*** Warning: this post touches on the topics of self-harm and suicide. ***
A few days into my second hospitalization, I was feeling extremely hopeless, but the nurse dragged me out of bed and to group. There was a new patient. Let’s call him Sam. We quickly became friends. He studied the same thing at my school, was 21 like me, also had a passion for word games, and—most of all—really understood and didn’t judge how sad I was. He related to me on a level that none of my other friends could, because he was also in so much pain. On days we were both feeling better, we would bring our stash of Cheez-It’s and Lays chips to Sam’s favorite hangout at the end of the north wing of the unit. He introduced me to the wonders of Banagrams and Anagrams, and we played late into the night.
A week after I returned home, the dean sent out a mass email about Sam’s passing. I was in complete disbelief. Sam was planning to live when I had met him just two weeks ago. He told me he would introduce me to his community at church when I returned to the city. Was this going to be how my story ended too? We were similar in so many ways, and we crossed paths in the short-term unit for depression. We both had friends who visited us, and family who flew in to take care of us. Sam’s mom was with him at the hospital from the beginning of visiting hours at 2pm until the nurse made all the guests leave at 8pm. It seemed to me that the two other students who took their lives that semester also had loving families. Maybe, I thought, being loved was not enough. I imagined the dean sending out an email about me. Maybe they were waiting for me to be next.
A wave of sadness took over my whole body. My heart was pounding, and my hands were wet from nervous sweat. Unsure how to respond, I called the crisis line for the first time. What they said helped me slowly process the loss and maybe saved my life.
I didn’t know much about Sam’s life, his family, his childhood. Yes, we had much in common, but I was also a different person who grew up with a different group of friends, at a different school, and in a different city. Sam’s story does not have to be mine. My story is mine to tell. For every Sam, there is also a Marsha Linehan, a Michael Phelps, and a Haley Cope...people who fell into deep depression went on to live meaningful lives. The crisis counselor said that I must believe Sam would have wanted me to live a long, happy, and fulfilling life. I know I would have wanted that for him.
Something else that struck me was the permanence of Sam’s passing...how there was no way to bring him back and how fragile life was. I thought about how I had met his mother, and how she must be feeling. Sam could have brought so much to this world, and he had so much potential. The devastating truth is that we will never find out what he could’ve done. Being able to help other Sam’s is, in and of itself, a really good reason for me to stay alive. I think about Sam a lot. He was incredibly brave. He was the one who emailed the dean about needing to go to the hospital. I hope that, by continuing to fight, I can help to carry on his legacy.
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