I Didn’t Get to Say Goodbye
TW: suicide
Yesterday I received the kind of news that instantly shatters you into a million tiny pieces.
One of my friends committed suicide.
We hadn’t spoken in a year and a half because we worked together at my last job, and I didn’t exactly leave on good terms. I didn’t want to put him in a potentially uncomfortable position, so I kept my distance.
And now I am filled with the deep kind of regret that you can only experience when something is so irrevocably final.
I am heartbroken and devastated.
He was one of the first people I met at the company. Even though we had completely different roles and he’d already been with the company a few years, he did my new hire training alongside me so he could learn the job from the field team’s perspective. I don’t know if many people working in the home office would have volunteered for this type of training. I don’t know that he volunteered. But he was so good natured and gentle-spirited, I doubt he would’ve declined the offer (even if he was completely uninterested in the idea).
Me, our coworker Olivia, and Michael after we finished our training
He’d been around for a while, so I leaned on him a good bit as I was getting my footing. And once I got acclimated, I still leaned on him because that’s what we all did. He was gracious and patient and steadfast. Always.
We used to talk multiple times a day every single day. He once told me that when he saw my number come through on the caller ID, he would always try to grab the phone. He recited the last 4 digits of my cell number, and my jaw dropped. Who has peoples’ phone numbers memorized anymore?
He did.
And when I abruptly left my role, there were many adjustments. One of the most difficult was not being with my clients everyday. Another was not talking to him as often as I was used to.
Especially on Fridays.
I’m not sure why I started doing this, but every single Friday for the last year we worked together, I would call the office until he answered the phone and sing “Friday” by Rebecca Black. Actually, it was more like screaming. Eventually, I wouldn’t even say hello first. He would answer and I would immediately burst into song. And whether it was the first few lines or the entire chorus, he would always laugh his way through it and say, “TGIF!” when I finished.
I can hear him now.
He was a good bit younger than me and kind of like a little brother. He always tolerated my shenanigans and did my bidding, no matter how annoying of a request it might have been. I don't think he ever told me no, even when I gave him an out. I wish I could have protected him in the way siblings are supposed to. But I had no idea. I keep asking myself over and over what I could have done. And if I dwell on it too much, my throat feels like it’s closing up and I have to find a way to distract myself.
I break down at the thought of talking about him in past tense. I knew there was a strong likelihood that we wouldn't see each other again, I just never fathomed that this would be the reason. He was so young. A sweetheart of a kid. One of the good ones. I can't even believe it.
I’ve thought about him often — as recently as last week. I almost texted him a gif from “Friday” but decided against it because crashing back into his life after a year and a half might have been “too weird.” I know that’s my own perception of the situation. I’m sure he would’ve laughed and asked how I was doing. I would’ve made him send me a picture of his dog.
But now I can’t do that.
And I am filled with so much regret.
I’ve lost a friend to suicide before.
And once it happens, the tidal wave of “if you feel alone, reach out to me”s follow.
They’re well-intentioned enough. But the truth is, when you feel yourself spiraling further and further down, you don’t necessarily have the energy to reach out. And if you do, you’re filled with so much shame or the fear that you’ll alarm someone or worse — appear as a burden — that you recede back into yourself.
More and more isolated.
Depression is suffocating and all-consuming and unrelenting.
And it does not discriminate.
I don’t know that I would’ve stopped what was already in motion. But if I know someone is suffering, I try my best to be present and supportive and consistent. Because I’ve been in that place before, where all I can see are the dark corners of my mind, and I don't know how much longer I can keep treading water. And as someone who's made it through to the other side, I know how incredibly necessary the support from friends and family and licensed professionals is. It’s crucial.
Shame tells us that we should keep these thoughts and feelings to ourselves. That sharing them is embarrassing or makes us weak. That no one will get it. But bringing them out in the open gives those thoughts and feelings less power over us and allows us to begin to heal. In my most vulnerable moments, when I’ve shared what’s on my heart, it’s often met with someone saying they understand or they’ve been there and they want to know how to support me.
But for someone who’s pretty honest in this space, saying those things out loud is next to impossible for me. And if someone offers to sit with me in it, I usually lie and say I’ll be fine. Too hard. Too painful. Too used to keeping it all inside.
I know I’m not alone in that.
And this is coming from someone who has spent thousands of dollars in therapy over the last year and a half — something not everyone has the privilege and benefit of.
Maybe we need to open our eyes. Maybe we need to be able to hold space for uneasy conversations. Maybe we need to believe others and lean in when we know they’re hurting. Or even if we think they might be. Maybe instead of telling someone to reach out if they need help, we should be proactive and ask them how they’re really doing. Maybe we need to pay closer attention.
Right now, it seems like everyone I know is hurting. But those living with mental illnesses are suffering disproportionately in this pandemic.
We have to be there. We have to stand in the gap. We have to do something.
Check on the ones you love. On the ones who lost their job or have a family member sick with Covid or are going through a breakup. Check on your single friends and married friends and friends with kids and friends who have had kids in the middle of this crisis. Check on your friends that seem like they have their lives "together" because they might need it most of all. Check on the friend that’s coming to mind right now. If you don’t know how to do that, these questions from Mental Health America are very helpful:
It only takes a few minutes, and you could save someone's life.
If you love someone, let them know. Even if you don’t think they need to hear it. Because the truth is we all do.
If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts, just know that someone is excited to go to work because of you.
Someone thinks of something you said and smiles because of it.
Someone hopes you answer the phone.
Someone is comforted by your presence.
You’re someone’s favorite person to hug.
No one gives your pet belly rubs like you do.
You might think we’re better off without you, but we’re not. We never could be.
So please, stay.
The way you feel right now won’t last forever, even though it feels like it.
So please, just stay.
It will get better.
I promise.
You don’t know how loved you are. And we should be better about saying these things to each other, but it’s true. The gaping hole left by your absence will be felt. Deeply. Don’t convince yourself otherwise.
Please keep hanging on.
We need you here.
Michael,
I am heartbroken and devastated, but I hope you’re finally at peace. And I’m so sorry I didn’t know until it was too late.
In a few days I will drive around blaring our song and will likely devolve into a puddle of tears, as I have off and on since I learned of your passing, because I’m so sad you felt this way and couldn’t see a way out.
I wish you could’ve known how special you were. And how we all adored you. And how precious your life was.
I missed being your friend all along, but I’ll miss you even more now.
All my love,
Nat