Today, I owe a special note of gratitude to Jena.
Jena and I met in middle school, and were best friends for several years, before we started growing into our own lives with school, family, etc.
Five years and four days ago, Jena and I talked on the phone. She was coming back from her then-home in Texas, and I was planning a trip from Cincinnati to our hometown, and our plans to get together were made. It had been over two years since I'd seen her in person, with distance, family and daily life putting a get-together on hold. I didn't realize then that our plans would never find fruition, and that that was the last time I would ever talk to her.
Five years ago today, I was at a dinner party to celebrate the birthday of a friend here in Cincinnati. I snuck away to the upstairs bedroom where my phone was charging; Sydni wasn't yet 3 months old and I was being the paranoid new mom who abandoned her little baby with Grandma for the night [Moms, you've been there.. dramatically worried about nothing at all....]. I found two missed calls and a text message from Hilary, another friend and voice from my childhood. I called her back.
It was urgent. She was crying. Between short breaths and the unknown place my mind went for what seemed like an hour, I learned that Jena had, that night, lost her battle with depression. With her anxiety. Her fight was over.
I broke in half. I did what every survivor of someone else's suicide does on impact: I looked inward and immediately said, "This can't be real. Why?! What could I have DONE to keep this from happening?!"
This wasn't about me.
This was about what she had experienced. The pain that she must have internalized day in and day out, to the point of isolation from which she believed she would only find reprieve by making the choice to leave.
If there's anything I've learned along the way in this life, it's that time serves a mighty role in lessening the pain of loss, but it certainly doesn't erase it. When a loved one parts ways with their earthly bodies, it strips us of something. A piece of us goes with that person, and we are left to rebuild ourselves to counteract that void. Over time, those gaps become surrounded by the other ebbs and flows of our daily life, and the accumulation of gathered experiences and people that find us after that point of loss. They are still there though. They may be less noticeable on a daily basis, but they are there, and when our mind finds them for whatever reason, it is just as painful to reflect back on that loss as it was the day that it happened.
Jena, I am sorry.
I'm sorry for you, for those whose footsteps you followed, for those who followed your footsteps, and for those who will inevitably do so despite our efforts. I am sorry that you had to experience that kind of debilitating pain. Pressure. Unrelenting anxiety. I am sorry that, for whatever reason(s), your closest family and friends were unable to penetrate the glass bubble into which you sank by yourself. I'm so, so sorry that we couldn't save you.
I am sorry that you weren't able to recognize the way your presence made the lives of those around you better. I'm sorry that we weren't able to alleviate the afflictions that were consuming you, or at least lessen them to the point of treatment. I'm sorry that I wasn't more available to you. I know I was far down the line of people who may have been able to to intervene in those last few hours, but I hope you know that none of us are better off with you gone, and would have shouted that through the mountains if we thought it would've saved you. You were beautiful, and you still are, now as a guardian over those of us still here.
I do miss you. I miss going to your house, laughing over the trivial things that comprise the life of middle-schoolers: the who's-dating-who, when the next school-wide event would be [& what we'd wear to said event], and what rubber band colors we'd choose the next time we had adjustments with our orthodontists. I miss phasing through those awkward years when our bodies and minds were transitioning from children to young women: When we stepped into high school for the first time. When we thought our high school boyfriends might.. just.. be the ONE for forever and ever after. When we graduated. When, 4 years after that, we graduated college in different states. When we talked infrequently via phone, but still enough to know that the other was still excited to stay connected. When we finally made plans that never happened.
It's been five years.
Here's what's happened since then, as it relates to what I learned from losing you. From scratching my plans and taking days off from work to come home for your memorial service and funeral, I've learned. From holding myself together as your parents and brothers stumbled through those things at a loss of words and surprised that they still had tears left to cry - at the risk of disrespecting their pain... I've grown.
Here is what happened:
On that day, and for the immediate weeks and months following: I grieved. I comforted and was comforted by our friends and your family. I teetered back and forth between the sting of knowing you and little Braylon were gone, and the unavoidable mixture of betrayal and guilt, knowing that I had spoken with you just a mere four days prior to this, and somehow didn't detect a thing. I struggled to see through your absence into the bigger picture. I struggled a lot with those selfish emotions, before I could even begin to understand reality:
I left Mount Vernon and returned to my life in Cincinnati, entrenched in the idea that this should never happen. I researched for almost a full week on ways to get involved, and finally enlisted myself as a Field Advocate for the AFSP [American Foundation for Suicide Prevention]. I had three phone interviews with three different levels of local representatives, and learned a number of ways to make local, tangible contributions to the mission of edification and reach into those dark corners that you must have seen first hand. I wrote a couple of articles as a contributor on AFSP forums for suicide survivors: I was honest and raw about my ignorance to your struggle. I was bold in my call to action, which may or may not have reached anyone at all, even though I hope it did.
I've added to my ability to cope with disappointment, anger, fear and loss. I gained a new layer of understanding for the grieving process, and how to be a real shoulder to others in my life who would come to me in times of brokenness. You serve as a constant reminder and motivator to pour myself into each of my friendships and relationships - even those that have grown apart just by the course of life. I strive to stay connected and make the extra effort, sometimes when it's inconvenient, because I believe those who care for me would do the same. I try harder to love: openly and honestly, without judgment. I try to listen more. I try to instill in my daughter these principles, and the drive to show compassion - always - to everyone. I won't be able to shield her from the harsh realities and heartbreak that come as an essential part of growing, but if I can prepare her heart and mind to be a light in a dark world, perhaps one day she'll save someone in her own life who is on the edge of giving up. On the inside, I made a promise to you to seek help when I am overwhelmed. I'm not good at being emotionally-expressive, but I am not indestructible, as much as I force myself to be at times. I'm reminded that it's okay to be vulnerable.
It's my hope. I'm not perfect and I fail often at doing those things, but I know better than to look the other way.
It's five years later and I am still a Field Advocate for AFSP. I still try to partner with them when possible. I think of you every single time. I hope you know that you taught me a valuable lesson: Think. Act. Listen. Love.
In the active form, TALL:
Thinking, Acting, Listening. Loving.
Thinker. Action-taker. Listener. Lover.
Thank you Jena, for the impact you had on my life as a friend while you were here.
And now, thank you for serving as the mascot for me whenever I start to forget the importance of being TALL.
You're on a lot of hearts & minds today. Smile back at us, ok?
Love you, dear friend.
xo | cmd
If there's anything I've learned along the way in this life, it's that time serves a mighty role in lessening the pain of loss, but it certainly doesn't erase it. When a loved one parts ways with their earthly bodies, it strips us of something. A piece of us goes with that person, and we are left to rebuild ourselves to counteract that void. Over time, those gaps become surrounded by the other ebbs and flows of our daily life, and the accumulation of gathered experiences and people that find us after that point of loss. They are still there though. They may be less noticeable on a daily basis, but they are there, and when our mind finds them for whatever reason, it is just as painful to reflect back on that loss as it was the day that it happened.
The beautiful thing that time does provide for this type of loss is the clarity of vision to more evenly focus on and celebrate that person's life, rather than dwell on the emptiness of their absence. It's not always possible to fully reflect back and smile at the thought of someone gone too soon, but when enough time has passed to satisfy our immediate grieving response, the highlights of that person's life are not only more visible, but more vivid, beautiful... gratifying.
Funny. Sentimental. Inspiring. Teaching. Triumphant.
It's not to say those gone before us lived without shortcomings and lessons hard-learned, but those things become trivial when we are able to grasp the full impact the person had on us in the first place.
 |
| love. |
I'm sorry for you, for those whose footsteps you followed, for those who followed your footsteps, and for those who will inevitably do so despite our efforts. I am sorry that you had to experience that kind of debilitating pain. Pressure. Unrelenting anxiety. I am sorry that, for whatever reason(s), your closest family and friends were unable to penetrate the glass bubble into which you sank by yourself. I'm so, so sorry that we couldn't save you.
I am sorry that you weren't able to recognize the way your presence made the lives of those around you better. I'm sorry that we weren't able to alleviate the afflictions that were consuming you, or at least lessen them to the point of treatment. I'm sorry that I wasn't more available to you. I know I was far down the line of people who may have been able to to intervene in those last few hours, but I hope you know that none of us are better off with you gone, and would have shouted that through the mountains if we thought it would've saved you. You were beautiful, and you still are, now as a guardian over those of us still here.
I do miss you. I miss going to your house, laughing over the trivial things that comprise the life of middle-schoolers: the who's-dating-who, when the next school-wide event would be [& what we'd wear to said event], and what rubber band colors we'd choose the next time we had adjustments with our orthodontists. I miss phasing through those awkward years when our bodies and minds were transitioning from children to young women: When we stepped into high school for the first time. When we thought our high school boyfriends might.. just.. be the ONE for forever and ever after. When we graduated. When, 4 years after that, we graduated college in different states. When we talked infrequently via phone, but still enough to know that the other was still excited to stay connected. When we finally made plans that never happened.
It's been five years.
Here's what's happened since then, as it relates to what I learned from losing you. From scratching my plans and taking days off from work to come home for your memorial service and funeral, I've learned. From holding myself together as your parents and brothers stumbled through those things at a loss of words and surprised that they still had tears left to cry - at the risk of disrespecting their pain... I've grown.
Here is what happened:
On that day, and for the immediate weeks and months following: I grieved. I comforted and was comforted by our friends and your family. I teetered back and forth between the sting of knowing you and little Braylon were gone, and the unavoidable mixture of betrayal and guilt, knowing that I had spoken with you just a mere four days prior to this, and somehow didn't detect a thing. I struggled to see through your absence into the bigger picture. I struggled a lot with those selfish emotions, before I could even begin to understand reality:
It wasn't YOU, my FRIEND who made that choice, but the disease that is depression, anxiety, mental abuse.. that pushed you to that point.
I left Mount Vernon and returned to my life in Cincinnati, entrenched in the idea that this should never happen. I researched for almost a full week on ways to get involved, and finally enlisted myself as a Field Advocate for the AFSP [American Foundation for Suicide Prevention]. I had three phone interviews with three different levels of local representatives, and learned a number of ways to make local, tangible contributions to the mission of edification and reach into those dark corners that you must have seen first hand. I wrote a couple of articles as a contributor on AFSP forums for suicide survivors: I was honest and raw about my ignorance to your struggle. I was bold in my call to action, which may or may not have reached anyone at all, even though I hope it did.
I've added to my ability to cope with disappointment, anger, fear and loss. I gained a new layer of understanding for the grieving process, and how to be a real shoulder to others in my life who would come to me in times of brokenness. You serve as a constant reminder and motivator to pour myself into each of my friendships and relationships - even those that have grown apart just by the course of life. I strive to stay connected and make the extra effort, sometimes when it's inconvenient, because I believe those who care for me would do the same. I try harder to love: openly and honestly, without judgment. I try to listen more. I try to instill in my daughter these principles, and the drive to show compassion - always - to everyone. I won't be able to shield her from the harsh realities and heartbreak that come as an essential part of growing, but if I can prepare her heart and mind to be a light in a dark world, perhaps one day she'll save someone in her own life who is on the edge of giving up. On the inside, I made a promise to you to seek help when I am overwhelmed. I'm not good at being emotionally-expressive, but I am not indestructible, as much as I force myself to be at times. I'm reminded that it's okay to be vulnerable.
It's my hope. I'm not perfect and I fail often at doing those things, but I know better than to look the other way.
******
It's five years later and I am still a Field Advocate for AFSP. I still try to partner with them when possible. I think of you every single time. I hope you know that you taught me a valuable lesson: Think. Act. Listen. Love.
In the active form, TALL:
Thinking, Acting, Listening. Loving.
Thinker. Action-taker. Listener. Lover.
 |
| ♥. |
And now, thank you for serving as the mascot for me whenever I start to forget the importance of being TALL.
You're on a lot of hearts & minds today. Smile back at us, ok?
Love you, dear friend.
xo | cmd
