She just couldn't take it anymore Why did you do it?: She just couldn't take it anymore

By Antigone on Saturday, April 22, 2006 - 03:08 am:

    I got the e-mail from her mother on Monday.

    "Greg i want you know that anju passed away today."

    That's all it said.

    And I knew right then what had happened.

    Anju and I met online. Salon personals. For the first year or so everything was wonderful. She said when we met, "I have my demons." And yes, she did. She told me about physical abuse by her mother. When I'd come into our room at night, if I woke her she'd be momentarily terrified by my presence, so I knew there was more she didn't tell.

    And sometimes at night she would cry out in her sleep.

    After that first year she became increasingly distant. I didn't see it at first, but after a time she was caring but cordial. When she eventually went on vacation to Paris without me (I couldn't afford it) we both knew. Two weeks after she got back she broke things off for good. I was glad she had been the one to do it. I'd waited for her to do it herself, hoping it would help her feel as if she were taking control of her life. That was eighteen months ago.

    A few months after we broke up I met Marci. The few times I did have contact with Anju I wouldn't mentioned that I was in a relationship. I never knew whether she was, and I didn't want to risk depressing her if she were not.

    Seems she didn't need the help.

    Her brother told me it was likely a painless death: suffocation by inhaling helium. She was very mediculous. She had her affairs in order a week in advance, at least. Her brother says she had files on her computer, spreadsheets and other documents, outligning her affairs with everything in order. This was obviously what she wanted. Yet I am haunted by the image of her lying lifeless in her bed.

    There were hundreds of people at her funeral. How could someone be so despondant and alone when they've touched so many lives? But I imagine it must have been the pain. It was the pain she only openly expressed once, the first night she was in my arms.

    I loved you, Anju. I wish I could have helped you more.

By platypus on Saturday, April 22, 2006 - 01:37 pm:

    What is it with April?

    I'm sorry, Antigone, though that word doesn't properly muster my emotional response.

    I hope that she is free of her demons now.

By kazu on Saturday, April 22, 2006 - 03:38 pm:

    I'm so sorry.

By wisper on Saturday, April 22, 2006 - 04:52 pm:

    When i still worked at the balloon place, word got around that some kid had rented a helium tank from another location just to kill himself with it. They found out when his family returned it.
    Clean, oderless and cheap, it ensures painless death in less than 10 minutes. It's recommended by many Right To Die groups. Such research.

    At least she is free now.

By droopy on Saturday, April 22, 2006 - 05:00 pm:

    sorry, antigone.

    i've tried to write other things. but it all comes out crap.

By V on Sunday, April 23, 2006 - 01:06 am:,you are still the T.S.Eliot of Sorabji.

By Antigone on Monday, April 24, 2006 - 01:11 am:

    Thanks, ya'll.

By agatha on Monday, April 24, 2006 - 01:31 am:

    Whoah. I'm so sorry, tiggy. It sounds like that was what she wanted, but it's always worse for the people left behind.

By TBone on Monday, April 24, 2006 - 06:58 pm:

    Sorry, Antigone.

By sarah on Tuesday, April 25, 2006 - 01:10 pm:

    oh, how awful! sorry Antigone, that's gotta be really tough.

By patrick on Tuesday, April 25, 2006 - 03:53 pm:

    april indeed.

    sorry tig.

By moonit on Wednesday, April 26, 2006 - 02:33 am:

    Tiggy that bites. I'm sorry to hear it.

By Antigone on Saturday, September 7, 2013 - 03:13 am:

    So I was in her old neighborhood tonight. When that happens, if
    time permits, I wander over to her old place. For years after her
    death it was exactly the same: through the window off the porch
    not a piece of furniture moved, and not even the position of the
    curtains shifted. Her father bought her the place and obviously
    couldn't bear to part with it or let it even be disturbed.

    But not this time. It's been about a year since I'd been there last. It
    was obvious that he'd sold the place. He finally moved on. Or
    maybe he's dead himself and his son sold the place.

    Ironically, just down the street is the church where Marci and I were
    married. I hadn't been back there since the ceremony, some seven
    years ago. (Not long after I posted above, in fact.) So I drove there,
    parked in the darkness, and wandered around for a while. During
    the reception, which was also at the church, I arranged for my
    friends in a trombone choir to play a piece I had arranged: Frank
    Sinatra's "It all depends on you." I sang the lead while they played.
    It's the only time I ever sang for anyone for love, and no doubt the

    But as I wandered in that place there were no tears, and not much
    feeling at all. I'm past it all, it seems. And I realized at that
    moment that the rest of my life had started. I have another forty to
    sixty years left, at least as much as I've experienced so far. Might
    as well make the best of them.

By Ms. Pepper on Saturday, September 7, 2013 - 01:28 pm:

    Sounds like a sad poem. Sometimes we have to move on with it.

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