This must be the place
It’s a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Suicide. The one societal topic that makes everyone squirm, conjuring traumatic memories as we think back on those familiar faces no longer with us, but dearly missed.
This past Jan. 30 marked four years since a close friend of mine took his own life. Patrick Gallagher, or “Pat” to all who knew and loved him. He was 42 years old when he left this earth. His passing shocked an entire community, with the waves of turbulent emotion still ripping through our hearts and minds this many years later.
It was the winter of 2011-2012. I was 26 and struggling to find footing as a writer. And by my side were a wide array of peers in the small Upstate New York city of Plattsburgh. We were (still are) a wild bunch of North Country folks. Artists. Servers. Musicians. Students. Each of us trying to make our way along the journey that is life. So much love and live music, with enough great times to fill the cup of your soul with laughter for a lifetime.
It was the winter of the “Sunday Potlucks” and all of those crazy and mischievous evenings at our homes and apartments around the city. We all looked forward to those Sundays, to break up the monotony of the workweek, to cap another zany weekend in Platts Vegas, or simply to pass the time in the midst of another long winter on the frozen Canadian border.
And I remember the last Sunday we all met up. It was another cold January evening. I remember everyone was there, except for Pat. I asked his roommate why he wasn’t in attendance. She said he had a tough weekend, having to put his beloved dog down amid recent worries about his health and future. I remember how I wished he was there with us, eating and drinking, and playing board games while hearty conversation about nothing and everything swirled around the room.
All of the love and camaraderie that night was shattered immediately the next morning. I received a phone call from my ex-girlfriend, a mutual friend of Pat’s who was also part of the potluck posse. She was bawling her eyes out. I could barely understand her.
Related Items
Smoky Mountain News brings home numerous NCPA awards
Finding meaning in life’s twists and turns
Once heart beats, life begins
We’re the lucky ones; we live here
“He’s gone. He’s gone,” she kept shouting. Who was gone? “Pat,” she hysterically shouted before hanging up the phone.
Standing there at Pat’s wake, all of us shook our heads. How could this have happened? How did we not see it coming? The truth is, many-a-times you can’t see it coming before it’s too late. Sometimes the happiest people in your life can also be harboring the saddest of souls within. When someone is truly hurting inside, they either don’t want to burden others with their problems or, if anything, don’t think it could ever get to that point of, well, no return.
In my life, I’ve dealt with a lot of incidents of suicide. There have been immediate family members of mine who have tried (and thankfully failed) at trying to take their life. In high school, one of my best friends swallowed a whole bottle of pills in hopes of never waking up again. Luckily, he was rushed to the hospital in time, to which he called me from the psychiatric ward wanting to let me know he was going to be OK and seek treatment for his depression.
All of these people I love, looking for a way out, an exit strategy when the going gets tough. And throughout these trying moments, I’ve made it my personal mission to always be there for anyone who may just need someone to bounce their deepest thoughts and fears off of in search for truth and understanding.
And since Pat disappeared from our daily lives, I’ve tried even harder to make sure tragedies like that never happen again. All of you out there need to be acutely aware if something rubs you oddly about a friend, family member or the person down the hall from you at your office. Even the strongest person can falter and find themselves on their knees in the presence of unwanted stress, utterly blindsided by the trials and tribulations of what they see is an inescapable reality.
Two nights ago, I received a message around midnight. It was a good friend of mine. The last person I expected to say, “I’m about to call the suicide prevention hotline. I can’t do it anymore.” I begged her to relax, and to call me immediately.
She was crying, sitting on some porch hours away from Haywood County. Money troubles. Life troubles. All of the above. Slowly and steadily, I talked her down, making sure she knew just how loved she is, how talented she is, how bright her future is shaping up to be. A half-hour later, her mind was finally roped back down to earth. She wished me goodnight.
“The sun will rise tomorrow,” I told her. “The sun will rise tomorrow.”
I awoke the next morning to a text message from her.
“I’m OK today. Thanks for talking to me last night,” it read.
I didn’t have to be to work for another 15 minutes. I rolled back over onto my back and stared at the ceiling. I looked up and out the nearby window. Another sunny day in Southern Appalachia. Another chance to find yourself in this haphazard world. I thought of Pat. I missed him, but I knew he was still out there, somewhere in the cosmos. I smiled. Another day. The sun will rise again. Tomorrow.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
Hot picks
1 Water’n Hole Bar & Grill (Waynesville) will have a 10th anniversary party with Humps & The Blackouts (psychobilly) at 9 p.m. Saturday, Feb. 6.
2 The documentary “Art and Craft” will be screened alongside a Q&A with Mark Landis at 7 p.m. Tuesday, Feb. 9, in the University Center at Western Carolina University.
3 Frog Level Brewing (Waynesville) will host Ol’ Dirty Bathtub (Americana/bluegrass) at 4 p.m. Saturday, Feb. 6.
4 Acclaimed doo-wop act The Original Drifters will perform at 8 p.m. Saturday, Feb. 13, at the Eaglenest in Maggie Valley.
5 The Cut Cocktail Lounge (Sylva) will host a Mardi Gras Masquerade on Tuesday, Feb. 9.
