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why you can call me, anytime
The telephone rang completely out of the blue; I can only provide whispers of this story. My mother, long before she assumed that role, picked up that call instead. It was Taiwan in the early 80s, rigidly constrained by shoulder pads and denim.
“Hello, who is this?” she probably asked. “Hello,” he probably said, from a payphone, long before emails and texts could moulder, unanswered, forever.
“Hi, I’m one of your classmates,” he stammered, and she wondered what the hell was happening. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to kill myself. I’m going to jump off this bridge. I thought I would call all my peers.”
“Why kill yourself?” (The question was logical, even if the prompt wasn’t.)
“Because I’m gay.”
“…So?”
She didn’t really know this classmate, but she answered without hesitation. So? So what if he was gay? That’s fine. Who cares?
He hadn’t considered that it could be okay.
Because of that call, that man ended up not committing suicide, instead becoming one of my mother’s best friends at National Taiwan University. After graduation, he became the most famous LGBT writer and activist in Taiwan. He is still active today, an author of over 50 books on sexuality and depression.
My mother, however, died last year by her own hand at the age of 48. While they were close friends for almost thirty years, I met him for the first time at her funeral. He was dressed in a crumpled suit, all white, sobbing hysterically. He clutched me, voice cracking, ringing in my ear, one man representing the one thing I had to know: “Cheryl. Be strong. Be strong. Be strong.”
It’s been almost a year since then, and I have tried to be strong. I wish it were easier. This hurt will never fully go away, and the loss will always remain incomprehensible though it remains in flux. Some days, my grief is almost a trifle, a burden, little more than a mosquito bite. Other days, it is the only thing that is real, and it doesn’t matter how intelligent or pretty or talented or creative or full of character I am, or anything like that. On those days, the only thing I can see is my mother’s face in the mirror— everyone sees it.
It’s difficult, but I am always healing and growing, reconstructing and moving on. The people around me are my motivators and supporters, as well as the little anecdote I half-remember about my mother. So I try to pay it forward. Solid friends are the best, and as mine have helped me, I attempt to give back. Other people are strong when I need strength; I can be your strength if you need it.
I never want anyone to ever feel hopeless, nor to feel that they are fundamentally so broken that death is their only hope. I will do anything to prevent someone from making the choice my mother made, because I know firsthand how senseless suicide is and how much pain it causes.
If you ever need that help, if you ever feel like you just cannot go on, call me, text me, email me, tweet at me, throw a fucking paper airplane at me, anytime, because I will talk to you about anything you need. Even if I’m angry with you or don’t really know you, I know that your life is more valuable than my temporary discomfort.
You may just need that guidance, that voice to tell you, “…so?”
