Dear Aaron,
It’s been about ten years now since your birthday on November 28th, 2000. On that day, you turned 21 years old. The last time we talked, about two months prior, you said you were leaving church for a while. I wasn’t the first person you told; I overheard you saying this to someone else. I took a breath and steadied myself; I would be composed when you told me, I thought. I wasn’t ready for you to be the one to try and control your emotions, to force out through wracking sobs that you were leaving for a while. I wasn’t sure of what to say, so I said, “Do what you have to do, but your spot will be here when you come back.”
You played on the worship team and that is what I thought of, the physical space that you took up next to the drum kit that no one played. I knew you would come back, to that spot, your spot, but it might be a while. Maybe I’d see you at Baker’s or something and we would talk and you’d mention that you were thinking of dropping by, shorthand for you coming back so your spot wouldn’t be empty.
I can’t say that I remembered that the 28th was your birthday. I was never very good at remembering dates so in my head, forgetting it was your birthday without you to remind me makes me feel better.
21. You were a year older than me. You smiled a lot more than I ever did, too. You were stronger than me, obviously. I was a puny dude. I must have weighed 120, and at 5’10”, that ain’t much. You never took advantage of that strength, except to playfully grab a kid by the neck or something. They hollered, but they loved it. You were awesome at hackey-sack. I might have been better at guitar, but you carried yourself with an easiness that I couldn’t figure out; you were silly without trying and without being self-conscious about it and I envied that coolness.
You saw your mom that morning, but you were a bit on the edgy side and left in the middle of breakfast, if I remember right. You were supposed to meet your dad, grandparents, and step-mom for a party that afternoon but you were late, something that was very unlike you. They waited for you and started to call around after a while. I got a phone call, that you had gone missing, and to pray. So I did. I said a little prayer. I hoped everything was all right, thinking back to the time I got a flat tire and had to figure out how to change it without the owner’s manual. I had the jack all backwards and it took me way longer than expected. I hoped that was it, that you weren’t hurt or alone somewhere.
I was sitting in the living room around 9, a little worried, with my sister and her friend, Natalie. The phone rang and it was Debbie. She sounded a little upset, almost mad or with an incredulous tone. Debbie had just been on the phone with your dad, and she told me that they found you in the hills around Cal State San Bernardino, that you shot yourself. They thought you got the gun from your step-dad.
I almost asked if you were still alive, hoping it was one of those rare cases where the person didn’t aim right or by sheer luck was left injured but not dead, but I knew that wasn’t the case. I didn’t know what to say. I could feel myself checking out, and I don’t remember what I or Debbie said after that. I had to tell my sister and her friend. I don’t really remember what I said or how I said it. I couldn’t connect to what I’d just been told; you couldn’t be gone because I knew I would see you again, we would have that conversation about you coming back. We had to.
We had youth group the next night; we sat around, listless, lifeless, and hurt. We cried. We didn’t understand why. I tried as best as I could to comfort the people around me, hugging them, being around them, and to just be present and not shut down, even though I really wanted to. It’s not often spoken of, but when someone close to you commits suicide, it feels like an act of betrayal, and there is an element of distrust but also a desire to know the people around you more than just on a surface level. We wanted to just be close to each other, but we also wondered about the secrets each of us carried. I felt the pull of both, trying to be open and available for the junior high and high school students as they grieved but hurting as well. Pushing that aside to be a helper kept my emotions in check.
It was a while before I let myself really grieve; I broke more than a few times. I broke when I talked to the youth group, told them that they had people to talk to, people who cared about them and to ask for help if they needed it. I realize now that for people who are depressed and contemplating suicide, there is more to it than just asking for help, but I know that is part it.
The funeral was a few days later and a guy who normally didn’t talk to me a whole lot came and gave me a bear hug and said, “I’m so sorry. He was your buddy,” and walked a way, wiping his eyes. We saw so many people whose lives you touched, people that knew you as a student and as a wonderful person. All I could think was, “Why didn’t you know this? Didn’t you care? Did you know how much this would hurt us?” In fact, I’ve thought those three thoughts often over the years; the month of November has been a darker month for me and I would think about you, wishing you knew how much you were loved. I think you tried to separate from us so we wouldn’t hurt as much, as a compromise, but you could have told us you hated us and I can’t imagine it hurting any less.
I also would wonder if there was something I had done, or something I had failed to do, and in so doing, I failed you. I should have seen the signs, I should have done something, and if I had, you would be around today. I definitely had a crisis of faith, but faith was also a place of healing. In Job, God tells Job that there are things bigger than Job and his understanding. That passage used to upset me, but I kept coming back to it. I don’t know why you did what you did or if there was anything I could have done differently, but it stopped being so painful to ask those questions and not have an answer. A psychologist friend said to me later, “You could have seen all the signs, and called in help, but if he really wanted to commit suicide, he would have found a way regardless of you.” It was a frightening thought, but it let me know that this wasn’t my fault. It helped me breathe. One person described it as a terror and prayed for me a few years back – every November since then has been brighter.
There has been a campaign recently aimed at teenagers struggling with bullying and their identity called, “It Gets Better.” There are a lot of young people who have been stripped of their dignity as humans and broken down by the words and actions of others until they did the only thing they could think of to make the pain stop and that was to end their life. I know that clinical depression is not the same as bullying, that a bullied person may become depressed or may struggle with mental illness, but I’ve always wanted to let you know, Aaron, that it does get better. I used to be so angry with you and confused. I would bounce between these emotions quite often. I used to wonder if a person I saw as a rock couldn’t handle their life, what hope was there for any of us? It gets better – I’m not as angry anymore. I mourn for the life you never got to live rather than my own loss. It really doesn’t matter what the issue was, Aaron, it does get better. Your friends didn’t know everything that was going on, but we didn’t want you to be alone. There are professionals who, if you would have let them, would have helped you work through your pain, who would have listened and offered advice in ways we couldn’t. They might have even been able to help keep your mind from becoming your own worst enemy.
You would be 31 today, still older than me, still cooler than me, still able to switch from cool to silly and back with ease. I can see you having a big party today. Your grandpa on your dad’s side wouldn’t have been around to celebrate, but your mom, dad, stepparents, and friends would have been there. I can see your family there, even your wife and kids celebrating with you. We would have a cake; I would make fun of you for being old, and you’d probably laugh and pick me up and say, “Still in decent shape for an old guy, what’s your excuse?” We would have laughed and ate too much food and cake – I can see your daughter on your lap, blue frosting on her forehead, you asking her, “How’d that get up there?” As the night would wear on, we would all eventually leave, one by one, and as I was getting ready to leave, you would gently put your daughter down, and we would hug. I’d say, “Happy birthday old man. Take care,” and you would say, “Thanks. You, too.” I think we might even say, “I love you, bro,” but maybe not. I know we’d be thinking it. As I walked out, our eyes would meet and we’d smile, thinking about how good we had it, and we would each say our good-bye.
I love you, bro, and I will miss you for now and always,
Dave
If you or anyone you know is struggling with depression or thoughts of suicide, there is help and there is hope.
Please remember that it really does get better.
Please seek help by calling 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
Suicide Awareness Voices of Education (SAVE)
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention
Wow David….wow!