I'm heartbroken. Tiffany Sedaris killed herself last May and I just found out about it tonight.
Goddammit! Fucking writers. The way they suck you into their stories. So you feel like you know them. Like they're a good friend and you can call them up on the phone and say hi or some such Holden Caulfieldesque shit. I've been a fan of David Sedaris and his stories about his big, crazy, amazing family for so long I feel like I'm part of the family. (See my blog post I Am the Lucky Owner of David Sedaris' Giant Pimply Ass.) Then today I come across this heartbreaking story Sedaris wrote about how his family came together after his sister Tiffany's suicide. Now I feel like I've lost a sister, too.
This story hits home for me, too, because Tiffany was just 49 when she killed herself. My brother Pat was just 49 when he drank himself to death.
God, people who kill themselves don't know how much pain they are putting their survivors through. And it totally sucks because I can't even fucking be mad at them because they had a good excuse: uncontrolled depression. They were so obviously depressed to have offed themselves that I don't need to add my anger to the burdensome load they carry off into oblivion. Or Heaven. Or Hell. Or wherever it is that people who once lived on this earth and made us laugh and made us cry and pissed us off and made us care go when they die.
Rest in Peace, Tiffany Sedaris. If there is a Heaven, look up my brother--will ya? I think he'd like your company. Tell him I miss him and I forgive him.