Reports from the Bunker

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Posts Tagged ‘suicide

I have missed you everyday for six years Roy

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and the nambi comes for us

not never for you anymore

having bitten for the final time

and you never to awaken

sleep beyond it and us

no more jones or dose

no hangover or headache

nor heartache or heartbreak

no more honesty and healing

you shot a whole right through

them all, with a bullet that

travels on and with ricochet

and wounds for all of us

left standing in the muck

no more laughter and love

no more confession or sex

nor arguement or cry for help

no more vision or cosmic feeling

we are without you now and now

more than ever the world seems

unkind and the streets uneven

as we don yet another black veil

to say ‘you cannot understand’

no more ancient wisdom and worry

no more world saving or beauty

nor power of love or forgiving

no more dreams or planning

you shot your whole through

these too, you see, it was not

all for you, but it was all with

you and in your absense it has already

begun the process of withering

no more cosmic muffin and doom

no more nut blessing or prayer

nor roy the goat, or the man

no more cosmic predisposition

what to say but that you failed

and in saying that; it follows

we failed too. Love and beauty

let us down or we did them, but

our journey ending with your gun

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Written by jamesjanus

June 5, 2012 at 1:47 pm

A Letter, Prayer, Whatever

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Six years this year, your birthday just past on Sunday and the anniversary of your tragic departure is coming up in two weeks. The last few years, I kept arriving upon these moments when I thought I had made peace, “gotten over it”, you know? And there are days and times when I think of you and the pain is not so terrible, which I guess is why I can find myself under that impression. But always, always my friend, at some odd moment it will hit me, I miss you and I wish you were here. That bullet is still bouncing around in so many of us, and for most it is tearing stuff up still.

I wish you could  see me being a father, a real husband and I wish you could meet Kim and the boys. I have found the loves of my life and I can say it without cynicism or reservation, her and the boys are this magical light that has entered and changed me forever.  I wish you could see me sober and maybe have taken that journey with me. Mostly, I find myself today, having these moments when I just wish you were there to talk to, whether in person or on the other side of the phone. I spend some long quiet moments, often, remembering the sound of your voice and that deranged cackle of yours. I have moments where in my heart it is still unfathomable and impossible to process, refuses to register that you are gone and you will not be coming back.  There are cruel moments too, usually in the middle of some great joy or very early in the morning when I actually forget and I think about seeing you, telling you some story and I have to remind myself that you are gone.

I hear some people give your mom a hard time and M too, wondering why they aren’t over it by now. Six years, isn’t that long enough? Long enough to get over the loss of a son, or the father of your child? Anyone you loved?  Six years is a very long time and  I suppose I understand the outsider’s perspective and I realize that everyone grieves differently. I am trying not to judge those for whom the pain is gone.  The simple truth is that for some of us, there will be no getting over it, not in Six years, and not in Sixty. I looked down to see Jovu sitting in your sisters dining room and I thought I had taken a heart punch, that dumb little sculpture brought back such a flood memory. You, insane, painting the walls  of that doomed apartment and the furniture, determined that you would be an artist! I had dread locks and fleas, the cat used my bed for a litter box and we could have filled the pool with all the tequila we drank.  You’ll never paint again, or do yoga or cut someone’s lawn with scissors.

I am supposed to be writing from a perspective of gratitude and that is hard with this topic, especially to be honest about it. I am grateful though, grateful that I knew and loved you when you were here. I am grateful even, not for you demise, but for how it spun me far enough out of control that I had to find my way to my own grave or sobriety. I am not sure I would sober today if it weren’t for your going and shooting yourself, that said, your life is the one and only thing I would trade my sobriety for.

I am grateful that M is taking really good care of herself and your baby girl, I hope that you are watching over them and can see that amazing duo. I am very grateful that M has forgiven me for being a stupid ass after you died and for doubting her. We talk often and I would do anything she asked to help her and your daughter.

I am grateful that I have faith today, that I can believe you are out there somewhere in some form or another. That I believe these letters I write you mean something and that you somehow get them.

I miss you my friend, my brother.

 

Written by jamesjanus

May 24, 2012 at 2:13 pm

Anniversary

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June 4, 2010 – It has been four years and still, I grieve for you, we all do, though we seldom speak to each other about it anymore, having taken our grief into privacy, secrecy. We hardly speak your name if it can be helped.

I find no shame in admitting that I break down from time to time, Veronica neither, we are perhaps more open with our pain. I can tell you that I still cannot listen to Tool, Alice in Chains, or Hendrix’s Mary.

I saw your daughter this past weekend, M brought her up to see us. She is so vibrant, smart and endearing. We had fund together, but it was bittersweet, as it always will be.  We are becoming family people, Andrew has a baby, Mike and Rose have two children now. I for my part have two boys, being for all intents and purposes their step-dad. You, you came first, you should have been on that plane with M and your daughter, having lead the charge into parenthood. She was something else on the go-karts man and it would have made you cackle and puff up with pride.

Everything, everything from here to eternity is spotted with a certain sourness. So much has changed for me, sober almost two years now and I have a wonderful woman in my life, she has two great kids and though it is a struggle we are pulling together a promising future. I can share none of this with you,  you took that from all of us and that singular thought is present now at every step of my journey, whether I am doing well or poorly and no matter to what degree on either side, you are not and never will be there to share with, to lean on, to laugh with.

I hate that it is your absence, rather than your presence that now lends a hand in creating the shape of things to come for all of us.  It is unfathomable to me how fresh this wound remains after four years.  I would trade anything, strike any deal to have you come back to us. I told Veronica that I spend no small amount of time considering that there must be a way, a trick of science or some deity to bargain with. I know, it is not possible, but my mind gets trapped, stuck on it.

I miss you my friend, my brother, my tribesman. I love you.

Written by jamesjanus

June 4, 2010 at 11:41 am

and prayer and death

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4 years next month. I was reminded today of the final lines in A Prayer for Owen Meany:

When we held Owen Meany above our heads, when we passed him back and forth — so effortlessly — we believed that Owen weighed nothing at all. We did not realize that there were forces beyond our play. Now I know they were the forces that contributed to our illusion of Owen’s weightlessness: they were the forces we didn’t have the faith to feel, they were the forces we failed to believe in — and they were also lifting up Owen Meany, taking him out of our hands. O God — please give him back! I shall keep asking You.

and whether the sun is shining or the rain is pelting down upon my life, I think of you and so often I beg of God to give you back to us, to undo your mistake. Somewhere in the recesses of my heart I think to myself there must be a way. Meany was your favorite book, Vern is right, you knew you bastard, you knew what you were going to put us through.

Andrew and Rebecca’s anniversary is today, 3 years ago, the Caribbean wedding that you were absent for. Your sister gave birth to her second child, a baby boy, another one that you will never meet.  Your own child will be coming to visit us late this month, just a week before the anniversary of that horrible day. Every moment of consequence shared by us members of your tribe is diminished because we instinctively look to share it with you and you are gone and in this way and for this reason, the grief seems to go on endlessly.

The world gave your mother such a hard time for taking so long to emerge from her grief, my god those people don’t understand, I know it will never end for me and I will shed tears for you from now until I too am dead. I know that I cannot imagine what it must be like for your mother.

So much has happened, to, with and for me in the last few years, the same with Drew and Vern and your sister. though Drew might be hesitant to admit it, we miss you, I miss you and I hate that May and June are spent thinking so much about how much I miss you.

Written by jamesjanus

May 5, 2010 at 7:03 pm