To The Hills

As my parents said when they were married, "divorce is not on option," I continue to say the same to the spectre of suicide that darkens the doors at the lowest point wondering if I will invite him in. My door is shut and barred. Yet reluctantly typing the word even I can anticipate sirens going off somewhere, emails composed, phones picked up, areyouallrights? offered. All things to be grateful for, even though there is no reason to worry about this.

Women are twice as likely to suffer depression than men, yet one fourth as likely to take their own lives. Women make more relational versus unilateral decisions, and feel more free to change their mind, and rely on interdependence and friends. Men value independence and decisiveness, and regard seeking help as a weakness to be avoided and success--even in suicide--an admirable 'seeing of things through.' 

I have head about the false (but in the moment, very real) peace and lucidity that comes when a person decide to ends their life. It is a counterfeit gleam of hope in an otherwise pitch black night. And it is mighty hard to understand how something as perverted as suicide might be regarded by a person in the throws of despair. The one thing to look forward to when there is nothing else. A coveted relief. "Ya gotta give 'em hope," the spectre procures. Even if it is a lie. 

But when that's not on the table, you have no other choice but to fight, even when you're strung up on the ropes. It's exhausting. I want to sleep til forever, and forever never comes. You just keep slugging through. 

My wife is in my corner. She can hold the bucket while I spit out my teeth and shoot water in my gums, and rub my wrist between her palms like she was trying to start a fire. I love her to life. But it's a wearisome pummeling. She holds me up, elbows locked under my armpits, takes me off the pole and binds my wounds. I scan the crowd for the Lord, to tell me what to do, to even just see his eyes, but he's nowhere to be seen. I'm sure he's holding me up, and sending angels, but I can't see anything; I can't see straight. I know He's there, I just don't know where. I'm too tired to call for him even, but lift my eyes to the hills and wonder from where does my help come. (Ps 121:1)

I heard a song the last time I was getting pummeled like this. I welled up for days every time I hear it. It's for the wives, the husbands, the loved ones who can't touch you without burning...the ones who you force to sit outside your bedroom door just so you know where they are, and they do, even when they can't come in, know they can't come in. But when the heat dies down and you're not yet consumed, they will test the walls, and step quietly across the embers to make their way to you. I will throw back my head, sleep the sleep of the dead, but I will wake up, and my eyes will see the love before me through the smoke and fog.

I will keep fighting, it will not be a TKO, I will take it blow by blow and if I have to play dead I will until the spectre in his pride prances his way out of the ring. I will keep everything to myself at work, dab eyes quick and unnoticed, hold it together. I will grocery shop, I will make conversations, I will live. Then my bride and my coach will pitch me up, load me into the wheelbarrow back to the locker room. Stitch by stitch, suture by suture, night after night, til death do us part. I can't pay them anything in my weakness when I'm pummeled like this. The only thing I can offer to retribute is to stay in the fight.

"I'm afraid of the space where you suffer Where you sit in the smoke and the burn I can't handle the choke or the danger Of my own foolish, inadequate words I'll be right outside if you need me Right outside
What can I bring to your fire? Shall I sing while the roof is coming down? Can I hold you while the flames grow higher, Shall I brave the heat and come close with you now? Can I come close now?
So we left you to fight your own battle And you buried your hope with your faith 'Cause you heard no song of deliverance There on the nights that followed the wake We never though to go with you Afraid to ask
What can I bring to your fire? Shall I sing while the roof is coming down? Can I hold you while the flames grow higher, Shall I brave the heat and come close with you now? Can I come close now?
Lay down our plans Lay down the sure-fire fix Grief's gonna stay awhile, There is no cure for this We watch for return, We speak what we've heard We sit together, in the burn
What can I bring to your fire? Shall I sing while the roof is coming down? Can I hold you while the flames grow higher, Shall I brave the heat and come close with you now? Can I come close now?"

Crista Wells "Come Close Now"