Instead of the regular post I am posting a short story. Just so you're aware prior to reading it is about a suicide and there is brief description of the act.

Barefoot:

I killed myself three years ago. I know that is a little hard to digest given the fact that I am writing this and presumably you are reading it. Now I know you’re expecting me to say that some existential crisis killed my soul and my body endures. Nothing so lame. No in fact I committed suicide in a way I assumed would make sure I stayed gone. None of that cry for help stuff. I slit both wrists vertically, chased a bottle of Advil with a bottle of vodka, and kicked the chair out from under the noose around my neck. I remember the crack of my neck breaking.

So believe me when I tell you I am as surprised to be writing as you are to be reading. Looking back on the circumstances that led to trifecta I suppose I overreacted, but in the moment it seemed a bit overwhelming. I digress; the real curiosity here is why exactly I’m north of bedrock. Part of me thinks I may actually have ended up in a sort of hell. Though I am not sure there’s a heaven to my hell so it’s hard to say.

I was buried on a perfect afternoon in May, from all accounts as close to a perfect Ohio afternoon as there has ever been. My mom said that’s what made her cry so hard, I think it’s because she blamed herself for my suicide. Apparently there was just enough of those clouds that look like a bunch of mini-marshmallows stuck together around to give the perfect amount of time out of the sun that no one was to hot or too cold. So I guess I gave everyone a pretty nice afternoon out.

If you asked pre-suicide me how many people would’ve showed up to my funeral I would have said none, with downcast eyes and slumped shoulders assuredly. Turns out a lot of people considered me a friend. More than 300 people showed up at viewing hours, and close to 500 came to the funeral, standing room only. I talked to about half of them so far, the majority genuinely cared for me. Wow, sorry, I keep getting ahead of myself.

I was buried on a Saturday. I got back on Wednesday. It was disorienting to say the least. The last thing I remembered was the crack from my neck breaking, and then I was standing barefoot in the grass hand shooting up to my neck to check the damage. It wasn’t like waking up, it was like blinking, to me no time existed between the rope going taught and my feet in the dewy grass. So natural my first thought was I that I had a very vivid day dream. Never mind that I had no idea why I was in a grave yard without shoes and wearing a suit I had no memory of buying. I guess I never thought of it before, but why put shoes on a dead guy? If the bottom of the casket is closed it’s not like anyone’s seeing his feet.

My first shock was seeing my name, birth date, expiration date and the sentence “Son, Father, Husband.” Engraved on a headstone. Oddly enough I dismissed the headstone relatively easily, I had imaged it enough. Not having anything else to do I headed to my childhood home. I remembered the town well enough to get there. It was about 5 miles on foot, and not having gone barefoot since I was a child by the time I got to my parents house my feet were blistered and bruised. I sat down on my father’s porch rocker and tenderly explored the damage.

I was there about 10 minutes before my mother came out front door, eyes red and shoulders slouched, saw me and promptly passed out. You know how in comedy movies when someone passes out they do it in that crazy washboard style? Well apparently seeing your son, who had gone to great lengths to make sure he was un-revivable nigh a week prior, rubbing his dirty and blistered feet can elicit the same response. I nearly killed her.

When she finally came to, she saw me and passed out again. This happened one more time before she was finally able to, pardon the phrase, stay in the world of the living long enough to talk to me. Her eyes welled up and she reached up with the strong callused hands of a woman who never forgot how to work. It drew a crooked smile out of me a week prior of would’ve never thought I had. We went inside and the questions began.

This is when I learned that I had really did kill myself. No day dream, no hallucination, and what was weird wasn’t the questions she asked me, but the ones she didn’t. There was the ones I would’ve expected a therapist to ask if I had gone to one and told them what I was contemplating. Why did I kill myself? Didn’t I know how much I was loved? Etc… What she didn’t ask was how I got there? Why I wasn’t neatly tucked into six feet of top soil? Regardless, I answered her questions, all of them, and honestly, something I hadn’t done since I lost them. We sat at the my old kitchen table for nearly five hours talking, me answering questions, her making sure I knew how much she loved me, and at the end of those hours my dad walked in after a day’s work and passed out. This was something I eventually got used to.

The conversation with my father went much the same way. Which would have been the shock of my life if I was still alive, you see me and my dad don’t have, sorry, didn’t have the kind of relationship where those kinds of questions were asked. After about an hour I was crying, by 3 so was he, and by the time he got around to telling me how proud of me he had been, how he had always loved and would regret to the day he died that he wasn’t there for me when I needed him, I was openly weeping. This unwound me. This was something that always lay between us, unspoken but understood, laid bare in that manner was more than both of us could handle in life and I believe I damaged the only man I ever really respected more than I am willing to believe.

After we finished our talk I decided to get some air, grabbed an old pair of shoes, and headed to a field of tall grass frequented in my high school days. It was on this walk that I learned another peculiar caveat of my condition. I made it about 6 steps before my left shoe fell off, followed quickly by the right. They were both still tied snuggly. I undid them and placed them back on my feet, pulled the laces tight enough to numb all ten toes. Six steps later I lost them again, extra snug laces and all. I tried 4 more times before I just carried the shoes the half mile to spot. I imagine I must have looked very strange to anyone driving by in my suit, barefoot, and holding nearly 10 year old ratty tennis shoes.

I laid down in the grass, looked up at the stars, closed my eyes, and just like in life their faces were there. However, instead of them screaming or glaring, they just looked sad. I know this still seems like a negative image, but when you have spent 3 years looking at your wife and child’s face with contorted in screaming agony, or glaring back in accusatory hate, sadness was the biggest relief I had, had in a long time. I squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to hold back the tears that were quickly slipping their bonds and spilling down my cheeks. I fell asleep there.

The next day I went back to my parents and let myself in, they never locked their doors. I wasn’t hungry but realized I hadn’t eaten in over a day and raided their pantry, and learned another lesson. Nothing had taste, and I mean no taste at all. I was aware there was something in my mouth, I could smell it, but couldn’t taste it at all. I tried to swallow it anyway, and realized I had no idea how. I could not remember how to swallow. I tried to force my muscles to perform an action which I had been doing without thought my entire life and nothing happened. Tried to drink some water with the same result. It was about the time I was spitting my third mouthful of water into the sink that my mother walked out of her room. Her eyes weren’t as red, and her shoulders not as slouched. My dad came out shortly after and the two stood next to each other in the kitchen. My father looked into my mother’s eyes and began to speak. My mom cut him off and said “It’s going to be ok” and my father, the strongest man I have ever know collapsed into my mother’s arms and wept like a child. I reached for him, but drew my hand back like I had reached into a taser, because that is exactly what it felt like. I tried to speak, but my mouth snapped shut. They never even glanced at me.

This has pretty much been the formula for everyone I have visited since that first experience. Granted no one’s reaction has been quite as intense as my immediately family, one of my best friends, and my late wife’s family. I get my few hours to explain to these people why I hurt them so bad, they get to tell me how much I really meant to them, and then they forget it ever happened. The bottom of my suit pants are frayed now, the souls of my feet are probably thicker than steel (I also have to walk everywhere, and my family lives all over the country), but every time I meet another one of the people I hurt when I took my life they get a little peace even if they’ll never know why, and I get a little something too. It has taken a long time and thousands of miles, and it is going to take a lot longer before I am satisfied, but when I close my eyes now those two girls who I loved so much are wearing the faintest smiles, and it just started yesterday but I could swear I heard the smallest whisper of the beautiful voice I fell in love with so long ago.