Coping with loss: Try your damndest to get back on your feet
When I was 15 years old, I missed the first day of my sophomore year. It was not because I woke up late and missed the bus. It was not because I had a fever. It was because I had a prior commitment that I would not miss for the world. I curled my hair and I had picked out a nice dress with intricate lace all over, though, I wished it did not have to be black. I also wished that it did not have to be one of my best friend’s funerals that I was going to.
I remember waking up to the sound of a phone ringing. Nothing I was not used to, so I turned back over in my soft, cozy bed and tried to fall back asleep. I probably would have, too, if I had not have heard the alarming sound of my mother choking back tears. Hearing my mother start to cry always put me on edge. She is one of the strongest women I know, so the mere thought of her crying puts me on edge.
When she hung up the phone, I heard my name ring up the stairs from the living room, beckoning me to come down. I immediately sprang out of bed, nervous energy shocking me awake. As I crossed into the living room, I was met with the red, tear stained faces of my mother and father. I began to run through every possible horrid scenario in my head of what could have gone wrong. My cat, who was at the vet for health issues, had died. A family member got hurt in a car accident. What I did not expect them to say was that one of my best friends, Rayna, had committed suicide.
The sound that came out of me when those words tumbled out of their mouths did not even sound remotely human. More like the croak of a frog. A scream that stopped short because there was no more air in my lungs. Reality set in seconds later and I began to uncontrollably sob.
That was eight years ago, this past August. Eight long years that have seemingly ticked by at a snail’s pace but also at warp speed at the same time. Sounds contradictory, I know. But time is a funny thing. It seems to move so slowly when you are in blinding, numbing pain. But once you begin to grow around that pain, things become bittersweet, and then time resumes its steady march forward.
After the initial confusion and sorrow, I began to realize the weight of what actually happened. And I remember feel such blinding rage, that all I could see for months was red. I remember being so engulfed by its flame. Rage about how Rayna’s abusive homelife heavily contributed to her taking her own life. Rage towards myself for not checking in on her more. And most of all, rage towards God. I was so fucking angry at God. How could He let such terrible things happen to good people? How could that happen in a world that He created? I have not always been a highly religious person, but, at the time, I thought maybe something was there. I recall on several occasions praying for Rayna before going to sleep every night. That He would watch over her and keep her safe. So, when the initial shock faded, I was irate.
Losing one my best friends this way broke me. For months, the grief refused to release the grip it had on me. It was suffocating. I remember sleeping a lot, trying to ignore it all. And I remember really despising talking about what happened. At the time, I just wanted to push it away and ignore it. Pretend it didn’t happen, in a sense.
Looking back now, up until this happened, I had a rather happy, normal childhood. No stains or traumas had scarred me. And I’m thankful for that. My parents were able to shelter me from most bad things the world had to offer. But, unfortunately, they were not able to save me from this. And that is OK. Because this trauma has become a part of who I am. I have been able to grow from it. I was able to pick up the broken pieces of myself and puzzle-piece them back together. The picture looks different than it did before I fell apart, but that is OK, too. Because that means that I changed.
After a few years of coming to terms with what happened and coping in solitude, I began to open up about my experience. The first time I really began to discuss it publicly was during my first semester of college in 2016. I wrote an article about mental health and suicide prevention and had it published in the student newspaper. That’s when I realized that mental health and suicide prevention advocacy was something that made me feel like I could make a difference while also helping me cope. Since then, I have constantly written about it over the years. What a 180 I did, going from clamming up and ignoring what happened to publicly drawing attention to the issue.
My main coping mechanism has been advocacy. I have learned to take my traumatic experience and use it to help others realize that mental health is tremendously important. Everyone fights their own battles, most of the time hiding behind a fake smile. I am here to tell you that it is okay to fall apart and take time to grieve. After the dust settles, just try your damndest to get back on your feet.
