Coming soon - Vanquished is the Foe!

Every once in a while you have an experience that leaves you thinking, “The world is changing for the better.” Today was one of those days. I wrote recently about “Steve,” who tragically took his own life 19 days ago at the age of 21. Today I attended his memorial service with hundreds of other people whose lives he touched in that short span. As one would expect, the service was emotionally devastating, but I came out of it very optimistic.

 

My optimism actually started when I first read the official statement by Charlie’s family about his death. (Steve was one of the many nicknames Charlie went by.) It was phrased very similarly to what you tend to read when somebody dies of cancer. It stated that, after a long and valiant battle, Charlie died of the disease of Depression. Yes, Charlie took his own life, but I found that phrasing incredibly important. He didn’t die of suicide; he died of Depression – an extremely common disease which is only just beginning to be treated as such.

 

The service focused on Charlie’s kindness, his humor, his humble passion. His friends and family talked about his love for music and sports and helping others. His willingness for playing the guitar for his friends when he was still in the early stages of learning inspired those around him to do the things they loved unapologetically and without worrying about making mistakes or being embarrassed. His was a life of joy, surrounded by incredible friends and a loving, supportive family. He also suffered from a chronic disease whose treatment is different for every patient and even different day-to-day for any given patient.

 

While the speakers today focused mainly on their love for Charlie and the times they shared with him, they also gave glimpses into the different ways that they are dealing with their grief. Geordie – a good friend from high school – has spent time gathering with his and Charlie’s mutual friends to support each other and talk through this tragedy together. Charlie’s sister, Grace, has found comfort in her faith and how her relationship with Charlie brought her closer to her God. His other sister Abby expresses herself through art and processed her grief by creating a video compilation of music, images, and film which showed the many sides of her brother throughout his life. His college fraternity brother, Mack, mentioned the bracelets that his fraternity has made, featuring Charlie and the phrase, “Check on your friends” to bring the discussion of Depression into the open on their campus. Katherine, who was a high school classmate of Charlie’s, talked about not actually being that close with him in school, but getting to know him only a month before his death as they worked together to support the school’s post-pandemic “mega-reunion.” She reminded us to take time to appreciate the connections and communities we share even when we don’t recognize them at the time. Her words introduced the hymn “On Our Way Rejoicing,” which every student at the school has sung before every vacation for many years. My one big disappointment of the day was that we all sang the hymn very respectfully, rather than the way students traditionally sing it, boisterously shouting certain verses. The shouting would have put a smile on Charlie’s face.

 

The most painful, beautiful, and hopeful part of the service today, though, was the reflection by Charlie’s father. As a parent myself, I don’t know how he found the strength to get through his words. First he thanked his family for the love they have given to Charlie and for the strength they have given him through the years and especially through this tragedy. He talked about his love for Charlie and his memories of the “best son you could ever ask for.” The second half of his reflection, though, is what really got me thinking about how the world is becoming a better place. He spoke confidently and with pride about Charlie’s valiant battle with the illness of Depression. He urged everybody present to look deep into themselves and to admit without any shame if they needed help. He talked about the importance of getting treatment and proudly announced that he would be starting to work with a therapist this week to get the “long overdue” help he needed for his own struggle with Depression.

 

After the service, there was all the usual talk during the reception. “So great to see you, but I wish it could’ve been under different circumstances.” Just as common, though, was talk of the reality of Depression, the necessity of getting help, the recognition that, if someone as filled with joy and as surrounded by love and support as Charlie fell victim to that disease, we all could. Hundreds of people today talked openly about Depression, mental illness, getting help. The one topic that was nowhere to be found was shame. These young adults are going out into the world, facing all the challenges our generation has left for them, and they are talking about Depression as the disease that it is – something that could affect anybody, and something that carries no more shame than any other disease. As somebody who has struggled with Anxiety and Depression throughout his life and only had the courage to get help in his 40s, this gives me so much hope. I doubt we’ll ever find a true cure for Depression, but I believe the generation currently turning from teenagers into adults is the generation that will make it a treatable disease – something that is identified much more quickly than it is now, and that is controllable so that you can live a long and happy life with it. A life without shame, knowing that even in the darkest times, there is a way out. We aren’t there yet, as Charlie’s loss has made painfully clear, but we’re getting closer. One thing I’ve learned as a teacher is that, when young people get their minds set on changing the world, it’s best to get out of their way and try to support them as best you can. I hope my generation will listen to these young people and get out of their way. They ARE making the world a better place and one of the greatest privileges of my life is that I get to cheer them on from the sidelines as they go. If we had sung “On Our Way Rejoicing” properly today, we would have shouted the line, “Vanquished is the foe!” I left today’s service optimistic that we will soon be shouting that line about the foe of Depression. It may never go away, but I believe this generation will remove the shame, open up the conversation, and truly vanquish the foe.

The Stages of Why?

 

 

My vaguely annual post to this blog will have a different tone this year. I’ve been processing things for a couple of days and it’s time to try to work through my swirling thoughts in writing. The picture above is my group from the freshman backpacking trip in the fall of 2015 (I think – too many complicated thoughts to do math right now.) This was one of my favorite “Burch” groups of all time. (Burch is the name of the alum who gave the money to start the program.) For a few years after, people would ask me who was in my Burch group and then, when I started naming names, they would almost invariably say, “Oh, THAT Burch group!” This group got along a little TOO well, if you know what I mean. It was all normal teenager stuff, and pretty mild at that, but the group was notorious because of it. What I remember is a group that gelled really well, where everybody got along and supported each other when times got tough along the trail. I’m sure selective memory is blurring the usual trail struggles, but overall this group was a blast. The kid in the red shirt on the far right, with the toothbrush in his mouth, is “Steve.” Over five days on the Appalachian Trail, that toothbrush only left his mouth when he was eating.

I taught Steve and hiked many miles on the trail with him that year. In future years, I was his faculty advisor and his lacrosse coach. I saw Steve in so many different parts of his boarding school life. Even after graduation, I often ran into him when he came to hang out with my next door neighbor, one of his best friends and the kid in the camouflage shirt and blue hat in the center of the picture. The Steve I knew was one of those people who are always positive. He was quick to smile and was always ready for a little fun. On the lacrosse field, he was a coach’s dream. He loved the game and just wanted to play. Whatever you asked him to do, he said, “Sure, Coach,” and ran out on the field to give it everything he had. Everybody knew and liked Steve. He was a good student, although not a straight-A student. The college application process didn’t go perfectly for him, but he ended up at a school he loved (and where I think his sister also attended.) Steve was just one of those all-around great kids who didn’t necessarily have a niche where he stood out, but was good at everything and his presence in any situation made it happier and more fun.

This past Sunday night, Steve took his own life.

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People talk a lot about the stages of grief. I think a more appropriate framing of my thoughts might be the stages of questions. (Please don’t interpret that as a lack of grief. A good amount of time passed between my typing the last paragraph and typing this one as I wrestled with emotions.) The first stage of questions all revolve around “Why?” Why would he do this? Why did somebody who always seemed so happy feel so helpless? Steve had a loving family, close friends, a bright future. Why would he do this?

The second stage corresponds to the anger stage in other frames. Why didn’t anybody stop this? He had so many people who were close to him. How did they miss the signs?

The third stage is where I’ve been living today. Why didn’t I stop this? How did I miss the signs? Why didn’t I work harder to stay in touch with Steve after graduation? Why was I so quick to assume that he was doing great? Should I have seen the signs? Of course I should have seen the signs! I knew him in the classroom, on the field, in the dorm, in chapel, at seated dinner, on the trail. I had more opportunities than anybody else to really connect with him and I blew it. I assumed he was okay. I assumed he had a good support network. I assumed he had people closer to him who were eager to help him if needed and with whom he would be more comfortable sharing any struggles he had. The third stage of questions is very self-centered and unproductive, but working through it is an important step in the process.

I started writing tonight because I am ready to move on to the fourth stage, and writing is the best way for me to get there. This fourth stage involves accepting the permanence of the questions. Why did I assume Steve had a good support network and people who were closer to him? Because he did. He had an incredible network of friends, many of whom have come together to support each other this week as they struggle more directly than I with many of these same questions. Steve had an amaing, supportive family who understood his strengths and weaknesses and wanted him to be the best he could be as long as he was happy. We may never know the answer to why, but self-blame is not helpful.

Finally stage five. The big question here is, “What can I do, moving forward, to honor Steve’s life?” For me, the answer to that question is to do everything I can to connect with future students on a deeper level and to work to maintain that connection beyond graduation – something I’ve always struggled with. I think about some of the incredible people I connected with this past year and the many struggles they face every day. Transgender students. Victims of sexual violence. Empaths who take on the struggles of everybody they care about. Students who feel the pressure to be perfect when incredibly awesome ought to be enough. Young people who ache to share their stories, but find censorship when they try. People who absolutely excel at things that the high-pressure world they live in doesn’t value as much as it should. People who, like me, have trouble asking for help for any number of reasons.

What can I do, moving forward, to honor Steve’s life? I can listen. I can ask questions. I can check in. I can keep up. I can celebrate. I can commiserate. I can let people know that I care. Even typing this out, I’m struggling with writing that I can let people know that I love them. For some reason, that is incredibly difficult for me. Perhaps as a teacher I am afraid that it will be misinterpreted. Okay, I am definitely afraid that it will be misinterpreted. One thing I love about teenagers is the fact that they are so much more comfortable telling their friends that they love them than my generation was (is!) I still don’t think I’m comfortable with saying that to an individual, but as a group, I hope my students know that I do love them. I think a few of you will read this post all the way through, and that goes double for you! Please know that I am here if you are struggling, if you need to talk through something, or if you just need to say FML and have it heard by somebody who cares. Steve was awesome, and always will be. So are you. If you ever reach a point where you feel like there is no escape, please reach out. Actually, please reach out before you get to that point. My goal to honor Steve’s memory is to keep in touch and to help make sure you never reach that point. It’s somewhat cliché, but we never know what others are dealing with, so let the people around you know that they are loved and that you are there to help. It may not prevent every tragedy, but it will make this world a better, more caring and connected place no matter what the outcome.