3 Years Later

I was in high school before Donnie and I became friends. First, he visited my church and then my home. My parents reached out to him, and he reached out to us.  It wasn't too long before Donnie spent Saturdays with us.  Then, he found his way into suppertime and sleeping on our couch.  He came to our family birthdays and Christmases.  Santa even dropped some gifts off at our house for him.  He quickly became an important part of my life.  More like a brother than a friend, really.  


I've never had a brother, so I could be mistaken, but I've heard that they show up at inconvenient times and irritate you and tell stupid jokes and make you laugh and make you want to hit them in the face and they're sometimes quite messy, but more than anything you love them so deeply that the thought of losing them takes your breath away.  Isn't that what it's like to have a brother?  I imagine it is; at least, that's what it was like having a Donnie.  Donnie was all of those things to me, and even more.  We would sit and talk for hours.  We would solve the world's problems and talk about our families and our friends and our God and our weekends and our schoolwork.  He is the only person who ever made sure to ask in nearly every conversation if Hub was treating me right.  We dreamed big dreams together, had a lot of fun, laughed a lot of laughs, and cried a lot of tears.

I was in college when Donnie died.  It was Saturday, and he shot himself between the eyes.  

It was the first time I'd experienced such loss, hurt, confusion, and anger all at one time.  In one breath I could bid him good riddance for his selfishness, and in the next,  I'd beg him to come back for a do-over.
Never will I understand why he decided to end a life so full of promise.  If he was at the end of his rope, I would have given him mine.  So many people would have.  He was, he is, so deeply loved and so deeply cherished.


Sometimes I dream that the buzz at the door is him, and I'll answer, and he'll come inside.  He'll sit on the couch, and I'll offer him something to drink. We'll spend the afternoon talking and laughing, and Hub will come home, and I'll fix dinner, and Donnie will eat three plates, help me clean up the kitchen, and be on his merry way again.  But that never really happens.


Sometimes I wish that when I picked up the ringing phone, it would be him on the other line calling to see how life is in Kentucky.  But that never happens, either.


Sometimes I imagine that I'll get a letter in the mail apologizing for missing my college graduation and my engagement and my wedding and a promise to come and see me soon.  But that never happens.


They won't ever happen, these things I dream of and imagine and pray for in the still of the night.  These things won't ever happen, and it's his own fault.  It is a dark and unsettling place when the person you have lost, the person you so desperately want one more conversation with is the same person who caused all of this pain in the first place.


Sometimes I look up to heaven and I think, "Donnie Ferguson, if you can see me right now you'd better be sorry, buddy. I hope you see all of us down here and you feel bad for what you've done and all of this pain you've caused.  Because you should.  You should feel terrible."


And then other times I look up to heaven and thing, "How is it that a person so loved by so many could feel so desperate, so alone."  And I feel guilty for his death, like it was my fault somehow because I wasn't right there the moment he needed me.


Most of the time, though, I just hope and pray that he is happy.


Before I ever had to think about it, I knew that losing him would take my breath away.  That it would rip me open and scrape me out and shake me up.  I was right.  I carry on, though.  I carry on knowing that if he could go back and change the circumstances of his death, he would.  I carry on knowing that if he could see the pain and the torture he had caused the ones who loved him, he would put the gun down and back away.  That's what I tell myself, anyway.  And maybe I am wrong, but I know who Donnie was and how much he cared, so I believe that if he really understood the consequences of shooting himself in the head, he wouldn't have.  He would have stayed alive and protected the people he loved, the people who loved him.


When I tell my children about my precious friend, I will make sure that they know his death was not the definition of his life.  That although he had many struggles; he had many more victories.  I will make sure they know that even though he had a temporary, life-altering, and terrible lapse in judgement that he was a brilliant and loving human being who changed my life, and many others, for better.  More than anything, I will make sure that they know they are loved and cherished, no matter what, and if the desperation ever comes, that suicide isn't the way.  

Because suicide never heals.  It only creates more anguish.

If you or someone you know is struggling, please call 

1-800-SUICIDE 

or visit 

www.hopeline.com 

because there is always a way out, even you can't see it just yet.