I learned a former student took his own life this week. Not a happy subject, not something to laugh, be clever, creative about. Yet in its own way, inspiring.
Not in the sense most of us mean when we use the word inspiring. In that sense that brings back the hope and potential someone holds in their youth, in their passions and dreams. He lived his life with an organic problem - manic depression - had lost his job, grandmother recently. I'm sure his life story helped feed his disease, but it did not cause it. We had been back in touch, but he hid his fall into blackness from me.
It's as close to losing a child as I'll ever get. Somehow, just writing that line makes me realize how far from losing a child-borne-of-my-heart-body-soul I truly am.
Unlike his flesh and blood mother, it's losing the potential of this person - the joy of his passion for writing, for accessing his creativity and power - that hurts the most. It's the strength he showed in his striving for the best he could be that makes me realize how truly lost he must have been. But unlike helping him realize and rise to his potential, my powerlessness - my lack of awareness - in the face of his great pain empties me of teaching's great joy and power.
Perhaps, if I'd prepared him better for the lows our industry foists on us. Perhaps, if I'd been more perceptive in his diminishing pride of craft and accomplishment. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.
But I've run out of Perhaps, haven't I. And so did he.
Scott, I am so sorry your physical imperfections - the very things which heightened your sensitivity and made your work powerful - blinded you to all the things the rest of us saw. I am so sorry I couldn't read between the lines I helped you learn to write so well.
I am just so sorry. For once, at such a loss for words. You deserve better, brighter, stronger. I know all our second-guessing and guilt and sorrow can't reach you now, possibly couldn't have reached you then. As proud as I am of helping you reach inside to your potential, I despair at yours. You are missed. Both in your actuality and in your promise.
Doreen
