verbal sentence she speaks to her husband tonight, Melissa closes the book, gently places it on the table, and walks through the door with resolve and trepidation.

As she drops the match on the soaked charcoal, she stares as the bricks ignite and wonders how hot it will get tonight and shakes her head at the insanity of grilling steaks on a night like tonight. While the coals work toward a calm white, she sits and sips her glass of Cabernet, hoping it will calm the warring butterflies within her troubled soul.

It seems it’s not only her nerves that have been warring this unseasonably, warm March in 2012. The good people of the midwest have taken shelter at least three times this month from what seems Armageddon style tornadoes that have already killed 33 people.

The screen door slams–as it has for the past two years–and even though she should be use to it by now, she is robbed of any sense of calm. After 10 years of slowly, subtly suppressing the big things, the little things mount and bother her the most now.

In an effort to greet him, she stands and turns toward the patio screen door which leads into the light blue kitchen adorned with welcoming bursts of color and a shelf of Willow Tree Angels, and her eyes fall on the angel with its arms stretched high and wide creating an internal smile of freedom of the faceless wood.

Be strong, she whispers to herself as she slowly breathes in and exhales.

“Hey, What’s up?” he says as he slides open the patio screen.

Silence

“You okay?”

As she looks at him, she answers to herself, No, I’m not, but I desperately want to be.

            “Melissa. Hello?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was in a daze.” Guess it won’t be my first sentence after all, she thinks to herself as she swallows yet another defeat. “How was golf?”

“It was good! I kicked ass!”

“That’s great. You sure had great weather for it.”

“Yup. Hey I’ll season the steaks and then jump in the shower.”

“Okay.”

As he showers, she pours her second glass of warm courage and sends up a another prayer, a prayer which she questions how God hears. Spanning the wooded back yard with its tire swing and dilapidating trampoline and shed, she intentionally and slowly breathes in and exhales, just as her Daddy taught her to when needing to relax.

It should have been said a long time ago, and at 40, Melissa can’t imagine another decade of loneliness.

            “Man, that felt good.”

She turns toward him and takes in his chiseled features, sun-soaked skin and wavy brown hair. She still wants him.

“You got a lot of sun today.”

“I know. How was your day?” he asks as he pours his glass of cab, walks over to her and kisses her on the cheek.

The kiss shocks her to a response, “Oh, uh well thanks, my day was pretty uneventful.”

“Where’s Emily?”

“She’s at the Carter’s for Tiffany’s birthday sleepover.”

“That’s right.”

As the steaks sizzle and the wine warms, the two exchange surface conversation, and she longs for a cigarette.

“Craig, I, uh, I don’t want to . . .”

“You don’t wanna what?”

“Just a minute. I’ll be right back.” She opens the door to her home-office, walks to her journal, opens to the last sentence of the last paragraph and absorbs the sentence written in ink.

She closes the book, closes the door, and walks back to the deck.

He’s texting and doesn’t look up.

“So what were saying? You don’t want to what?”

“Craig, exhale, I don’t want to be married anymore.”

His fingers stop moving, and he looks up into her eyes for the first time in years.

fictional short story written by Angela St.Clair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“With Much Ease”

with much ease

a woman can be pleased

a morning kiss

a morning embrace

a whisper in the ear

a steamy message

on the bathroom mirror

a midday call with

simple thoughts of longing

fresh petals picked from the yard

or a late afternoon stroll

or a picnic dinner in the park

a massage of the neck back or feet

a surprise date

in the bath

or an offer to wash her hair

a pallet on the floor

a soft stare of seduction

a slow undressing

an intentional caress

of her nakedness

One Simple Sentence

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. She wrote it in her journal and was determined to make the last simple sentence of her last paragraph be the first verbal sentence she spoke to her husband tonight.

Dropping the match on the soaked charcoal, she stares as the bricks ignite and wonders just how hot it will get tonight. Sitting on the deck and basking in the extra hours of daylight, she sips her glass of cabernet, hoping it will calm the warring butterflies.

It seems it’s not only her nerves that have been warring this unseasonably, warm March in 2012. The good people of the midwest have taken shelter at least three times this month from what seems armageddon style tornadoes and storms that have killed 33 people.

The screen door slams–as it has for the past 2 years–and even though she should be use to it by now, she is robbed of any sense of calm. It seems the things she should be use to after 15 years are the things that mount and bother her the most lately.

In an effort to greet him, she stands and turns toward the patio screen door which leads into the yellow kitchen adorned with welcoming bursts of color and a shelf of Willow Tree Angels.

“Be strong,” she whispers to herself as she slowly breathes in and exhales.

“Hey, What’s up?” he says as he slides open the patio screen.

Silence

“You okay?”

As she looks at him, she answers to herself, “No, I’m not, but I desperately want to be.”

“Melissa. Hello?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was in a daze.” Guess it won’t be my first sentence after all, she thinks to herself as she swallows yet another defeat. “How was golf?”

“It was good! I kicked-ass!”

“That’s great. You sure had great weather for it.”

“Yup. Hey I’m goin season the steaks and then jump in the shower.”

“Okay.”

As he showers, she pours her second glass of warm courage and sends up a another prayer. Spanning the wooded back yard with its tire swing and dilapidating trampoline and shed, she breathes and exhales. It should have been said a long time ago. In fact, it was, but for a more concrete, justifiable reason. At 40, she can’t imagine another decade of loneliness.

“Man, that felt good.”

She turns toward him and takes in his chiseled features, sun-soaked skin and wavy salt-n-pepper hair. She still wants him.

“You got a lot of sun today.”

“I know. How was your day?” he asks as he pours his glass of cab, walks over to her and kisses her on the cheek.

The kiss shocks her to a response, “Oh, uh well thanks, my day was pretty uneventful.”

“Where’s Emily?”

“She’s at the Carter’s for Tiffany’s birthday sleepover.”

“That’s right.”

As the steaks sizzle and the wine warms, the two exchange surface conversation, and she longs for a cigarette.

“Mike, I, uh, I don’t want to”

“You don’t wanna what?”

“Just a minute. I’ll be right back.” She opens the door to her home-office, walks to her journal, opens to the last sentence of the last paragraph and takes it in.

She closes the book, closes the door, and walks back to the deck.

He’s texting and doesn’t look up.

“So what were saying? You don’t want to what?”

“Mike, exhale I don’t want to be married anymore.”

His fingers stop moving, and he looks up into her eyes for the first time in years.