On September 23, 2016 I had just landed in Memphis, Tennessee, a day ahead of a college football game. I used to work in sports, so traveling on Fridays during the fall was the usual.
I remember being particularly excited for this trip because it was the first road trip of the season, and it was my first time in Memphis. I had plans of exploring Beale Street and maybe even visiting Graceland, because how can you go to Memphis and not get your fix of Elvis?
But first on the docket was some true Memphis barbecue — duh.
So, I hailed a taxi at the airport, made a quick pit stop to get checked into my hotel and unpack, and hopped in another cab to meet some colleagues at a local barbecue joint.
Shortly after, my life changed forever.
Just a few minutes into the cab ride I got a call from my cousin — let’s call her Jane. Jane and I were close as kids but had drifted a part some into adulthood. Nothing too uncommon for a huge family like ours. So, in the spirit of not being rude and taking a call in the cab, I ignored the call.
Immediately my phone rang again, so I knew something was a bit off. I answered to hear Jane’s stable, persistent voice ask if I had talked to anyone in the family yet that day.
I hadn’t.
Jane immediately broke into tears, sobbing, and my heart sank knowing something catastrophic had happened. “I’m so sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but John (another pseudonym) committed suicide this afternoon.”
Speechless.
For the first time in my life, I literally did not know what to say. All that would come out of my mouth was, “What?”
A marine combat veteran, John was one of our many cousins, but one that we were close with growing up. He suffered from PTSD after numerous tours of duty in the Middle East, and was never able to find the help he truly needed in order to battle the demons he faced on a daily basis after his enlistment ended.
I have seven aunts and uncles, and more than 25 cousins in my family. But there was a core five of us that are within just a few years of each other. Our families lived within blocks of one another in small town X, so throughout our childhood years, we were all incredibly close.
I lived a block away from John my senior year of high school, and I remember tossing a football back and forth in the middle of the street when he told me he was enlisting in the Marines.
It’s funny how these memories are so vivid today, despite this day in the street happening more than a decade ago.
Anyway, back on track.
Stunned, I hung up with Jane in the cab and continued to dinner with colleagues. I arrived about 20 minutes early and immediately called my friend X, because I didn’t know what else to do — I needed to talk with somebody and I wouldn’t have been able to handle talking to family being more than 600 miles away from home.
Looking back, this is what made me realize how important it is to have people or outlets available to just listen.
After dinner I went back to my hotel room and just sat there alone. Between the thoughts and the tears there were more conversations with friends who were available to listen.
Saturday, it was game day. But after the game, it was more of the same. I couldn’t have been more thankful to have friends and then finally family available to just talk to about the situation.
I flew home first thing Sunday morning to be with my family and the grieving process fully began.
I know my story isn’t quite the same as all of the other stories that are being shared here. I’ve been incredibly luck to not have had to face the demons and hardships like so many others. But I truly do know the value of being there to listen.
Mental health issues run deep in my family, even aside from John. So, after John lost his battle to PTSD, I made a commitment to always be there for others as an ear — as an outlet.
I am incredibly excited about this project that has been started, and I am honored to be just a tiny part of it. So, please, please share your anonymous story if you are ready. There are plenty of people and outlets available to be there for you and listen.
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