It’s hard to believe that it’s been nearly 3 years since Jarda killed himself. I didn’t deal with his death very well, I have since realised. And last week another Jarda killed himself and everything has been stirred up.
The first Jarda had been my husband, although we had already been divorced for 6 years when he did himself in. The second Jarda was an acquaintance, a very close friend of a friend of mine, and I saw him often in our mutual friend’s pub.
Last night I had a few beers and a few bourbons with two close friends of the second Jarda. And I realised that I was still angry about the first Jarda’s suicide.
The Jarda Suicides. Another friend yesterday remarked, “Don’t name your kid Jarda.”
Amongst the scribblings in my notebook from last night’s tram ride home is a thought that because I can accept the second Jarda’s suicide, I must also accept the first Jarda’s suicide. He too must have had his reason. But much easier said than done.
Boris said something on the phone today, something that was very wise. He made me realise that it’s okay not to deal with something well on the first go, that it can take two or three or three dozen attempts before we can somehow neutralise an experience that has had such a great impact on us emotionally. And I’m not even sure what I mean by neutralise. Come to terms with it so that it no longer evokes an emotional response – anger, grief, or whatever.
Jarda’s funeral is tomorrow. I hope it’s a good one.
