Joe Bro
It was a typical Monday night early in my sophomore year. The kind of night devoted to eating healthy, being productive, and going to bed early. I was finishing up my tedious accounting homework around 10pm. The printer in my fraternity library was broken again. While I was attempting to fix it, I received a text from Joe. A little odd since we had not really spent any quality time with each other since being in college. The text just read, “Come down to my room.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t give any explanation. The printer finally cooperated, and I made my way down to his room on the party floor. I gave a light double tap knock. His door was unlocked. I opened the door ajar. He was just there. Sitting on his bed. Back against the wall. Legs folded under one another. Clearly not doing homework. With the biggest grin that only Joe was capable of. He knew it. Right then and there. He had me. I was hooked. He was my new best friend. The rest is history.
My adult life can basically be broken up into two parts: before and after I became friends with Joe. To learn the impact he had on me, you first have to understand who Joe was, who I was, and what I was missing. What we had in common is the easy part. We were the same height and weight, but that was about where the similarities ended.
Joe liked cars, I did not. Joe liked to go fast, I did not. Joe always had a golden brown glow, I did not. Joe wore cool clothes, I did not. Joe liked loud and heavy music, I did not. Joe was unapologetically himself, I was not. Joe was a hugger, I was not. Joe liked to share, I did not. Joe liked to smile, I did not. Joe was outgoing, I was not. Joe took risks, I did not.
That is who I wasn’t. I’ll spare you too many awkward cringe-worthy details about who I was. Between the ages of 18–20, my outlook on life was primarily to try and avoid the negative. I had come to college with pain on my shoulders and wasn’t looking to risk taking on any more. In other words, lower expectations, decrease disappointment, minimize unhappiness, and just get by. No one knew me before I met Joe. Or maybe they knew who I was but I can guarantee we didn’t hang out or do more than exchange hellos. I so badly wanted to have a traditional college experience with a lot of different friends and crazy memories. I just didn’t know why I didn’t have it.
Fast forward four months from that first night in his room to a week before my 20th birthday in February. I wanted to make plans to celebrate, especially since I let it go unnoticed the year before. Despite having three full semesters of college under my belt, my social circle was almost nonexistent — except for Joe. I could probably count on one finger the number of people I would be comfortable inviting anywhere, let alone my birthday. I halfheartedly mentioned to Joe that maybe we should go to the local hibachi place known for underage drinking. Joe just responded, “I got it.” He totally took over. He took care of it all. Arranging transportation, rallying guys in my house to go, and inviting all of these girls who came just because he asked. None of which I really knew, and I doubt they remember being there or what the occasion even was. But many of them would eventually become very close friends of mine through the rest of college. All thanks to Joe.
From that point on, the rest of college between us could be described as a blissful partnership: testing the depths of friendship, pushing the boundaries of just how much fun we could have, and seeing how much each of us could grow and learn from the other. Joe was the first person to show me how much more there was to life than just getting by. He taught me how to accept brand new people into my life and connect with them. Joe truly believed a person’s enjoyment in life could be as infinite as their imagination and desire. I know that because we did it.
We became so inseparable he would get legitimately mad at me for the few times I turned down an opportunity to go to a concert with him. Like without me there for him to observe having fun, his own excitement would evaporate. I still remember the first concert I went to without him and how naked I felt. Once we were even asked to a sorority date party by two of our friends as a package deal. (A large step up for me from my sophomore year where I didn’t have anyone to take to my own date party, even as a friend.) Wherever I went he came along and vise versa. Why would I want it any other way when he was able to bring out this confidence in me that I had never in my life possessed?
It wasn’t until after we graduated (I moved to New York, he stayed at school for an extra year), that he started to just not seem like himself.
Birthdays were always a common ground for us to come back around if we had been a little more out of touch lately. A few years after college, Joe was about to turn 25, living alone in Philadelphia, and made it clear that he did not have any plans to celebrate with friends. Without hesitation, I booked a train for that weekend and told him we would figure out the rest later. One other friend was happy to take the trip with me, but some others rightfully chose to opt for next time as it was not a good weekend for them to travel. Once I arrived, it was clear from early in the night that Joe did not have the motivation or ability to decide what it is he wanted to do. So we went out on the town. I picked all the places, I heightened the excitement, I found the dancefloor, and I initiated conversations with the girls. A true role reversal if you ever had the chance to know how the two of us played off each other. I still had the fair skin and questionable wardrobe, but his light, his confidence, and his true essence were just so faded. Nonetheless, we all had an unforgettably fun time, but that is the way it always was with Joe. That birthday would be the second to last time I saw him.
As more time passed it became harder to keep tabs on him. When Joe was struggling and in his deepest darkness his default reaction was to go radio silent. Probably to prevent me from worrying about exactly what he was going through at any given moment. Nevertheless, on almost no notice, Joe drove two hours to be with me on my 25th birthday, to see one of our all time favorite DJs. Joe was even harder to recognize that night, both physically and mentally, but he still had that warmth around him that I would give the world to be around. We stayed out until 4am dancing like fools. He drove straight home before sleeping so he could get to work the next day, a Friday. That was the last time I would see Joe.
Joe didn’t just change my life, he saved me. I just wish I could have done for him what he did for me.
Joe Innaurato passed away on January 11, 2017 after a long and brave struggle with addiction and depression. Over the course of about three years, he went through four stints of inpatient rehab, each for varied lengths of time, and was enrolled in an outpatient program at the time of his death. Joe had stretches of sobriety, but he also had as many relapses. The relapse that will always stand out the most to me happened in the summer of 2016. Joe had been clean for a couple months and had just gotten a job on the west coast where he would be moving to shortly after a few weeks of training in Chicago. Joe and I spoke on the phone during his first weekend in Chicago. We talked about the tourist sites he had seen and when a good time for me to come visit out west would be. He was happy and excited about this new chapter in his life. With the distractions of summer, three or four weeks went by before I realized I had not heard from Joe. His training would have ended by then and he would have officially moved at this point. I called him and got no answer. He called me back a couple days later. He explained that he had in fact never made it to California. He was back in Philadelphia, lost his engineering job, was driving for Uber, was living in between apartment sublets, and had relapsed. The details and order of this timeline are fuzzy to me because of the state of shock and panic I was in upon learning all this. For the first time in my life, I found myself completely devoid of any words of encouragement or support. I never managed to clear up exactly what had happened.
After being crushed by this disappointing news, I found it more difficult than ever to be the friend to Joe I had been for so many years. My reminders to keep fighting and just hang in there dwindled. We began speaking less than ever and what I know of his life in the last few months comes mostly from speaking with his family and what he posted on social media. The last communication I had with him was a text I sent him early on New Year’s Eve. I had still not given up hope that one day we would reconnect with each other and be best friends the way we used to. I never heard back from him after that message.
I now know that he did not respond because he could not endure to let me know of his latest relapse and the immense pain he had fallen into again. Joe had confided in me many times over the years about some of the deep and dark pain he was in. He told me all this under the promise that I would not repeat it to any of our friends. And I obliged. I made sure he let family members know, but he made it clear to me that I was the only peer. I can only assume this was to avoid the shame associated with the struggles he was going through. And I don’t blame him. Too often people act like addiction is a result of simply not trying hard enough to quit and depression a result of people just being sad and lazy.
This is where our fight comes in. We have to stop acting like addiction and depression are choices made by the people that suffer from them and not real illnesses. It is still up to the person in need of help to want to change and make choices for themselves that promote this. Quite simply, people who need help need to want to change for themselves and make decisions to support this road to recovery. But if we can destigmatize these diseases even a little, maybe people like Joe won’t feel like they have to hide their pain, and as a result diminish their network of social outlets. If you knew Joe and are reading this, then you know there was a point in the last few years where communication broke off. I’m here to tell you: that was not your fault. Joe was so lucky to have a family as incredibly loving and supportive as they were with him. They poured their hearts into helping him every possible way. Communication with friends broke off because Joe could not bear to let you see him in his current state. He knew that he was not acting like his old self. Maybe that wouldn’t have ultimately changed Joe’s fate — it is impossible to think we can save everyone. But if the communication and effort we put in saves even one life, isn’t that worth it?
For a lot of the modern issues and problems that our society faces, social media sharing and general discussion often get the ball rolling, but only so far before real action behind the use of resources has to take place. Hashtag campaigns can only create so much change. And we definitely need to continue to fund non-profit treatment centers. But in this specific case when it comes to mental health, discussion and sharing really can make all the difference. Because if we destigmatize these illnesses, then the next person like Joe does not have to feel the need to hide and live in shame. If you know someone who is having a hard time or not acting like themselves, reach out in a way that allows them to feel comfortable being honest. Maybe they will open up to you about their pain and be able to receive treatment that much sooner. That might be the difference between if they make it or not. So share. Talk about it. Reach out to someone you know who may be struggling or their family. There’s no time to wonder if you are overreacting.
Joe sent me more songs to listen to than humanly possible, introduced me to some of the most amazing people in the world, and dragged me to the best nights of my life. And then after all that he would still say, “do you want to hang out a little longer bro?” I don’t know what it is he saw in me to give me that chance on a random Monday night, but I am grateful every day he sent me that text. Yes Joe, I’m down to hang out a little longer.
