Epilogue
The year after Meg died, we laid her to rest.
We have one more service. There are no candles at this one, no “Amazing Grace,” not even a religious officiate. But there will be Meg. Joe and Sue had her cremated, and now her ashes will be scattered in the various places she loved. They struck a deal with the Catholic cemetery to give her a grave there, so long as there wasn’t a body.
Today we’re going to let some of her go in the hills of Pioneer Park. Her friends from town will be here, along with several of the Seattle people, and, of course, the friends from Cascades.
Alice picked me up in the dorm and drove up with me last night, and Tricia welcomed me home as if I’d been gone two years rather than two months. Since I’ve been at school, she’s texted me practically every day. (Raymond is history, but his texting legacy remains.) But she seems glad I did it, took the leap and applied for (begged for) mid-term admission at the University of Washington. “I won’t be eligible for any scholarships, and probably not even many grants. I’ll have to take out loans,” I told her.
“We’ll both take out loans,” she said. “There’re worse things to have hanging over you than debt.”
x x x
Alice fusses over what to wear, regretting now that she didn’t bring anything black, no matter how much I reassure her that it’s not that kind of service. We’ve all worn enough black. Even Tricia scored a new dress off a sale rack; it’s turquoise.
“What are you wearing?” she asks me.
“Probably jeans.”
“You can’t wear jeans!”
“Why not?”
Alice has no answer for that. “When is everyone else getting here?”
“Richard got in last night. Ben left early this morning. He’s meeting us at the park. He said Harry’s catching a ride with him.”
“I never see Harry anymore. He has an internship with Microsoft so he’s never on campus.”
“I know. We talked last week.” Harry had called to tell me that amid all the scrutiny, the Final Solution boards shut down. That was the one concrete thing I managed to accomplish from all this. The police had questioned Bradford Smith, subpoenaed his computer, even. I liked to picture his look of indignation, crumbling into fear, when the cops knocked on his door, when they walked away with his files. He must’ve known that it was me behind this, the sunless planet who turned out to have some light left in her after all.
But there were no charges filed. Bradford had been too careful, hadn’t broken any laws. He’d used other people’s words, links to anonymous websites. Not enough tracked back to him.
Before the boards got shut down, I occasionally went on them and checked for All_BS, but I didn’t find him. He could’ve changed his username, or changed to a different group, but somehow I don’t think so. For now, at least, I believe I’ve silenced him.
Joe and Sue met with attorneys who said that I might have gathered enough evidence for a civil suit. They’re discussing it, but Sue says she doesn’t have the stomach for the fight. It won’t bring Meg back, and right now, she says, we need not vengeance but forgiveness. I’ve thought a lot about Jerry’s sermon lately. I think Sue may be right. Though Bradford Smith isn’t the one any of us needs to forgive.
Tricia comes to my door, all dolled up in the new dress that she’ll freeze in and in heels that will get muddy on the trails. She looks pretty. She glances at Alice, she looks at me, she looks at the picture of Meg, the one of her and me as kids at the rodeo that I’ve left up on my wall. “Let’s do this thing,” she says.
x x x
We climb the trails of Pioneer Park into the small clearing in the woods. In the distance, I hear Samson barking. Rounding the corner, I spot Joe and Sue talking to people they’ve met in their suicide survivor group. The Seattle musicians are tuning their instruments. Scottie is playing Hacky Sack with Richard and Harry. Sharon Devonne and some other people Meg knew from school are talking to Mrs. Banks and her husband. Alexis and her fiancé, Ryan, now back from Afghanistan, each hold a hand of their little girl, Felicity. I’m a little surprised to see Tammy Henthoff here, standing alone. She catches my eye and we nod.
Ben is off to the side, looking down the hill. I follow his gaze to the rocket ship, and at the same time, we turn to look at each other. I don’t quite know how so much gets communicated in one look, but it does. Complicated and confused in a wholly fucked-up way is a good way to describe it. But maybe that’s just how love is.
Ready? he mouths.
I nod. I am ready. Soon the musicians will gather and play the Bishop Allen song about fireflies and forgiveness and I will eulogize my friend and we will scatter a bit of her to the wind. And then we will go down the hill, past the rocket ship, to the cemetery, to her grave, where a marker will say:
Megan Luisa Garcia
I WAS HERE
Author’s Note
Many years ago I wrote an article about suicide in which I interviewed friends and family members of young women who had taken their lives. That was when I “met??? Suzy Gonzales, though I didn’t really meet her because she had already been dead for a few years. Listening to friends and relatives talk about Suzy, I kept forgetting I was reporting a piece on suicide. The portrait they painted was of a bright, creative, charismatic, nonconformist nineteen-year-old—the kind of girl I might have interviewed because she was publishing her debut novel, or releasing her first album, or directing a cool indie movie. On the surface, she didn’t strike me—or the people I interviewed—as someone who would kill herself.
Except for this one detail: Like every other young woman I’d profiled in that article, Suzy suffered from depression. When she started to have suicidal thoughts, she reached out for support, going to her university’s health center, but ultimately placing her trust with a suicide “support” group, which both applauded her impulse to end her life and gave her advice on how to do it.
I never really stopped thinking about Suzy, about the article I might’ve written about her—the book she might’ve written, the band she might’ve fronted, the movie she might’ve directed—had she gotten proper treatment for the condition that had put her in such pain that ending her life seemed like the only way to relieve it.
More than a decade later, Suzy was the spark of inspiration for the fictional character of Meg. And from Meg came Cody, I Was Here’s heroine. Cody is a young woman decimated by her best friend’s death, left raw and grieving, full of sadness and anger and regret and questions that will never be answered. Cody and Meg are fictional, but it doesn’t stop me from wondering: if Meg knew what her suicide would do to her best friend, to her family, would she have done it? Or from wondering if in the depths of her depression, Meg could even fathom such a ripple effect.
According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, studies have consistently suggested that the overwhelming majority of people who take their own lives—90 percent or more—had a mental disorder at the time of their deaths. Among people who die by suicide, the most common disorder is depression, though bipolar disorder and substance abuse are also risk factors. Often, these illnesses are undiagnosed or untreated at the time of death.
Note that I’m calling them illnesses. The same way that pneumonia is an illness. But with mental disorders, it gets thorny, because “it’s in your head.” Except it’s not. Researchers have shown a link between a risk of suicide and changes in brain chemicals called neurotransmitters, like serotonin. This physiological condition causes a mental (and physical) reaction that can make you feel truly dreadful, and, like pneumonia, if left untreated, in extreme cases, can be fatal.
Thankfully, there are treatments, usually a mix of mood-stabilizing medications and therapy. Refusing treatment for depression or a mood disorder is akin to getting a pneumonia diagnosis and refusing to take antibiotics and go on bed rest. And doing what Meg and Suzy did? That would be like getting a pneumonia diagnosis and then going online for help that advises you to smoke a pack of cigarettes a day while running in the rain. Would you ever follow that kind of advice?
Not every person who suffers from depression will be suicidal. The vast majority won’t. And not everyone who has a thought about what it would be like to die is suicidal. When Richard says, “Everyone goes there,” I think he is right. I think everyone has days or weeks so lousy, they fantasize about simply not existing. This is different from having suicidal thoughts taking over your head, having the thoughts become plans, the plans become attempts. (For a list of specific warning signs and risk factors, go here: http://www.afsp.org/understanding-suicide/warning-signs-and-risk-factors.)
Like Cody, like Richard, I have gone there. I’ve had my days. But I’ve never seriously considered suicide. Which isn’t to say my life hasn’t been touched by it. Someone very close to me attempted suicide long ago. He got help, and went on to live a long and happy life. If suicide is a sliding door of might-have-beens, in Suzy and Meg’s case, I see the ghosts of their lives unlived, and in this other case, I see the flipside: a happy, full life that might never have been.
Life can be hard and beautiful and messy, but hopefully, it will be long. If it is, you will see that it’s unpredictable, and that the dark periods come, but they abate—sometimes with a lot of support—and the tunnel widens, allowing the sun back in. If you’re in the dark, it might feel like you will always be in there. Fumbling. Alone. But you won’t—and you’re not. There are people out there to help you find the light. Here’s how to find them.
If you are in pain and needing help, the first step is to tell someone. Parents, older siblings, aunts, uncles—find any adult whom you trust: a minister, a school counselor, a doctor, a nurse, a family friend. This is a first step, not a final one. It’s not enough to confide in someone. Once you tell someone, he or she can help you find the professional help and support you need.
If you cannot reach out to a responsible adult, or are unsure what to do next for yourself or a loved one, the National Foundation for Suicide Prevention has a crisis hotline for immediate support: 800-273-TALK.
The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention’s website (http://www.afsp.org) has a wealth of information, from risk factors and warning signs to important resources for survivors of suicide, including information on finding a support group.
LGBT youth account for a disproportionate number of suicides. If you are gay, lesbian, trans, bi, or queer, and are thinking of ending your own life, contact the Trevor Project (www.thetrevorproject.org). Their 24/7 hotline number is 866-488-7386.
To learn more about Suzy Gonzales, go to http://www.suzys law.com.
Acknowledgments
This is the place where writers tend to thank all the people who helped get a book made. But there’s a difference between thanking—a show of gratitude—and acknowledging—a recognition of a contribution. So this time, I’m going to try to stick to the true spirit of the word and acknowledge those responsible for bringing I Was Here to life.
I acknowledge Michael Bourret, whose advocacy, support, candor, and friendship makes me brave—and makes me want to be braver.
I acknowledge the entire team at Penguin Young Readers Group. This is our fifth book, and seventh year, together. At this point it feels like a marriage, albeit one with many sister wives (and even a few husbands): Erin Berger, Nancy Brennan, Danielle Calotta, Kristin Gilson, Anna Jarzab, Eileen Kreit, Jen Loja, Elyse Marshall, Janet Pascal, Emily Romero, Leila Sales, Kaitlin Severini, Alex Ulyett, Don Weisberg, and last but certainly not least, my publisher, editor, and friend, the wonderful Ken Wright.
I acknowledge Tamara Glenny, Marjorie Ingall, Stephanie Perkins, and Maggie Stiefvater, for reading drafts at critical times, and offering wise, thoughtful, and expansive feedback.
I acknowledge my Brooklyn Lady Writer? friends, with whom I work, drink (coffee mostly), plot, and dream: Libba Bray, E. Lockhart, and Robin Wasserman. Tip of the hat to Sandy London, even though he’s not a lady, and to Rainbow Rowell, Nova Ren Suma, and Margaret Stohl even though they’re not Brooklyn.
I acknowledge my Brooklyn non-writer friends who help me keep it together: Ann Marie, Brian and Mary Clarke, Kathy Kline, Isabel Kyriacou, and Cameron and Jackie Wilson.
I acknowledge Jonathan Steuer for helping me to sound mildly proficient in computer geekery.
I acknowledge Justin Rice, Christian Rudder, and Corin Tucker for first inspiring me with their music, and then again with their generosity.
I acknowledge Lauren Abramo, Deb Shapiro, and Dana Spector for getting my work to a wider audience.
I acknowledge Tori Hill for being a magical elf in the night who gets things done.
I acknowledge the greater YA community—authors, librarians, booksellers. To quote the great Lorde: “We’re on each other’s team.”
I acknowledge Mike and Mary Gonzales for their grace and generosity.
I acknowledge Suzy Gonzales, the spark of this book. I would’ve preferred to know her, not the character I invented because of her. Suzy’s parents tell me that in life she always tried to help people. In death, too, perhaps.
I acknowledge all of the women and men who have struggled with depression or mood disorders or mental illness and suicide, and have found a way to cope, and better yet, to thrive.
I acknowledge all the men and women who have struggled with depression or mood disorders or other mental illness and suicide, who have not found a way to cope, and who have succumbed.
I acknowledge the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (www.afsp.org) for tipping the scales in favor of the thriving, and for helping us to understand this complicated condition better.
I acknowledge my parents, siblings, in-laws, nieces, and nephew for all their myriad forms of support.
I acknowledge Willa and Denbele for their ferocity and their love.
I acknowledge Nick, for being here, with me.