Trigger Warning: Themes of Suicide
I remember being annoyed at my brother for not being more enthusiastic about Christmas. It was late in the evening, and my mom was already in bed as my dad asked us to stop fighting. I was frustrated that he intervened, we weren’t arguing just bickering (our nickname for the last solid 12 years amongst our family was “the bickersons” after all).
In a scoff of frustration, I opened Snapchat to text my cousin. We hadn’t seen each other for Thanksgiving this year because of Covid restrictions, and I wanted to gauge our parents’ likelihood of letting us do an outdoor, socially distanced Christmas light tour around a neighborhood somewhere.
A message was sitting in our chat when I opened it.
Long and serious, completely out of character for my older cousin who got in trouble nine times out of ten for a prank gone too far or a joke deemed not funny.
“Hey girl…”
I couldn’t imagine a message so irrevocable to my family could be delivered with such an unsuspecting southernism like “hey girl” or over an app I had to beg my parents to let me have at 13 because everyone else did.
My uncle had died by suicide.
An innocuous Wednesday afternoon on my side of the Virginia – North Carolina state border changed the trajectory of countless lives intertwined with my uncle and the life he had built for himself in a community that adored him.
There’s nowhere in that town you could go and not run into a gaggle of my cousins, affectionately chastising and boisterously affectionate. My uncle was the king of jokesters and had never met a stranger he couldn’t charm with a genuine smile and a kind word.
When he saw you, he inquired about interests you couldn’t remember giving him the context to know to ask, but he remembered.
For me, he lived in every story my mom shared about her childhood. There was a sense of rebellious idealism that lived in her rose-tinted rendition of the Outer Banks (a seemingly idyllic place to call your hometown). I grew up with riotous retellings of their small-town youth — KISS albums, bus rides, and college apartments. Days spent on the beach in their coastal town and nights spent breaking curfew because my mom was a bad influence.
I fought with my cousin.
“is this a joke ????”
I was angry, insensitive, and in disbelief.
“you’re not joking, this isn’t a dare … really?????”
I cursed in front of my dad while sinking into the gray couch in the living room. I remember wishing it was the worn-out green one I’d grown up with that had the perfectly worn spot in the corner. I wished I could fall into the couch and be swallowed whole — maybe wake up in the morning and lament my imagination for running so wild while dreaming and spend the next few weeks psycho analyzing myself.
When I wake up, I’ll call my uncle.
When I wake up, I’ll call my cousin and tell her to never prank me again.
Type…
Delete.
Type…
Delete.
Type…
Delete.
I held my phone out to my dad before I realized he was already speaking to me, scolding my language in that exasperated tone only a father can command after a day too long in the office and a night of sleep too short ahead.
I was insistent that this was some bad joke my cousin had taken too far, implored my dad to confirm my suspicion and tell me what to say to make her stop.
He was too calm.
He agreed that this wasn’t something to joke about, and before I could affirm my outrage with her, he told me it wasn’t a joke; it was real.
This was the first he was hearing of it but he knew it was true, knew better than I did that this isn’t something to joke about and if my cousin was still so adamant that meant more than her reputation for the occasional prank-gone-wrong.
I walked into my parents’ room behind my dad and watched as he woke her up and told her.
I remember her, with sleep still holding her voice, denying it.
The coming weeks were spent with all the stories of my mom and uncle’s childhood, which I’d grown up quietly jealous of, being colored with melancholy and regret.
We got a dog for Christmas that year.
After a decade of my brothers and I begging for a pet, a spur-of-the-moment trip to the shelter on Christmas Eve ended with a stop on the way home to get a collar, harness, bed, dog food, and toys my mom would spend the night wrapping so Hollybelle wouldn’t feel left out the next morning.
In hindsight, I think the rescued Rottweiler from the ASPCA was more for my mom than for us.
If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, help is available. You can call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org.
It’s important to take care of yourself when you are supporting someone through a difficult time, as this may bring up difficult emotions. If it does, please reach out for support yourself.
