Names have been changed for obvious reasons.
November 4, 2017. The worst day of my life. I had spent the morning and afternoon apartment hunting with my parents. I was moving from Buffalo to central New York to start my new job, fresh out of grad school. The day was cloudy, dry, and cold, nondescript from an upstate New York standpoint. After our last apartment visit, we drove through town once more and then headed home.
On the way, we stopped to pick up my dad’s skis from the shop, which were getting their annual tune up. I was in the back seat, conversing with my mom who occupied the passenger’s seat. I received a notification on my phone: new text message from Chris. I squeezed the lock button and continued my conversation. My dad returned, and we drove the rest of the way home.
Flash back to elementary school. I was fortunate to have been placed in the same kindergarten class as a few of my neighbors. We became good friends, growing close through shared interests and living within walking distance of each other. When we weren’t in class, we were almost always together, playing football, exploring the woods, building tree forts, ding dong ditching neighbors, or playing manhunt on warm summer nights.
Although I was close with most of the neighborhood gang, I grew closest with Phil, his older brother Chris, and his younger brother Nick. Nick, Phil, and Chris are family to me; I view them as brothers and hold their parents in the same regard I do my own. “Growing up” I viewed Chris as a friend; I never paid much mind to the fact that he was two years my senior. Looking back, I now realize that Chris’s role in my life is more accurately described as that of an older brother.
I experienced a lot of firsts with Chris: shooting my first small game, snaring my first rabbit, having my first catch and cook. I tied my first fly with Chris, made my first YouTube video with Chris, and worked my first job with, you guessed it, Chris. It was Chris who taught me how to shoot a bow, how to shoot a gun, how to Frisbee golf (frolf), how to groom a baseball field, how to develop a work ethic, and how to spin and fly fish (my favorite pastime).
Many of these events seem minor when viewed in isolation; it’s only when viewed holistically that the influence Chris has had on my life is fully understood. It’s impossible to understand who I am as a person, why I am the way I am, without considering the experiences Chris and I shared together.
We made it home and sat down for dinner shortly after. Chicken pasta with tomatoes and cheese was the meal that night. As we were finishing, my mom received a call and said it was from Mrs. B. She walked into the foyer while I loaded my plate into the dishwasher. I turned to face her as she spoke on the phone. Her demeanor had evolved into one that looked of concern, and the conversation didn’t seem to have the flow I would have expected from a conversation with Mrs. B. I also noticed that she was staring at me for some reason, but I was only half listening and jokingly said to my dad “mom always looks so concerned.”
I caught that the conversation was ending and turned to face my mom. She hung up the phone and blurted out “Chris B killed himself.” I’ll remember those words for the rest of my life. I’ll remember the way they were delivered. I’ll remember the way my dad jumped off couch and ran into the kitchen, swearing in disbelief. I’ll remember how “no” was the only word I knew how to say.
My family tried to hug me but I ran from them. I ran upstairs, then down, then out of the house. I thought that maybe if I just ran away like a coward it wouldn’t be real, maybe if I ran I could shield myself from the pain I knew would consume me upon accepting reality. I was caught in emotional limbo, unwilling to leap into the abyss, peering into its depths with my toes hanging over the edge.
But I knew it was true. I knew it made sense. All the dots were suddenly connected. All the nuances of our conversations, his actions, his words, his attitude, they were all in context now. The puzzle was finally complete. All its pieces together presenting itself to me as the heinous nightmare it was.
Once things had settled down, my parents went over to the Bs per their request and I stayed home with my sister. Reality was sinking in; my sister reassured me that it wasn’t a mistake, that it was real. I cried in her arms for the first time since I could remember.
Once I collected myself, I called Phil and then Nick, both of whom were living in the Midwest at the time. I didn’t know what to say other than that I was sorry. I knew they’d be looking for answers, I knew they’d be wondering why. I felt ashamed. I was ashamed that I had nothing for them. I was ashamed that all I could say, as someone who was close to Chris, was that “he seemed fine.” I was ashamed that only then had I connected the dots, only after hindsight had made it clear to me. I realized that what I told Phil wasn’t true, Chris wasn’t “fine.”
My parents returned a few hours later. We talked for a bit then went to bed. I closed my bedroom door and stood in my room. I opened the message from Chris. It was a link to an .mp3 file on google drive. I opened the file and hit the playback icon. I listened to his words as he sang to his guitar. Perhaps it was his way of answering our questions.
Waking up the next morning was almost worse than the night before. The transition from temporary reprieve to cold reality was difficult. I could hardly eat. I felt physically sick, a sickness that felt like having heartburn, indigestion, a stomach ulcer, an anxiety attack, and a hangover all at the same time. I subsisted on Busch Light and pimento olives for several days, the majority of which I spent laying on my bed.
It took me two days to work up the courage to visit Mr. and Mrs. B. I feared having to fully immerse myself in the reality of the situation, to see everything that reminded me of Chris and our memories. I feared seeing the neighbors, because I didn’t think I would be able to hold it together. I feared seeing Mr. and Mrs. B, because I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry” just didn’t seem to cut it. It sounded so pitiful, so empty, so thoughtless, like a formality. I still regret not going over to visit sooner.
Never in my life had I experienced such a cocktail of misery. Despair, regret, anger (at myself), anxiety, guilt, shame, nearly every uncomfortable emotion one can name was experienced. It was difficult to distinguish one from the rest. They morphed and ebbed continuously, like the turbid waters of a blown out river.
Phil and Nick flew in a few days later, and the service was held on Saturday. The turnout for the service was more than I had ever seen previously. It was amazing to see how one person could connect the lives of so many. I wondered how many of us never would have even spoken, let alone became friends, if it wasn’t for Chris.
The weeks and months that followed were difficult. I moved into my new apartment and started my new job. My existence largely consisted of the following routine: wake up, go to work, come home, drink a few beers and try to work on IOS development. I mostly just ended up staring at the wall behind my computer, unable to concentrate. Sometimes I’d swear, sometimes I’d cry, sometimes I’d just stare in silence.
Things were pretty slow at work, and because I was obligated to occupy my cubicle between the hours of 8 and 5, I had plenty of time to wallow in my own little personal prison. I also had a particularly nosey coworker who would often catch me sitting and staring off into space. She would ask, “whatcha pondering?” Obviously I would lie. I would say I was thinking about a project, or something else, anything other than Chris.
I thought about it every day for over a year. My idle mind always seemed to wander to it. I thought I failed him as a friend, I thought I should have connected the dots, understood what was going on. It’s like that question on a test worth half your grade that you can’t figure out until you hand in your paper and walk out of the lecture hall, after it’s too late. It’s the ball you drop in the end zone, your strikeout in the bottom of the 9th. It’s a moment you’ll never get back. There are no do overs.
To this day (2.5 years later), I still occasionally have dreams that we’re out fishing, or driving in his truck. In those dreams, I always think to myself that I knew it was all a lie, that it was just a dream, that it never really happened. Perhaps I’m still in denial, or perhaps I just can’t help but relish those brief moments of reprieve, in which everything is right, everything is as it should be.
I read somewhere (I think it was a Reddit post) that it never really goes away; it just becomes easier to gloss over. I think that’s an accurate description. Is it at the forefront of my mind anymore? No. Do I think about it less often? Yes. Has the hurt gone away? No. Do I think it ever will? Probably not. Do I think I’ll ever be OK with what happened? Definitely not.
I try to focus on being grateful for the time we spent together. I try to reiterate to myself that it is far better to have shared the time we did together than to never have at all. I try not to focus on feelings that our time was cut short. I try not to focus on my desire for just one more fishing trip, one more night of beers on his back deck. I try to accept and be happy with what I received instead of constantly longing for more.
Why did I decide to write this? I’m not entirely sure. I guess I thought someone might read it and empathize with my experience. Maybe reading this will help someone feel less alone. I don’t know. I don’t have any advice for anyone. I can’t tell someone how to make it better. I can’t tell someone how to make it go away.
All I can say is that improvement will most likely be experienced in a nonlinear, unpredictable fashion. Some days will be great, some days you’ll be caught completely off guard. Although healing will likely come with time, you should be prepared to wear the scars for the rest of your life.
