On Wednesday, September 16, a friend of mine died by suicide.
I spent some time with him when I was traveling through Chicago in 2018, but we'd lost touch over 2019 because work was crazy for both of us, we were both in relationships, among other things. We'd reconnected in January of this year. He reached out because he was in a pretty dark place with his mental illness and needed to talk. Over the next several months, we spoke pretty regularly - both over text and over the phone/FaceTime. Sometimes about his feelings of sadness and despair. Sometimes about my sadness and general sense of overwhelm. And sometimes about other random things: music, sports, our hatred of Donald Trump, family, current events (I think we texted each other randomly for over a week every day about how sad we were about Kobe).
When COVID happened and things in general got really sad and scary and unbearable and overwhelming, we talked nearly every day. In these days, he fell ill with COVID; we both lost our jobs; his neighborhood in Chicago was one of the prime areas for protests and like so many of us in cities, the nightly sounds of fireworks and helicopters was interrupting sleep patterns and exacerbating anxiety - something you don't need when you're already in a vulnerable state with your brain.
In those times, I also encouraged him to speak to doctors, his therapists, stay consistent with medication, etc. It even got to the point of offering to come to Chicago to help him sort things out. COVID certainly made all of that difficult, but also, a severe mental illness makes it even worse.
I don't share all of this for sympathy or to feel like I'm a good person for being supportive. I share this because sometimes being there for someone isn't enough. Sending someone a crisis hotline number isn't enough. Helping with setting doctor's appointments and encouraging a plan for therapeutics isn't enough.
What makes mental illness so hard to grapple with is the STIGMA that comes with it. The lack of education - telling someone who is experiencing severe depression to "be grateful for all the wonderful things" in their lives. The awkwardness that ensues when someone attempts to express what their mind does to them each day. The fear that expressing suicidal ideations to someone is going to set off a chain reaction of hospital visits, wellness checks, doctor's appointments, and medications. The fear of family members and friends being dismissive. The guilt and the feeling of being exhausting to others.
We owe it to those we've lost to severe mental illness - those we know, and those we don't - to commit to showing empathy rather than judgement. To commit to listening instead of offering suggestions on how to get "better". To sharing their stories and their struggles.
Though he was in a LOT of emotional pain for so many years - and definitely didn't hide that - he was a brilliant musician with one of the most eclectic tastes in music (literally from WuTang to Slipknot and everything in between). He was an incredible writer - both lyrical, but also a copywriter and written storyteller. He was smart and nerdy and funny and would send some of the most dumb-funny content on the internet to me. He was kind and caring and sweet. I will miss all of those things about him.
I am grateful to have known him. I am grateful to have been a source of confidence, trust, and comfort to him. I am grateful to have reconnected in 2018 after nearly a decade of sporadic communication and Happy Birthday posts on Facebook. I will miss him. I already miss him. But I will not forget him. And I will commit to telling his story to advocate for a world that is more accepting of mental illness.
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