How That Empty Hole in My Heart Developed

“Cathy, this is Brett, Timothy’s brother. I hate to tell you this over the phone, but Timothy’s dead. He killed himself.” With those words, my world fell apart.

I found out I lost my best friend one day on my way home from work. A man who was like a brother to me. A man I still miss today, eight years later.

Traffic was light that day in July, and so I jumped on my Bluetooth and called Timothy. I hadn’t spoken to him in a couple of weeks, and I had some stories about work that only Timothy would appreciate.

“Hey! I know you’re probably swamped getting your book finished, but I had to call. You haven’t called me back. I’ve left a few messages. What’s up?”

“Who is this?” he asked.

“It’s Cathy! Gees, I know we haven’t talked in two weeks, but have you forgotten me already?” I asked. Okay, Timothy has always been a bit of a loner, but it was me trying to call him — not some stranger. Was he trying to ghost me?

“Cathy? Cathy from Sunnycrest?” he asked again. This conversation started in the rabbit hole and continued to spiral down toward Mordor in Middle Earth rather than Wonderland. Not that Wonderland was any better of a destination.

“Yes, come on Timothy. You know it’s me,” I replied. I thought he must be more upset than I thought. I couldn’t believe he was pretending not to recognize me.

“Cathy Aragon who lived in Apartment H? The Cathy who moved to Virginia?” The pit in my stomach grew larger. This couldn’t be happening. Why was he trying to distance himself from me?

“Yes, it’s me. Are you mad at me for some reason? I know it’s been a couple of weeks …” The hair on my neck stood up.

“No,” the man interrupted, “this isn’t Timothy. I’m Brett, his brother.” That’s when I heard it. The man on the phone had a deeper voice than Timothy. His tone was harsher than Timothy’s as well.

Then, Brett broke the news to me.

Brett proceeded to explain that the landlord, after unsuccessfully trying to reach Timothy about his rent, asked the Sheriff’s Department to do a wellness check. That’s when they found Timothy with a self-inflicted bullet in his head. No one knows when exactly he committed suicide, but I had an idea when it happened.

The last time I spoke with Timothy, he asked me to take care of our elderly neighbor and to be sure that I called her from time to time to check on her. I thought the request a strange one. He sounded like he was about to take a trip. I should have asked. I didn’t know what he planned to do. His request still haunts me.

If I hadn’t kept quiet, would he still be here today? Would our friendship have been enough to keep him from taking such drastic action? Logically, I know the answer. I know nothing I could have said or done would have changed his course of action.

Then, I think — maybe if I hadn’t moved out of state, I could have done something. Numerous times, I tried to convince him to move with me, but he feared moving to what he thought was a conservative part of the country. He feared persecution because he was gay. I tried to tell him otherwise, but nothing I said convinced him.

During my conversation with Brett, we discussed different reasons for Timothy’s suicide. He didn’t leave a note. He did, however, leave specific instructions, which was very much like Timothy. He sent various pictures to his friends. He sent me pictures he’d taken of my cats.

Timothy was a gentle soul and loved animals. His new neighbors told us he used to buy cat food for the feral cats around the neighborhood. When we lived next to each other, he treated my cats as well as my other neighbors’ cats as his own. He was also a writer and wrote a book but never lived to see it published. Instructions to his brother included publishing it.

I don’t know if that ever happened. I know Brett was angry at Timothy. I have since spoken to some of his other friends, and they felt the same way. They felt betrayal, anger, hurt, and guilt. Me? I feel guilty and a sense of loss that nothing or no one can fill. The hole in my heart developed and remains empty even now, eight years later.

Dr. Deborah Serani posits that survivors of suicide continue to blame themselves often for years. In her Psychology Today article, Serani includes advice to help survivors of suicide. She suggests keeping the lines of communication open, discussing the suicide, and offering assistance. But, that only works if the survivor wants to talk.

I often think of reaching out to Timothy’s friends today — those in his other circle, but I don’t want to reopen any wounds. Terry, the friend who mailed me the photos of my cat, explicitly requested I not contact her because she didn’t know how to cope with Timothy’s suicide. She avoided any reminders of him. I ran across her card the other day, and I came close to emailing her. But, I respected her request.

In the meantime, I’m saving all my stories to one day tell Timothy when we reunite in the afterlife. We shared an affinity for funny and weird stories. I often think — Timothy would love this story. Then, I remember I can’t pick up the phone to call him, and the hurt just comes back.

My hope is that readers of this article never experience this type of loss. But, in the event you do, recognize that suicide is not your fault. Nothing you did or could have done would have prevented the suicide. But, if you are depressed, seek help. You have friends and family who would do anything to keep you around.