I had finally moved on to kneeling position, and my arms were aching from the extra effort of jamming the Russian ammo in the barrel of my gun. I wanted shooting to be over for tonight. My foot started tingling, and the memory flashed to my mind for no good reason. "Yes, good idea, stretch. Take your time. Don't let your foot fall asleep." Two years ago Corey had said this to me while he coached. He only came a few times, but he worked with me intensively one-on-one and his kind, constructive feedback was infinitely useful. But Corey's dead now.
I don't even know if that's how his name was spelled. I only ever talked to him, even saw him maybe three or four times. I was really confused when my shooting coach called maybe six months later to tell me that Corey's funeral was soon, and that he had killed himself. I don't know why I still think about this so much.
I often think about how nice it would be to just, stop living. To not have to deal with the stresses and shortcomings anymore, and to just be home with Jesus. That part of suicide I totally get. The feeling where you're tired in the depths of your soul and you just want a time out. The treadmill of life is cycling on, and it seems easier to pull the trip cord than attempt to stop your stumbling. The feeling when you're sick to your stomach by everything you see, and you can't bring yourself to smile because it would mean lying. I don't claim to understand what it's like emotionally to want to kill yourself, but nearly everyone knows what it's like to feel that kind of hopelessness. I kind of get that. It's the actual dying part I don't understand.
It's really hard to kill a human being. Even when it's easy it's hard. And, I guess, I wouldn't really know, but doesn't it seem to you that those victims on House get way too many second chances at life after a diagnosis turns out wrong? And doesn't it seem to you that the villains in the movies are always finding one last rasping breathe to tear down the hero? [And doesn't it seem so wrong to you that I experience so much of the world through fiction?] Life doesn't leave easily. Jumping off a bridge, taking pills, pulling the trigger, slitting wrists, breathing in carbon monoxide, hanging from the ceiling . . . there's so much that could go "wrong" and there have been so many people who've been "unsuccessful" in their attempts. There's no such thing as a clean way to go, it's always a struggle to do the deed, because God alone is the giver and taker of life.
It almost seems like more of a struggle to die than to keep living.
But apparently for some people, that's not enough motivation to prevent suicide. I wish I could understand, I wish I could empathize, but I don't want to ever go to a place that would grant me that kind of understanding. The human heart is a really dark, really scary place. I forget that occasionally. Part of me wants to grit my teeth and examine every bloody piece of it, if only to understand. And the other part of me puts sheets over every mirror so I won't ever have to see the sin nature that once held me. I don't want to look at my need for so long that I forget the beautiful face of the God who saved me.