Dear Brooke: We gathered to mourn your absence and celebrate your life today. There were hundreds of people there -- a very full Trinity Church -- witnessing to your warmth and your generous, loving spirit. We cried for the anguish you endured as you bravely fought your illness; we laughed at your joyous approach to living (inspiring 3 weathered climbers to dance to techno music at 4 a.m. on an isolated road in Yosemite Park); we shared your teacher's awe at your brilliance as he marveled at the lessons you learned on the very first try and your capacity to master everything you studied; we smiled at your curiosity and your efforts to problem-solve Apurva's snoring when you shared a room with him on a school trip; we took note of your loyalty and your lasting example to us to live fully in the moment; and, we resolved to go forward carrying you in our hearts -- each day, each moment -- to ensure that your exceptional presence will not get stamped out by an enemy as desperate as the devil.
Today was a journey for us all. We came to the church bereaved, bewildered and yearning for your presence. What we found were countless people touched so deeply by your life that they gathered from all corners of the globe to celebrate you, even in death. I was left to wonder how many would do the same for me. Your life is a challenge to bring greater awareness to each moment and to disconnect from the frenzy I so often invite into each day. I go to bed tonight resolving to awake with the determination to delight in the present, even in trials or discomfort, rather than eagerly await for its departure; to let it teach me something, as you did by admiring the rock surfaces while trying to find your way on a craggy cliff in hand-stiffening cold. We came carrying glimpses of the person we knew, and left with a fuller vision of the richness that dazzled us all. We journeyed from the despair of your suffering to the hope of your legacy.
Forgive me, Brooke, for the frustration I expressed toward you in my last post. I know it wasn't you, but the illness, that pushed you to your final decision. Forgive me for the rawness. I still struggle to comprehend it all but I've resigned myself, as your father said today, to let myself be humbled by that which I don't understand. What I know is this: You were exceptional. You gave much of yourself to others. You were an enthusiast of life and its hidden treasures, possessing a vision and level of awareness that few have. And you were so loved.
You will not be forgotten.
Showing posts with label mental illness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental illness. Show all posts
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Sitting with the questions
Brooke, I woke up with an empty hollow today, filled only by the questions of why you did it. I swing between anger and compassion for you, between frustration and bewilderment.
I can't imagine the exhaustion and isolation you faced as you lived each day not knowing when your high would swing to the lowest of lows, and vice versa. Your illness had already cost you a relationship with someone with whom you shared 7 years of your life, and I imagine peering into the future was daunting for you. If getting through each day was work, the possibility of a stable, lifelong relationship perhaps seemed out of reach. I imagine that felt like insult added to injury.
The fact that this illness exists breaks my heart. It seems like a cross too big to bear. I know it can't be because I take God at his word that He doesn't send us anything that we can't conquer while relying on Him. But I still am saddened by the heavy toll it takes and the complete disruption of life that occurs. I look at every illness or hurtful event as instruments in our distilling process, yet what strikes me about bipolar disorder and extreme depression is how high the stakes are set and how many we hear of losing the battle. It makes me yearn to find those who are living with the disease under control, versus living under control of the disease.
Why did you do it? I know you must have been in a terrible spot to consider it and carry it out, but I think of going forward from this point and each moment of beauty that you'll miss; each milestone with a friend or on your own journey that won't be crossed; each memory your parents and friends won't get with you now. It breaks my heart. I struggle to better understand and to keep your humanity in focus so as not to judge you or lose sight of the person I appreciated, but what a tragic end to a life filled with promise.
I'm left to swallow the words I intended to share with you; to burn down the fences of pride that kept me from reaching out to you; to wonder forever how the heck it got to this point and if there was anything I might have been able to do to make your short life happier, and perhaps a bit longer.
I can't imagine the exhaustion and isolation you faced as you lived each day not knowing when your high would swing to the lowest of lows, and vice versa. Your illness had already cost you a relationship with someone with whom you shared 7 years of your life, and I imagine peering into the future was daunting for you. If getting through each day was work, the possibility of a stable, lifelong relationship perhaps seemed out of reach. I imagine that felt like insult added to injury.
The fact that this illness exists breaks my heart. It seems like a cross too big to bear. I know it can't be because I take God at his word that He doesn't send us anything that we can't conquer while relying on Him. But I still am saddened by the heavy toll it takes and the complete disruption of life that occurs. I look at every illness or hurtful event as instruments in our distilling process, yet what strikes me about bipolar disorder and extreme depression is how high the stakes are set and how many we hear of losing the battle. It makes me yearn to find those who are living with the disease under control, versus living under control of the disease.
Why did you do it? I know you must have been in a terrible spot to consider it and carry it out, but I think of going forward from this point and each moment of beauty that you'll miss; each milestone with a friend or on your own journey that won't be crossed; each memory your parents and friends won't get with you now. It breaks my heart. I struggle to better understand and to keep your humanity in focus so as not to judge you or lose sight of the person I appreciated, but what a tragic end to a life filled with promise.
I'm left to swallow the words I intended to share with you; to burn down the fences of pride that kept me from reaching out to you; to wonder forever how the heck it got to this point and if there was anything I might have been able to do to make your short life happier, and perhaps a bit longer.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
A door shut forever
I lost a friend tonight. Tragically, he gave up on life. He had so much going for him -- a winning smile and a kind heart, lingual skills, a Harvard degree, friends and family who loved him. We studied abroad together 9 years ago. He was the first face I laid eyes on in the Philadelphia airport as our group gathered before boarding our flight to France to become School Year Abroad's Class of 2000-2001. I instantly developed a crush on him. There was something so soulful about his brown eyes, his tousled brown hair, the dimples in his smile and his shy spirit. As a high school junior, I doubted that this dashing post-graduate student would be interested in me. I didn't think I could take the rejection, so I returned the smile he readily gave me and inspected my shoes while I felt his gaze on me.
Brooke seemed to be able to do everything effortlessly. He spoke flawless French, having spent the early years of his life there while his father was headmaster of the school. He was a great soccer player, an avid biker, he had a leading role in the school play we performed while we were there, and he was incredibly smart. I remember seeing him walk into school in the mornings with rosy cheeks and windswept hair, slightly matted at the hairline from his bike ride to the campus. That year we had record amounts of rain but I still remember seeing his arm draped over a muddy soccer ball and his excited grin as he headed outside unfazed by the soggy landscape.
We were divided into four groups based on language. Brooke was in the first group. I was not. But even though I was at a distance from him in the classroom, it was evident that he was an academic force. His thoughtful intellect left an impression on his teachers, and he walked the hallways often lost in thought, seemingly turning over something he had learned that day or perhaps, something that he was still working out to his satisfaction.
He began dating a sweet and sincere girl, gentle by nature, who seemed to bring out the best in him. They were clearly very happy together and seemed to complement each other well. They stayed a couple for seven years, before they went their separate ways amicably. I have always wondered what might have happened had I not inspected my shoes that day in the Philadelphia airport. How my life would be different now. It is my Sliding Doors moment.
He randomly popped into my head this past weekend. I can't say why. I humored myself with the thought of making up for lost time and getting to know the guy I chose to watch from a distance nine years ago. I thought of befriending him on Facebook, but the silly schoolgirl in me again shied away from connecting with him. I told myself that with all that he had going for him, he must have plenty of friends; that even after all these years, we were still in different leagues (best language group vs. not; high school graduate vs. junior; Ivy League vs. not). I let meaningless labels prevent me from reaching out to somebody who made an impact on me, who could have been a new friend, and who needed a friend more than I could have ever imagined when I arrogantly presumed he didn't.
And now I'm left with the sadness of a life cut short way too soon; of great potential vanishing to the grave; of a hole that can never be filled and a family whose pain can never be completely healed.
This news comes on the heels of a recent discovery for me that another great guy with whom I went to high school killed himself last December. I found out via Facebook last week and it got me thinking about the horrible tragedy of mental illness. Both of these guys were such good people and there was something so special about them. Their kindness and giftedness are embedded in my memories of them. They had family and friends who loved them, were proud of them, and tried to reach them in the crippling moments of despair. And yet, tonight, I turn out the lights on a world that is poorer for their absence.
No one is replaceable. Their spot can never be filled.
The damage can never be undone.
Don't let another moment pass before you contact that person who's crossed your mind recently, or the one you sit beside daily. Time cannot be taken for granted. It just might be your last chance.
Brooke seemed to be able to do everything effortlessly. He spoke flawless French, having spent the early years of his life there while his father was headmaster of the school. He was a great soccer player, an avid biker, he had a leading role in the school play we performed while we were there, and he was incredibly smart. I remember seeing him walk into school in the mornings with rosy cheeks and windswept hair, slightly matted at the hairline from his bike ride to the campus. That year we had record amounts of rain but I still remember seeing his arm draped over a muddy soccer ball and his excited grin as he headed outside unfazed by the soggy landscape.
We were divided into four groups based on language. Brooke was in the first group. I was not. But even though I was at a distance from him in the classroom, it was evident that he was an academic force. His thoughtful intellect left an impression on his teachers, and he walked the hallways often lost in thought, seemingly turning over something he had learned that day or perhaps, something that he was still working out to his satisfaction.
He began dating a sweet and sincere girl, gentle by nature, who seemed to bring out the best in him. They were clearly very happy together and seemed to complement each other well. They stayed a couple for seven years, before they went their separate ways amicably. I have always wondered what might have happened had I not inspected my shoes that day in the Philadelphia airport. How my life would be different now. It is my Sliding Doors moment.
He randomly popped into my head this past weekend. I can't say why. I humored myself with the thought of making up for lost time and getting to know the guy I chose to watch from a distance nine years ago. I thought of befriending him on Facebook, but the silly schoolgirl in me again shied away from connecting with him. I told myself that with all that he had going for him, he must have plenty of friends; that even after all these years, we were still in different leagues (best language group vs. not; high school graduate vs. junior; Ivy League vs. not). I let meaningless labels prevent me from reaching out to somebody who made an impact on me, who could have been a new friend, and who needed a friend more than I could have ever imagined when I arrogantly presumed he didn't.
And now I'm left with the sadness of a life cut short way too soon; of great potential vanishing to the grave; of a hole that can never be filled and a family whose pain can never be completely healed.
This news comes on the heels of a recent discovery for me that another great guy with whom I went to high school killed himself last December. I found out via Facebook last week and it got me thinking about the horrible tragedy of mental illness. Both of these guys were such good people and there was something so special about them. Their kindness and giftedness are embedded in my memories of them. They had family and friends who loved them, were proud of them, and tried to reach them in the crippling moments of despair. And yet, tonight, I turn out the lights on a world that is poorer for their absence.
No one is replaceable. Their spot can never be filled.
The damage can never be undone.
Don't let another moment pass before you contact that person who's crossed your mind recently, or the one you sit beside daily. Time cannot be taken for granted. It just might be your last chance.
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