Jimmy Soprano

My friend committed suicide on Wednesday. That was difficult to write. People usually don't talk about suicide. Close your eyes or hit the back button.

We know how he did it but we don't know why. That's the thing with suicide. If there isn't a note, you're left with confusion. Even with a note, a giant question mark seems to hang over head.

Jimmy was 33. He went to high school with my roommate. He lived across the street from us. He had a really nice, $300,000 home. His parents were born in Sicily. He was Catholic. He had a lot of friends. He drove an H2. He was a big boy. He took Krissie and I to the Chop House. We made him dinner. He loved my bruchetta. He couldn't stand cilantra. He always said, "hey beautiful. When are you going to marry me?" He said this to all the girls.

His closest friends are shocked. They insist he wouldn't do something like this. Jimmy didn't believe in suicide. Someone said, "there's no way he killed himself. You don't go to heaven if you kill yourself." I felt like people turned and looked at me, as if I'm closer to God because I talk about Him all the time. I raised my eyebrows and fumbled through something about destroying something made in God's image, but then I finished with "I can't pretend to know what happened to Jimmy during his judgment. I can't pretend to know what God will forgive. That is between God and Jimmy. I only hope I'll see him again someday."

There is so much pain surrounding this death. People are hurt that Jimmy would do this. People are angry at Jimmy for not asking for help. Maybe he did. Maybe his mind was made up. People blame themselves for not seeing the signs. I even threw myself a brief pity party thinking, "oh yeah, Holly...probably the only Christian in his life. Did you really give all you had to him?" No, but I didn't hide it, either. We talked about pre-marital sex. We talked about porn. He knew where I was standing. Still, none of us could have cured his issues. We didn't even know all of them.

The last time I spoke to Jimmy was the day before the Super Bowl. He called me to invite me to his party.
"Wow. Thank you so much for inviting me to your party...THE DAY BEFORE. I had to go and make other plans because I got tired of waiting for your invite. You've changed."
He laughed and said, "I don't even know you anymore."
We then pretended to break up for the next 5 minutes. At the end, we were laughing. This is what I'm trying to hold on to...not the final minutes before he made the decision to pull the trigger. My mind can't understand that. It is difficult to walk out of my front door and be staring at his house, knowing what happened in there. Dare I say...it was a .22? Yeah, I probably went to far with that one. But the "coincidence" is strange.

I left for work late on Thursday morning. People had been coming and going in our condo until 2 am. Crying, laughing, sharing...I could see the healing trying to start. Still, there was so much hurt and confusion. When Krissie told me, I dropped the mail and my purse, walked up to her and hugged her...while saying, "this must be a joke." When I left late for work on Thursday, I saw Godiva, Jimmy's chocolate lab. She was at the garage door and then ran to the front door. She was looking for him. No one told her. I know, I know. She wouldn't understand. But I don't understand, either.

I'm tired right now. It has been a long confusing week full of trivial bullshit. Yup, yup. I wrote it. I said it. It is. Will my life ever become so depressing that I'll think about ending it? Will I reach out for the help I need or keep it all inside? I do know God is the author of my life. He decided when to start it and I'll carry out His plan until the end...even if it is killing me...I cannot kill me because I am not my own.

Please pray for Jimmy's family and friends.