His name is Michael.
I don’t know much more than that, don’t know his last name, even. I can’t tell you his eye color or his favorite TV show. All I know is how he lived and how he died:
He lived loving my best friend. He opened up his chest and made a home for Grace to crawl into, safe and warm.
He died similarly.
I’ve gotten to know Michael through stories. Know he would doodle “hope you have a good day!” on post-it notes and hand them to strangers. Know he played basketball in high school (so I assume he was tall). Know Grace tried to give him a lap dance and dislocated her hip. Know that she thought she would marry him. And, I know what he put in his letter to her.
I cry about Michael sometimes. I sit in one of those creaky chairs outside Barrett and pretend I had met him. I imagine he’s a good hugger and he likes playing cards. We meet over beers to talk about how much we love Grace. We jovially dissect her neuroses and plot Christmas presents. (I picture us as Ann Perkins and Ben Wyatt from Parks and Recreation to Grace’s Leslie Knope: “Oh my God, we have to outdo ourselves this time. And when she passes the bar exam, maybe we should throw her a party.”)
Rocking in this chair, tears a Virginian swamp on my face, I am struck by how sad death is. How emptying grief is. How even I feel deprived by Michael’s absence, and I never knew him. There are so many people on this planet who did not know him. He never happened to us. He could have. He could have been charted to fall into our horizons. He could have been meant to be my friend.
But Michael didn’t happen to me.
Michael was in college when he died. I refuse to let him be a statistic, but I’ve gotta share one: 1,100 students die by suicide every year.
1,100 students don’t happen to me every year. Is this selfish? Maybe. I want to be their friend. I want to be your friend. I want to know your favorite television show. I have a bunch of funny stories to tell you and someone’s gotta help me plan Grace’s congratulatory bar exam party, because you better believe she’ll pass.
More than that, though, this world needs you to keep happening to us. This world needs your “chill nights” playlist, your too-loud laugh, your tangents about penguins. You are charted on our horizons in majestic, cosmic ways none of us can predict, but we can all look forward to.
I won’t offer any vague platitude or overplayed acronym (I’m looking at you, “Hold On, Pain Ends”.) I’m not going to pretend that living with mental illness is anything other than a mountainous climb. All I have is this:
We need you out here.
I hope you happen to us.
If not-happening is a thing that crosses your mind, keeping it to yourself can be dangerous. Please reach out to one of the following resources, or, tell a person you trust. Maybe a friend, or a professor who makes corny puns during lectures.
Within the W&M Scope:
- You can make an appointment at the Counseling Center by calling: 757-221-3620
- For after-hours emergencies, you can call: 757-221-4596 or, if necessary, 911
- You can also come by during hours at any time (240 Blow Hall)
Nationally:
- The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
Names have been changed to respect the privacy of my beloved friend and the family that survived this sweetheart of a boy. It is of my firm, unwavering belief that I’ll meet him in heaven someday. Until then, may he rest in peace.
Photo Credit: Kathryn Willoughby