Normally I write and feel better after I do.
I wrote about Jamey Rodemeyer two days ago. I don’t feel any better.
I feel so bad, as a matter of fact, that it is very difficult to go about writing the way I normally do.
I live my days, take notice of something, and write about it.
It usually makes me pay more attention to a great moment of a day. Or a great feeling of a moment. Or helps me work through a maze of feelings about something I’ve witnessed or experienced.
This time I paid attention. I read. I watched news stories. I tried to work through the confusion of this world and times we live in.
I got no satisfaction from writing about Jamey. None at all. This makes me feel bad. Writing about him didn’t do anything to help him. For this I feel bad. It’s too late for any of us to help him. For this I feel remorseful. I didn’t know him, but have I lived fully in the concept of compassion and acceptance?
I’m just having such a difficult time having written about him, to go on and write about the good things in life. Of which there are plenty. But a child feeling so hopeless, helpless and beaten down enough to end his life.
To kill himself.
This puts a shadow over the joy of living.
There’s no way that writing about this is ever going to make anything better.
We have to start doing things. Differently.
I try for the most part to remain upbeat and positive. My apologies for not being able to shake this sadness.
He was just a child.