She had her whole life to dream. To hope. To become anything.
Karyn encouraged others to love themselves, but there was something eating away at her, inside. I know that feeling. People think you have to be a coward to do it, but the barriers you have to pass to get to that point are endless. Economist Arthur Schopenhauer wrote:
It will generally be found that, as soon as the terrors of life reach the point at which they outweigh the terrors of death, a man will put an end to his life.
And someone knew about her pain. Probably many. They’ll pretend they didn’t. Honestly, most people don’t care enough to reach out, but that’s too taboo to say. It reminds me a part from the book “On My Own:”
Most people don’t want to be near another person’s pain. They shouldn’t pretend to care about how she suffered, now that she’s dead. They shouldn’t huddle together with other faux friends to make sense of “what happened” and relieve their guilt. If they stood by and did nothing before, then they should keep doing nothing.
Karyn was hurting and she felt alone. Even if she didn’t look it. If she smiled all the time or didn’t. If she was surrounded by friends or appeared to be getting by, she wasn’t. And now she’s gone. I don’t know what’s on the other side, but when you’re in agony on this one for so long with no sincere hope of things getting better, anywhere else seems appealing. The frightening thing that keeps me here is that “there” could be just as worse.
Twenty-two is so young to give up on life. I still had hope, at that age. Anything was possible. Before the drudgery of work, debt, reality, loss of youth and options had set it. It’s too soon to check out. I’d give anything to go back to that time. I’m only 13 years older, but so many doors have closed, I can’t reopen them or open new ones. Twenty-two is too young. Life and God are still on your side.