There are those whose minds don't want to produce thought anymore. Whose eyes have lost their shine, people who are so sad they use their last ounce of strength to do the only thing left to do, whose thoughts are so disturbed that death is the only thing that makes sense.

There are those who made an irreparable mistake, when it seems as though the phrase "no matter how bad it gets ..." doesn't apply.

Those who think they've already experienced enough.

Those who don't want to know if there's anything left to experience.

What if sadness is like energy, in that it never goes away, it just changes form, attaches itself to another mind in the form of a metaphysical virus?

Suzy called me a few weeks before her cocktail party. I haven't really talked much about the details of that conversation, but it's been hanging over my head for almost a year now. I only told her my version of The Truth. What she did took from my philosophies was her decision. It's not like her actions were spur of the moment; she planned her death weeks, if not months, in advance. But humans are constantly seeking validation, affirmation.

"Morgan, I'm sad!" I laughed, neither with nor at her, but the way she said it, especially consdering the topic of conversation -- I needed to smile, lest I cry. She giggled too.

"I know, Suzy!" At this point, she may have mentioned something about killing herself. I had been mulling over it for years, so it wasn't a subject I discussed literally.

I was too cynical to be inspirational, and I have to doubt that if I said anything differently, things wouldn't have happened the way they did.

"Suzy, death is inevitable. We are all going to die, and we do have somewhat of a choice in the matter. Sure, you could kill yourself, but what you have to think about is whether there's anything left to experience. Whether or not you believe in God or fate or destiny, there has to be some sort of reason you wake up in the morning. There must be something you haven't done, someone's life you haven't touched, money you haven't made, sex you haven't had -- I mean, there's something left to experience. But you do have a choice as to whether or not you're going to be around to experience it."

Suzy didn't buy it. A few weeks later, on March 23, 2002, she drank a cocktail, the primary ingredient of which was cyanide, which she had bought online pretending to be a jeweller.

I seem to have misplaced my handbook o' life, so, a year later, I'm still struggling to find the proper way to deal with this. It's not just about Suzy. As with any death, be it a pet, a grandfather, a public figure, I was slapped in the face with not just my own mortality, but that, to a certain extent, I have control over it. There's a dangerous surge of power that accompanies that realization. Perhaps that is why I can't yet comprehend the situation enough to get the fuck over it. And perhaps that is what it is so difficult to come to terms with the death of a loved one: there is so much uncertainty surrounding death, that to know I could answer at least two questions -- when and how -- I could be content enough to leave this world, my body, my soul, whatever, behind.

Incidentally, I spent the day at work reading The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, one of Suzy's favorite books, and cannot stop thinking about her now. Esp and I hung out -- whenever either of us is feeling sad about Suzy, we call upon each other to commiserate -- and had an enormously girly time discussing periods and blow jobs at the top of our lungs at the Junipero Serra Starbucks. Sometimes, that's all there's left to do.

one year ago today: "karma, people. carma."

two years ago today: "my foot is asleep. why aren't i? " and "Ache! Longing! Angst! The emo, my god, the emo!" and "Will you take me seriously?".

three years ago today: "i'd be upset but i'm not...yay apathy."