The Pact

About two months ago, I re-read The Pact by Jodi Picoult. I was repulsed. I've been contemplating sharing what I wrote in my journal about it for awhile, and I figure now is as good a time as any:

I'm reading The Pact and it's really making me angry. Before, before I had any reason to be trouble by it, I had liked it. I had been swept up in the love story. I had liked Chris. But now, now that Jess attempted and her boyfriend helped stop her, I hate Chris. He sucks. He should've told someone. Emily had problems and needed real help. If Jess had confided in someone, and that person hadn't told anyone, and she'd died, I would never have been able to express the depths of my anger towards that person. For months after, I had nightmares. Even now, I still do. I've dreamed she was trying to tell me something and I was too concerned about myself. 

Suicide affects everyone it touches, forever. No matter how well the person is doing now, no matter how good you feel about where she's at, you will never ever forget that moment, that heart on the floor, gut wrenching moment when you realized your best friend was in such pain that she thought no life was worth living, and you didn't know how to help her. It is a club no one wants to belong to, and even worse is the club for those who are left when someone "succeeds". I've always found that expression unbearable. Success. As if anyone wins here. Why are the dead winners and the living failures in the statistics? No one wins. 

I have now officially finished. I read all the way through - the acknowledgements, the critical acclaim. My stomach dropped reading the praise. You might tell me, maybe I need to get over it, maybe it's just a book, but I wonder how many of those people would have said the same great things about this book if they'd woken up at 3am, 4,000 miles away from their family, sweating and in tears because they couldn't figure out if their sister had actually killed herself or if it was just another nightmare. I wonder if they had spent hours kneeling in prayer for their friend's sister and family. I wonder how many families they have watched be eaten alive by their worry and fear. And it makes me realize how hard it is to be compassionate. Because I was like them, recommending this book, applauding Picoult's craftsmanship, falling in love with its main character (who is also arguably a rapist); I didn't know on the other side of things. But now I do. I know, all too well.