Lost in Why, Instead of How
Never thought he was too young for this.
Last weekend, my good friend found her 17-year-old son hanging from the back of his bedroom door.
I lost my best friend at 17 after he stepped in front of a train.
The midnight express went nonstop from Princeton, where we lived, to Washington, DC, where he used to live.
That evening, my life was crushed and blown into a thousand different parts.
Mark's body was scattered like trash or road kill. He had humbled himself, broken every bone, and lost all hope.
Mark and I had a solemn, planned suicide pact, and we were to wait out the junior year of high school. I felt cheated as he ran out of class before the bell rang.
We will do it in the summer. After we had stolen money from our parents, we went to the Jersey Shore, drank beer on the beach, and fell asleep under the stars.
I was the last person to speak to him. We were at a party; I didn't want to leave when he did, even though I had driven us both there.
"No biggie, I'll walk home; you know I love the night sky filled with stars, he quietly mumbled. Mark was soft-spoken; he almost sounded like a cat just about to start purring.
I would tell him, "Dude, you're so smart and creative; speak up and be proud of your thoughts and ideas!"
It was windy that night. So I found his jacket, handed it to him, and hugged him farewell.
"You keep hold of it; I'm warm enough. Just make sure you bring it to school on Monday," he ordered.
"You can keep the drumsticks I left in the back of the Mustang, though; they're too light for me." Okay, drummer boy, I'll catch up with you tomorrow, I bellowed.
Mark squeezed my arm, now wrapped in that skunkweed jacket.
He waved goodbye and walked off into the dark night like a ghost.
Mark loved that jacket; it looked incredible on him. But, unfortunately, it smelled like a combination of Chaps cologne and skunk weed.
The jacket was like a part of Mark's armor. It was perfectly worn and faded.
Early the following day, my mom told me Mark's sister was on the phone. I hung over and was surprised. Shannon and I played field hockey together but rarely spoke off-field.
What came out of her mouth sounded like an alien. It wasn't human or recognizable at first. "Jeje, Mark is gone; he stepped in front of the railroad line at the junction. What did he say to you last night?" she screeched. I pushed away the phone's receiver as her anger and my fears rose.
I dropped the phone and threw up on my blanket. I smelled Budweiser and bad vibes. I ran outside and paced around the parking lot of our condo complex. I walked back and forth like a bride or groom, anxiously awaiting the big moment.
I felt my fingers and toes go numb, and then my brain went from stunned to insensible.
My mom yelled at me to get back inside. I didn't realize I only had a long T-shirt and underwear. No socks, even. Yet I felt like someone had a blowtorch pointed at my chest.
I informed Mom about Mark; she went in for a hug, pushed her away, and told her to give me time alone in my room.
"You leave that door open, she ordered, and she threw that blanket in the washer. I know you were drunk last night, kiddo!
I started "cutting myself with a razor a few years ago. It would randomly cut my legs, feet, or the back of my hands. I'd blame the hand cuts on this crazy feral cat we adopted, Beowulf.
Cutting was a game, my own personal game of "Life." It made me feel in control and was as good a relief as coming after I masturbated.
To see the blood to ensure I wasn't a robot or an alien dripping green goo from my veins.
I hated all the students at school who wanted to go to this funeral and pretended they knew him.
I spent almost every day locked away in my car, playing mixtapes Mark had put together.
At the funeral, I wore Mark’s jacket. His father squeezed me so hard when we hugged that his uncles had to tear him off me.
"You smell like my son. Where is my fucking son?" He cried out loud.
I was homesick. Angry that people ignored the fact that he was relentlessly teased as the short stoner who barely made the swim team.
Mark and I played drums together in a jazz band. He lasted a great deal longer than I did. They nicely placed me on the glockenspiel.
Mark was my only friend who understood my family life, and I understood his. So we would get high, drop acid, and listen to Pink Floyd most weekends.
Although Mark was introverted, he was on the swim team as a diver.
He'd help with some of the lighting crew. He had a tiny, slim build with dark brown, wavy hair. His "tick'” or poker tell, was when he constantly pushed back his hair from his forehead.
He was generous, talented, hugged like a linebacker, and despised fake people. I visit his gravesite at least three times a year. I'm sober now, and I take my AA sobriety chips and dig them into the ground around his headstone.
Last week, my good friend's 17-year-old son hung himself in his bedroom.
The National Alliance on Mental Illness reported that suicide is the second-leading cause of death among people ages 14–24. Nearly 20% of high school students have severe thoughts of suicide, and 9% have made an honest attempt.
It's a slow dance with the devil. Suicidal ideation could be seductive to many. However, an odd sort of Ace of Spades and an available option show that there is a way out.
Especially with the continued stigmatization of mental illness.
The world may believe we are educating them. Our children more. Now, the bullies are still monsters. And need to pay more attention to lectures in school on not bullying your fellow students.
The notion of suicide was like a get-out-of-jail-free card to me. No more putting up with this constant feeling that I wasn't good enough, my asshole stepfather, or an unsafe home.
Life and I weren't getting along. I wasn't longing to party anymore with what this spinning, punishing planet had to offer.
Three days later, I was found drunk in the girl's locker room. This was strike three for me, being caught drinking at school. "Either you get some help," said the school counselor, "or you'll be expelled."
I lived in hell at home, and not much scared me then.
I was sent to a psychiatrist, put on an anti-depressant, and kept under lock and key by my parents.
But miracles happen daily. I graduated and went off to Rutgers University to study journalism.
I'll save another time for the story of my road to recovery and sobriety.
My friend Christy was broken into a million little china pieces when Charlie killed himself.
I had a slight sense of what she was feeling. But this was a whole different ballgame. Her life would now change dramatically and forever.
I used to see her social media posts with her gorgeous home, husband, four kids, and promising career and be humbled. She worked hard all her life. I was sometimes jealous instead of cheering her on or admiring her hard work.
Being fully in the moment is unnatural because I have ADHD.
I've also been recovering from alcoholism since 1999, and doctors don't like to give most addicts any medication like Adderall that can be habit-forming. Which is crazy; pills weren't my passion.
Most doctors would rather save their asses than bet on you needing something to help you deal better, which is odd for someone who has supposedly taken a Hycrothatic Oath. But that's another chicken and egg article for another time.
I'm also convinced I have a ferret family in my prefrontal cortex and hippocampus. Doctors like to call this the PFC.
I have an app on my phone named AF, the Acronym Finder; it's my Dr. Watson when I receive text messages that seem to need subtitles.
I felt disgusted by all the memories of Mark that came rushing up.
I was embarrassed that I didn't realize the pain inside that beautiful home. But, so often, my saving grace mantra is, "It's not about me!"
My morning meditation always helps my day appear more present.
Then, each time I dash out the door to walk the dog or answer a phone call, I try to treat it as if it were the first time I was doing it.
My girlfriend needed someone to be there to laugh amid memories and not run away when she started screaming like a wounded wolf.
My girlfriend wants someone to be there to laugh amid memories and scream out loud in anger.
The energy in her house was almost like a smell; it was so strong, wonderful, and wretched.
I could say nothing to stop my friend's pain.
Yet I understood her entire life would glare with sorrow and love on the day they buried him. I just loved her. Really loved her hard. And cleaned the kitchen when she gave me "the fuck off face."
This tragedy's actual grace and honor are to do this for ourselves and others each day. Love on yourself really hard! Love others like an unnurtured pup humps any leg available. Lean in and find out what makes them sing inside.
If you love like it's a new love or a life, you'll never get it back. This is a one-way ticket. So why do we celebrate life the loudest at times when it's too late?
Be a goofball. Sing at the outlet in the supermarket to embarrass your kid.
Act childishly as if you have just learned to see or have been given the gift of hearing music.
It is all waiting for us away from our laptops, TVs, and cell phones.
It's waiting right now. Just a few steps outside your four walls are home.
Author Nicole Lyons, who suffers from an allotment of mental illnesses, said, "I have never seen battles quite as terrifying and beautiful as the ones I fight when my mind splinters and races to swallow me into my own madness again."
If you know anyone suffering from suicidal idealization, please contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255 or simply dial 988 from your cell phone to text someone confidentially.