This morning, a fourteen year old girl at my school committed suicide.
I don’t go to a huge public school. My school probably has about three hundred kids in the high school and maybe as much in the elementary, so I knew this girl. I had played soccer with her and, if I had called her name in the hall, she would have answered with mine. I knew her and many of my friends knew her.
She overdosed on what may have been bleach.
In other words, she meant to kill herself.
And, the worst part is, this wasn’t the first time.
In the fall, a guy at my school committed suicide.
The awful thing about both of these thinkings is that they don’t seem to be separate. The grief and pain that came from Casey’s suicide seemed to only be elevated by Sarah Kate’s. Anyone who had met these people would have told you that they were some of the most lighthearted, laughing, and seemingly joyful people you would ever meet. The part that hurts is there was nothing anyone could have done. There was nothing I could do.
That is why I gave blood.
While I can’t help people who overdose on drugs, maybe I can help people who attempt suicide in a more bloody way. Maybe I can help kids like Ryan McCleod who died in a car crash in his junior year of high school. Maybe I can help the kids who try to shoot themselves or cut themselves because of depression or abuse.
Maybe my blood can be my closure because, while I couldn’t help Casey or Sarah Kate, I can help someone else.
I gave blood for my reasons and I encourage anyone who reads this to give blood for one of their own. To save a life, maybe even one that doesn’t want to be saved, is to challenge death and to refuse to give in to the despair and guilt and pain that surrounds us.