graphic by ella sylvie
Content Notice: This Article Mentions Suicide.
When I don’t understand something, I can’t let it go. I need to fully comprehend the subject or issue at hand, or else I get anxious and upset. This is one of my biggest flaws. I vividly recall taking AP Calculus in high school and not understanding a thing. Every time I worked on homework, I wound up crying out of frustration and feeling stupid. I would pour over my textbook, binge instructional YouTube videos, and sift through various math subreddits until I finally understood. Only once I figured it out did I feel the ultimate sense of relief: I did it. I finally got it.
Understanding is the best feeling in the world — but I’ve had to grow painfully comfortable with not knowing, and accepting that I can’t understand everything.
In 2023, my best friend killed herself. We met in the third grade and bonded over our shared love of reading and The Beatles. I was convinced that our souls were tied together in so many ways, that our paths were meant to cross and intertwine for the remainder of our lives. When I got the call that she had passed, I was devastated. Although filled with grief, I also recognized a different feeling: frustration. She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t send a text. She just did it, without reason or explanation. I couldn’t understand why.
This past summer, I visited the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. The first exhibit I visited was a photography collection by six photographers exploring and interpreting the theme of “kinship.” I immediately clicked with Deanna Templeton’s work, which featured photos of teenage girls, along with posters, flyers and ticket stubs from varying punk and new wave bands, and random pop culture memorabilia.
The most eye-catching objects on display were suicide notes. There wasn’t much context for these notes: Were they real, or props for the exhibit? Did their authors survive their attempts? One teenager dedicated her note to her family. She expressed her love for them, but also blamed them for her suicide. “It was your fault,” she wrote.
I couldn’t help but think of my friend, and how she didn’t leave a note. Initially, I was relieved. Maybe it was for the best. I don’t know what I would do if someone killed themselves and named me as a reason. On the other hand, maybe knowing the reason, rather than interpreting a reason out of nothing, was easier. This weird concoction of confusion, heartbreak and guilt weighed on me for several days.
Why didn’t she leave a note? I came up with several possible explanations: She was scared it would be found too early; She had nothing to say; She had prioritized other people; She didn’t have time. Maybe, she just didn’t want to.
But why did I feel like I needed to understand her reason? Why did I think I deserved a note? It felt, and still feels, selfish to want one because I want it for my own peace of mind. Though I never really blamed myself for what happened, the small voice in the back of my head always whispered: We grew apart after high school and didn’t talk as much as we used to. Maybe if I had been a better friend, … Maybe if I had been better at reaching out, she would have confided in me. If I was a better friend, maybe I would’ve been able to notice the signs without her having to spell it out for me. If I had been a better friend, things could’ve ended differently. Or maybe not. Maybe it would’ve just been prolonged. Maybe it still would’ve happened eventually, at some point. I don’t really know.
And the truth is that I will never know or understand. No matter how much time I spent stewing over it, overanalyzing every conversation and theorizing hypotheticals, I ended up at the same conclusion: She is gone, and nothing will change that. Accepting this was difficult, but when I felt the weight of it growing heavy on my shoulders, I reminded myself: “There’s no point in understanding “why” because the “why” won’t change the reality of the situation.” Slowly, the weight was lifted from my shoulders, and the nagging voice in my head quieted down. The world felt a bit easier to live in.
I still feel like shit on the most random days. I still cry when I think about her too much. I still feel guilty for being alive. Grief is a permanent fixture in my life, but I’ve come to embrace it. I took the mantra, “Grief is proof that we once loved” and ran with it.
As the one year anniversary of her passing creeps closer, I’ve been forced to reflect over the last year of my life. It’s weird to process my grief and growth through such an analytical lens, but it’s also quite nice to see how much my new perspective has changed my life for the better.
Learning to let go has helped me embrace the messiness of life. I spent my days looking forward to the day my life would finally improve, and only be up from there. But all of this made me realize that that’s not the case at all. Life comes in waves. The lows are so low and the highs are amazingly high. Things get shitty, and then they get good, and then they get shitty again, and that’s just how it goes.
In a weird (and I acknowledge, selfish) way, I am now really glad that there was no note. No explanation. Because it doesn’t matter. I don’t need it. I don’t need to know why. I don’t need to understand everything. I can simply accept, and move on. The love that exists within me is proof enough.