Today, I learned about the death of a friendly acquaintance. I was shocked and greatly saddened to learn of his passing, but not at all surprised to learn it was at his own choosing, by his own hand. This man was 78 (or so) years old and suffered from a terminal illness. He was very eccentric and boasted of many accomplishments - such as working with George Lucas many years ago.
This man came into my life by cell phone, introducing himself to me, hoping I could help with his latest endeavor of writing a book. He just wanted to talk about it - not actually have me help him write it. I also think he wanted someone else to know what it was he obsessed about: corruption in our local law enforcement offices.
Anyway, the last time he called, which was 2 weeks ago, he wanted to discuss his plans of the book becoming a movie. He told me (again) he had already sold the movie rights to his yet unfinished book and he was on his way to California. I don't know, really, why he called me two weeks ago, but several times, he excused himself, promising me he would call me back. Each time, he called me back.
I'm feeling awful about his death. I am worried that he called me thinking I could help him in some way - he was so eccentric he gave all his money away and lived in his vehicle. He never asked for help and I was having a bad spell of being a changeling (DID) that weekend, so I wouldn't have picked up on his pain. I wonder if he said anything or talked a certain way I would have otherwise been alerted to.
Oh, I am so depressed! When this man called, did I listen well enough? Did I care enough? I don't want to wake up with my arms cut in the morning but I feel Smoke smoldering with angst over my guilt and worry, and I can't get it out of my head. I am tired and hope some sleep will work its spell and give me peace by morning.