This is a hard story to tell and to title. To say it was a defining moment in my life is almost an insult to the memory of the event itself and the months that followed. Months… Years that followed and still continue. I’ve written on this before, but never this publicly.
As the previous personal essay points out, 8th Grade was a formative time for me. It was a year of reality defining lessons that both strengthened me and obliterated the person I was before then. The previous story illustrates a lessen that strengthened the better parts of who I wanted to be.
This isn’t one of those.
I came home one day, excited and ready to make a phone call to organize my upcoming birthday party. My mom was home early and sitting on a couch in her office/television room. I didn’t think much of it, sometimes she came home early, but she stopped me and pulled me aside.
“But I need to call Richie so he can make it to my birthday party. You know he gets booked months in advance.”
The kid was one of the most popular people I knew and he was my friend. No one could ever say I was popular, ever. Having him as a friend was getting to sit at the cool kids table if even for only a couple hours every few months when we could get together.
“You can’t call Richie, JP.” I could see saying even that much was a strain for her.
“Why not?”
“You should sit down.”
“Just tell me.” I wasn’t being stoic. Impatience demanded we get this over with so I could find a way to make sure Richie was at my birthday party.
“Richie passed away earlier today.”
“What?”
“Richie is dead, JP. I’m sorry.”
There may have been more that was said at me, but I don’t remember anything between the office and standing in front of my bathroom mirror with the door closed and the tears dripping off my chin.
Uncharitably, I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t my friend, but his father whom he shared a name with. I wanted to believe my best friend’s dad was dead. As a father now, I can say, with absolute certainty, his dad was wishing the same exact thing.
The next few days are a blur. I remember driving to the funeral and listening to a morning radio show of death themed music and movie quotes. Weird coincidence. I remember walking into the funeral home, seeing his bereft father, and feeling that final stab of knowledge that my best friend was gone. I remember standing in front of the closed coffin, numb, as an adult stepped up beside me and offered a platitude to ease my grief. I remember wanted to tear it all apart and scream from him to wake up. I remember wanting to burn the world down.
This isn’t an essay about the event itself. It’s about how I changed and how I went out of my way to murder the part of me that felt joy because it made me feel so damn guilty. It’s about choosing to pursue a strict emotional discipline because feelings are messy. It’s about never hurting again after events shatter your sense of innocence.
Before Richie died, I was a selfish, whiny, joyful, spoiled, oblivious, carefree child. I was the average kid. I found joy in cartoons my peers considered babyish or uncool. I wore shirts displaying my favorite characters regardless of the current zeitgeist. I just did and enjoyed the things I liked.
Richie had taken his own life due to depression. Stray comments from adults around me pointed out moments when his depression was obvious, but I never saw it. I never noticed my best friend was suffering and I was too self-absorbed to help him.
After Richie passed, I focused on being loyal to a fault to my friends and expected the same back. I refused to forgive slights and ridicule thinking about all the times someone may have said something hurtful to Richie. The world fell into a darkness defined by injustice and uncaring fate. My emotions raged against it all and a switch flipped in my brain that refused to be turned off again.
I became stand-offish because it was easier than allowing people in only to abandon me again and now I could observe the screwed-up world I tolerated more easily. I kept my words to myself until I had hit the ability to write them down, consider them, and make some kind of sense out of my tangled thoughts.
I still feel that rage every second of every day. I know a lot of people think I’m too serious, no fun, or any other number of “stick in the mud” idioms one might use. The truth is, I keep a tight control on my anger, or try to. If I let up for even a moment or someone needles me until the pressure builds to a dangerous level, that anger at the world escapes and finds the nearest target. It is a constant struggle to keep that monster leashed and I don’t always succeed.
I still feel the guilt about failing my best friend. I shouldn’t. I was a kid after all, but sometimes logic and reason are no match for the emotional scars we all carry within. So, I use that guilt to be a good father, to be a caring husband, and to be a loyal friend.
Those who meet me at conventions would never guess how quiet and introverted I am at home. When I go to shows to sell books and sit on panels. I am outgoing, talkative, and try my best to connect with everyone. No one would guess I go home at the end of a show and curl up into a ball and jam my head into a book or hide in my office typing on my computer. I need time to decompress from it all before my gasket blows.
People say that the loss of a family member or friend fades with time. It does and it doesn’t. I can go months without thinking about those I’ve lost, failed, and hurt over the years, but every once in a while, it all comes rushing down on me and I just want to retreat into myself so all the old anger doesn’t break free and spill out on everyone I care about.
Sadly, unlike a fictional story, there is no conclusion to trauma or loss. The story continues on until we leave this world. The best we can do is be honest with who we are, mitigate our worst instincts with our best ones, and be kind with ourselves and others if we want to keep moving forward.
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