They were best friends. One died during the summer, the other eight months later, to the day. The Wall Street Journal article said that his parents had long since torn the blood-stained carpet out of Chandler's room, and scrubbed the walls and ceiling. Chandler's father, Kurt, heard a commotion happening outside. Chandler's best friend, Cooper, had taken his life in the same way Chandler had in June 2017, right outside Chandler's house. When school started, Principal Birch said there was "no need to announce that there had been a death on the first day of school." When classes resumed in the fall, the school made no official acknowledgment of what had happened. Then the suicides began again. By spring, a macabre routine developed at my high school.
Shakina in July 2017. A month after Chandler. I didn't know her. Then Chris in December 2017. Chris was different. He'd graduated the year before so he technically wasn't a student anymore. He was my lifelong neighbor. His mom was a seamstress and altered every single formal dress I bought from the DI to fit me perfectly. I saw her at church the following Sunday and hugged her till she melted. She asked me to write his obituary. James died in January 2018. Cooper was the fourth student to take his life that year in February 2018.
At first, the school didn't know quite what to do. They started with the approach of keeping it quiet. Starting the day with a moment of silence during morning announcements, and never mentioning their names again. To be totally honest I only remembered three of them, until I had my mom take a picture of the page in my yearbook where their names and faces were pasted. My uncle was head counselor at my high school. I don't remember his opinion, I just remember him talking about his struggle at family dinners. The school did not want to talk about it, because they didn't want it to happen again. Not talking about it, made it worse.
We, the student body, started to get angry when the football player died. Bryson, in February 2018. I did remember his name because his death was not like the others. He had driven under a school bus in his small sedan and been decapitated. And the school lit on fire. There were candlelight vigils and the memorial service was held in the school gym. There were posters with his face on them plastered on every other locker. And we asked ourselves and the school, what about the others? Why all this fuss for the popular kid, the football star? Was his life more valuable than theirs? Or was it just because their cause of death was shameful? Another Bryson would shoot himself in March 2018.
The last one to die I did know. He had been in my US History class that year, and I remember having a crush on him in the 2nd grade. Nicholas Swint in May 2018. The class clown, the one making everyone laugh. I remember seeing our second-grade teacher at the funeral. We looked at each other and had an understanding. My teacher in the class we shared that year didn't know what to say. Nick's obituary said he'd wanted to be a history teacher too. His seat was empty every day for the rest of the year.
Five boys, one girl. Six student suicides. Four of those boys were on the hockey team. Caden, a boy in my ward, had also been on the hockey team and had graduated the year before. He came home early from his mission for the church, because all of his friends were dying, and being in Guatemala, there was nothing he could do about it. He felt probably as helpless as his friends did and he determined that his place was at home. He felt a need to protect the rest of his teammates. Bryson was the last boy from the hockey team who died.
I was almost one of them. Between my abusive boyfriend and my hypersensitive self sucking in the atmosphere at school, there were too many nights where I practiced fitting my head into a clothing hanger or tying my necklaces into nooses. But I watched my classmates. I watched 16, 17, 18-year-olds grow up before my eyes. I watched the reality of death gloss over their faces. I noticed fewer people sitting alone at lunch. Fewer fights were reported to the office. People brought their pets to school to bring some sort of comfort to their friends. We were at war, no longer against each other, but against the plague of darkness looming across the school.
I participated in the war effort, while inside myself I fought for the enemy. I drove or literally ran to friends' houses in the middle of the night to stop them from doing the same thing I was thinking of doing. I technically would have been the first of this string, if it hadn't been for my parents and the friends that came to my rescue. The tools I used to self-harm that my parents took away from me and instead gave me tools to create. Instead of razors, I had paintbrushes. Instead of hair pulling, I stitched hot pads filled with rice. The guilt I felt urged me to stay, gave me a reason. I watched the parents of these kids and the devastation that hollowed their faces. We became used to seeing jocks cry and shy girls grow rigid with the tension of hiding emotion. I watched my friends who had helped me, but failed to help the six, and the guilt my friends felt at failing them. My parents watched the news every time another one of their deaths was mentioned and they mourned too. I wondered what it would be like to have my own funeral. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt I couldn't possibly do that to them. I could not repay my loved ones for the effort they'd put into loving me, by disregarding it. They never disregarded or invalidated my feelings of hurt and grief. How dare I disregard and invalidate their feelings of love and compassion.
Years later, memories of walking those dead silent halls haunt my sleepless nights. My classmates, my friends, people who weren't my friends, I watched them mature beyond their years. We didn't know exactly what to say to each other, and we didn't say much, but what we did say was kind and caring. What the adults would not tell us, we told each other. That it was ok to talk about how we were feeling. That we could go to each other if we were having self-destructive thoughts. The school made us t-shirts that said "Worth Gold." The moment I got mine, I thought, "screw that, we're worth more than gold." A life is worth so much more than a rock in the ground. But these kids reduced themselves to that. Rocks, now decaying and rotting in the ground. And to those kids, whose obituaries I read over and over while writing this, I saw you. I understand you now.
Shakina in July 2017. A month after Chandler. I didn't know her. Then Chris in December 2017. Chris was different. He'd graduated the year before so he technically wasn't a student anymore. He was my lifelong neighbor. His mom was a seamstress and altered every single formal dress I bought from the DI to fit me perfectly. I saw her at church the following Sunday and hugged her till she melted. She asked me to write his obituary. James died in January 2018. Cooper was the fourth student to take his life that year in February 2018.
At first, the school didn't know quite what to do. They started with the approach of keeping it quiet. Starting the day with a moment of silence during morning announcements, and never mentioning their names again. To be totally honest I only remembered three of them, until I had my mom take a picture of the page in my yearbook where their names and faces were pasted. My uncle was head counselor at my high school. I don't remember his opinion, I just remember him talking about his struggle at family dinners. The school did not want to talk about it, because they didn't want it to happen again. Not talking about it, made it worse.
We, the student body, started to get angry when the football player died. Bryson, in February 2018. I did remember his name because his death was not like the others. He had driven under a school bus in his small sedan and been decapitated. And the school lit on fire. There were candlelight vigils and the memorial service was held in the school gym. There were posters with his face on them plastered on every other locker. And we asked ourselves and the school, what about the others? Why all this fuss for the popular kid, the football star? Was his life more valuable than theirs? Or was it just because their cause of death was shameful? Another Bryson would shoot himself in March 2018.
The last one to die I did know. He had been in my US History class that year, and I remember having a crush on him in the 2nd grade. Nicholas Swint in May 2018. The class clown, the one making everyone laugh. I remember seeing our second-grade teacher at the funeral. We looked at each other and had an understanding. My teacher in the class we shared that year didn't know what to say. Nick's obituary said he'd wanted to be a history teacher too. His seat was empty every day for the rest of the year.
Five boys, one girl. Six student suicides. Four of those boys were on the hockey team. Caden, a boy in my ward, had also been on the hockey team and had graduated the year before. He came home early from his mission for the church, because all of his friends were dying, and being in Guatemala, there was nothing he could do about it. He felt probably as helpless as his friends did and he determined that his place was at home. He felt a need to protect the rest of his teammates. Bryson was the last boy from the hockey team who died.
I was almost one of them. Between my abusive boyfriend and my hypersensitive self sucking in the atmosphere at school, there were too many nights where I practiced fitting my head into a clothing hanger or tying my necklaces into nooses. But I watched my classmates. I watched 16, 17, 18-year-olds grow up before my eyes. I watched the reality of death gloss over their faces. I noticed fewer people sitting alone at lunch. Fewer fights were reported to the office. People brought their pets to school to bring some sort of comfort to their friends. We were at war, no longer against each other, but against the plague of darkness looming across the school.
I participated in the war effort, while inside myself I fought for the enemy. I drove or literally ran to friends' houses in the middle of the night to stop them from doing the same thing I was thinking of doing. I technically would have been the first of this string, if it hadn't been for my parents and the friends that came to my rescue. The tools I used to self-harm that my parents took away from me and instead gave me tools to create. Instead of razors, I had paintbrushes. Instead of hair pulling, I stitched hot pads filled with rice. The guilt I felt urged me to stay, gave me a reason. I watched the parents of these kids and the devastation that hollowed their faces. We became used to seeing jocks cry and shy girls grow rigid with the tension of hiding emotion. I watched my friends who had helped me, but failed to help the six, and the guilt my friends felt at failing them. My parents watched the news every time another one of their deaths was mentioned and they mourned too. I wondered what it would be like to have my own funeral. And the more I thought about it, the more I felt I couldn't possibly do that to them. I could not repay my loved ones for the effort they'd put into loving me, by disregarding it. They never disregarded or invalidated my feelings of hurt and grief. How dare I disregard and invalidate their feelings of love and compassion.
Years later, memories of walking those dead silent halls haunt my sleepless nights. My classmates, my friends, people who weren't my friends, I watched them mature beyond their years. We didn't know exactly what to say to each other, and we didn't say much, but what we did say was kind and caring. What the adults would not tell us, we told each other. That it was ok to talk about how we were feeling. That we could go to each other if we were having self-destructive thoughts. The school made us t-shirts that said "Worth Gold." The moment I got mine, I thought, "screw that, we're worth more than gold." A life is worth so much more than a rock in the ground. But these kids reduced themselves to that. Rocks, now decaying and rotting in the ground. And to those kids, whose obituaries I read over and over while writing this, I saw you. I understand you now.