Dear James,
When I was eight years old, I lived on 809 Wengler Ave. Despite the fact that my family moved 11 times that house that I lived in for the first eight years of my life will always be my home. It was the house my father grew up in and the house my grandparents had made the central location for holidays. That house was where my family got to be a family. It was where my dad got to be my dad and my mom got to be happy. My most precious memories lie within the walls of that tiny two story home.
Across the street lived a boy. I can’t quite remember his name, so we will call him James. James was much older than me, maybe 17 or 18, so we never even spoke a word to each other, but I remember seeing him every once in awhile from across the street. His house had a big ominous tree, and he had two gigantic white dogs. The most prominent thing I remember about James is that he always seemed happy. I don’t even remember what he looked like, just that he seemed like he liked his life.
One day, the sun was shining and my eight-year-old life was as fine as it could be, and my dad came home to tell me that James had passed because he had taken his own life. I can remember not understanding exactly what that meant. Why would you want to do that? What could make you want to take something so precious, especially when you have a nice house and two big white dogs? My dad said his girlfriend made him sad, and he couldn’t take it. This didn’t make it any more clear to me, so my mother told me that sometimes growing up is hard and not everyone wants to handle it. That scared me.
What if someday I grew up and couldn’t handle it? I was happy, but so was James. All of a sudden growing up was something I never wanted to do. How can one thing make you so sad? If it could happen to James it could happen to me. But these thoughts and panic were relatively short lived because I was eight years old. I had lightning bugs to catch and a dog of my own to love. I quickly forgot about James, that is, until years later when I turned 17 myself. Suddenly, life was hard, and I didn’t think I could take the pressure. I had a boyfriend that wasn’t very nice, a family that was broken beyond repair and a few petty girls that made my life pretty hard, and I wasn’t strong enough. How can growing up be this difficult? How can I be expected to handle all of this at once? Then I remembered James. I remembered, and I got scared all over again because I didn’t want to be a nameless face. I didn’t want to be the girl across the street with the sad smile and the big dog. I wanted to be strong.
So now I’m here to say that I’m sorry, James. I am sorry that I can’t remember your name, or what you look like, or anything about you other than the fact that I thought you were happy when you were broken. I am sorry because I know what you felt. I know that you felt alone in your own corner of the world. I know that you felt like you had no other choice. I don’t know if you regret your choice, but I want you to know that you helped me make mine, and I am grateful for that. I want you to know that your life mattered, even if you think it didn’t. So thank you, James for reminding me that I had a choice to make, and helping me choose to be strong.
