SHOCK: LEARA SCHOLARSHIP WRITING RECIPIENT

The following piece, written by Kelli Dziuba, won the Writing portion of the Leara Scholarship.

Shock

During my junior year of high school, all of my time was spent locked in my room studying or doing homework. That’s exactly what I was doing late Sunday night. I was drawing the organs of a cat for my anatomy class, when I heard the doorbell ring. I thought it was odd for someone to come over at 7 o’clock, especially when we weren’t expecting anyone. I decided to go out into the hallway and peek around the corner to see who it was.I watched my mom open the door and greet Tod, my best friend’s dad. My mom stepped outside to talk with him. I couldn’t imagine why he had come over so late. I almost texted my friend, Ana, asking why her dad was at my house. Instead, I decided to wait for my mom to come back inside and ask her.Once I heard my mom re-enter the house, I began to walk towards the stairs to question her, but she was already on her way up. My heart sank when I saw that she had tears running down her face. I asked her what was wrong and she just shook her head. “Mom… why was Ana’s dad here?” She took a deep breath and told me that Ana had committed suicide a few hours ago. None of this made sense to me. How could she be gone? We had made plans on Friday to hangout next weekend. We had texted all day Saturday and she didn’t give off any sign of being upset. How could I not have known that my best friend wanted to kill herself? My knees became weak and I fell to the floor screaming. All I remember after that was my mom holding me in her arms as I shook uncontrollably, occasionally letting out a deep so band muttering the only words that would come to mind, “Ana no…”

Anger

A prayer circle for Ana was scheduled before school on one of the following days. Ana constantly confided in me about the horrible things people would do and say to her. So when I walked into that gym and saw the faces of the people behind those mean comments and actions,my face grew hot and my blood began to boil. I wanted to scream at them. They didn’t deserve tosit here and act like they were sad when they were part of the reason she was gone. I didn’t want to blame others but I couldn’t stand sitting there listening to them say nice things about Ana,when anything they had said to her while she was alive was cruel.One girl in particular seemed to make it her mission to make Ana’s life a living hell. Of course, I was biased, as I only ever heard Ana’s side of the story, but that’s the only side that mattered to me at this point. I was surprised when the girl approached me during class. She was asking me if I had been in contact with Ana’s parents and how they were. I was already annoyed because I wasn’t in the mood to talk about what had happened, especially with her. Then, with a look of guilt, she asked me, “Do you think Ana killed herself because of me?” I was taken aback.I didn’t know what to say. I decided to tell her that I didn’t think we could blame anybody for what had happened. I wish that was what I actually believed.I wasn’t just angry with certain people. I grew angry with the school. Never in my entire high school career had anyone ever talked to the students about suicide or mental health. Ana was the second suicide that school year. Since they didn’t do anything after the first one, I was relieved when they hired a speaker to come to the school and give a talk. I was still mad that it took two suicides for the school to even do anything. I always wonder if Ana would still be here if action had been taken sooner. Sometimes I wonder how many more suicides are bound to happen. To this day, the school only discussed suicide with the students that one time and never brought it up again.

Bargaining

I had been very quick to blame others for what had happened. It wasn’t until a few months after her passing that I began to blame myself. I couldn’t make sense of the situation, so I became obsessed with researching suicide. I would spend hours on Google, reading statistics and personal accounts. I wanted to know if it was preventable.I was trying to use the statistics to rationalize my own understanding of what had happened. Some statistics would work in my favor. I learned that “about 95% of people who die by suicide have a psychological disorder at the time of death” (Lyness 5). This made sense because Ana had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Then I would stumble upon other statistics that didn’t quite fit into the narrative. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that “four out of five completed suicides give clear warning signs of their intentions” (The Jason Foundation 1). That’s 80% of the time. I wondered how likely it was for Ana to be a part of that rare 20% that didn’t. The chances were slim.I spent my days contemplating what I could and should have done differently. I felt guilty for not being able to do more. Many people, including Ana’s father, told me that there was nothing we could have done. I always wondered if he was just saying that in an attempt to make me feel better, or if that’s what he actually believed. It was a comforting thought, but I never did find comfort in knowing that things could have turned out differently.

Depression

I hated going to school. Ana and I had been in the same sculpture class. She sat right beside me. Every single day I had to go to class and act like I was fine. Act like I wasn’t about to burst into tears when I realized Ana would never sit next to me again. Act like that seat wasn’t a constant reminder of what I was missing. Even some of my best days would turn south when I had to enter that room.Anything that reminded me of Ana made me sad so I decided to retreat and pull away. I stopped taking sculpture because that was the class we took together. I stopped visiting and talking to the art teacher, whom I had grown close to. I stopped drawing because I could no longer share my artwork with her. I stopped wearing my vans because those were her favorite type of shoes. I started going to church at a different time so that I wouldn’t run into her family. Most of all, I refused to visit her grave, which made me feel like a horrible friend.I thought that by avoiding reminders of Ana I would be able to avoid this feeling of emptiness. This was the opposite of what occurred. By pulling away, I had isolated myself. I had no one to turn to and I had given up on art, which used to bring me so much joy. I felt like I had failed Ana. I felt like she would have hated to see me retreating in the way that I did. I felt like a coward for hiding.

Acceptance

It took me a long time to realize the permanence of the situation. Ana was gone. I couldn’t avoid reminders for the rest of my life. So, I began to take small steps to re-incorporate those things into my life. It was like physical therapy for my mind. I would set aside time to sit down and draw for a few minutes. I emailed my art teacher to see how she had been and apologized for avoiding her.I took a course to become Youth Mental Health First Aid Certified, which means I am now trained to provide initial help to young people experiencing problems with their mental health. During the course, I learned the various warning signs of suicide. In hindsight, I still don’t know if Ana showed any signs, but I have come to terms with the fact that I cannot go back and save her. I can only hope that I am now knowledgeable enough to help someone else if I am ever given the opportunity.Lastly, I plan to tackle my biggest hurdle in May by visiting Ana’s grave on her birthday.Even though I have finally reached a point of acceptance, it’s not like I am crossing some finishing line. The stages of grief are messy. People can jump from stage to stage. A song could come on and throw me right back into depression by reminding me of Ana. While I may not remain in the stage as long as I did when she first passed away, I can’t avoid it. And I think that is a major part of the acceptance.Now I find comfort in knowing that this is only her end on Earth. I wholeheartedly believe that I have the possibility of being reunited with her one day. Until that day comes, Ana will join the list of scars that remind me of the pain I have experienced