Chewing on Broken Glass

Mr. Meeks, you may see your son’s body now…

My son did not go quietly into the night; he didn’t go without a fight. His last journals have shown me this. He battled the voices in his head, he fought the good fight until it ultimately worn him out. Reading his thoughts now is like walking across hot coals while chewing on broken glass…

Using what investigative skills I’ve managed to piece together during my reporting career, I’ve now come to the conclusion that my son’s bipolar condition had gone mismanaged (in the best light) or ignored in the worst of it. His bipolar diagnosis only came recently, after his previous suicide attempt.

The new drug regime they put him on had “quieted the voices that constantly told me to kill myself,” he told me during a phone call in February. But that regime unraveled some how. I found dozens of bottles of different prescription drugs in his room when cleaning it out. Dozens. If he only took half of them it was no wonder why he came off the rails. With no direct supervision, he all too easily could have just brushed them aside and, tragically, I believe that’s exactly what happened. His journals back up that thesis.

He wanted to love, he wanted to live, but kept getting sucked under. He wanted it desperately. He just couldn’t get there.

And the voices never really stopped, or they did for a while but came back with a vengeance. They were there at the end, compelling him. He recognized their evil and he fought them with an intellect damaged by his own internal grief. He believed he had the mental horsepower to overcome—he thought the writing would help — but it just bore witness to a struggle he was slowly losing day-by-bleaker-day.

Step this way please, he’s right over here… take all the time you need…

He wrote in life as he exacted his death: he opened a vein and bled onto the page. His journal writing is rough and raw. Angry, deliberate and desperate. Unhinged, maniacal, practical and, in his lucid moments, profound.

The chronology of his decent into forever, I believe, goes something like the following, which are snippets plucked from hundreds of pages of his last writings:

Undated — “I have passed through the eye of fear and ridden on a storm of wrath. I am not so blind that I think the worst is over, only that I have for a time achieved respite. Fear is still part of my vocabulary. I am in the palm of the Almighty, and that is a scary and continually humbling place to be.”

Undated — “Despite all I have heard and pondered, I still believe in good… I will do what I can to be a force of good. I refuse to let my journey into the heart of darkness be for nothing more than my own selfish interests.”

3–18–2014 — “Here is what I know: for all its problems, life is beautiful. When I step out the door and breathe in the cool clean air and I see the sky deep blue in the morning and the purple flowers in the pot next to my door wink from behind green leaves and I feel the sun on my skin, there are moments when I am glad to be alive.”

Undated — “One thing I stumbled over today, a realization that was not new but felt fresh and profound in its simplicity: I have never let myself enjoy my life much. I am going to work on enjoying my life.”

6–30–2014 — “I’m done trying to commit suicide. I was already that guy once… Be excellent to each other. I am trying. This is a lot of work. And I am fighting against aspects of my nature that I don’t feel are healthy. I am doing alright. I need to enjoy my life more. My best self. Yeah. I seek balance as well.”

Undated — “I feel like I am walking through the biggest and most ethically perilous minefield in human history. My hands are dirty.”

Undated — “No one said knowledge was easy. Or ambition. If I knew how hard it was going to be or how far down the rabbit hole went, I still would have gone for it. As mad and insane as I have felt, it has been worth it to know. That’s the truth: Knowledge, painful but worth it.”

Undated — “I am a monster. Been body slammed over and over, endless reverberations, non-stop head games. I have nothing left to lose but my life, and I think even that will be taken from me soon.”

Undated — “I might as well tell the voices in my head to eat shit and live however I want. There is no way for me to win this one. I am the most thoroughly fucked man on the face of the Earth right now. There is a huge hammer hanging over my head, and I’m just waiting for it to fall.”

Undated — “I feel lost. There is a brutal monster in me… I am not in physical pain, but the mental torment is a living hell. I am drowning in the dual nature of the universe, in the dual nature of myself. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to come up for air.”

Last entry: 8–5–2014 — “I keep feeling like it’s the end of the universe and the world and I keep being told this point blank, yet everything is continuing as it always has… I’m done trying to kill myself in traditional ways… I persist for no other reason than to spite them… I will kill the infinite… I will end it.”

His body is ice cold.

I can see no external wounds because they have him wrapped tight right up to his chin. I thought he would look at peace; his cheeks are sunken and he looks like he is in a pained, restless sleep.

My hot tears fall on his cold face and I beg him to wake up, to flutter, and I don’t even feel foolish in my charade.

I stroke his hair… it’s been neatly combed. He had a habit, when deep in thought or pressed on a question, of reaching to one particular spot on his head and twirling his hair. He’d done it since he was a little kid, never broke the habit.

And so I reached to that spot and twirled his hair for him, just one last time… Good-bye, son. I love you, but I know you were in so much pain. Please, please, please… find peace.

Meeks out…