U.S. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: Call 1-800-273-TALK (8255) or text 741741

Five years ago today, a reporter from The New York Times informed me that my friend was found dead of suicide.

I was stunned. I didn’t know what to think. I had just returned to the states from holiday, and while I was gone, my friend killed himself. I couldn’t believe it.

The same reporter and I had an hour-long interview in which I discussed my friend and the contours of our friendship. The man I knew was an up-and-coming artist who was imaginative, kind, and generous. He was so generous that once, while I was in university, I sent him a case of tea, and he sent back a DSLR camera because he knew I needed one. My friend was a little eccentric, but everyone is weird in some way.

After my first interview, I hastily got online and read some of my friend’s blog and the already-published articles about his character and death. I was shocked. Again. Shocked by what I read, shocked by who and what I did not know, shocked that I missed so much of what was happening in his life.

I’ve written and rewritten and written again this piece for five years. I originally intended for it to be an elaborate, heart-tugging account followed by a call to action, but I couldn’t escape feeling like I was exploiting the memory of my friend in the name of a great story. I didn’t want to do that––it had already been done––yet nothing I wrote down seemed good enough to share.

Five years later, I realize nothing may be “good enough,” so I’m simply offering my best and cutting to chase.

We need to be seen.

I believe this message, if you would call it that, is particularly timely in light of the current state of the world.

Coronavirus has produced unprecedented stress in nearly everyone’s lives. We have had to stay home––many of us alone––and sharply depart from whatever our normal lives were. Seclusion has forced us, with more time and fewer distractions, to intimately face our demons. Job and food insecurity; grief for the death of tens of thousands of family, friends, and strangers; and fear of our own death are added pressures from this global health pandemic.

In the United States, Black people face another pandemic, as we have had to endure generational trauma and psychological warfare, to start, since this country’s inception. In this contemporary age, we are constantly exposed to videos of Black people being killed by white people, particularly white police officers, for little to no reason. Following the repeated trauma of seeing people like us die onscreen, we see the killers go unpunished. Black therapists have been working overtime since the death of George Floyd. We have turned our anger, disdain, and hurt into protests and organizing against police brutality, an unjust criminal justice system, white supremacy, and violence against Black people. But we are exhausted and traumatized, still, in this attempt to get free.

People all over the world, and right next to you, are hurting and dying inside. We would never know because we never ask. So many broken people carry their brokenness so well that we cannot even tell––but they wish we could tell. It is on us to check in.

How are you, really? How’s your heart? Are you doing okay?

People are wanting to answer. Waiting to answer.

When you notice people, in person or online, venting about their pressures, their negative feelings, their disdain for their family, being bullied, hating life, they need to be seen. They’re dropping cues, hints, often subtle cries for help.

“See me,” they’re saying. “I need to be seen.”

We need to look.

I mentioned that the man I knew was imaginative, kind, and generous. He was those things, but he was also more. When The Times eventually published the 2,000-word story, I felt like I was reading about a completely different person. I learned that my friend, an amiable artist, was also a troubled, mentally-unstable man who acted erroneously. Evidence of his torment is still being displayed, even this year. Though I am not at all proud of his actions, I believe still that somewhere deep down, he was a good person––one who desperately needed help.

Towards the end of our friendship, I noticed some irregularities, but I dismissed them. He’s unusual, I thought. That’s how he is. I wish now that I hadn’t credited my friend’s unordinary behavior to him being artistic and interesting. I wish I engaged him more. Perhaps if I looked more closely, things for him would’ve ended differently.

Mental health is important, and mental illness is real. We have to remove the stigma surrounding mental illness, look for clues that people are struggling with it, and read up on resources to give to others when we encounter them. Until we as a society do the work to educate ourselves and authentically accept mental illness for what it is, those suffering from those illnesses––potentially ourselves––will continue to hide, suffer alone, and go without needed help.

We need to engage.

Engage. Even if you don’t think you have the proper tools. Even if you’re not friends. Even if you’re scared. Even if comforting is uncomfortable. Even if you’re unsure. Especially if you’re unsure. Because being wrong is better than being indifferent. Because checking just in case is always better than simply hoping someone is all right. Because engaging isn’t about your comfort. Engaging isn’t about you. It is about someone else’s life. It is about saving someone’s life.

I’ve tried again and again to write the perfect thing here. Since the death of my friend five years ago, I’ve lost too many others to suicide. Acquaintances like middle school friends and college classmates, icons like Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, others like Jas Waters just two weeks ago. Too many people have died.

I don’t have time to come up with something perfect. Instead, I’ve done my best, and I hope this somehow encourages you to put aside perfect and do your best, too.

Do your best. To be seen. To look. To engage. Do your best.

Your best is good enough. It may be enough to save someone’s life.

If you feel alone and don’t want to be here, please stay. You are good enough. You are loved. Choose life. You are worthy of life.

I see you. And I’m glad you’re here.

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National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI): https://nami.org

If you ever need someone to talk to: contact@nialangley.com