Puddles left after the Rain

This story may be distressing to read for some people.

This is a fictional story about depression and suicide. Please consider reaching out to a crisis hotline, professional help through a therapist, or to a psychiatrist if you struggle with depression, or with suicidal thoughts.

Thank you.

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Puddles left after the Rain

It was the name of a poem my friend wrote, after he killed himself. By the time he cut the last artery, he was already done - there was no way to stop the blood pouring out of him. In his last moments he wrote a poem. The police recovered what was left of it after the area had been cleaned.

The blood completely soaked the paper thoroughly, and nothing remained but the title.
His parents told me about it. They knew we were close, as close as he could get to anyone. I knew enough, his folks were terrible to him and each other. Emotionally divorced, and lacking of support to the point where he first tried to take his life when he was much younger. They refused to give him any medication, deeming his issues “Illusory.” They told me the name of the poem, and it haunted me ever since.

They sobered up when they found him dead. I can’t imagine how painful it must’ve been. For him, to bleed out like that, for his parents to find him like that, for everyone that knew him to hear the news like that. I just wish it didn’t have to have gone this way. For the reality to be so violent, and unbearable.

We grew apart over the years, and hearing the news crippled me. I always knew he was depressed, but I never knew that he so close - or did I - good god.

He was a lot stronger than most people thought, and to be honest - he didn’t just take his life out of spite - he took it out of pain - the disease of depression made him kill himself, and I can’t see myself ever understanding his pain - I can’t - it must’ve been so much to bear.

It went on for years, this gnawing pain of his death. His funeral was surreal. The burial, morbid. Seeing that casket containing someone knew - to see it slowly be lowered into the earth - it’s hollowing.

And the poem. Those words. We both had been suicidal, and to be honest, I was getting close myself, but then the news struck. I had a lost good part of my sanity due to job, and all the relationships around me we’re so draining.

But after hearing about him, I realized I was heading down a dangerous path - I went into therapy. I spent three years on a antidepressant, and I started to attack the same issues that killed my friend - his family. I dug deep - struck the painful roots, the ones with the most nerves - the loneliness, and the abandonment, the pain of being unloved.

By the end of it, with the approval of my Psychiatrist and Therapist I came off the medication, slowly. I had let go of the pain in my heart, and the quality of relationships around me had improved greatly. I had changed jobs, and even positively influencing the people around me. One of my friends mentioned that my change helped inspire him to pursue a better life, and he was happier than ever. I was so glad to hear this.

One of my proudest accomplishments was that my wife had noticed over the years, how I was improving and proudly and often commented on my “Reblooming”

Romancing her became one of my greatest joys. Before it was lifeless and practical, but after the death - I realized how precious pleasure, love, and connection are - and the life force that holds together.

I was able to spend the days of my precious and fragile life - giving her pleasure and receiving it generously.
I finally felt unburdened by the fear of loss that plagued my childhood, and the early part of my relationship with my Wife. My growth helped her become a better woman - she made great improvements to her inner self - and it blossomed outwardly, amazingly.

Sometimes on a rainy afternoon we would talk about the poem, what did it mean? What was he trying to say? However we were always left stumped at the tragic riddle.

Sometimes I cried in her arms, thinking of how if he hadn’t died, I might have, and how much I wished for him to be alive. It felt good to cry. To be naked emotionally with someone you love. To be free.

It felt good to be alive, and it’s a terrible thing that happened, but it made me aware of the precious gift of life. No matter how many times I say it, it never loses meaning.

I didn't care for the news anymore, or the worrying about petty things. The trees became my gospel. The air my salvation. The life I lived - was real - the toxic veil of depression - gone.

Finally on my last therapy appointment I mentioned the name of the poem to my therapist.

Rain was pattering on the window, and it reminded me of his death. I had talked extensively about the suicide, but never mentioned the poem. In this instance, I just said the name of the poem out loud in the last five minutes of the session. I don’t what came over me, I just said it.

My therapist looked at me quizzically, we had just been reminiscing and congratulating each other for the help and progress we’ve enabled each other to experience.

My therapist looked surprised, and mentioned that his best friend had killed himself when he was young. I was shocked to hear this.

He mentioned that he wrote a poem that contained that line. I urged them to continue.

He continued on, sadly smiling. He mentioned it was the event that motivated him to pursue therapy, to change his life, to push forward and help others with this disease of depression. He turned and pulled a wrinkled letter out of his coat pocket. It looked like it was about to fall apart, but somehow it was held together by all the sheer willpower in the world. There was two drops of blood on it. I shuddered.

“My death is like the storm.
It will cause tears, like rain - and when the storm is gone, and the rain is gone, my death will allow you to see yourself clearly. As the pain of death will shape you and guide your life. And maybe you too will be able to save people - and you won’t have to die to do so - you can save them by living - and there tears will not be out of pain - but out of joy - and you too - will be a like a puddle left after the rain. Allowing others - to truly see themselves. I can’t stop the bleeding now, but I can write this. Live for the tears of joy.”

I started to cry.

I felt a tremendous weight lifted out my chest. After all these years. I finally felt like I understood what he had been trying to say.

I will never forget you, dearest friend.