A Letter to my Best Friend One Year After His Suicide
“Suicide doesn’t end the pain. It just passes it on to someone else.”
Mark,
It was a year ago today you took your life. A year ago today that my world turned upside-down. I honestly thought today would be a lot harder than it has been so far, probably because I’ve been so busy. But that’s the kicker, isn’t it? That’s part of what makes grief so hard: that life goes on. Life has gone on without you; it doesn’t feel right, and yet, time stops for no one.
I have had countless moments where something has happened in my life that I want to share with you, only to have to remember that I can’t just pick up the phone and call you or text you anymore. Each time, my heart drops. I miss you, one of my best and oldest and dearest friends.
I don’t remember exactly when we first met, but I remember you being new on the swim team and awkwardly trying to pull the ends of your jammers as far down your knees as possible. I think we were 11, maybe 12. That means you were in my life for over half of it, and as of last year, you’re not anymore. At least not in the same way.
Most days it doesn’t feel like you’re gone. It feels like maybe you’re on another deployment or we’re going through another one of those phases we had where our significant other was jealous of the friendship we had and we didn’t talk as much. I remember catching up with you after one of your breakups and you told me you had told her, “Well, I will always love Katie and she will always be my best friend, so if you don’t like that, you can leave.” And I remember telling you, “I mean, you probably could have phrased that better…”
But anyways, we haven’t lived in the same town since we were 18, and yet you came to visit me in college, I went to your AIT graduation, we’d coordinate our trips back home, I’d visit, you’d visit…. Maybe that’s why some days I can’t actually make myself believe you’re actually gone. It doesn’t feel real.
Maybe I’m just in denial.
Other days, I cannot stop crying because it hurts too much. One of your comments on Facebook will pop up in my memories saying something like, “I miss my best friend!” And I get punched right in the stomach. I miss my best friend too. I hate that I remember you distinctly telling me I was the first and last person you could talk to, because you knew I would always be there, even if you felt you had no one else.
Why didn’t you call me?
Why didn’t you call any of the number of people who care so much about you?
I think one of the best things about you was that you could make friends with anyone. Literally anyone. At your memorial service, so many people got up to talk about how you had met them and how you had become instant friends. Even the horrible boyfriend I had in high school who hated all of my friends and tried to restrict me from hanging out with or talking to most of them — you somehow won over. I don’t even know how, but you talked to him one day after months of him hating you and all the sudden he decided you were okay. He wouldn’t call you a friend, but at least I was “allowed” to have you as my friend (not that I had stopped being friends with you or any of the other friends he hated). I don’t think either of you would tell me what exactly happened, but the point is, you could make friends with anyone.
And we all loved you for that.
I remember going through an unstable time in my life when I felt like I was completely alone. I remember you calling me out on it and reminding me we would always be best friends. I remember talking to you over Skype or Viber for hours when you were on your second deployment and I was living in Glasgow. I remember us both getting so frustrated when our calls kept dropping because of shitty internet connections, but we’d keep calling back. I remember looking at the call log one night and we had spent something like 4 hours and 25 calls keeping each other company when we were both halfway across the world from the rest of our friends and family. I remember when you called me to tell me your mom was sick and we cried together.
Some time before that, I remember when you came to visit me in Santa Barbara and we went to the beach. The night before, we had a long talk and you opened up to me about your first deployment and Survivor’s Guilt. I remember they were putting flags in the sand for a Memorial Day presentation, and I asked if you wanted to place any flags. You said no. We got down to the beach, and then you said you had forgotten something in my car. When I looked back for you because you had been gone for too long, I remember seeing you kneeling down to place some flags and honor those you had lost. Then we drank beer on the beach and you were back to your normal self. I remember telling you as we passed by on our way back to the car that I had seen what you did, and that I understood if it was something you wanted to do on your own, but I would always be here if you needed to talk. You thanked me.
I remember teaching your family how to play beer pong at your house, but we didn’t have solo cups so your mom let us use glasses. We discovered that beer pong does NOT work with glass cups. I remember getting upset with you when you’d call me “Kathryn” so I’d call you “Hayford”. I remember telling you that trying to open a beer bottle off the bricks on the outside of your house was a bad idea. I remember how much you bled when you didn’t listen to me and did it anyway. I remember you saying something along the lines of, “Well, shit. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I can almost hear you saying that now.
I am sitting here now, drinking a beer and writing to you one year after you took your own life. I miss you so much. And I know, deep down in my heart, if you had been sober at the time, if you had known how much your death would hurt so many of your loved ones, you would not have pulled that trigger. I know you did not intend to cause us pain, but you did. I am just so, so sorry that suicide felt like your only option one year ago today. I have spent the last year gathering as much information as I can — about you and what happened and about suicide in general. I guess you’d say it’s been my way of coping. I’ve started a suicide prevention therapy group for veterans and I’ve started messaging people who post suspicious things on social media asking if they’re okay. I’d rather be wrong and out of line than be right and been too afraid to say anything.
I guess what I’m saying is, I wish I knew why. But since I will never know why, I will continue trying to help as many people as I can who may find themselves in a similar mindset you found yourself in a year ago. I know you would be proud of me. Do you realize how much of an influence you’ve been on my life? And I don’t just mean in the past year.
Thank you for being my best friend for as long as you were. Thank you for giving me so many memories to cherish: happy, sad, and everything in between. Thank you for being so undeniably and apologetically you. Thank you for sending me little messages letting me know you’re still with me, like when you pop up on Facebook Memories saying you miss me, or (my personal favorite) playing Mastodon or Shadows Fall on full blast when I get into my car when they are not even in the music library on my phone. I like to imagine you laughing at me and playing air guitar.
I love you and I miss you. Always.
Kathryn
P.S. Say “Hi” to my dad for me and give him a hug. I know you used to be afraid of him, but I am sure you’ve become his friend by now.
If you are reading this and are experiencing suicidal thoughts, please call the National Crisis Line at 1 (800) 273–8255 and press 1 if you are a veteran or service-member.
