👇🏿 ain’t got no time for that? press play for the radical radio recording ✨
dear red star riser, you are about to read a journal entry from my life after suicide experience. thank you for holding her in your tender, loving kindness.
november 20, 2017
i feel sad. today at the parents house, while one part peaceful, also stressful. how things run through my mind at times. time to be in, at, or around the meadow, first thing in the morning. by this afternoon i felt overwhelmed and tired. too much. it’s the last thing he saw.
i came to mothers new home, and banged on some wine racks, again tired. my body feels tired. and i am sad. i am sad about mother and her break out towards brother.
i am tired of trying to prove to others that i’m awesome. i am tired. i am tired of having these men in my life who are here and there. perhaps this has to do with how i am showing up.
i am tired. i am sad that mother can’t be here for me through this.
i feel like i’m living ritchie’s life doing his work. i feel like i have a pretty big piece of the pie resting on my shoulders-chest-heart-head-face. i feel like… i carried the knife. me. i did that.
i could use a cuddle. i could use kisses: sweet and tender. i could use a shoulder-back massage. i could use… some sweet love.
i’m very tired. dear god, please help. send love.
☾ᐧ post script context ᐧ☽
it is me and mother who arrive at their home to find ritchie’s last letter, and then his body. there is a walk, about a minute in length, from the house to the shop where he says he is.
when mother reads his last letter, she says “get a knife!!”
me, in my confusion, “what? why?!?”
“in case we have to cut him down!”
i choose the only knife in the wood butchers block that i think will do the job, that will cut the rope tied around the neck of a man who weighs 260-ish pounds: the chef’s knife.
i carry the knife down to the shop.