Oct 8th

Everyone has a moment when everything changes. One small moment that changes the course of the rest of their lives. For me, my life as I knew it ended on Tuesday, October 8, 2019.

I set my phone down on my bed and sat at my desk, ready to finally work on my psychology homework. I was sitting in my freshman apartment, almost one term into my college experience. I wasn’t a naïve 18-year-old. Diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at 22 months and battling depression and anxiety since at least 11 years old, I was used to things being tough. But nothing could prepare me for what was about to unravel.

My phone started to buzz on my bed. I picked it up and saw my mom was calling me. “Hello?” “Come downstairs.” I was never surprised like this. I walked into the living room and looked out the window of my fourth-floor apartment down to the entrance of the building where I saw my mom, dad, and little sister. My roommate was sitting on the couch and asked what I was doing. Nearly giddy with excitement, I explained my family was here to surprise me. Little did I know that elevator ride downstairs would be the last time I would feel such light-hearted giddiness.

As soon as I went to let my family into the building, my stomach dropped. There were no smiles. My sister was holding a box of tissues. I instinctively knew something was horribly wrong. We walked inside the doors and sat down in the seating area. I sat on the couch between my mom and sister. My dad remained standing. He then said the four words that will forever be scarred into my brain: “Zach passed away today.” I instantly went into shock.

“What?” was the only thought I could manage. Was it a car accident? Did he get on his motorcycle again? “How?” was the next question I could utter. I don’t remember the exact words my dad said. The gist: he took his own life. Immediately my next questions were “where?” and “who found him?” I was relieved to be told he was found by police officers in a canyon in the nearby city. I was terrified my mom or sister had found him. “What did he do?” He shot himself in the head while in his car on the side of the road.

The questions stopped and the tears began to flow. Though early fall and the temperature was mild, my teeth began to chatter. I buried my head in my mother’s chest with her arms wrapped around me while I cried in grief I had never before experienced. I remember a girl walking through the lobby while I sobbed uncontrollably. She asked if everything was okay. My dad responded while I couldn’t imagine how anything could ever be okay again.

I had seen him that weekend when I visited home. I couldn’t remember my last words to him. I couldn’t even remember my last interaction with him. I think it was when my mom, sister, and I were watching a show in the basement, and he came downstairs looking for his shoes. I don’t think I even said goodbye before I went back to school.

Zach was my older brother. My only brother. Only 22 years old at the time, he was in the middle of college. He had so much more life left to give. Could he really be gone?

My older sister and her fiancé soon arrived. After catching my breath, time had to continue to pass. As my older sister only lived 20 minutes away, we all decided it would be best if I stayed with her. She accompanied me back upstairs to my apartment. I went straight to my bedroom and tried to gather my thoughts about what I needed to pack. While I stumbled around my room, my sister went in the kitchen and told my roommates what had happened. To this day, I still don’t know what details she told them.

I got in the backseat while my sister’s fiancé drove and my sister sat in the passenger’s seat. While making small talk, I expressed desire in one of my brother’s guitars. He had music software, microphones, an electric bass, two acoustic guitars, and four electric guitars. On the drive, my grief consumed me and tears began racing down my cheeks until I began gasping for breath in between my cries of agony. My sister climbed over the console into the backseat to hold me.

At her house, her fiancé slept downstairs while I slept in her bed with her. We held hands as our minds raced, desperately hoping to wake up to our old reality.

I hardly ate for weeks following that night. The morning after, I bought some Alka seltzer tabs because my stomach couldn’t seem to handle my grief. Despite my tragedy, the only days I missed school were the following Monday and Tuesday when I went home for his funeral. I went to school the next day because my only other alternative was to give into my aching thoughts for my brother.

For the next few months, especially the weeks immediately following, my thoughts were constantly driven to my brother. Memories of more peaceful times. Stories of his crazy adventures. Inexpressible sorrow for the moments I knew could never happen. Longing for life to return to a previous course of direction.

I struggled desperately during this time. Though my thoughts constantly gravitated towards him, at times my heart would be so overburdened by emotion, I would spontaneously burst into tears. There was no stopping it. There was no rhyme or reason to it. It was impossible to predict what would set me off.

For a week or two, people around me reached out in pity. Some seemed to have genuine compassion, but soon enough, their worlds moved on. Every weekend, I went home. Just over an hour away, I needed the refreshing presence of my mother, father, and sister.

If these events weren’t life-changing enough, the floods kept coming. That Tuesday, a mere few hours before the police arrived at my parents’ doorstep, my dad finished gathering everything he could for my older sister’s wedding until the weekend. On Tuesday, my brother died. On Wednesday and Thursday, we all tried to hold ourselves together as best we could. On Friday, I went home as we laughed the hardest we had in a very long time from a combination of sleep deprivation, near-insanity, and a poorly posed picture of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. On Saturday, my older sister got married. On Sunday night, we held the viewing. While my parents were greeting all the visitors, my younger sister and I managed to keep light spirits and reflect on our favorite memories with our older brother. On Monday, we had the funeral. I managed to stay strong until my grandpa began to say the family prayer right before the funeral services began. The tears started and by the middle of the first hymn in the program, I was hyperventilating. I had so badly wanted to be a part of the program, but I was so overcome with emotion that my older sister had to read the eulogy in my place. I didn’t manage to fully catch my breath until we went outside to get into the limo.

When I started hyperventilating, I felt guilty for distracting from the services in my brother’s honor. But I remembered that he was my brother, I was closer to him than a lot of the people there, and I think he would have been okay with it. I had such overpowering love for him, I literally could not contain my expression of love for him inside my body.

I remember laying my head on my grandma’s shoulder while sitting in front of his burial spot. I honestly don’t remember most days from that moment on through the next few months. Each day blended into the next. My goal every day was to wake up and make it back to bed that night.

I was never mad at my brother. I couldn’t let myself be mad at him. All I could do was hope that he finally found the peace he was looking for. If anything, I can understand.

I am now, fundamentally, a different person than I was two years ago. My mom, dad, little sister, and I all grew much closer in our grief. I’ve since had a falling out with my older sister and her husband. I have a more complicated relationship with God. I perceive each person differently than I would have before. This has also affected how I connect with people.

I’ve always felt and been told I’m more “mature” than other kids my age. In reality, that was my untreated depression and anxiety, but adults said I was just so mature. Now, intense grief has been added to that pile of baggage. Something about going through soul-numbing trials makes it hard to connect with college kids at a mostly white Christian college. Last year, I thought I could relate to my roommate because she had lost her grandmother whom she was close with. But those hopes were soon dashed when she would often complain about not getting to see male friends or her brother for two years when they departed on service trips around the world.

While I struggled to get out of bed every day and make sure I fed myself and went to class, my roommates’ biggest problems all revolved around boys. I’ve never dated much. I didn’t even start dating until my sophomore year of college, and it doesn’t really appeal to me.

While my roommates are out giggling, making out with boys, and obnoxiously singing about how perfect their lives are, I cry myself to sleep, grieving a life I hated.

I try not to live in regrets, to not focus on the past. I have grown through the loss of my brother. I’ve gotten closer to certain family members. I’ve deepened my relationship with God and my spirituality has evolved. I have greater compassion and empathy for others. I also feel like I have much better perspective on what’s really important in life and what is just a side comfort. I have also found a lot of artistic inspiration through this grief. Most of what I have written in the past two years has revolved around my brother and how his death has affected me. I don’t think I will ever stop writing about him and how his short life and death contributed to who I am.

Though I think writing about my grief is helpful in working through it, I don’t enjoy dwelling on October 8th. It’s truly the worst day of my life. I hope it remains the worst day of my life.

Right now, mine is a sad story. I know I have much to be grateful for, but I’ll admit most things haven’t gone the way I had planned or hoped. My story doesn’t always have to be sad, though. Currently, I’m trying to do whatever I can to make the story better. I’ve had a few downfalls; I think it’s about time for a triumph. I’m currently completing an undergrad degree with plans to go onto graduate school, whether law school, an M.BA., or a Ph.D. I’m not sure. I worked four jobs over the summer including being an ACT Math Instructor and working as a lead on a carpet cleaning crew. While taking the maximum credits allowed, I’m working as a transcriptionist for my university. On the side, I have an Etsy business and diligently apply to whatever writing contests and scholarships I can get my hands on.

Zach dreamed of living an adventure. He was an “idea man.” He wanted to get out of our small city and do something great. He never got the chance to live his dream. To honor him, to honor his life, I can embark on my own adventure. Though I still haven’t fully recovered from this major loss, I am doing my best to persevere and shed light on my future. I am working as hard as I can manage, through my depression, to do well in school and stay out of debt so I can have the life Zach never got to live.

Growing up, I was very self-centered, as most children are. I was truly only aware of my own problems. When I was 14, my little sister—my best friend, my platonic soulmate—was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes, the same disease I have had all my life. Before October 8, 2019, this was my “coming of age” story. This was the crux of my life thus far. All my attention turned from myself to my sister. My eyes were opened to a whole other world of compassion and varying perspectives.

The death of my brother brought even more new perspectives. This time, I looked deeper than a person’s outward appearance. A vivid memory serves as the basis of my new approach to life. One day, shortly after my brother’s passing, I was walking through the center of my university campus. I was on the verge of tears, as I often was. Looking around, I was surrounded by sounds of laughter and hope and peace and joy. Surrounded by people, I had never felt so alone. How could the world still be turning when my brother was dead? How could people find hope when my brother chose to kill himself?

Unfortunately, I never found the support in others I was looking for. From trust issues because of my dysfunctional relationship with my older sister to unexpectedly losing my brother to being abandoned by any appearance of a friend during my grief, I find it hard to connect with people. However, I have so much more compassion for people than I did before. No longer do I tolerate making fun of other people. I don’t care how “funny” the joke is.

Last year, I was at a game night as things were winding down. One guy expressed stress and it was obvious he was going through something. I earnestly asked what was on his mind. All of my love and concern went to him. One girl in the room felt the appropriate response was to steal his shoe and throw it at him. I stood up for him. I gathered strength that my shy, introverted self never had before.

I couldn’t protect my brother. I personally know how dark the darkness can be. I’m still trying to find the light. But, knowing how horribly difficult life can be, I have resolved to be kinder and make my presence a safe place for people to be.

Another unpleasant memory etched into my brain happened when my roommates and I went to one of our roommate’s parents’ house for a “Galentine’s” weekend. After playing some games, we were lounging around on couches. My roommate’s little brother’s nerf gun was nearby. My roommate picked up the gun, held it to her head, and pulled the trigger. She laughed as she put it down and said, “it’s such a weird feeling!” They all proceeded to laugh and giggle as they passed the gun around and everyone took a turn. Meanwhile, I rushed to the bathroom where I sat for at least the next half hour and bawled. I know they hadn’t meant to offend me. I don’t think they knew that level of detail about my brother’s death. But they knew my brother had killed himself. And yet they role-played killing themselves. I was physically sick to my stomach. Another punch to the gut: when I finally came back, everyone acted like nothing had happened. No one noticed that I was gone for an extended period of time. No one noticed I hadn’t been laughing like the others and was obviously very uncomfortable.

As I mentioned earlier, going through major tragedy in one’s childhood and teens makes it very difficult to make friends with people whose biggest problems surround their date on Friday night. That’s not to belittle anyone else’s struggles, but it has made me feel very isolated in my college years. I stopped expecting someone to come rescue me. Knowing what it feels like to be completely alone and abandoned and hopeless and numb, I try to look out for others. When everyone is joking about killing themselves—a dark joke I absolutely detest—I look for the one who isn’t laughing.

I don’t try to hide the fact that my brother is dead or my struggle with depression and anxiety and grief. They are a central foundation of who I am. I am who I am because of the tragedies I have gone through and struggled with. Life is hard. There’s no question about it. I often think life is harder than it needs to be. And if there is anything I can do for my brother, to keep him as part of my life and to honor his beautiful memory, it is to go out and live my life, and be the caring, conscientious friend he always was to others.

I can’t complete a tribute to my brother and his impact on my story without including some of his lyrics. A beautifully talented musician, Zach had a passion for creating music. He produced a single and an album under the name Charlemagne XVI before he passed. His songs break my heart and then stitch it back up. In his song, “Don’t Cry You’re Fine,” I feel like he is writing directly to me and my sisters:

“A gun at my head. My last thoughts end in lead. I won’t shed a single tear. You’re living your worst fear. You’re saying things I will never hear. It’s my last time being here.

“Don’t cry. You’re fine. I had no time. Don’t lie. You’re fine. I lost my fight. Can’t cry. You’re mine. I had to die today.

“Won’t cry. We’re fine. We had our time. Won’t lie. You’re fine. You were never mine. Can’t cry. I’m fine. I forgot when I was last alive.”

I love you, Zach. I miss you. Thanks for being a great big brother. Even though we can’t talk like we used to, you still live in my thoughts, prayers, and dreams. Thanks for being a part of my story. Thanks for being my big brother, even though we live in two different worlds now. I can’t wait to see you again.