a few years ago, one of my ex-coworkers killed himself.
he was one of those guys who talked openly about how he used to be on the alt-right, gamergate or w/e, but is now a communist. he made some...interesting comments about contrapoints that I won't repeat, but hey at least she started de-radicalizing him. he accepted religion in a kind of backwards way; as in, he became christian after he started dragging himself out of his bigoted mindset. he had these ugly, bulky crosses tattooed on the palms of his hands. ultimately, I think he was a good person who genuinely cared about other people.
he sold me my first car for next to nothing just so I could have one and didn't have to take the bus. he helped me navigate very suddenly being outed as trans at work and to my mom by his friend. I'm sure that, in the time we were only interacting with each other in a facebook group after he quit, if I needed anything that he could help with—he'd be there.
I have about a million half-empty notebooks. I'm looking to purge some things, so I'm going through them. one of them I got from the car he sold me as I was selling it for parts after it finally crapped out. it was hiding under one of the seats, if I remember correctly. I didn't go through it at the time, just chucked it into a bag with a few other things from there. he said he didn't want them back, and they moved with me when I left my hometown.
the beginning is filled with love letters from one of his exes, and there's a card in the back that has another one. I haven't read them, beyond just a few sentences to determine what they are. it somehow feels like an invasion of privacy, and I can't find the person who signed them. but I can't get rid of them either. it's just this weird part of him that I have now.
it's strange, you know, the way we touch other people's lives and linger in them. I've been suicidal most of my life, passively much more than actively. the past few years I've felt incredibly alone and have done a lot of self isolation. I can't help but wonder what pieces of me there are that other people hold onto. I'm not going to kill myself, but I wonder what people couldn't stand to get rid of if I did.
it's been two and a half years now, give or take, and I don't think I was particularly distraught at the time. but I am now, looking at letters in a notebook I won't read and he didn't even write. I hope, for his sake, that what he believed in is true and he finds peace there. and that he can find someone up there to remove those ugly ass palm tattoos.
