bring the noyz

I don't know if I can take it
I'm not easy on my knees
Here's my heart you can break it

I need some release, release, release

- Bono with The Edge

I have come to accept death as an occupational hazard. The students at the school where I work typically have serious medical needs and long term health issues. That is why they are students at my school. They are the kids we are designed, trained and equipped to serve. They get sick and die, or a seizure may seize and take them in the dark of the night. It happens. Typically about three times a year. Probably five or six times if you factor in the former students.

And when it does, it is never easy. On occasion it may be seen as a blessing, because a child whose body and mind were horribly warped by disability and disease has been freed from the physical bounds that confined them.

But it always sucks.

You go to the funeral and you weep. You hug the family and you say goodbye to a wonderful young person whom you knew intimately and loved deeply as you tuck their memory away in that little place that always causes you to smile slightly when you visit.

Another scar is etched in your tired and tattered heart. Then life goes on.

I've gotten used to it. Like I said, it happens.

But this. . . this is something beyond the realm of my comprehension. That death would come by their own hand so suddenly and unexpectedly to two of my oldest and closest friends is an unfathomable concept. Yet it happened.

So my dear reader, I pray that for the near future you will bear with me and grant me the indulgence to continue to use this forum as an avenue for coming to tears as well as terms with these things that have happened.

Curtis' death was a crippling blow.

Crippling yes, but one from which I was recovering. Another scar, this one a little bigger and a little deeper, is etched in my tired and tattered heart and life goes on.

But Chris. . .

Oh Chris, my brother my friend! What the fuck were you thinking? What the fuck were you doing? What the fucking fuck? Fuck fuck fuck fuck motherfucking fuck.

Chris, when your resolve was steeled, when you pressed the cold barrel of the .357 against your temple and slowly squeezed the trigger, it was as though the bullet exploded out of your head and flew squarely into my heart.
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