It was a caffeine and adrenaline fused night, I was nearing complete and utter exhaustion as I was scrambling together whatever was left of my sanity and coherence necessary to finish my AP Seminar group project on a shared and very chaotic Google Document. The muted colored bubbles of my friends' initials shooting in out like a ticking time bomb. Halfway through junior year, and I’ve felt as though I’ve exhausted my resources, as a student, maybe even a functioning member of society. It’s a feeling that I could only describe as if the whole world was relying on disarming a large and destructive bomb by exactly 11:59 PM, except the end wouldn’t be the annihilation of the entire human race, but a rather measly and pestering “LATE” notification right next to your pathetic submission. Which in the grand scheme of my problems, at the time, was enough to qualify the enormity and severeness of the latter metaphor. As always, and still, to this day, I’m a bit extra.
I’ve been in Colorado for about a year and a half at this point. We’ve kept pretty close contact since then. I was still on Snapchat at that time, too. I’d be greeted nearly daily with, yet another, one of your vape and Chief Keef music snapchats. I shrugged them off regularly, after all, it wasn’t in my slightest of interests to even muster up a fake interest in that. I mean, let’s be real here, there isn’t much there that warrants a response. Still, as time went on, I’ve become rather accustomed to it, almost like your daily attestation that everything carried on as usual in that slow, Paletininian, suburban fashion. I’d hear through friends about new stories regarding you and your rambunctious party-animal feats, and I’d carry on just shrugging it off- “oh there you go again”, with a snide and humorous alluded smile. All seemed good. Just a few months ago we had talked about shredding down Keystone together once you made your way back down to Colorado for your family ski trip. Lost in that tried and true nature of time, I never took much time out of my day to chat like we used to. Like old friends, we sort of tapered off in that inevitable fashion when distance and time and life carrying on as usual- just mixes as an imperfect function of loss in connection. Also, I was WAY too embarrassed for a very long time about who I was in 8th grade when we met. But I guess who wasn’t? Nevertheless, that lingering and too-perfect nostalgia always filled me with such joy, in the purest and most innocent way imaginable. Looking back at it now, too, it’s just magical.
*Screenshot Sent’ “Hey did you hear about what happened to ***?”
In the wake of my coffee-induced haze, my best friend from Chicago sent me a screenshot of this text from one of her friends. “Love hearing this”, we both typed, assuming you’ve gotten in one of your famous antics again at the rival school you attended; the ones that always brought us so much laughter and happiness. The feeling of the room got cold though. An aura of stillness and unsettling respite filled my head. Something dark and austere. Calm before a storm, and it sure did come crashing down like frigid showers and thunder sent through my body as if it were God’s ultimate wrath.
**11:34 PM, December 11th, 2015
It couldn’t be... Suicide?
December 2nd, 2015
Snap from: ***
“Hey. Can we talk?”
Why on Earth did I ignore it? Why on Earth didn’t I see it? This has to be some sick joke. This person before me. This person who was there for me when I moved to Colorado, heading towards an unknown. This person who’s had one of the most chilling experiences in school, then at home, whose reputation far outcried a plea for help. Whose story became so synonymous with a lost soul, but with a hidden and secretive heart of gold only a few got to witness in its most raw and unhinged glory. Trembling at my computer screen, the wells of my eyes blurred of the reality before me. My fingers clutched my trembling, red, boiling, and wet face. Letting out thrust and airy whimpered gasps. why on Earth didn’t I reply?. My body melted and sank into the floor. Why didn’t I just talk to him? Pathetic. I screamed I hollered, I begged for an answer to this, a question so simple, yet so pressing. This couldn’t be it. Not for him. Nothing made sense, but then it all did- all at once.
I still remember the day we met. My wide-eyed and peering type-a 8th-grade self was so keen on meeting you. In that effortless middle-school flirting fashion, you stole my American Eagle jacket from the stands of the rival school wrestling meet, in hopes that I'd come up to you to get it for you. It’s funny to think about the very Shakspearean and medieval nature of courtship in middle school. A friend of yours would talk to a friend of mine and exchange arrangements through a middle school Apollo type courier system. It was sweet, in a very naive and childish way. Days turned into months and I remember texting you on my iPod Touch talking about everything and anything, being hopelessly stuck in that puppy love world. We talked for hours about life, to the best of our ability as middle schoolers, for you, life was hard at home and at school, I see that now… Detached and neglectful home life and a mob-like group of bullies at school created an inescapable world of tumult, self-degradation, and bad choices. You found refuge in us, carrying on far past 8th grade. We went on our first date around April of 2012, finally seeing you at Century Theaters at Deer Park, Silver Linings Playbook. Not paying any attention to it anyway (Great movie, by the way). Things started to taper off after middle school, but we still stayed in touch.
...
I came back to Chicago in March of 2016. It was a sunny but brisk afternoon at St. Michael the Archangel Cemetery. The grass was that mix of pale yellow and green with a spongy-like bounce as you trodded around the fields as the limp mud loosely cladded itself around my white sneakers, adding to the already heavy atmosphere of the field. The spring snow started to melt after a brutal and dark winter. I prayed I wouldn’t find your name in stone. I had asked the cemetery’s secretary for your plot hoping to God wouldn't find it. They asked me for your name. Your name slipped out of my lips trembling and waveringly like it was a lie. This can’t be real. Uttering your First, Middle, Last.
“He is located at Plot **. You’ll find it along…”
Her words tapered away, becoming white noise at the sound and reality. I couldn’t muster up the strength in my voice, it wasn’t there. I couldn’t face the map that was handed before me. it wasn’t you, it couldn’t be. Wells of tears started to fill the gaps of my already glassy eyes, paired with an even more transparent, empty gaze. The tears fell menacingly on the paper I held right in front of me. This very piece of paper showing that you were indeed gone, my tears dribbling down on your name and that date: December 11th, 2015. I let out a weak and discorded thank you, while dragging my body like it’s comatose, right out of the service desk area. I approach the section of the cemetery that was neatly nestled between two large oak trees. You...have to be somewhere here. I looked and looked, your name was nowhere to be found, I laughed with tears in my eyes. For a moment, I was filled with joy, perhaps you weren’t gone, and maybe this was all some sort of strange, bizarre, and twisted nightmare.
I marched for several minutes between the aisles of grey cobblestone and marble tombstones. I prayed I wouldn’t see your name. I collapsed in front of a grave that wasn’t yours; my thoughts overflowing with disgust, anger, pity, hatred, and unbearable unavoidable sadness. I couldn’t find you, I didn’t want to, but there you were. And like it was God himself before me, a moment of that same particular stillness overtook the unignorable aura of that moment, that place. The dirt was fluffed like a pile of feather-filled pillows. Your name polished and engraved in granite. 1998-2015, Beloved son, and friend. Unwavering, quiet, and still, this world you left behind. Surrounded by flowers, notes, and candles, you’ve never looked more at peace. My tears stopped flooding, a shy smile crept up on my face. Peace, an overwhelming feeling of love and adoration for who you were, who you still are. I placed the poorly potted, and dirt sprinkled lilacs near your name with two Marlboro Reds and a note. You begged for peace, but why like this must you lay before me?
“I want to live differently, I want love, respect, comfort, and peace.”
To this day, I still carry you in my heart. You’ve made my youth in that still, suburban, town something magical and wonderful, mysterious. You played a big part in discovering the meaning of growing up, life, and death, fun, and adventure, and keeping your heart open to others; what it means to share an experience with someone. For that, I’ll never forget you, and who you were and still are to me in my life, despite your brief time in it. I carry you in my thoughts and actions, so please take refuge in the idea that you’ll never be forgotten, and you’ll always have a place in this world, even though you may not have felt like you did while you were here. Your grandmother reached out to me months after I left that note. I couldn’t get myself to ever call her back. I still had and have so many questions, I have no doubt she did as well. I hope she is doing well, and she found some sort of strength and refined meaning in what your presence means for us in life. The stillness is here, it still lingers.
I wish I didn't remember your death so vividly as I do your life. I wish I'd never have had to write something like this. I wish I did reply to you that evening. I wish for you to get an opportunity at life back more than anything else. To shred down Keystone, to laugh and reminisce about the past, and look forward to the future, and to see ourselves navigate through this very strange, and mysterious world. One thing's for sure, I wish for a whole lot to happen in the future, and I regret a lot of things from my past as well. Life is tough. We lose people, we meet new ones along the way. We often take for granted the folks with whom we cross paths with. I know this for sure. For better or for worse, we need to acknowledge the vast and huge impact of our natural tendency for interconnectedness in this world. That somewhere, somehow, even a single person can change our look of the world, for better or for worse. We are a byproduct of the people we surround ourselves with, an aggregate of the energies that surround us. We must never forget this, as it has the potential to make or break us in this world.
I come back to see you every year, except I’m just leaving smokes now, something tells me you might want some even after all this time. After all, if an afterlife does indeed exist, it’s still life, and we all need something to take the edge off once in a while. It’s a strange feeling, reflecting on all of this. It’s like you’ve been stuck in time, stuck at 17, still praying for a day of recompense, tranquility, and for your heart and mind to finally remain at peace. The world screams in silence for you, and the lives you’ve left behind will never forget your divine aura, so sweet, naive, and powerful. Life goes on in that relentless fashion, and the music of today is just getting worse, so keep on listening to yours. Your presence still lingers here, and I couldn’t feel a more greater love for your existence than I do now. Always in my heart, thoughts, and mind, Kochanie.
---
If you're struggling with thoughts of suicide, depression, addiction, loss, domestic violence please know that you are never alone in this world. There's help, guidance, and support all around you. Never be afraid to reach out, ever. The world is not the same without you; you belong here, trust me.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline:
1-800-273-8255
Crisis TEXT Line:
text HELLO to 741741
National Domestic Violence Hotline:
1-800-799-7233
Comments