This post originally appeared on my previous site, ipanemic.com
Wikipedia (which is the known trusted source of human knowledge or something close to it) has this introduction for their entry on Catharsis:
Catharsis is the emotional cleansing of the audience and/or characters in the play. In relation to drama it is an extreme change in emotion resulting from strong feelings of sorrow, fear, pity, or laughter; this result has been described as a purification or a purging of such emotions (whether those of the characters in the play or of the audience). More recently such terms as restoration, renewal, and revitalization have been used in relation to the effect on members of the audience.
Two Mondays ago, all twenty-four hours spun around the clock. Just like the day before and the day after. Somewhere during that twenty-four hours, though, my oldest son, Alec, took his life. He killed himself. This is the reality that’s day by day sinking more and more into me.
I want to tell you a brief and small story that is unimportant but relevant (well kind of crucial to what I’m getting at, I guess):
Just after 6pm on Monday, March 1st, 2010, a call was coming in on my cell. I looked at the name and it was the name of my ex-mother-in-law. I thought that peculiar because I never talk to her. I’m the devil in those parts and I thought we had an understanding.
Something was wrong.
I answer the call and it is my ex-wife.
“Scott? Alec is dead. He killed himself.”
After this point, the conversation is lost to me. I know that I scream. I know that I scream. It feels, literally, as though a knife has been shoved through my heart. I keep saying, “Tell me you’re kidding. Tell me you’re kidding.”
I don’t want to believe. It is impossible to believe. It can’t be believed.
Two of my friends and neighbors are there. I don’t know what’s going on. But I know I say, “There has to be good in this. There has to be good in this. There has to be good in this.”
Later that evening, and after saying goodbye to my (new) bride of three days , I boarded a plane and flew northward to where my family was. My other son, his younger brother. My parents, his grandparents. My ex-wife, his mother. On the plane, I tell myself repeatedly, “Try to act normal, try to act normal. Just blend in. Don’t lose it.” The alcohol swirling around in my body kills only my motor skills, not any of my awareness, and certainly not any pain.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know who to say it to, but I’m in a weird place.
This site has always been my life.
I will have to say some things.
I am torn in so many directions.
I feel guilt. And I feel guilt for saying anything.
And guilt is such a worthless feeling.
I’ve thought about this. Not a lot, but probably about as much time as needs to be spent thinking about it: and I think I need to just say things here. I don’t have anywhere else to go. This little space where I can type is my comfort spot. It’s where I can run to and say things. And not say things. It’s my Catharsis. And I hate it. For you. I’m sorry. Although, “I’m sorry” is a phrase someone else recently told me I have to get out of my system.
I guess this is my introduction for my entry on Catharsis. I’m sorry. I just need to say things here.
This is all I have for now, really.
Final note: Mantras are good.