Nate's Legacy

I can’t really justify spending the money to build or buy my very own DeLorean time machine, but I often wonder why Enterprise or Hertz doesn’t have one available for a weekend rental. I don’t want to see my future or rig a lottery win in my past – although neither one of those would suck – but instead, I’d use my weekend time machine rental to rewrite the script on some conversations that seemed inconsequential in the moment but that have stuck with me years later.

What would you say if you knew that this was your very last opportunity to talk to your best friend? Would you say I love you? Would you tell him how he inspires you to be a better person? Would you compliment her artistic talent and tell her how you admire what she stands for? This question is top of mind for me today as I replay the last conversation I had with my beloved Nate 15 years ago.

When he stepped out of my car that slushy, wintery February day, I didn’t realize how precious and fleeting time was. If I’d known this was the very last time I’d see his face, hear his voice, and be able to talk to him, I probably wouldn’t have been such an asshole. Sure, I was tired. I was under tremendous stress at work; worried about money and my weight and probably my teeth; distracted; and needy all at the same time. My patience was non-existent, my compassion was on strike, and I was in a hurry to get to the airport to catch a flight that would take me 827 frequent flier miles away from home – and Nate – at a time when he needed me more than ever.

In hindsight, I can clearly see and feel the depths of Nate’s pain that last day we spent together. He wasn’t himself. He struggled to be present with me and he was obviously distracted. In that moment, I didn’t recognize what was happening, and I made it all about me. Was he mad at me? Had I done something wrong? What was his problem? Why was he behaving this way? It never even dawned on me that he was buried under the weight of his emotional and physical pain and it took every ounce of strength he could summon to get out of bed to go through the motions of living. How I wish my vision was as clear real-time as it is in hindsight!

My last words to this amazing, sweet soul aren’t worth repeating. In fact, they shouldn’t be repeated. To anyone. Ever. Under any circumstances. As I left him that day, I remember being irritated that he didn’t get out of the car faster – and then I sped away, assuming that we’d have 50 more years to make memories and express gratitude. A few days later, the phone rang in my Memphis hotel room with the news. Nate - the boy who’d captured my heart in 11^th grade and held it for the next decade and the man whom I imagined living happily ever after with – had taken his own life. And he died without ever knowing how much he meant to me.

There was a funeral, of course. We sang “On Eagle’s Wings”. The casket was closed, presumably because the self-inflicted gunshot to his head made an open casket a gruesome impossibility. I sobbed uncontrollably and simultaneously tried to rip the casket open so I could climb inside. The priest had to restrain me and I’m not proud of the fact that I cursed a priest, in God’s house. Trust me when I assure you that it takes a special kind of asshole to ruin a funeral. (But be not afraid: I confessed my sins and the very same priest absolved me. Eventually.)

The USPS doesn’t deliver letters to heaven, or whatever version of the afterlife you may choose to believe in. And I wrote letters to Nate anyway. I delivered pages and pages of letters to a mound of dirt that gave way to a headstone in the cemetery I could see from my balcony, reminding me that Nate was gone. I wrote page upon page of apologies for failing him. If I were a better friend; a better woman; a kinder soul – perhaps he would have, could have shared his burden with me. Maybe I could have written a different ending to our story.

I didn’t just write letters, though. I sat at his grave every single day for a year, and I talked to him. Out loud. I told him all the things I wish that I’d said when he was alive. I begged for forgiveness. I apologized for being cold and weak when he needed warm and strong. Nate was a better person than I could ever hope or dream of being, and his death cast a dark shadow over my soul. Why would God take this gentle, kind man and leave a shrieking, selfish, priest-cursing asshole behind? And so, between my letter writing and my grave-talking, I made a promise to Nate that has become my very moral compass. I promised to live a life that honors his memory and that would make him proud.

And guess what? Some days, I know he’s proud of what he sees. Other days, when I binge-watch Real Housewives or when I cop an attitude with a server at Applebee’s, I can feel him cringe. (And really – he should. WTF am I even doing at an Applebee’s?).  I try and there are days when I succeed and there are moments when I fail so spectacularly that I could drown in a river of my own shame.

Suicide cuts one life story short every 12.3 minutes. 105 people will take their own lives today in the United States. Untreated mental illness killed Nate and robbed all of us of his shining light and joy; a loss I feel profoundly every day, even 15 years later.

When you get your hands on that DeLorean time machine, let me know. I’d like a few minutes to return to 2001 to flip the script on a conversation that should have started and ended with, “I love you.” 

Giving Up is the New Giving It All You've Got

In the quest to give it all I’ve got, I need to come clean with you. There are days – more than I’d care to count – where I don’t want to give it all I’ve got. I want to give in, give up, and go back to bed. The idea of forsaking my warm bed and horizontal position for verticalness to take a shower requires an energy investment akin to running a marathon. Up Mount Kilimanjaro. Barefoot. Summoning the energy to brush my teeth and tame my crazy (and obviously greasy, since the whole showering thing is an investment I’m simply not that interested in making) hair requires vitamin supplements and no less than two very large cups of coffee. And when I’ve finished my lackadaisical grooming efforts, I am simultaneously exhausted and wondering why no one is handing me a medal (or at least a cookie!) for my Herculean effort. Welcome to 7 AM in my house.

Eventually, I’ll also dress myself for the day. If you thought grooming was bad, you definitely don’t want to bear witness to what it takes to get me dressed for work. Most mornings, I realize that I either hate all my clothes; left all my pants at the drycleaners and am forced to wear the stupid skirts that are lurking in the dark corners of the closet (that will require me to also wear tights and let’s be honest – we don’t even know if those clothes at the back of the closet even fit anymore – and no one likes wearing tights!); or everything I try on makes me look like a frumpy, middle-aged soccer mom slash linebacker. I probably have the fur of several pets clinging to my backside; my shoes are salt stained and may or may not be missing a critical section of their sole; and the notion of dress for success is a cruel joke. Getting dressed is the success, folks.

I grab my purse, my gym bag, and my rolling laptop bag that contains everything I’ll need for the day, including an odd assortment of cables, pens, and wadded up tissues. Why don’t I throw them away? Well, that just feels like a lot of work. It’s probably cold outside and a smart person would wear gloves, but I lost my right glove a month ago and I haven’t replaced it. I keep the left one in the car as a reminder of better days . . . and as a means to protect at least one of my hands from frostbite when I gas up the car. I’m very, very lucky to have a heated garage (this is a relatively new development in my life – I used to park on the street and have the Minneapolis snow emergency rules committed to memory) so I don’t dread getting into my car. I am, however, incapable of backing my car out of the garage without collateral damage and panic attacks, so my devoted husband takes care of that little nuisance for me every day. We all win when I don’t hit the house, garage, landscaping, mailbox, or my husband’s car. Trust me.

I check my calendar and queue up Pandora. My Pandora stations are my secret shame and also one of my only sources of joy. I like to bounce between a station called Hair Bands, which features the finest selections from Guns & Roses, Motley Cure, Skid Row, Warrant, Poison, Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, and Cinderella and  a station called 90’s Country, which brings me back to simpler times when I lived in the 56267, attended my first and only WE-Fest and after many, many beers thought I could line-dance like Billy Rae Cyrus. I either bang my head or croon, depending on which Pandora station I select, mutter affirmations and swear words to myself as I think about the day ahead, and I drag myself to work if it’s a work day. And let’s assume that it is.

I arrive to work, where my first major hurdle is parking the car. I’m grateful that my employer provides covered parking – but I’m curious why the architect who designed this particular structure chose to place giant concrete columns in every third parking spot. This is not an exaggeration. These concrete obstacles create unique opportunities for door dings when you enthusiastically open a car door or for massive bodywork for those of us who are not good at parking, driving, and spatial relations. On a good day, I’ve arrived early enough to snag a parking spot that is not flanked on either side by a concrete auto-body terror. On a bad day, no amount of White Snake can soothe my nerves as I maneuver my “28 payments remaining” car through the concrete jungle. Once parked, I check my text messages just in case and then I dig deep to summon up the energy to exit the relative safety of my little German automobile. This can take up to 15 minutes. I take a deep breath, give myself a pep talk that usually sounds like some variety of, “get your lazy ass moving, sister!” and so it begins.

I work. I do stuff. I answer emails, talk on the phone, go to meetings, create pivot tables (I do that now. It’s a real thing. Yay, me) and mediocre PowerPoint presentations. I enjoy my job and it’s only those rare moments between meetings where the exhaustion hits me and I wonder how soon until I can go back to bed. After work, I might go to the gym – not because I like exercise but because I love my trainer and he brings me joy with his silly songs and weird dance moves. If I don’t go, I feel guilty because I paid for the sessions and he drove all the way there and I’m a failure at time management and also fat and weak. Better to just go. I might host a book club or attend a human services committee meeting or help with homework or proofread a paper or interpret survey results or rewrite a resume or provide interview coaching or help someone with a job search. And eventually, I’ll rip off my stupid suit, return to my pajamas, and stuff my face with something that’s probably not good for me and obsess about all the stuff I have to do tomorrow. Maybe I’ll pay bills or do laundry or take someone on a college visit or buy toothpaste. I need to schedule a periodontist appointment and a physical and my biometric testing. One of these days, I should call my parents. I should hang out with my nephew. I should go to rowing class. I should stop eating nachos. I should floss more. I should moisturize. I should take a goddamn shower.  I should stop shoulding on myself.

I return to my bed, realizing that every muscle in my body hurts as if I’ve gone nine rounds in a wrestling ring against Hulk Hogan, The Rock, and the entire starting lineup of the Denver Broncos. Since I probably didn’t even exercise today, that’s weird but I’m too damn tired to think about it. I shut my eyes and wait for sleep, which will be interrupted at least 30 times by a combination of dogs needing to pee; cats trying to get comfortable by wrapping themselves around my neck; husbands snoring; and my inability to regulate my body temperature. I’m cold. I’m hot. I’m sweating like it’s a paying job. I’m cold again. I’m middle aged and likely menopausal. Can I get a break? I just want to sleep!

I see the rest of you out there in the real world, and I wonder how you do it. How do you shower regularly, wear cute clothes, raise your families, have great and meaningful jobs, cook nutritious meals, run marathons, do hot yoga, and never run out of toilet paper? You never seem to forget a birthday or ignore your friends because the very act of keeping yourself alive and functioning is all you’re capable of. And then I wonder what my problem is. I have a great life. I should be celebrating every waking moment because my life is so awesome – and if any of you really knew what was going on in the dark recesses of my mind, you’d either slap me or give me a well-intentioned pep talk.

But here’s the thing. This thing I’m describing? It’s real. And it’s what it’s like to live with depression. I don’t need a pep talk, or a Snickers bar, or sunlight or meditation or reminders of how lucky I am. I know that. But depression isn’t logical and it won’t be reasoned away. You can’t sit depression down in front of the jury and present your evidence like you’re Johnny Cochran. Depression is guilty. It knows that. And it really doesn’t care. Certainly, there are steps that I take to manage my depression and they work pretty well most of the time. But sometimes, I forget that I am living with depression. The symptoms disappear and I’m taking regular showers; talking to my friends; and the laundry crisis is under control. I start to think, “Hey – look at me! I’ve conquered this thing! Screw you, depression! I win!” and I stop managing it like I used to. Depression loves my arrogance – and when it shows up to knock me back down a few pegs, depression sweeps in with a vengeance. See also: paragraphs above.

This is my depression and my story. Maybe your depression looks different and comes with a side of insomnia. There are an estimated 14.8 million of us living with depression – and I guarantee you that there are more than 31 flavors. If you’re lucky enough not to be part of this staggering statistic, I envy your clean, shiny hair and please know that I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls and text messages. I hope understand why. I’ll get back to you just as soon as I summon up the energy to take a shower.