Dylan’s depression remained undiagnosed, and untreated. In this he was not alone. The vast majority of depressed teens do not get the help they need, even as their condition interferes with their relationships with friends and family and with their schoolwork, and dramatically raises the risk they’ll get into trouble with the law or die by suicide. In Dylan’s case, of course, it was both.
Tom and I did know Dylan was going through a rough patch. That year, the whole family was plagued by health problems and money worries. Tom and I spent quite a bit of time worried about Byron, who had moved into his own apartment. The overall difficulty of the year contributed to our failure to see what was right in front of us.
There is another reason Tom and I did not react with greater purpose when Dylan’s life went off the rails in junior year, and that is because he seemed to get himself back on track. At the end of that year, and throughout his senior year, after the damage and disappointment of the previous months, Dylan seemed intent to prove to us he was getting his life together.
I mention this not to make an excuse, but because it is such a common refrain among parents who have lost children to suicide. “He was so much better!” those shocked parents say—as Dylan seemed better to us.
To borrow a cliché, we thought he’d been scared straight by the gravity of the trouble he’d gotten into the year before. Unfortunately, the finish line he was moving toward with such clarity was not, as we believed, an independent life in a dorm room at the University of Arizona while earning a degree in his beloved computer science. Instead, it was a plan that would end in his own death, and those of so many others.
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Things have been really happy this summer….Dylan is yukking it up and having a great time with friends.
—Journal entry, July 1997
The summer between Dylan’s sophomore and junior years was low-key. There was, however, one disturbing incident, and it involved Eric Harris.
Dylan hadn’t played soccer since kindergarten, but he decided to join the team Eric played for that summer, and they gave him a shot although he had no experience and few skills. We were pleased to hear he was joining the team, as soccer wouldn’t strain the arm he’d injured pitching. Plus, we admired his willingness to try a sport he hadn’t played in years.
Dylan wasn’t a great athlete—he was strong, but lacked agility and the coordination to manage his long, gangly limbs. He did not play soccer particularly well, but he attended practice faithfully. When the team made the playoffs, Tom and I came out to watch. Dylan played poorly, and the team lost.
Still sweaty, Eric and Dylan came over to where we were standing with the Harrises. Before we could congratulate them on a good effort, Eric began to scream. Spittle flying from his mouth, he lashed out at Dylan, ranting about his poor performance. Chattering parents and boys from both teams fell silent and stared.
Eric’s parents flanked him and guided him off the field as Tom, Dylan, and I drifted slowly, in stunned humiliation, toward our own car. I couldn’t hear what the Harrises were saying to Eric, but they appeared to be trying to settle him down. Dylan walked between Tom and me, silent and impassive.
I was shocked by the sudden inappropriateness of the display, and by the extremity of Eric’s rage. Dylan’s utter lack of affect alarmed me too; he had to be wounded, though he revealed nothing. My heart ached for him. I wanted to hug him, but he was fifteen years old and surrounded by his team. I couldn’t embarrass him further.
As soon as we got inside the car, though, I said, “Man! What a jerk! I can’t believe Eric!” As Tom started the car, Dylan stared out the window with a blank expression on his face. His calm in the face of Eric’s freak-out seemed unnatural, and I hoped he’d allow himself to acknowledge anger or humiliation as we drove away, but he did not.
I pressed him, wishing he’d blow off steam. “Didn’t it hurt your feelings, to have him act like that? I’d be incredibly upset if a friend treated me that way.” Dylan was still looking out the window, and his expression didn’t change when he answered me: “Nah. That’s just Eric.”
Tom, I could tell, was fuming. Dylan, on the other hand, appeared detached, as if he’d already shrugged it off. How fragile must Eric’s ego be, to be that upset about losing a dumb soccer game? I was more embarrassed for him than I was for Dylan; the tantrum had made Eric seem like a much younger child.
Over the course of the drive home, I kicked into my Mom Rescue Mode. As if I knew anything about it at all, I suggested various ways Dylan could fix his soccer game. I thought I was probably making his humiliation worse, but I couldn’t stop myself. I told him that if I’d learned anything in my years of being chosen last for every team in high school, it was that the best players tended to go after the ball as if their lives depended on it. The people who won were usually the ones who wanted it most.
Dylan said nothing, and I wound down. At the next game, the last of the season, he surprised us by playing better than he’d ever played before, charging to gain control of the ball. They lost, but Dylan’s coach praised his improvement, and he seemed more at ease with himself. Foolishly, I thought my advice might have helped a little, and Tom and I were both pleased to see that Eric showed no more evidence of poor sportsmanship.
Tom was furious with Eric for screaming. He never did entirely forgive him, but did not forbid the relationship. Dylan, we thought, could handle himself. In hindsight, of course, I wish we had been brutal in our separation of the two boys.
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Losses and other events—whether anticipated or actual—can lead to feelings of shame, humiliation, or despair and may serve as triggering events for suicidal behavior. Triggering events include losses, such as the breakup of a relationship or a death; academic failures; trouble with authorities, such as school suspensions or legal difficulties; bullying; or health problems. This is especially true for youth already vulnerable because of low self-esteem or a mental disorder, such as depression. Help is available and should be arranged.
—American Association of Suicidology
As soon as Dylan’s junior year started, the whole family was bombarded by problems.
The first few months of Byron’s experiment in independence were hard to watch. I reassured myself by thinking about Erma Bombeck’s statement about her own boys: they lived like hamsters. Still, I worried. At least I knew he was getting two or three decent meals a week. He came to us most Sunday evenings for dinner, and always left with a bag of hearty leftovers.
Byron’s diet and housekeeping abilities were the least of our worries about him. That fall, he weathered one crisis after another. First, a car sideswiped his while he was waiting at an intersection. His injuries were minor; nevertheless, it was scary, and his car was totaled. He continued to cycle through a succession of menial jobs. He’d often quit them for trivial reasons, like not wanting to get up early, or to wear the uniform. When he could afford to pay his bills, he’d sometimes forget.
I had a fundamental belief in Byron’s goodness, as I did in Dylan’s. “He’ll get it together,” I often reassured Tom. But when every phone call brought news of a fresh setback, even I couldn’t help wondering if Byron was ever going to settle down.