Despite living with it for over two decades, I know very little about grief.

I know that it confuses me, makes me angry, aggravates my pain, and informs some of my worst decisions. Living with a fear of failure and loss that puts the sword of Damocles to shame has lent my personality an intensity that can be difficult for others to fathom. I talk too much, laugh too loud, flirt too heavily, cry over small setbacks, and field catastrophic thoughts that have taken me to the brink of suicide on more than one occasion. It takes effort to pull myself back from that brink, and that effort best takes form in the written word.

Case in point: On January 13th, I was informed that I had been reported to the Safety Circle within the Enforcers “regarding an incident that occurred at another convention.” I was suspended from the Enforcers, which prevented me from attending PAX South. I told the Safety Circle I have nothing to hide, and was willing to work with them to resolve the issue. On February 4, I finally received word that my suspension is permanent. When I followed up, I was simply told that “there is a pattern of behavior … that doesn’t have clear remediation steps.” Other than this, I have been left entirely in the dark. This is how the Safety Circle operates to protect potential victims, and reports submitted to the Circle are anonymous. While the charter of the Circle mentions mediation “between the reporting Enforcer and the other parties involved”, it does not mention any recourse for the accused to learn more about the decision, let alone offer any defense against an allegation. That is its nature. This is its power. It is a mechanism to protect the vulnerable and innocent. And like any such mechanism, it can be used with ulterior motives, or go off by accident; it can be just as much a source of fear as it is a source of comfort. I have felt the full force of it in the span of less than a month, with no warning, no hint of an issue beforehand, no clear idea of the whys or wherefores.

This was me after I found out my suspension is permanent.

The wristband is from Harborview Medical Center. The night I got the news, I put myself there. I didn’t trust myself. I feared my own darkness. It would have been easy, oh so easy, to open up my veins, or take one step too many from a tall place, or swim out into deep water until I was too tired to turn back. I planned each way. I weighed pros and cons. I felt it would be best for everyone. My brain began listing the people who would be throwing a party upon news of my death.

I was wrong. And I knew it. So I called 911.

Suicidality is nothing new for me. I was thinking about killing myself with my mother’s kitchen knives when I was a teenager. Conversations with my older sister kept me from doing anything monumentally stupid. And then she died. Suddenly, violently, without warning. It was my first full-on encounter with true grief, and left me with traumas including severe abandonment issues and a very odd perception on the fleeting nature of mortal life.

I’ve grieved my innocence and my sanity. I’ve grieved my failure to build the family I thought I wanted. I’ve grieved for career derailments and writing projects that I, with a fear of abandonment, had to abandon so better projects could be completed.

I grieve for my broken heart and shattered mind.

And now, this.

These shirts are colors I will never wear again. Coming to terms with the fact that my suspension is permanent, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it – no character witnesses on my behalf, no appeal process, no representation or rights – I have forced myself to turn to why I took up the colors in the first place.

It wasn’t for Penny Arcade.

It wasn’t for the gaming companies.

It wasn’t even for the show itself.

In the end, it was for people like this.

Once I was in the thick of the show, I realized there was no way I could bring anything but my best to the floor. I was not going to let my fellow Enforcers down. Having attended a PAX before Enforcing, I knew that the Enforcers I interacted with – those managing and entertaining lines, facilitating panels, busting their asses on the Expo floor, so many I didn’t see – were there for the attendees, to make the show as personal and smooth as possible so the sole concern of an individual attendee was where the next attraction might be. I needed to bring that experience in my own way, and help my fellow Enforcers do the same, from before the show opened until the very moment it closed.

It shouldn’t be about the badge, I reasoned; it should be about the people who paid and traveled to be there. The excitement in a child’s eyes when they saw the Expo floor for the first time. The roar of the crowd when the Protomen take the stage. The cosplayers, the pranksters, the anxious and the weary, the hopeful and the innocent. They deserved nothing less than for a schlub like me to be at my very best.

So that is what I did. Every PAX. Every time.

In the end, not knowing the exact circumstances of my suspension may do me a favor. I drove myself nearly inconsolably mad trying to figure out what I’d done wrong, if I’d missed something, if the obvious explanation was the truth or if something else had come into play years ago that set me up for failure, long before my heart was truly broken and my soul left vulnerable to a near-fatal blow like this one. In the end, when I look back at my years of Enforcing, it isn’t failure or confusion I feel.

It’s humility.

I’m humbled to have been among such excellent human beings for so long. I’m humbled to have been chosen to lead, on more than one occasion, and given praise for my leadership. I’m humbled to have been so focused on working to the best of my ability, and pushing my limits past their breaking points, that I was forced, again on more than one occasion, to take myself from the floor lest real damage be done to myself. I’m humbled to know my fighting was not in vain. I’m humbled that my contribution mattered, that I mattered.

I fought battles large and small over those years. And this last one, this surprise attack, is one I lost.

It blindsided me. It devastated me. It wounded me to the point that I was certain I would not survive the night.

But I did.

And it doesn’t matter how many times you get knocked down.

What matters is, you keep getting back up.

This is me, now. Bearing the colors I once wore with pride. The colors that forever stain my broken heart, even as it beats on, strong and loud, doing its utmost to drown out the voices of denial, derision, and madness.

Instead, I hear the voices of my fellow Enforcers. The ones who brought me into their lives. The ones who became my friends, and so much more. The ones I chose to become a second family, bound in honor and love.

And, much to my blushing humility, the cheeky sods chose me right back.

To said cheeky sods (you know who you are): Thank you. You know what you mean to me. And when I see you face to face, I’ll remind you. ‘Cause I’m a cheeky sod, too.

To whomever reported me: I’m sorry you felt this was your only option. I’m sorry you weren’t comfortable bringing this up to me person to person, or face to face, which I completely understand. I’m sorry things had to end this way. And I am so deeply, thoroughly, sincerely sorry for any discomfort I may have caused you. I hope that you are satisfied with this punishment, and that your life going forward is peaceful and happy.

To the Enforcers still “in”: Please talk about this. Fear can be a powerful cause for silence, and the only way we have to fight that fear is to break that silence. Isn’t that why the Safety Circle was established in the first place? If something makes you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, if you feel like you’re constantly looking over your shoulder, no matter who or what is making you feel afraid, I encourage you to share that, be honest about it, and do what you can to improve the community. You are Enforcers. That is supposed to mean something. Your strength is in standing together, and supporting one another, not trying to tear each other down. Do that, and maybe my loss might actually mean something, too.

I may not know a great deal about grief. I may never know the exact circumstances of why this particular tragedy struck and threatened my life. I may not know what the future holds for me.

But I know that this is not the end of me.

I know that I am loved, and esteemed, and honored, and cherished, and necessary.

I know that I can look back on my work as an Enforcer with no shame and no regrets.

I know who I can trust, who’s been there for me, and for whom I will remain, stalwart and compassionate, for as long as I naturally last.

And I know that even when something threatens to put me in my grave, the best thing I can do is dig. Dig deep. Keep digging.

Because one I’ve broken through, it will mean that I, in the end, have won.

After all, if you’re going to dig, you should dig for the heavens.

(Enforcer images courtesy The Mary Sue and posted on Blue Ink Alchemy here; featured Enforcers are RGB, Ysterath, oogmar, and NotHanz. Original images hosted by Auspex on her Tumblr.)