Last September, I called a few therapists in Providence, Rhode Island. I wanted to equip myself with a tool kit to support my boyfriend, Jameson, through his ongoing battle with depression. I was a junior and he was a sophom*ore at Brown University. We had only been dating for a few months, but we'd been close friends for several years.
I made an appointment with a therapist for mid-October. I told her I was eager to begin but in no real hurry, as Jameson seemed to be doing fine. A few weeks later, he took his own life. I was blindsided and utterly devastated.
In the days after that, my support system was there to help me through. But this week marks the six-month anniversary of his passing, and I'm still weighed down with grief. As I struggle through my spring semester, the support from others has plateaued, so I often feel alone with my grief.
Immediately after his death, I began my grief journey
My mom accompanied me to my first therapy appointment; I was bleary-eyed, trembling, and in complete denial of my new reality. It was also the first time I'd left my house in days.
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My friends and family checked in on me constantly. I received hundreds of texts and calls.
Two weeks later, I returned to my classes, determined to redevelop some semblance of my old routine and finish my classes. My professors were exceedingly accommodating.
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The first month or so was a blur; I remember very little, but I was touched by the plethora of ways people showed up for me — from cooking me dinner and walking me to class to driving me out of Providence for a night and initiating difficult emotional conversations.
Gradually, as the dust settled, the support began to plateau
During my winter break from Brown, I started attending the weekly meetings of a virtual support group designed for people in their 20s who have lost someone to suicide. I finally encountered a space where I felt understood and heard. While most of my friends were able to reset a couple of weeks later at the beginning of this spring semester, I wasn't.
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I celebrated my 22nd birthday the first weekend back at school, and while I felt enveloped in love, I can count the people on one hand who acknowledged the elephant in the otherwise gleeful room: that the first birthday after losing someone absolutely sucks. He was the only person I wanted to be with or hear from on that day.
For the first few weeks of this semester, none of my friends said anything. I reached out to my new professors to inform them of my ongoing grief, in lieu of the fact that I had not heard from a single administrator or dean since November.
I know I appear "normal" and high functioning to those around me because I'm attending classes, engaging in my extracurriculars, and going out to parties. But the more I try to distract myself with a routine and some semblance of normalcy, the more I begin to feel invisible.
Between therapy, the support group, and talking to my mom, I have resources. But many of my friends appear to have moved on with their lives in a way that I can't. I am forced to compartmentalize my life; my academics and social life have become separated from my grief.
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I realized that I need to verbalize the fact that I need help and support
I don't blame anyone for not knowing how to navigate being there for me; suicide is a taboo topic that no one knows how to approach.
I became aware I have to give my friends permission to talk about Jameson. Sharing memories of him is incredibly comforting and the only way to keep him alive. I tell them that we all need to process this together and not shove it to the back of our minds.
I also have to tell people to ask me directly how I'm doing — not through a mutual friend. Otherwise, I never know whether people are just avoiding the subject or if they've forgotten about it and moved on. I've cried at bars, at formals — in plenty of strange places. While I'd generally prefer it be brought up in private, sometimes crying in public is incredibly liberating. I feel seen.
Lastly, I tell my friends that just showing up for me is enough if they're not in a place to have an emotional conversation. I remind them that it's easy to isolate myself, so I appreciate it when they're proactive.
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My grief feels never-ending and nonlinear
The so-called five stages exist, but there is no timeline to them; sometimes I experience all five within the span of a day.
My No. 1 coping mechanism has always been writing. On the day that Jameson died, I began a fragmented pseudo-journal. It took me a lot longer to begin stringing any thoughts into coherent sentences. Now that I am able to, it feels like I've grown wings. I hope those wings continue to bring me closer to those who want to show support — and closer to him.
