I first heard the news from a mom at fencing: a high school senior in our district committed suicide. I was sad, said a quiet prayer, but didn’t think about it much- he was just a faceless kid so I put it out of my mind. Until I got an email that made it very, very real. The faceless boy was the son of a woman I knew. A woman who knew and nurtured my children. A woman I saw several times a week for four years when I took JP and SG to preschool. He was her son. I’d met him. I had a name, a face, a family to go with the news…and my heart shattered.
His obituary read like a Who’s Who Among High School Students. He was involved, smart, active. He looked happy in the accompanying picture, not like the kind of kid who would commit suicide. Then again, what kid does look like they’re ready to end it all? He was depressed. He made a choice.
I can’t stop thinking about him. Or her. Or their family.
His death, this child I’d had only met in passing, has rocked my world.
The therapist and psychiatrist think JP is struggling with depression.
My son, who just turned nine last Friday, might be depressed.
The news about a 17-year old ending his life? It just hits too damn close to home.