Last October I some how got roped into either calling or answering the phone, I don't even remember how it happened, just that I was on the phone with my shooting coach and he was telling me that an acquaintance had killed himself. And I didn't know what to say. What does one say?
I didn't really know him. He was a young guy, maybe 23, one of his brothers was friends with Hannah. This guy had coached me for a few weeks in winter 2008. That was the extent of my involvement with him.
I just sort of stammered when my coach told me, I didn't fully comprehend what he had said until after I hung up, and I felt kind of weak in the knees when I told Mom who was freaked out by the look on my face.
I felt like an impostor for being so sad. Or maybe it's just that suicide is inexplicably horrible, no matter how well one knows the person. I still felt like I didn't have the right to be hurt and disturbed, but that also didn't stop me from writing a novel about it.
I don't know why I'm thinking about it just now. Maybe I need to stop writing novels about suicide. Is it wrong that things always mean more to me in retrospect? Is it an illusion that emotions, like cheese, get sharper with time?
According to Michael Buckley, if the Taylor Swift/Joe Jonas break up taught us anything, it's don't break bad news over the phone.
How wretchedly insensitive the world is.