I wasn’t really mad about the letter itself. I was initially alarmed, but not mad. I became annoyed and irritated when the rep wouldn’t own that the letter was dishonest. What I quickly understood was that even though I was right; it didn’t matter. Also, Conner didn’t have the authority, awareness or capacity to apologize and I couldn’t make him. My feelings about this ultimately inconsequential situation were really about other people I have encountered in my life who are quick to deflect responsibility and refuse to own their mistakes and shortcomings.
I allowed myself to be triggered. I became angry and frustrated because I have not healed the places in my heart where people I have been in relationship with wouldn’t be honest and own their shit.
I know the heart wrenching impact of suicide and the extreme, desperate heart and mind space one has to be in to make that choice. I also have friends who suffer from depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder and perhaps other mental illnesses I know nothing about. I worry about them. I worry when they get to quiet and when they stay away too long. I wonder if my phone is gonna ring with the grief of a parent or sibling telling me they’ve chosen their own final act on the stage of life— I am sometimes terrified by the knowing… the knowing that no matter how beautiful, intelligent, witty and resourceful I find you— that if you don’t see it in yourself what I think doesn’t matter.
