Monday, September 23, 2013


I am working on a story about suicide.

It's a good story — no, scratch that, it's a great story — and when people see it and read it they will feel it to the core. Or so I hope. Mad reporting and writing skeels, don't fail me now.

Reporting this story has been difficult on a personal level; it has stirred up ghosts and made them restless. Old habits remain buried, thank God (I am adamant about that one, at least) but I've been forced to reflect once more on my lack of faith and what it means to shuffle off this coil into the dark.

It has made me feel not just alone, but lonely. I feel the affable mask sliding off my face and I grab for it to keep the fiction from falling away completely. But I know I'm fooling no one.

Sometimes I find myself staring off into space, recalling a life that now seems like it happened to someone else. On Facebook I've slipped into reminiscing about once-upon-a-time things from my professional life. Events from my personal life will stay boxed up inside my heart — some things will forever be sacred — but even the act of being noble has become excruciating. I feel like such a fool. I wonder why I'm still here. I wonder if any of the things I've done ever meant anything when they happened.

All of this to say: it's easy to think of reporters as callous assholes just in it for the story. That's not true.

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