Total Pageviews

Saturday, 19 January 2013

When the Black Dog Bites

I logged onto Facebook this morning and saw a RIP post that shook me badly.  I flicked over to her page & couldn't see anything. (It turns out I didn't scroll down far enough, but that's just me being special with the internet again.)

A few years ago, I was a member of the T-Party, before work got nuts and I started travelling all over the place.

Denni Schnapp was one of the writers in the group. Talented, opinionated, intense. Ferociously intelligent.

After I left the group, I followed most of them on Facebook. It's pretty cool watching folks you knew do well, get published, and grow.

Denni and I clashed a few times on Facebook. Nothing nasty, just irritation, I reckon. At some point last year we quietly unfriended each other. No big deal, no drama. I'd still see the odd posting by mutual friends, and I'd click over to her live journal every now and then. (I thought I was reading a WIP - pretty dark stuff, but I've seen worse on those pages, usually with half the talent Denni displayed.)

Last Thursday, she hung herself.

I have no idea what to say, or think. I'm grieving for the loss of a talented writer, for that intellect that burnt so fiercely you could warm your hands on it. For the woman I shared a couple of drinks with during T-Party meetings.

Looking back at her live journal is the worst kind of hindsight, because this wasn't some experimental WIP, this was real.

Someone I knew - we weren't bosom buddies but I knew her - was in severe, very real, emotional pain, and I never understood that. Never got it.

When the black dog bites, it tears chunks out of more than the person it eventually kills. It mauls the ones left behind; the family, the friends, the colleagues.

All I can hope is that she now has the peace she so desperately sought and never found on the skin of this world.

All I can say is that I am sorry.