Ink & Shadows: The Words of Osiris j Reapor

When it rains, it fucking pours.

So many things can go right and wrong at the same time, and right now everything feels like it’s breaking me. I want to shut the feelings off, dive into a bottle, and get lost there until everything feels better again. I won’t, but I fucking want to.

I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I’m damn good at what I do. I’m a therapist. Not yet licensed, but working on it. Soon enough I’ll be a doctor. I’ve talked people down from the edge. I’ve sat with people who wanted to hurt themselves or end their lives. I’ve walked addicts through sobriety. I’ve helped young people find a better path when they couldn’t see one for themselves.

Which is why it hurts so much more when I can’t reach the people closest to me.

What good is this gift if I’m constantly failing the people I love? What good am I if I can’t save my friends? What is the point of any of it if they die because I couldn’t reach them?

I’m an Army veteran. Many of my oldest friends are people I met while serving. The Army gave us skills most people will never have. It forged bonds most people will never understand. Lifelong friendships with people from every walk of life and every corner of the country.

It turned us into weapons.

What it didn’t do was teach us how to be human again.

Some of us figured it out. Some of us never did.

It didn’t teach us how to be vulnerable, how to make peace with the things we did, the things we survived, or the things we’ve seen. It didn’t teach us how to cope with PTSD, trauma, addiction, depression, or suicidal thoughts. It trained us to be soldiers, then sent many of us back into civilian life without teaching us how to live there.

Over the years, I’ve lost more friends than I care to count to suicide. Recently, I lost another.

A good friend. A good man. A stubborn asshole I loved like a brother.

And I’m so angry and hurt right now I can barely think straight. I want to cry. I want to scream. Part of me wants to resurrect his dumb ass just so I can punch him in his stupid face.

He was a husband. He was a father of three. One of those children is my goddaughter.

For years, I’ve begged my friends to get help. To go to therapy. To talk to someone. To let me help them. And for years I’ve watched one friend after another lose their fight against this thing.

I don’t know if it’s pride. I don’t know if it’s shame. Maybe it’s both.

I’m just so damn tired.

How do I look my goddaughter in the eye and tell her I couldn’t save her daddy? How do I stand at another grave and ask for forgiveness?

I was one phone call away. A few words. A conversation. A reminder that I was still here. That he wasn’t alone. That he still had so much to live for.

His oldest son is fifteen years old. He needs his father now more than ever.

And the selfish bastard is gone.

I hate him so much right now.

And I miss him in equal measure.

If you’ve ever lost someone to suicide, then you know exactly what I mean. The anger and the love live in the same place. The grief comes in waves. One moment you’re mourning them. The next you’re furious with them for leaving.

I don’t have a lesson here. I don’t have a neat ending or some inspirational message.

I’m just heartbroken.

And I’m tired of burying my fucking friends.

Rest easy, brother.

You fucking asshole.