The heartbroken mother of a teenager who hanged himself over false rape allegations has now taken her own life in the same way shortly after the anniversary of his death. The family of grief-stricken Karin Cheshire, 55, revealed she couldn’t see a future without her son Jay, whose body was found in a park near their family home. The mother-of-two was desperate to investigate the allegations against her 17-year-old son because she believed police mishandled the situation. But she fell into a deep depression and her brother Simon Cheshire, 58, said his distraught sister simply couldn’t see a future without her son.
Arhhh, man… life, fucking life. The brutality of the possibilities of experience. To be living your normal, Persil white life one day, and to have your son hanging the next. What is their to say? It goes beyond what my mind and heart can and want to comprehend, let alone experience… please God don’t let me experience.
It is not good to be here. If there is an escape hatch then we should all be lined up in an orderly queue of 7 billion. People say that life is beautiful… that there is so much good, so much beauty, so much kindness in this world. All of which is true. But this poor mother could have lived a life of heaven on Earth for all her years, but the atom of the moment that her son is found hanging reduces everything to hell. And this could be around the corner for all of us.
I have a neighbour who was 70 years old. Her and her husband went on a dream holiday to Canada for 5 months. A few weeks into the trip she fell from the top of some stairs and broke her neck. She survived, but the horror of her trial and recovery (ongoing), at such a late stage in life, from nowhere, in the midst of what was meant to be a time for them and the memories, and as a fucking practicing Christian, a good women, a good neighbour…
What is their to say? What is their for us to do? We can’t curl up in corners and hide from life. We can’t very well live in fear of what might come, peaking around corners, taking out every kind of insurance, praying to whichever God we have been conditioned into ‘loving’. We can but stalk these lands alive in fantasies that it will never happen to us, agape when we hear of the family burnt alive in the car crash, sorrowful when the school gets shot up by the Marilyn Manson kid, outraged when the God damned mother-fucking immigrant monster scum from outer space brushes up against an elderly dear in M&S… all of this horror, all of it inevitable and in the post for someone, somewhere, maybe us.
I’m afraid of life. I don’t own blinkers. I see too much, and what I don’t see I hunt down and peer into its guts, prodding and poking for some kind of sense and meaning. Sure, we can learn and grow. Sure, we can inject divine delusions to undercut the question marks. And, of course, we can hang ourselves too. It’s all fucked. What can I say? What can I do? Live a meaningful, compassionate life, make some difference to the world, and hope to get out of it not in a burning car wreck or with dead children in my neurones or having my head cut off. And yet here it is, right on time, for me, for you, for someone, right now, here it is, it’s happening. Life is suffering. God (of your choice… there are many) bless us all.