the Story

Someone I know - let's call him Bob - told me a story not too long ago. A man that he knew, professionally and personally, committed suicide. Bob went on for a while about how shocking it was, how no one would have guessed or suspected it. He knew his friend was having a tough time, the business was doing poorly, he was loosing money. But still, Bob pondered, how do you get to a point of committing suicide and how does no one seem to notice along the way.

I listened to this story, nodding and making the appropriate sounds of agreement and sympathy. But, the whole time, I had the sense that this story was really about me. Anyone I know, professionally or personally, could end up telling this same story about me one of these days. "We knew it was tough for her," they'll all say, "but who would have suspected she'd do that."

I find it hard to believe in a way. It seems inconceivable. Someone had to have known Bob's friend was that close to the edge. Someone must have suspected. But I couldn't name a single person in my life that would suspect just how precariously close I am to the edge.

The answer is clear, of course. Bob's friend was invisible. Just like me. He must have lived his life with a mask, so maybe no one did see the real him. Maybe no one could have suspected because they didn't see him, didn't see what his life was really like, didn't recognize or acknowledge what he was struggling to live with.

I am invisible, and I am struggling every day, and I struggle alone, each day choosing to stay on the solid land of the cliff but wondering if tomorrow will be the day I jump. Bob's friend's story is my story. And if I do decide to jump one of these days they'll all say it's a shock, that they never would have imagined. I can picture Bob, talking to someone else, telling the story all over again, only next time it may be about me.