Helpless
“Did you know her?”
“No. But there have been four in the past three weeks.”
“How do we help?”
It’s sweet of you to ask, but at this point? I don’t think you can.
“I don’t get why you kids seek for a permanent solution in temporary problems. Your lives are not over if someone posts something bad about you on Instagram!”
I shake my head, partly in despair, the rest disgust.
“I mean, stress isn’t a new concept… We learned to deal with it in a better way!”
Maybe so, but things are different now.
“What’s wrong? You can talk to me, I’m your mother!”
What’s wrong is that these things happen and spur a domino effect. What’s wrong is that every time our principal comes on the loudspeaker, the entire school holds a suspended breath.
So no, I didn’t know Jordyn.
I didn’t know Julian.
I didn’t know the eleven-year-old girl.
What’s wrong is that I don’t know how we can fix this.
How are we supposed to heal everyone’s demons?
How are we supposed to un-romanticize suicide?
How are we supposed to make getting help more acceptable?
We try, we really do.
We try to make our friends feel loved.
We try to make people believe they matter.
We try to cure the darkness we see in ourselves and others.
We try to prevent this.
And eventually we have to ask: is it really preventable?
I’m not so sure anymore.
“It’s nothing.”
Inlandia: A Literary Journey 