Empty and full

September, 1996

“I think Tim is dead,” I said, sometime between 11am and 11.15am, as my friends and I were sitting eating our recess.

N looked up sharply, aghast. “Don’t say that! No he’s not!”

******

In my memory, it was the first – and last – time our small group of friends spoke harshly to each other about our missing friend. Missing for several weeks, most of our grade still clung to the hope that Tim had ‘nicked off’ to Newcastle because he was sick of school, sick of the pressure, sick of our town, sick of life.

I know he was sick of Maths – because we were failing together, me worse than him, truth be told. So we sat there, me in the desk in front of his, and made jokes, larked about, gossiped and together passed the daily 40 minutes of misery. But it seems Tim had been doing that in every class, in every lunchtime, at his job, everywhere, for some time. Just passing time. Looking for an out? Looking for something. Answers, maybe.

We just didn’t realise.

Of course, after, we knew. But what use is hindsight?

But I suspected. And I eventually spoke out that day between 11am and 11.15am because I wanted to know if anyone else was having these deliberately pessimistic or inappropriately dramatic thoughts. I wanted them to say no. I was afraid they’d say yes. Yet deep down I suspected I was right: because of the last night I saw Tim alive, at an 18th birthday party.

******

We all sat around in B’s driveway, in a circle of folded-out BBQ chairs, the 18 yr olds drinking their alcohol openly, us under-agersmore discretely. Our usual joker sad sullenly. I think he nursed just the one beer all night. Why was he so quiet? Was he stoned? No – the only word I can put on it these years later was sadness. He was very sad. We punched his shoulder, cajoling him with dirty jokes, but he would only snort occasionally, or stare into his lap at his hands until we got bored and turned to someone else for our amusement.

I remember sitting next to him, briefly. Our only conversation of the night consisted of the following exchange:

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“No-thin-g,” he drawled, in that dry, countryish way boys will.

I touched his arm. He had such pale skin, and white hair. And his skin was always dry.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

Later, my father came to pick me up and I ran past everybody, saying a generic, “See ya Monday!” Tim was the only person I said goodbye to using his proper name: “Bye, Tim!”

I wish I’d had a better chance to say goodbye. I didn’t the day of the funeral. First I stood in a church full of 17 year old children; with boys I’d known for years stand and weep, their chins jutted into their chests so they couldn’t see anyone staring. Their shoulders shook from crying. After the service, I had the choice to go on to the cemetery, but I went to spend a quiet afternoon at my grandmother’s instead. I just couldn’t. I was a coward. A grieving coward, but still…

I’ve yet to go to the cemetery. 12 years had passed and I keep making excuses. I don’t even know if I want to go.

Because I will stand there and feel just like I am as I write this: I will be flustered. I will write a hundred words to describe grief, and none of them adequate. I will cry from the memories. As I sit still today and let the memories rush in, like a forgotten tide, I remember why I keep this time in my periphery. I will realise I cannot find the objective correlative in tragedy and wonder if anyone ever can: loquacity, even the elegant kind, is no compensation for loss or love or for anything that really matters.

We must go on and reconcile what we can in our minds, lest we go insane.

I will feel empty and full.

I do feel empty and full.

Both at the same time.

And probably always will.

******

Today is World Mental Health Day and October is Anxiety and Depression Awareness Month. For more information go to Beyond Blue.