I don't consider myself an empath, but something happened recently that's made me wonder.
For those of you who read my last blog post here, I indicated I'd given up writing. That also included my NaNoWriMo WIP. What I neglected to mention was the overwhelming sense of grief and loss I felt Monday and Tuesday, a pain so acute I seriously considered slashing my wrists and ending it all.
Wednesday I was fine. Whatever miasma of despair had lingered over me had lifted. Gone. Like it never existed.
But then came the rumors on Facebook someone I knew had committed suicide that past Monday. Yes, the same Monday. November 14. Sadly, the rumor was confirmed by a newspaper obituary.
While I knew this person, I didn't know him well enough to call him a friend, but he was a friend to many of my other friends. This is not a slight at him. I live in a different area of town than they do, so they hung out together more. But when I did meet him, I found him to be funny, kind, and a nice guy. Cliched but true.
Last night I attended a memorial to celebrate his life. The turnout was remarkable, easily a hundred people had come to pay their respects. The service ended up being moved from the chapel to the sanctuary.
I wonder now if my depression those two days had not been a psychic response to his death, something I was unaware of at the time and thus unable to control. I felt a similar grief when my grandmother died, but had no idea until I came home and my husband told me.
Again, I'm not claiming to be an empath. Only questioning a possibility.
Anyway, I'm back to writing. Finished my vampire Victorian paranormal mystery NaNo project this past Sunday. I've been thinking of returning to a neglected short novel and writing a couple of Christmas stories to post free online.
Because, when I think about it, I know he would want me to be the best damn writer I could be.
RIP.
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