I recently heard about an eight grade boy in my boyfriend’s younger brother’s class who committed suicide. I didn’t know the boy, but it started to bring up a lot of feelings from my past. There are have a few instances in my past that can really relate.
The day before New Years Eve when I was in eight grade around five AM my house phone rang. I was still awake in my bedroom, my parents sound asleep, and my brother in his room. The call came from the police. It turned out that my brother, who was only a few doors down had taken an entire bottle of advil and told the girl he was talking to what he had done. She was scared and called the police, who subsequently called us. I had never heard my parents screech so loud. To this day he has never confirmed that he was actually trying to kill himself, but it seems pretty clear to me.
Almost a year later, on January 4, 2010 a girl in my high school class passed away. Her name was Emily. She had an undetected congenial heart disease. After school she was working out on the treadmill and just collapsed. Not only did I speak to her in class earlier that day when she asked all about my boyfriend, whom I had actually broken up with only a few days before, but within the hour she died she asked my friend and I to go work out with her. We said no because we had a math test to study for. That’s one of the few things in life I wish I could change. Not that I really think that I could in any way have saved her, but that I would have just been a little bit more time. We really weren’t that close. We had only met a few months before, and there were plenty of girls who knew her better. But we definitely were friends. Being two of the oldest girls in the class we were planning on taking driver’s ed together. We had things to look forward to together. Going to Emily’s wake a funeral was one of the hardest things I had to go through at that time in my life. I still remember hugging her mom, who I had never formally met before. Looking into the casket seeing a girl I knew, a girl I had squealed about boys with, and the girl who had rolled her eyes with me behind our English teacher’s class.
I can’t imagine having those two situations collide into one, like all of the kids in that boy’s class are going through. I mourn for the boy, but I also mourn for all the people he left behind. His parents and friends. People who thought they knew him. But he obviously needed help. It’s hard being depressed and feeling like you’re going through it alone. I wish he hadn’t felt compelled to do something so horrific.