Strange Bird Flying

Why did strange bird start flying? To free herself from the cage she has kept herself in.

The Weight of A Rock

The Weight of A Rock
Collage created from magazine pictures and fonts - my most important piece of art. I hope it inspires creativity and awareness of the damage that can be done to children. Not all survive.

I the Owner

All writing, photos, and artwork added to this blog belong to me, Judy Sayers. Do not copy or reuse in any form for any purpose without explicit permission from myself. Thank you



Saturday, July 10, 2010

Suicide is Ironic

When someone is comtemplating suicide from pains real or perceived, they are unable to see outside their box. Their focus is on their own pain and inability to deal with it. Suicide becomes a means to end that pain or grief. They ascribe to the belief that their loved ones will be able to go on without them. One aspect may be overlooked. What if they don't?


Certainly pain, physical or mental, can be tormenting, especially if it has been prolonged. Perhaps those not suffering can't understand the reality of it. But when someone commits suicide, they can't see the results. They can't change the outcome and search for a different way to contend with the problem. No more apologies can be said. That future day where you look back and say "that was tough going, but I survived, and I'm so happy now that I didn't take that other route," is forever forfeited.

The survivors then pick up the pain and carry the burden of 'what if'. 'If' only he/she had told someone. 'If' only I had seen the signs. Maybe 'if' I had said or done this or that. The survivors may blame themselves, real or perceived. A letter does not change the 'what if's or the 'blame' game.

Suicide is ironic - because it does not end the pain. It passes it on.



Why this subject: Because I know a couple of very nice girls who are suffering right now because someone they loved took his own life. They don't understand why he did this to them - repeat: why he did this "to them".

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Strange Bird

Strange bird
Strange bird I am,
Or so Ed had called me.

"Strange bird," he'd laugh
I am, not always knowing
the cause of his gladness

Something said
In serious innocence
But taken ever lightly

I'de smile as if I knew
"You strange bird," he'd say
I am.

[Poem was made many years ago in memory of my late husband: Edward Ray Sayers, who found my naivete amusing. I thought it was a most fitting name for my blog.]



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