I’m not ready to share the full circumstances and causes behind why the events I am about to describe took place. Nor am I ready to elaborate on the details which, in any good narrative, would be essential to resolve the considerable mystery, ambiguity, and obscurity that will undoubtedly be present in this story, especially in the beginning.
With that in mind, I hope that you will appreciate what I am going to tell you because regardless of what I refrain from telling, this was a very monumental event in my life. Despite how small and insignificant it seems in hindsight, it revealed many things to me and caused me to realize and consider many things that have transformed the way I approach life, both in good ways and bad ones.
November 27, 2023
It wasn’t a good day for me. The day itself went well, everything followed according to plan, and nothing bad or tragic had taken place. But internally, I was not doing well at all.
I had three presentations that day, all for various final projects in my classes, and my one o’clock class—the only daytime class that did not involve a presentation—fell right in the middle of the four. So, by around 5 PM, all of the things going on internally were finally finding an outlet through my being able to relax and not continuously be running to keep up with demands and expectations.
I considered skipping my six-o’clock evening class, which was almost three hours long, but took the advice of—or, more accurately, lost an argument with—Jack, my friend and RA, to go to class despite having finished all of the assignments.
I did, however, communicate to him via text that I was not doing well. This conversation, as well as some of the ones I had with others throughout this story, will be shown to you here.
The culmination of a week of emotional suppression is a week worth of eruption
The culmination of a week of emotional eruption is something I’d prefer not to consider.
Where does that leave me?
With the choice to continue suppressing everything—which is setting myself up for failure—or to let it all out—which is something I’d prefer not to consider.
And all the while I’m forced to wear the mask of Everything’s Fine. Smile 😁
There’s nothing you can do and don’t you dare say the word “sorry”.
That’s what everyone says.
to Jack, 6:51 PM
Well there are a lot of people cheering for you
from Jack, 6:53 PM
Cool
to Jack, 6:57 PM
Most losing teams do
For context, the suppression I am referring to here was quite common. I had a regular fear of being a burden to others about my mental struggles. So often, I would get as far as standing outside of someone’s door but being practically terrified to knock for fear of waking them, interrupting them, or of them being weary of listening to my troubles. But more recently to these events, I had become more and more able to do so as my fear of what might happen in the alternative increased, because going to people I trusted and being able to talk with them was essential to my short-term wellbeing.
My parents, however, were another story. From conversations I had with them early in the year, it seemed that they interpreted my mental struggles as more an issue of perspective and attitude which I needed to personally overcome, and so I stopped talking to them in order to avoid their perception of me failing to do so.
Thanksgiving Break was a full week—from Friday the seventeenth through Sunday the twenty-sixth—during which all of the things going on internally were kept inside of my brain, with the exception of a few text conversations with a couple of friends. The result of this, however, was that my mind had become completely overwhelmed with the lack of being able to talk about things, and this is what I communicated to Jack in the text message.
After class ended, I realized that I was in a very bad place and needed to find someone to spend time with and get my mind out of its cycle. While I set about this, I turned on the most encouraging worship music in my playlist and vented to God.
Somewhere during this time, my friend Gabriel reached out to me about something he was going through, but he said he was doing alright, and as much as it shames me to say it, he did not remain in my mind for a single minute after we got off the phone with each other.
I knocked on seven doors, and seven people were either asleep, busy, or absent. While I was going about this, Jack had texted me again.
You aren’t a losing team
from Jack, 10:35 PM
I chose not to reply to this immediately, because the first response that came into my mind was both extremely negative and also would have been somewhat hurtful to Jack.
After I had nearly finished knocking on doors, I sent a reply.
You are biased
10:57
I can’t do this now Jack.
I can hardly tell up from down.10:58
*metaphorically
to Jack, 10:57 & 10:58
After I sent that message, I took my bike to the bike rack and left it there. I could never remember if I had locked it there or not, but I distinctly remember putting it there, for reasons I will not share here, and it was probably the last completely rational thought that went through my brain for quite some time.
After leaving my bike, I went into my dorm and down to one last door. No one answered this door at all. I stopped briefly at Jack’s door, which was the next one down and was along the way, but I did not knock on this one for some reason. I just continued my walk down the hall, out of Woodlee, and down toward the hill.
I had not gotten far when Jack texted me yet again.
You’ve got this man. God is for you
from Jack, 11:05 PM
What happens for Freshman Senator if I leave
to Jack, 11:06 PM
This last message received no reply, and I honestly do not remember the action of typing and sending it. By that point, I was not really thinking at all. But I do remember one last thought and one last thing that I did while I was walking down toward the main road.
I remembered one other person, who was not there on campus but who was the last man I could think of who I would even remotely trust with my troubles. I had not spoken much to him about these issues before, because even though he was a very kind and approachable person, I had gained the impression from his personality and approach to many different topics and situations that he would not take them very seriously or be a good person to have a more serious conversation with.
But tonight, I had no other ideas. So I texted him and asked him to let me know when he got home and had a minute. He said he would.
I continued walking down the main road leading to Bryan College, turned onto Rhea County Highway, and walked down that road for about twenty minutes.
At that point, something—a blast of cold air from a truck, or maybe a bright headlight—restored some sort of alertness to me, and I remembered another person who, regardless of how much I trusted or felt comfortable talking with him, would be greatly concerned if he knew what state of mind I was in.
On top of this, I had texted back and forth with him a little during the previous week, Thanksgiving Break, and at his behest, I had reached out via text to the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline, which yielded nothing more than suggesting that I try meditation.
While I felt some sort of disconnect or difference between myself and Kent that I could not pinpoint, I also felt like I would benefit significantly if I could get in touch with him. In fact, at this point, it did not matter as much to me who I got a hold of.
Are you awake?
to Kent, 11:38
By the time he responded five minutes later, I had walked a ways further and my mind had started to spiral again.
I am. I’m at Waffle House, I’ll be back in a sec. What’s up?
from Kent, 11:43 PM
By this point, even in such a short time, I was past the point of trying to reach out. So I responded with a different approach.
I don’t need you back
to Kent, 11:44
I just need you to know something
What’s up
from Kent, 11:45
I just wanted you to know that I appreciate all you’ve done
to Kent, 11:46
At this point in my walk, I realized that if Kent drove back from Waffle House, he would drive directly past me on the road. By this point, I had given up trying to find anyone and had been hoping as I walked that someone I knew would not pass me by and recognize me and stop because I did not want anyone to see me in the state I was in.
Kent answered a few minutes later.
Thanks man. Are you alright?
from Kent, 11:49 PM
Before I responded to him, I stopped walking, waited until I could cut across both sides of the highway, and began backtracking on the other side toward the end of a bridge. Once I was safely on the side, and safe from being spotted by anyone returning along the highway toward campus, I responded to Kent one more time. I wasn’t sure exactly how to respond and did not want to get into a discussion with anyone at this point, so I sent a very short and concise reply.
Sure
to Kent, 11:53 PM
When I reached the end of the bridge, I slid through a very small space between the concrete barrier and the fence that separated the road from the park that I was trying to get into.
The Swinging Bridge Park in Dayton is only accessible—usually—from a parking lot where it opens up near the athletic courts, and a fence goes all along the highway and around the park to separate it from the park.
The walking trails, however, are on the other side of the highway on a pair of little peninsulas that are heavily wooded and allow people to walk or run in the shade along the lake.
Since I was already on the highway, I did not want to walk back to Main Street, which was the first road leading into the city. So I stopped right at the end of the bridge and slid between the barrier and the fence post, stepping carefully down the concrete pylon until my feet touched the ground in the park. From there, I walked out onto the normal walking trail, crossed under the bridge, and into the wooded area.
Another cold wind or something similar brought a fleeting moment of clarity to my mind, and with it the name of another friend.
Cole had inserted himself into my life rather abruptly. I knew him, but at the same time, he had very much helped things along by basically pinning me down and forcing me to talk to him much earlier in the semester when he noticed that I was not doing well.
He was probably one of the people who knew more about my struggles than anyone else, but I had started to talk to him less because I was worried that he would become weary of sharing my burdens.
But tonight, he was the very last person I thought to reach out to. As I began walking down the path toward the tip of the little point that jutted out into the lake, I texted him nothing more than his name, as I continued walking.
Cole
to Cole, 11:56 PM
nova
from Cole, 11:58 PM
At this point, I had reached the edge where a curve in the path came near to the edge of the lake. Standing there on the edge of the lake, I sent one final message.
There’s no easy way to say this
to Cole, 11:59 PM
Good bye Cole
I have an app on my phone called Westminster Chimes, which sends a notification sound like the bells of a clock tower. Just then, after I turned off my music, at the exact moment that I stepped from the dry ground onto the muddy edge of the lake, the clock struck twelve, and every remaining ounce of clarity in my mind departed from me.