Disrepair

I painted the room where you ended your life this weekend.

It felt like a protest against those walls, the gypsum and woodwork that witnessed your final moments.

I cleaned cobwebs, caulked over cracks, concealed scuffs and scratches, bruises from your presence.

Admittedly, a silent thought tugged on the ether between my heart and brain - that restoring your room would somehow restore you.

That desperate wisp of hope swirled as each surface was meticulously covered in newness.

But the past is an unmoving stone, and your death is chiseled into it.

There were days, no doubt, when you felt like that room: cold, faded, abandoned.

The day you died, you accepted a false truth that you were beyond repair.

I wish we could have spackled over your scars.

But mental illness isn’t a cosmetic defect.

If you or a loved one is experiencing thoughts of suicide or self-harm, contact the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing “988”.

It’s free, confidential, and available 24/7.

You are not alone.