There are few greater barriers to closure than words left unspoken.
There are few greater barriers to closure than words left unspoken. Life has a way of taking the ones who mean the most to us at unexpected times and, human nature being the way it is, too many of us fail to fully express how we feel before it’s too late.
Below, are letters that I’ve written to two people. The effect that one of the recipients had on my life and worldview is fairly obvious, while the other’s mark on my life is only fully known to the people closest to me.
My intent is not that the recipients read these, although, only one of them would be able to. It is not to irresponsibly put my own one-sided account of events into the ether without their input; these pieces are far too short for me to do that anyway. I wrote these simply for the clarity they brought.
These words, particularly those to my first love, were inspired by the beautiful woman whom I hope to be able to spend the rest of my life with. Meiya; a piece of you is in every word I write. The pain I describe here, while harrowing, was incredibly formative. It informed many of my later decisions. It’s the reason why I told you that I loved you so early on in our relationship. Not because I wanted or expected you to say them back to me – less than a month into our relationship – but because that was I how I felt. It hurt to hold the words in, and I knew that even if you left me because it was too soon, it would be easier to express myself than to suppress it. Thank you for inspiring me every day.
To an Ex-Girlfriend
When I remember how quickly you became my everything, I still can’t believe it. Even six years on. It all feels like a dream, but the impact it had is undeniable. You were all I thought about: a refuge from my home life, and the only bright spot in an otherwise bleak existence.
Melodramatic?
Probably.
True?
Definitely.
But, when I choked on the words that would have shown you what it all meant, you just stared.
And waited.
More than anything, I wanted to say them, but I physically couldn’t. Watching my parents’ marriage implode made me incapable of doing so. Instead of asking what was wrong, or saying the words I know you felt too, you left.
And you took a part of me with you.
Looking back, I don’t know how I should think of you. How permanently should you be etched into my memory? You were my first, after all.
Now that I think about it, I want to say, “Thank you.” That ordeal taught me to say what I feel, no matter what. Because of your inability to understand, I found someone better.
To My Father
You used to talk about getting your hair cut when you were a kid. Just you and your twin brother. Out on the front porch with your father.
And an electric trimmer locked onto the shortest setting.
You’d cry in protest every time, but he’d still go through with it.
Damn near put you two in headlocks doing it. Laughing all the while.
And I thought our relationship was fucked up.
It makes sense now; your obsession with appearance. Why you always had to have the most expensive clothes. Hickey Freeman shirts, Armani suits, Ferragamo loafers. I only know the brand names because of how often you’d casually drop them into everyday conversation. It annoyed the hell out of me, but I honestly think some of it rubbed off.
I know I’m a little vain myself.
Okay, more than a little. I enjoy the way I look in a suit a little too much, although I’d never break the bank to buy one.
Funny. All that work you put into your appearance and now you’re just – gone. And that toxic asshole you had for a father is still alive in Coventry, Connecticut.
And I only know that from my weekly reading of the obituaries.
No matter how regrettable our past may be, it’s important to realize and accept the effect that it has on who we are as individuals. My father and I spent more time fighting than we did getting along, yet I see some of him in me when I reflect on who I really am as a man. Were I to resist the more innate traits that I received from him, I’d risk doing far more harm than good to my own mental health. I wouldn’t be able to love or even like myself if I did that. Dysfunctional father does not equal a dysfunctional me. Likewise, the most painful romantic experience I’ve been through does not mean that my entire love life afterward will be tainted by a sense of foreboding. Past mistakes can and should inform who we are, but they should not be allowed to define us.
Looking in the mirror is never easy, but it is entirely necessary.
Looking in the mirror is uncomfortable in the best of times. In some instances, it can be almost painful. People spurn those who exhibit the traits they find most unpleasant in themselves. A father will often land hardest on the son who most resembles him. Close self-examination, or the avoidance of it, is responsible for more pain than most would like to acknowledge. But, knowing oneself is important, especially when trying to find direction.
I’ve found that the most effective exercise for getting to the core of who you are is to imagine that, in short, this is it. If your existence as you knew it was over today, what words would be carved into your headstone? If you could write your own eulogy, what would you have to say about your time here? To say this exercise isn’t easy is a massive understatement. It’s not supposed to be.
The overwhelming majority of people would have regrets if faced with the end. It’s a rare individual who doesn’t, even after a long, mostly happy life. Imagine my unease at taking stock of things in my early twenties. Of course, one’s state of mind has a huge effect on how the exercise goes. My most scathing indictments of my own character and place in life at the moment are…unpleasant to look at. Objectivity is important here.
My self-assessment has very little to do with the people closest to me. I’m incredibly fortunate in that regard. My girlfriend of three years is one of the strongest people I know, and I’m lucky enough to call her my best friend. She’s the only one that I’ve ever been able to fully open up to. My mother has given me everything that she’s been able to, and more. My coach and surrogate father is the reason that I’ve been able to grow from a scared kid into a man. I think the word “friend” is overused nowadays, but I think I’ve been blessed with more than my fair share of true friends. I won’t name any names, but when they read this, they’ll know that I’m talking about them here. I owe everyone I’ve listed here more than I could possibly quantify or pay back.
This is about me. I know myself well enough to realize how restless I can be. Therefore, I may never be satisfied with my accomplishments. There will always be another book to write. Another fight to be won. When I’m too old to step through the ropes myself, there will always be another boxer to train. Life hasn’t been easy for me, so enduring some form of struggle day in and day out has become comforting in its familiarity.
I’m a writer and a fighter. Life wouldn’t feel complete for me without these pursuits.
My harshest assessment of myself is this; I’m half-assing it. Were this my last day, I know I wouldn’t be happy with the last words of remembrance spoken at my service. With the ability I have in certain areas, I should be much further ahead of where I am now. I know that many writers don’t publish their first book until middle or old age. And I know of a number of fighters who found combat sports later than I did, yet still became world champions. However, I’ve discovered my talents at a young age. I should be doing far more with them. I’m a writer who doesn’t write enough and a fighter who doesn’t fight enough. Sparring and blogging don’t count. Period. Even in the fights that I’ve won, I’ve shown maybe 40% of my ability, and that was only in spots. And my output, even in my blogs, hasn’t been nearly high enough.
I need to fight more often because I know that I’m a champion.
I need to work on finishing my memoir and novel, because I know that a great number of people could benefit from reading them.
I owe those things to myself.
At best, I think I’ve already had an impact. However small, it’s still something that I should be proud of. Several people have reached out to me through Instagram, WordPress, and Facebook to tell me that my writing has had an impact in their lives. From close friends to people who decided to reconnect after reading and liking the message my words convey, to those I’ve never met and are only aware of me through my pieces published online. I’ll admit, I’ve saved all of those messages. I read them when I’m feeling hopeless; when I’m feeling that no publisher will touch my manuscripts. They’ve been invaluable. They’re the reason why I’m feeling driven to write this, when I could, and should, be sleeping.
Likewise, a number of my teammates and those close to me have gone out of their way to tell me that it’s been inspiring to watch how hard I work. It’s a compliment that I’m never prepared to hear. I know that, compared to almost all other fighters, my dedication and work ethic are a bit freakish. I just don’t ever consider that others take notice. It’s just something I do because I love to do it. Not just fighting. I find the preparation to do so cleansing; somewhere on the spectrum between redemptive and exhilarating.
Enough about accomplishments and aspirations. I think a far more telling aspect of a person’s life is the impression they leave on those closest to them. That said, I’ve learned some hard lessons from not giving enough of myself to both friends and family. Last year, when something told me to reach out to an old high school friend, I suppressed the urge. A month later, he took his own life. It wouldn’t have made a difference. When someone has made up their mind to end things, they’re going to do it. Maybe it would’ve been a small comfort to him.
My paternal grandmother who was, for all intents and purposes, a third parent to me throughout my childhood, passed away in August 2013. Due to the toxic and, at that point, the nonexistent relationship I had with my father, I hadn’t spoken to her in over eight months. Because of the scene I knew he would cause at the funeral service, I elected not to attend. I don’t know that I’ll ever shake the regret from that decision. I loved my father, even then. However, he was both a physically and mentally weak individual. I allowed him to project that onto me, and my fear of what might happen at the funeral overrode my ability to dictate my own course of events. The woman who, at times, was my only stable parental figure deserved my attendance.
Rosary beads from my grandmother’s funeral.
Because of these occurrences, I’ve made a far more concerted effort to tell those closest to me exactly how important they are in my life. I’ve told many of them that I’d be there for them, no matter the circumstances, and I’d like to think that it’s made a difference.
The mind is everything, and that is where my problems reside. Instead of being hesitant to take fights, I need to jump in with both feet. I have all the ability in the world; I need to just turn my brain off sometimes and say “yes” to the opportunities in front of me. And, instead of waiting for “inspiration” to strike, and write more often. Sure, the pieces that I do write when I’m truly inspired are great. However, the time in between such pieces is far too great. Napoleon once said that “quantity has a quality all its own.” He was speaking of military strategy of course, but it’s applicable elsewhere. Journaling more often would help; similarly, to when I get a second wind in a fight, I may get a burst of creativity by writing and working through my intellectually flatter moments.
So, I think that, were I to write my own eulogy today, I would not be satisfied with my list of accomplishments or accolades. I know that funerals are much more about emotional closure for close family and friends, but in doing this, I’m taking stock of everything. The people who intimately know me, I think, would say that I’ve made a significant impact in their lives. I can always give more for them, and can always be more present, but I think I’m on the right track on that front.
Again, I haven’t written enough, and I haven’t fought often enough. At least I know how to correct this. I know I’ll never be satisfied with what I’ve done on both fronts, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be happy. Quite the opposite, in fact. In my experience, one of the greatest sources of happiness is having a definite purpose. I’ll always have another opponent to fight, and another book to write. I find comfort in this realization. I’m already making a difference and am fortunate to have done so. It’s just a small taste of things to come.
At a time when I had no idea where I was going, or who I was, studying Muhammad Ali’s life helped me establish my own identity.
On June 3rd, 2016, Muhammad Ali succumbed to his decades-long battle with Parkinson’s syndrome at the age of seventy-four. The news of his death was more sudden than shocking. People in their seventies who are afflicted with either variant of Parkinsonism are often seen to be on the decline. It was hard to view Ali in that light – as a normal human being. When he was hospitalized with respiratory complications on June 2nd, the news caught many off-guard. But, this was Ali, and it wasn’t the first time he’d required such care in his later years. In less than twenty-four hours, he was gone. His condition steeply declined, and he passed away quietly, surrounded by family.
I cried when I found out about his passing. The flood of emotions that hit in that instant was unexpected, but in retrospect, made perfect sense. You couldn’t miss it; literally, every outlet was running a story on it. More than a man, he was an idea. Or an ideal, whichever you prefer. Ali was a paragon of self-possession. If someone needed a blueprint for establishing one’s own identity, or for being unapologetically true to one’s own principles in the face of great resistance, they need only study the life that Muhammad Ali led. That’s what I did. I discovered boxing at the time in my life when I felt most isolated – during my senior year of high school and freshman year of college. Naturally, I discovered Ali’s life and trials at the same time.
I first laced up a pair of gloves on Saturday, January 28th, 2012, at 1:00 PM. A crystallizing moment – I knew I was right where I was supposed to be. I’d never felt that before, and the self-assuredness that came with it was addictive. Muhammad Ali had turned seventy just eleven days prior, so many networks were still running his biopic – the one starring Will Smith – on repeat. That night, while I was still sore from working an entirely new set of muscles, I caught one of the screenings. It told the story of Ali, beginning when he won the heavyweight crown as the heavy underdog from the fearsome Sonny Liston in 1964, traversing the turbulent late 1960’s through the lens of Ali’s refusal to step forward in the draft, and ending with his epic knockout victory of George Foreman to regain his crown in 1974. Imagining the ending fight scene, overlaid with strains of “Tomorrow” by Salif Keita, still sends chills up and down my spine.
October 30th, 1974. Muhammad Ali shocks the world by knocking out George Foreman.
I immediately started watching his old fights, as I slowly progressed in the sport myself. Quite a few fighters have had movies made about them, whether they were major productions or not. However, Muhammad Ali is the only one out of that group who made the on-screen representation of his life look colorless and boring in comparison to the real thing. Will Smith did as good of a job as anyone could in portraying the man, but there’s only one Ali. Watching his fights against Frazier, Foreman, Liston, Norton, Patterson, Lyle, Cooper, Chuvalo, and many others, was breathtaking. He possessed speed like no other heavyweight, before or since. When he eventually slowed down to the point where he was getting hit, Ali also showed that he had a near-superhuman ability to take punishment. Yet, with all that skill, he was so much more than a mere athlete. George Foreman said it best, when speaking about his fight with the self-proclaimed Greatest of all Time, “Boxing was just something he did.”
That first year in boxing, I read everything about Muhammad Ali that I could find. It didn’t matter what it was – old Ring Magazine pieces, articles by George Plimpton, or the novels by Norman Mailer and Mark Kram – I devoured the pages by the hundreds. When I looked at Ali, I saw someone I could aspire to be like. Of course, very few fighters in the history of combat sports have ever come close to his level of success or ability, but the more I read, the more I realized for myself that there was so much more to him.
When I look back on who I was then, I realize that I needed that influence. The summer of 2012 was a crossroads in many ways for me. I was headed off to college in the fall and had absolutely no idea of what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I had no concept of the fact that everyone else at that age feels similarly.
My first girlfriend, who I’d traded virginities with on prom night (yes, I know how cliched that is,) dumped me halfway through the summer. In retrospect, I think we were heading towards an ending anyway. However, the straw that broke the camel’s back was my non-attendance at a party that we were supposed to go to together. Late one afternoon in early July, I was scheduled to spar. I was a total novice and all of 163 pounds…and the only other fighter who showed up that day was a heavyweight. My trainer threw me in with no instruction on how to deal with a larger fighter and, as a result, I took the worst beating I’d taken to date. He all but threw me around the ring and ended it with four straight hooks to the head. Left-right-left-right. Two to each temple, and I finally took a knee. Truth be told, I think I could’ve taken more, but I knew I had to drive myself home afterward. It wasn’t a short trip, and I was seeing spots. I fought back the tears in front of my then-trainer, gritting my teeth all the while. When I got to my car, finally got a look at myself in the mirror. My head was pounding, and I couldn’t keep my vision in focus long enough to get a decent look at my face. Didn’t matter. I could feel the bruises and scrapes. I broke down on the drive home, and knew I couldn’t go to the party that night. I barely wanted to be around myself in that moment, much less a bunch of people I didn’t know. Physically, I could suck it up, but psychologically, I was a total mess.
I called my then-girlfriend on the way and told her that I wouldn’t make it. I tried to explain myself, but admittedly, didn’t do the best job of articulating where I was coming from. The next day, I was planning on calling her to promise to make things up to her when I got the “we need to talk” text. I really did love her, and I tried to tell her. I knew from early in the relationship, but could never say so, not even when I was faced with the end. I’d seen too much of the bad side of love in my parents’ marriage, and the words stuck in my throat when I tried to say them. To say that I choked on them is not hyperbole.
As minor of a relationship as it was in the scope of my life, that hurt worse than anything I’d previously experienced, and that pain lasted entirely through my first semester of college.
Soon after, I began to live with my father for a time. More out of necessity than anything. My mom was experiencing some financial difficulties, and we both knew that the only way I’d make it to my first year of college was with his help. He owed nearly $12,000 in back child support payments, and even with a job that paid six figures, getting him to pay what he owed weekly was like pulling teeth. Even when our relationship was at its best, as it was for those six weeks, we had almost weekly screaming matches. If it wasn’t that, then it would take a subtler form. Maybe a snide comment about being bruised after another sparring session, or about how I needed to make more friends. I hid from it by training obsessively. I was unemployed but still woke up before 6:00 AM to run, then spent two-plus hours a day at the gym.
That ordeal made me realize how lacking I was in self-confidence. The happiness I thought I was feeling was coming entirely from being in a relationship. I had no ability to self-validate or be content with myself. I didn’t know who I was, aside from the fact that boxing felt right for me. So, I looked at Ali’s life more closely. The brash confidence, living by one’s own principles, and discipline in all things. He was the only positive male role model I had at the time, and I had never even come remotely close to meeting the man. I feigned the confidence, occasionally going so far as to mimic his speech patterns. Laughable, I know. But, this was the pattern I followed for roughly two years until I was legitimately confident in myself. That finally happened the day I changed my name.
I had wanted to change my surname from Ostroski to Donnelly for years. From my father’s name, to my mother’s maiden name. I even had entire notebook pages filled with my revised signature. One day, after a year and a half of not having any contact with my father, I filed the paperwork with the town probate court. I didn’t care how my father felt. Muhammad Ali didn’t care how anyone felt when he changed his name from Cassius Clay, to Cassius X, to its final form. He just did it. It was his life, and he took it in his own hands.
Confidence: I faked it ’til I made it.
On August 3rd, 2014, I became, legally, Sean Patrick Donnelly. Even though he loved me in his own way, I won’t pass on my father’s legacy, or name, to my children. This is my life, and I choose to live it as authentically as I possibly can. I haven’t looked back since that day. Not even when my father took his own life three days later. As painful as that was, I knew that allowing the weight of it to slow me down wouldn’t do anyone any good. Even if his meandering suicide letter implied that my non-contact and name change were to blame.
Muhammad Ali was far from perfect. The cruelty he showed to Floyd Patterson and Ernie Terrell in the ring after they refused to call him by his chosen name used to confuse and startle me a bit. However, changing my own name gave me a little perspective on that. For better or worse, I’ve had similar incidents; from an acquaintance who said, “I’ll just keep calling you ‘Ostroski.’ It’s easier to remember,” to a sparring partner who spoke poorly about my father’s suicide behind my back, I’ve had to protect the name I now carry. I calmly informed the former that his using my old name again would merit a physical response. The latter of the two paid for his words with a terrible beating in our next sparring session. There were witnesses present at both occasions so, thankfully, I haven’t been required to so since. It’s a principle that I very much live by. I have one name, and I’ll do anything required to protect it.
The day after Ali passed, there was a boxing card on HBO. All present observed a moment of silence, and a ceremonial ten-count to commemorate the life of boxing’s greatest ambassador. During his pugilistic career, Ali was involved in a record-setting six Fights of the Year (as awarded by Ring Magazine.) It was only fitting that the main event of the boxing card immediately following his death should live up to that standard. Orlando Salido vs Francisco Vargas may have ended in a draw, but I can guarantee that precious few of the spectators present that night in Carson, California, remember that. Much like Ali had done throughout the 1960’s and 1970’s, the fight left viewers feeling privileged to have bared witness.
He was a transcendent figure. I’m white, and was born thirteen years after his last professional bout, so the fact that I’ve been so inspired and molded by his life’s journey is simply remarkable. His influence has spanned across six continents and as many decades, to all demographics. At the end of the June 4th, 2016 HBO fight broadcast, analyst Max Kellerman summed Ali up perfectly. “I’ve spent way too much of my life preoccupied with Muhammad Ali: watching him, listening to him, reading about him. I’ve seen him in crowds, and everyone looks at him like, ‘Muhammad, it’s me’.”
So many of us felt a personal connection to him. Out of all the other principles and lessons I took away from looking at his life, there is one story that stands out to me.
Ali was walking through Miami, where he trained and lived, with a friend. When they encountered a homeless man, Ali gave him some ridiculously large donation. The friend said something to the effect of, “You know he’s just gonna blow that on booze, right?”
Ali responded (I’m paraphrasing,) “That doesn’t concern me. If he wastes what I gave him, he’s the one who has to answer to himself and to god for it. At least I know that I tried to help him.”
That, more than any other account of his life, is the one that I’ve most tried to live by.
You’ve allowed me to dream. For most of my childhood, I was only focused on survival. I couldn’t consider anything that wasn’t directly in front of me.
You’ve given me far more than I ever could have imagined. When I first stepped into a gym on that winter day in early 2012, I had no idea what I was really getting into. I had always wanted to try, but never got around to it. My family never had the spare money. Having the power, heat, or water shut off were regular occurrences, and I can remember many times when there wasn’t enough food around for the next meal. You weren’t a priority, and for a long time, I totally forgot about my desire to step into the ring.
All of that lit a fire in me, though. I was already withdrawn, and a bit of an oddball, which invited criticism from many of my peers. It did little to help my already-quick temper. I struggled in my interactions with others, aside from a couple of friends that I was lucky to have. For the most part, I emulated what I saw at home, which was to respond to most situations with anger. I really didn’t know any better. I wanted so desperately to learn to fight. I was aggressive and hyper-competitive in everything I did, so it seemed fitting.
My parents always had me enrolled in baseball – just the town rec league. I grew to love it, but never felt like I was totally fulfilled by it. I became good enough in my teens to make it onto a few all-star teams, but my head was almost always elsewhere. One of the enduring pleasant memories of my early childhood was listening to my dad talk about the golden age of heavyweight boxers in the 1960’s and 1970’s. As difficult as it was for us to get along, we could always talk about boxing. The way he described the epic rivalries between Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Sonny Liston, and Kenny Norton was so captivating. Those men seemed like gods to me, and all I wanted was to follow in what they had accomplished. Or, at the very least, take part in the sport.
But, you were put on the back burner again when my parents split up. I forgot about my desire to fight for a time, even though the fire inside me remained. From ages thirteen to sixteen, I lapsed into depression, which I’ve been dealing with ever since. My mom and dad appeared so intent on hurting each other throughout their lengthy divorce settlement and child support disputes, that I began to feel even more alienated than I already was.
I smoked and drank too much in high school. Mostly to minimize the emotional strain on myself. I had no way to channel all the dark shit that was floating around in my head on even my best days. During that time, the couple fights I got into were – scary. If nothing else, I learned that I genuinely enjoyed dealing out physical punishment. That used to frighten me.
My life changed one day in the middle of my senior year of high school. It happened in British Lit. We were finishing up a unit on the ‘Carpe Diem Poets,’ which included an in-class viewing of Dead Poets’ Society. At the end of the film, Mr. St. George gave us all an assignment; “Go out and seize the day by doing something that you’ve always wanted to do, but never had the time or courage to.”
Everyone in class started talking to each other about what he (it was an all boys’ high school) would do to complete the assignment. I heard everything from getting an ear pieced, to taking a day-trip to New York. For some reason, you resurfaced in my head. The more I thought about you, the more I became totally hooked on the idea that I would find a trainer and at least try boxing. I just didn’t want there to be any regret when I look back on my life in twenty or thirty years. I had to do this for my own peace of mind.
So, I found a local gym, and booked a one-hour session with a trainer there. It was just going to be a standard mitt workout with some teaching of basic fundamentals, but it was more than I had done in a formal setting before. As soon as I had my wraps and gloves on, I knew it felt right. The trainer put on his body shield and focus mitts, and put me through my paces. I was sweating buckets within a few minutes, but it was already the most rewarding thing I had done. After showing me where to place my feet when punching, the trainer called out the first combination: one-two, left hook to the body, with a cross upstairs to finish. Immediately, he backed up and said, “Jesus, you hit hard.” All I could do was smile and shrug.
That, and my first sparring session a week later, had me totally hooked. Mike Tyson said it best; “It was love at first fight.”
I have no idea where I’d be without you. I wouldn’t have Meiya, Coach Rocky, or so many of my friends; Hector, Alfred, Allen, Sacha, Cara, Sam, Chris, Calvin, Anthony, Mike, and too many more to name. I wouldn’t have progressed enough in school to know that my other true calling is to be a writer. I don’t know how I would have gotten past my father’s suicide without you. Ultimately, I’m the one that had to persevere through some very public and devastating losses, but still. Saying that you’ve given me everything is not an overstatement.
Relief. If you’ve never fought, it’s tough to capture the feeling of getting through a hard, ten-round sparring session.
I love everything about you – the early mornings, running in sub-zero temperatures, hitting the heavy bag until I can’t lift my arms, and the headaches after a hard sparring session. Even the losses…I’ve learned far more from my losses in the ring than I have from my successes anywhere else.
You made it possible for me to believe in myself, even when I’ve had to go home and cry in frustration after taking a tough loss or a beating in sparring.
You’ve allowed me to dream. For most of my childhood, I was only focused on survival. I couldn’t consider anything that wasn’t directly in front of me.
You’ve broken my heart before, and I know you will again, but I’ll always come back to you. I know I have what it takes to be a champion. However, even without the physical and mental gifts that I’m so lucky to have, I don’t think I could possibly give you up.
I am a fighter.
I always have been, and I always will be.
~Sean Donnelly
Growing pains. It’s tough to learn in this sport if you haven’t been beaten up at least a few times.
People say that life is short, but it’s the longest – and only – thing we know.
12/1/17
Midnight. I’m lying on my side, facing the wall to the right of my bed, unable to sleep.
A frenzied knocking at the door of the apartment directly below mine…accompanied by a single, hurried voice. I can’t make out the words. The door opens and, for a second, all goes silent. A few, loud bangs: pop…pop-pop. I feel a sudden mule-kick to the center of my chest. All the air rushes out of my lungs, and I hear the fourth resounding bang almost simultaneously. Searing pain.
A hole in the floor.
Gunshots.
My undershirt sticks to my chest as the blood spreads from the wound. Eyes wide, I draw breath but choke on the attempt. My lungs won’t take any air.
I’m drowning.
My vision is receding. And the ever-shrinking center is beginning to blur.
Fuck, I can’t feel my arms. My legs…
The already-dark room is fading away, and I’m sinking.
I strive for breath one last time before I stop struggling; the velvety blackness is so welcoming now. It beckons, and I fall further from consciousness. Pulling – pulling me ever faster away.
I’m unaware of who I am and who I was. I can feel myself unraveling. Into…
Nothing.
The countless eons after my passing will elapse just as those before my birth did: in an eyeblink, and without my awareness of them having gone by.
People say that life is short, but it’s the longest – and only – thing we know. Even if it’s only for an instant. Cosmically speaking, that’s all it is anyway.
Forty-six billion light-years in all directions, and that’s just what we can see. It’s an unimaginably vast distance, yet we’re limited to our tiny blue-green ball. A beautiful world, but incredibly tiny in the grand scheme of things. All that we do, and all that we are, at least for now, begins and ends here, on our speck of cosmic dust. Cliché or not, the vastness of it all takes my breath away.
So, where should I assign meaning? If I were still a religious individual, this might be far easier question to answer or otherwise explain away.
I don’t like easy. Besides, the fifteen years of Catholic school were about ten years too many for me to be fully indoctrinated. After a certain amount of Bible study, the hypocrisy in many of the passages became too glaring to avoid, at least for me. Since I was raised in Christianity, I always equated the answer to that all-encompassing question with god, which prompted me to research other religions.
I found many similar inconsistencies. The sacred texts that claim to be the product of divine inspiration are littered with our ancestors’ fingerprints. This is not to say that god doesn’t exist. I don’t know that we could comprehend it, if it did.
No one really knows. From the most devout imam, rabbi, or priest, to the celebrant of any other religion I could name, no one knows. Faith, profound as it may be, does not equal knowledge.
So, again, where should I assign meaning? The answer I keep coming back to seems simple enough; love and happiness.
No matter how bad things may get, the majority of us, no matter how unfortunate, can say that this is better than the alternative: non-existence. So, it serves to just be grateful for the opportunity to exist, even if it’s only for a little while.
The ‘power of one’ is a concept that has always resonated with me. One individual can change a family. One family can change a town. One town can change a nation. One nation can change the world. So, I think being kind in our day-to-day interactions does make a difference over time. As cynical of human nature as I am, I’d like to think that many, if not most, people are basically good, with a few bad tendencies. Not the other way around. That said, I think the majority of us would respond to kindness by paying it forward.
Love thyself and thy neighbor…sounds like something I heard in school a couple times.
It’s the best kind of influence we can hope to have, individually.
All that exists doesn’t do so for our sake. We’re a product of existence, not the reason for it. We’re all stuck together on this infinitesimally small piece of existence, so I think at least making an attempt to ease the collective burden on us all goes a long way.
A frenzied knocking at the door of the apartment directly below mine…accompanied by a single, hurried voice. I can’t make out the words. The door opens and, for a second, all goes silent. The occupant answers with what sounds like a cheerful greeting and welcomes their visitor inside. The door closes.
I exhale and roll onto my back. While staring at the ceiling, I try to imagine the night sky and stars beyond it.
Today, the first friend I made in high school took his own life at the age of twenty three.
As a rule, suicide is a topic which is generally avoided. I’ve been directly affected by it multiple times, and the destruction it can leave in its wake isn’t pretty. Because of how unnatural an act it is, and how uncomfortable it is to talk about, those of us who are left behind are often left to deal with the fallout alone.
In my memoir piece below, I talk about how I began to rebuild after my first – and second – encounters with suicide. Even if it was something as mundane as hearing the right song at exactly the right moment, it is worth talking about.
If you, or anyone close to you, are struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.
I’ve struggled with fairly severe depression at a number of points in my own life, so I’m not just speaking in trite platitudes when I say this. It WILL get better. Life is hard, but it’s also extremely beautiful. It’s far better to fight for your own happiness than it is to take all future possibilities away from yourself.
I hope you enjoy the piece of my life that I’ve decided to share.
Coming of Age
February 10, 2017
Today, the first friend I made in high school took his own life at the age of twenty three.
Of course, the obituary would never say that. No one who wrote posthumously on my friend’s Facebook wall would ever say it either. However, having had a close relative go out that way lends me some perspective.
One of his two obituaries read “passed away suddenly” with no medical or other explanation. Friends who were closer to him in recent years than I was – regrettably on my part – wrote things like “I hope you found peace” or “ended whatever pain you were going through.” Eerily similar to the things that were written in my own father’s obituary and on his now-inactive Facebook profile. Add in the fact that my friend had attempted suicide when we were sophomores in high school, and the truth becomes plain. He had always struggled with depression. Like any friend, I wished more than anything that I could help, but I never knew what I could possibly do. Just be there to talk if he needed it? I guess. We drifted apart after high school, and in the last five years only spoke rarely. I still cared about him, but we were just on different paths. Still, I looked forward to having a drink with him at the first class reunion.
Now I’ve done it. I’m clicking back and forth between my deceased father and my friend on Facebook. I should be more outwardly sad, but at the moment, I’m just clicking. Clicking and looking, eyes glazed over, trying to find meaning. None of it fucking means anything anyway. Move forward enough in time, and all evidence of humanity will be gone from the earth. Eventually the earth will be swallowed by the sun, all of the stars will burn out, and even the black holes that dot the cosmos will evaporate, leaving nothing behind.
We place too much of a premium on our own existence and “intelligence,” really. If there is a god, fuck him. (Fuck it?) Doesn’t matter.
I need a distraction. I open my Spotify and press play without looking to see which song is queued up. A remake of Bob Dylan’s “Girl from the North Country” by The Lions starts playing, and I turn the volume up. I lie back in my desk chair, close my eyes, and try my best to melt into the cushion. It works for a time.
“Many times I’ve often prayed/ In the darkness of my night/ In the brightness of my day…” Into a guitar solo. Next.
When you’re happy, you enjoy the music you’re listening to, but when you’re sad or depressed, you understand the lyrics.
The ethereal intro to Foster The People’s “Coming of Age” blares out of my desktop speaker. Immediately, time seems to freeze as a flood of images associated with the song come back to me. A bloody pair of glasses, an evidence bag full of personal effects. I want to skip to the next song more than anything, but I can’t bring myself to do it. This one had grabbed me at a particular point in my life and wouldn’t let go. It had become inextricably linked with certain memories, for better or worse. Hearing it always brought me back to the exact moment when I first heard it.
August 8th, 2014
Hurtling down an empty stretch of I-84 with the windows open and the radio turned all the way up. I wanted to forget what had happened that week, but I knew that wouldn’t help even if I could. Strange; Friday nights usually make for crowded roads near Waterbury, but at that moment, it was eerily silent. Driving through the amber lighting of the downtown stretch of highway, I let my mind drift along with my eyes. Away from the road towards the radioactive green clock face of the Timex museum on my right. The giant lit up cross on the hill to my left. The muggy, cool summer air flooding the inside of my car and drowning out everything except for the song that was playing. “Well I see ya standing there like a rabid dog/ And you got those cryin’ eyes/ Makes me wanna surrender, wrap you in my arms.”
I wish you were still here. I knew things were bad, but…
I was supposed to be getting off at exit twenty to see my friends, but I wasn’t thinking about that at all. My foot pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and I sped right past the exit ramp without a thought. Seventy…seventy-five…eighty… The reading on my speedometer climbed as the song progressed. “You know I try to live without regrets/ I’m always moving forward and not looking back/ But I tend to leave a trail of dead, while I’m moving ahead.” I grit my teeth and jam my foot into the floor. Ninety…ninety-five.
I don’t know how people romanticize suicide. But, I guess that comes from ignorance. Much in the same way they may wax poetic about war or any “justified” violence. I’ve experienced enough of the latter and am still immediately dealing with the former to know that there’s nothing glamorous about either. Having to defend myself outside of the ring has left no lasting impression on me other than fear, while my father’s suicide has left me with only pain. I’m still here, but these are both things I could have lived a lifetime without experiencing.
I’m in the near-darkness of the highway beyond the city limits, which feels safer. Less exposed. I feel around on the black upholstery of my passenger seat for the bottle of water I could’ve sworn I brought with me. Instead of the bottle, my fingers find a plastic envelope. I knew immediately what it was. The only piece of my father that I had kept. The gold crucifix he was wearing when he died, contained in an airtight evidence bag. I drop the bag as if it was unbearably hot, and my fingertips couldn’t bear to maintain contact with it.
One hundred…one-oh-five.
“Well I’m bored of the game/ And too tired to rage.”
I exhale fully and take my foot off the gas, allowing my car to coast to a stop along the side of the highway. Nestled in the shoulder of the road in the middle of a long, banking turn, I rest my head on the steering wheel and close my eyes. As the song begins to wind down, I draw back and pound my fist into the passenger seat. Just sitting there, all alone in my PT Cruiser on the side of the highway felt oddly peaceful.
I had felt utterly empty since the moment I heard the news about my father two days before. My upbringing didn’t allow me to feel immediately anyway. At times it was a handy survival tool, but in this case, it was just a little tiresome. I wanted desperately to feel something. Now I finally could.
Hearing that song, at that time, finally allowed me to breathe again.
February 10, 2017
As the last repetition of the chorus fades away, I close my computer and got into bed. I know that I’m going through the motions, but it’s getting into the wee hours of the morning, and I need sleep. After a few hours of useless tossing and turning, I force myself outside for a cold, pre-dawn run. No headphones. No music. No sound. Just the rhythm of my breathing and my feet hitting the pavement.
Inside the Ropes: My Perspective 