Where the eagles fly...
Feb. 6th, 2007 08:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jedusorAIM IM with shills128.
1/30/06
6:10 PM
shills128: I'm reading but thats cause I picked up a new book
tenebrousmuffin: what book?
shills128: feet of clay
tenebrousmuffin: ooh!
tenebrousmuffin: i love terry pratchett
tenebrousmuffin: i just reread "mort" yesterday
tenebrousmuffin: have a nice read
shills128: my sister has that book and I've been meaning to steal it from her when she finishes it
tenebrousmuffin: it's probably the best discworld, except maybe for "equal rites"
tenebrousmuffin: and pratchett wrote "good omens" with neil gaiman... if you haven't read that book, you don't truly know what it's like to laugh
6:15 PM
shills128: I've read that book
shills128: thats what got me into pratched and gaimen
6:20 PM
tenebrousmuffin: "A Newsweek poll found 67 percent of Americans believe in the virgin birth of Jesus, and 82 percent believe Jesus is the son of God. So... fifteen percent believe that God came down and fucked the living shit out of Mary."
tenebrousmuffin: *cracks up*
shills128: lol
7:00 PM
Shills128 has gone offline.
Eight days later...
That IM conversation was the last time I talked to Evan. His suicide was my first experience with death, apart from pets and elderly relatives I barely ever saw. It was my first experience with the death of someone I really knew, someone I talked to on a regular basis, someone with whom I joked and had philosophical conversations and discussed plans for our lives.
I was sitting down to eat lunch in the Spectrum newsroom when I listened to the message from Mom, saying she had something important she needed to talk to me about. I called her back. The message had sounded like I was in trouble, and I was trying to think of what I'd done when she answered the phone. She asked what I was doing, and whether she could come to Penn Valley and talk to me face-to-face. Confused, I got up and walked out of the noisy room and into the hall, asking what was wrong and why she couldn't say it over the phone. She hesitated, then said it: "Evan shot himself this morning."
I was shocked for a moment, clarifying several times that she'd said what I had thought she'd said. Then I melted into mild hysteria. I don't remember when I hung up. A few people from the newsroom heard me and came to find out what was going on. I'll always be grateful to Stephanie, who barely knew me yet and had other things to do, but took me into the Editors' Cave and let me spill a stream of raw emotion incoherently at her, nodding and sympathizing and being exactly what I needed.
I called Sawnia and told her why I wouldn't be at work. I asked my French teacher if I could take the afternoon's test a different day because I had family problems to deal with. She said no. I took the test. I didn't remember a thing about it the moment I walked out the door.
The wake was surreal. That's the only word that remotely describes it. I tried to make myself useful, watching the baby and helping Aunt Amanda with anything that needed to be done. It didn't feel like it was actually happening. The whole time, I felt an almost overwhelming urge to open the coffin. I managed to suppress it, but barely.
The funeral felt almost farcical. Evan would have laughed aloud at the things they were saying about him. The Lord's shepherd? He didn't even believe in God. It helped his parents cope, though, and imagining him standing next to me and making snarky remarks about the service helped me cope. And playing Manowar at the end was the right thing to do.
The black balloon bunch we let go after the funeral got caught in some trees. The firemen who had attended the funeral brought in a truck and, still in their suits, climbed up the ladder and freed them. I pictured Evan's spirit next to me, cracking up at the spectacle.
Aunt Amanda asked me if there was anything of Evan's that I wanted. Immediately, I remembered the tie he was wearing at Blair's sweet sixteen. It's on top of one of my bookshelves now, along with the red duct tape bracelet I wore at the wake.
For a few months, the reality kept crashing down on me over and over. Over time, I gradually became more used to the idea of Evan being gone for good. 2007 was about two hours old the last time it hit me anew. Jasmine and Richard and I had wandered around to several New Year's Eve parties, and ended up at Richard's house, watching "The Butterfly Effect." The main character's name was Evan, which brought him to mind, but it wasn't until someone in the movie committed suicide that I began to consciously dwell on Evan, and it wasn't until a character in the movie wore a tie very similar to Evan's that I broke down sobbing and left the room. I recovered, but felt very shaky for a while, and didn't finish watching the movie. It happens. It's going to continue happening. I miss him, and I'm going to continue missing him.
When I got back from New York last February, I looked for "Fight For Freedom," but couldn't find it online. I haven't heard it since the funeral.
1/30/06
6:10 PM
shills128: I'm reading but thats cause I picked up a new book
tenebrousmuffin: what book?
shills128: feet of clay
tenebrousmuffin: ooh!
tenebrousmuffin: i love terry pratchett
tenebrousmuffin: i just reread "mort" yesterday
tenebrousmuffin: have a nice read
shills128: my sister has that book and I've been meaning to steal it from her when she finishes it
tenebrousmuffin: it's probably the best discworld, except maybe for "equal rites"
tenebrousmuffin: and pratchett wrote "good omens" with neil gaiman... if you haven't read that book, you don't truly know what it's like to laugh
6:15 PM
shills128: I've read that book
shills128: thats what got me into pratched and gaimen
6:20 PM
tenebrousmuffin: "A Newsweek poll found 67 percent of Americans believe in the virgin birth of Jesus, and 82 percent believe Jesus is the son of God. So... fifteen percent believe that God came down and fucked the living shit out of Mary."
tenebrousmuffin: *cracks up*
shills128: lol
7:00 PM
Shills128 has gone offline.
Eight days later...
That IM conversation was the last time I talked to Evan. His suicide was my first experience with death, apart from pets and elderly relatives I barely ever saw. It was my first experience with the death of someone I really knew, someone I talked to on a regular basis, someone with whom I joked and had philosophical conversations and discussed plans for our lives.
I was sitting down to eat lunch in the Spectrum newsroom when I listened to the message from Mom, saying she had something important she needed to talk to me about. I called her back. The message had sounded like I was in trouble, and I was trying to think of what I'd done when she answered the phone. She asked what I was doing, and whether she could come to Penn Valley and talk to me face-to-face. Confused, I got up and walked out of the noisy room and into the hall, asking what was wrong and why she couldn't say it over the phone. She hesitated, then said it: "Evan shot himself this morning."
I was shocked for a moment, clarifying several times that she'd said what I had thought she'd said. Then I melted into mild hysteria. I don't remember when I hung up. A few people from the newsroom heard me and came to find out what was going on. I'll always be grateful to Stephanie, who barely knew me yet and had other things to do, but took me into the Editors' Cave and let me spill a stream of raw emotion incoherently at her, nodding and sympathizing and being exactly what I needed.
I called Sawnia and told her why I wouldn't be at work. I asked my French teacher if I could take the afternoon's test a different day because I had family problems to deal with. She said no. I took the test. I didn't remember a thing about it the moment I walked out the door.
The wake was surreal. That's the only word that remotely describes it. I tried to make myself useful, watching the baby and helping Aunt Amanda with anything that needed to be done. It didn't feel like it was actually happening. The whole time, I felt an almost overwhelming urge to open the coffin. I managed to suppress it, but barely.
The funeral felt almost farcical. Evan would have laughed aloud at the things they were saying about him. The Lord's shepherd? He didn't even believe in God. It helped his parents cope, though, and imagining him standing next to me and making snarky remarks about the service helped me cope. And playing Manowar at the end was the right thing to do.
The black balloon bunch we let go after the funeral got caught in some trees. The firemen who had attended the funeral brought in a truck and, still in their suits, climbed up the ladder and freed them. I pictured Evan's spirit next to me, cracking up at the spectacle.
Aunt Amanda asked me if there was anything of Evan's that I wanted. Immediately, I remembered the tie he was wearing at Blair's sweet sixteen. It's on top of one of my bookshelves now, along with the red duct tape bracelet I wore at the wake.
For a few months, the reality kept crashing down on me over and over. Over time, I gradually became more used to the idea of Evan being gone for good. 2007 was about two hours old the last time it hit me anew. Jasmine and Richard and I had wandered around to several New Year's Eve parties, and ended up at Richard's house, watching "The Butterfly Effect." The main character's name was Evan, which brought him to mind, but it wasn't until someone in the movie committed suicide that I began to consciously dwell on Evan, and it wasn't until a character in the movie wore a tie very similar to Evan's that I broke down sobbing and left the room. I recovered, but felt very shaky for a while, and didn't finish watching the movie. It happens. It's going to continue happening. I miss him, and I'm going to continue missing him.
When I got back from New York last February, I looked for "Fight For Freedom," but couldn't find it online. I haven't heard it since the funeral.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-02-07 04:21 am (UTC)A man I loved took his life, years ago now when I was still living up in Anchorage. Some days the way I miss him is still like burning. He shot himself on his sofa. He has with him a picture of my son (Jordan Bear) and my Godson (Alex). The dead man and I were Alex's Godparents.
I dreamed him in the back seat of my car soon after his death. I was weeping and driving in the dark and rain. I glanced up and saw his face in my rear-veiw mirror. He asked me, "Please don't cry anymore honey, please don't cry". I still cry.
He is so missed. I am blessed to have known him for the time that I had, blessed to have been loved by him. I tell Ted-stories to our Godson and my own boy and to the mirror some days.
Strength and healing to you lady.
no subject
Date: 2007-02-07 11:08 am (UTC)