In the last month, our university has been touched by suicide. One student, one alumna, and one moderator of the UC Berkeley Compliments Facebook page (maybe, the jury is still out on that story). I’ve seen my friends fall into place, taking up the roles people always take up. Anger, and angry warnings are offered to friends lest they follow the dearly departed. Sadness and utter disbelief are popular, whether we knew the dead or not. In twos and threes, at small tables and in the halo under the streetlights, we talk. I was there once, she says. I thought about it but I didn’t do it. I knew a guy who tried, he says. I thought he was just trying for attention. Whether angry or sad or unbelieving, the conversation has no end. We have no resolution. That is the gift of suicide.

Those of us who have held counsel with the moon, counted pills, or pondered the edge of a razor, we imagine it differently. We picture people appropriately sad, or full or satisfying regrets. We’ve all been Huck Finn, grinning down from the rafters at our own funerals. We hope those left behind will appreciate us, or realize the error of our ways. At our most charitable, we hope they’ll be free. Our deaths will be the spark that lights the fire under our friends to live great lives and realize how short it all is. We don’t realize that there is no comfort or finality in suicide. No matter how poetic your note was, your death will not be understood. There is no AHA! moment when people find you dead. Grief is a shark that swims in the heart, never stopping to sleep. You leave us its teeth.

A few years ago, my friend Charlie had just gotten out of high school. I was at his graduation party, and I was full of the sage advice of the mid-twenties looking down on the teen years with fond annoyance. He didn’t have a good plan, but he had fresh tattoos and a little swag and I thought he’d figure it out. Less than a week later, he hung himself from the rafters of his mom’s garage with his stepdad’s extension cord. I haunted the story, sifting through the details. I wanted to know about his girlfriend, his last texts, his last meal. I knew that I’d figure it out and understand why. I still don’t. I still can’t think about him without the hurt bewilderment of an abandoned dog. I am never going to understand. But every death since then has been Charlie. Charlie was running Berkeley Compliments and Charlie was found dead by his roommates at Stebbin’s Hall. Charlie is always swimming in my heart with eyes open and his teeth sharp. He never sleeps.

Watching this grief hunt and circle the people you care for can help cure the ache of romantic suicidality. It can also fail. Your friends can fail, your parents, your roommates, you own best laid plans and happy days might not be enough. If you need help you can have it. Here at Berkeley, there is counseling available through the Tang Center. 1-800-273-8255 is the number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, and you can call it anytime. Needing help is not a flaw, and asking for it is a courageous act.

Finals are hard. Christmas can be awful. You may not know who you are or where you are going. Whatever it is that you’re facing, I absolutely guarantee that it will get better. You don’t have to face it alone.

The worst thing about suicide – even discussing it – is that there is no resolution. There is only the hope that we won’t have to do this again.

Trending Articles: