I usually don't post things this deep and personal on the internet, but this is what has been on my heart. Since this is a brand new blog, I want to take it as an opportunity to be a bit more "real" than I've been in past.
Warning: This story may not be for everyone. It is not graphic, per say, but it is not an easy subject.
It was January, and I was a senior in high school. I had been home sick several days and couldn't sleep on this particular Wednesday night, so I was already awake when the phone rang somewhere around 2:00 AM. As anyone would guess, a late night or early morning call is an immediate sign that something isn't right. I got out of bed and went into the kitchen, my dad right behind me, where I saw my mom on the phone. I can't remember any of her end of the conversation, but I do remember her face. I can only describe the look in her eyes as "broken." She hung up the phone and said it, her voice full of pain and disbelief. She had no time to think of how to word it softly, it just came out. Preston shot himself. He was dead.
Preston was my first cousin, my mom's sister's son. When we were young, we lived very close to each other. We were in the same grade in school, and spend nearly every afternoon together. The majority of my best childhood memories involve him in some way or another. As young children, I was always the "good kid," while he was a bit more of a rebel. I followed the rules all of the time. He broke them when he felt the consequences were worth it. I like to think the little bit of rebel that is in me today, the part of me that questions what I'm told and whether or not a rule should really be followed, is there in part because of Preston. He was the fun, adventurous boy who always managed to drag me into trouble (although that was never his intention).
At the end of out fourth grade year, my aunt, Preston, and his little sister moved to Tallahassee, and I was heart broken. I was losing one of my best friends, and I swore we would stay close. We didn't. Life went on, and within a few years we spoke only on holidays. I didn't even talk to him on his birthday unless my mom handed me the phone.
Less than a month before that terrible night, I was with Preston on Christmas day. We talked about graduation, and excitedly talked about what we were planning for the further. He would become a lawyer, and I would become a doctor. He planned to eventually move back to Alabama, and I saw it as an opportunity for us to hopefully reconnect one day. Little did I know that would be the last time Preston and I would have a conversation.
In the day's after Preston's suicide, I was strong on the outside, and did my best to act as a rock for those who needed it more than I. But on the inside, I was feeling all of the things I now know are common for those left behind after this type of tragedy. I was questioning what went wrong, mad at those close to him, mad at him for doing this to all of us. I was asking myself if there was anything I could have done differently. But in reality, from what I understand, Preston had been dealing with serious depression for some time. He was truly sick. But even with the knowledge that there was nothing I really could have done to prevent this, the feelings stayed just the same.
As time passed, I dealt with my grief in a number of ways. There were times I just tried to forget. I found myself trying subconsciously to push all of my memories of Preston down deep inside. When I began college that fall, I would be in groups of people telling stories from their childhood, and when I felt I needed to contribute to the conversation, I would either tell a story from middle school, pick a story Preston happened to not be in, or omit him from the story all together. There were a few times when I felt I really needed to talk about how I was feeling, and although some amazing people were willing to listen, it rarely helped.
I wish I could say that there was a point and time that I totally came to terms with Preston's death, but if I'm being honest, it's two and a half years later, and while the bad days are now much further between, they still come. I mourn the childhood friend I lost, and regret all of the time I wasted. Suicide in general is a touchy subject for me, and not one that I can casually discus. At the same time, though, I can now remember childhood stories without breaking down.
Preston's twentieth birthday would have been this week, and I'm not quite sure how I feel. To an extent I still feel broken, and I know that I'll never be completely the same, but it does get easier as time goes on.
-Jamie
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