Robert

I sat across from a black man named Robert during group therapy at the psych ward.

It was my first time.

And it was mandatory.

Around me were people of all ages.

There were a couple of teens.

One girl on suicide attempt number 13.

A guy in his early 30s whose eyes were rolled back due to his caffeine addiction.

A woman in her late 30s, who didn’t say much, but glared at you through tears.

Robert, in his late 40s, an aeronautical engineer for a Georgia-based company.

And me, 19.

Everyone took turns speaking.

But some declined to share.

When it was Robert’s turn, he nodded his head but stared at the floor.

He spoke slowly.

His chin trembled as he fought back the tears.

He was an alcoholic. 

A prominent engineer.

A man whose wife was everything to him.

But his alcoholism put a strain on their marriage.

And one day, his wife had had enough and given him an ultimatum.

“Come home drunk again, and I’ll blow my brains out in front of you.”

He came home drunk.

She was waiting for him at the kitchen table.

She asked him to take a seat.

He cracked jokes to lighten the mood.

She asked him to repeat her ultimatum back to her.

He looked up, startled.

She pulled out a gun and shot herself in the head.

Her blood covered him.

He looked at his arms and hands as he spoke.

Tears flowing.

He would continue to try suicide until he was successful.

There was no life worth living without her.

I understood his pain.

And I understood hers.

But suddenly, I wasn't as tired.

Or as hopeless.