This week's been a difficult one for me. I started reading The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides, a best-selling novel about a family of five sisters who all kill themselves over the course of the year. The narrative is written as the group of neighborhood boys try to make sense of the tragedy and uncover the reasons behind their sudden and unexpected suicides.
The book is utterly transfixing, one you legitimately cannot put down. The hardest part is that you know all the Lisbon sisters die, yet you cannot stop hoping the ending will change. Of course, there's always the option to stop reading the book, let them hang in the state they were on page whatever for the rest of eternity. But this is not a book that can be abandoned. That's the thing about a good story; it demands to be read.
I have a personal connection to this novel because earlier this year my friend Maggie, whom I've known since I was eight, committed suicide. It's strange to think that she's just gone. We had grown apart and I had known vaguely that she had been depressed. She hid it well. I would see her about three times a year and never really suspect that anything was wrong. Or maybe I was in denial. Who knows.... it still hurts on a daily basis. There's an ongoing sense of guilt for not doing anything to help. We were Facebook friends, mutual Twitter and Tumblr followers, etc., but that can't replace personal closeness I suppose. I have her number. I could have called. That's the thing about pain; it demands to be felt.
Edit: Earlier down the page is a poem Maggie wrote, called "I have all the souls i need."
