#findingmywayout

I was 8 years-old.

It was springtime in Indiana.

I had a best friend, his name was Stephen.

I didn’t hangout with many people back then, I suppose I don’t now   either, but we were always together; from the time the sun rose over the  Wabash River, while it followed its celestial sphere, and  until it   vanished far below the corn fields on the edge of town.  We had another friend, who was a couple years older than us, whom we called Dusty.

Stephen  cared more about others than probably any person I’ve ever met.  He   wasn’t a big guy, but he wouldn’t sit idly by while others were picked   on.  Stephen stood up for others at all times.  Stephen was the kind of person  every father dreams that their sons will be.  Stephen was full   of life and love.

Stephen’s parents were divorced.   Stephen went to spend the day at his father’s house while Dusty and I  anxiously awaited his return.  We had big plans that I can’t remember at  this point in my life.

I was at Dusty’s house.  We were on the  porch waiting for Stephen to get back, and the hours started to pass  by.  The phone finally rang in the late afternoon.  Was it the call we  were waiting for?  Dusty’s parents opened the door and told me I needed  to go home.  Confused, I shared a look with Dusty and started to walk  toward my house.  Disappointed, it seemed like our plans would have to  wait for another day.  I got home and I remember being on the porch when  I saw Dusty and his parents walking toward my house.  I don’t think his  parents had ever been to my home before.  My mind started to wonder.   They were dressed in their Sunday best.  Dusty wouldn’t even make eye  contact with me as they climbed the stairs onto the porch.

“Are your parents home?” they asked.  I went inside and got my  dad.  “You should probably wait out here,” Dusty’s father said as they  all went inside.  My mind is going crazy at this point.  The only  conclusion I can come to is Dusty and I did something terrible and his  parents found out.  I scanned my memory, but no situations came to mind…  that was the only thing that even made sense though.  A few minutes  later they emerged and Dusty whispered “I’m sorry” as they somberly  passed by and strolled back toward their house.

I went  inside and my parents were in the kitchen.  I remember they had  something to tell me and that I should probably sit down.  My stress  levels started to rise, I knew I was in trouble, yet I hadn’t done  anything wrong.  

I’m sorry I have to tell you this…there was an accident today…Stephen was hurt.

What do you mean?  Is he going to be okay.

I’m sorry he isn’t going to get better.  He passed away this afternoon.

I  immediately felt a force flood my body.  The hair on my arms raised   and my heart raced, oh did it race.  My thoughts became distorted and I couldn’t move.  I felt my skin burn.  I could feel it  from my fingertips and toes all the way through my neck just flooding into my mind.  I  stood still and tried to maintain my composure as I rubbed my fingers  through my hair. I was feeling something I’d never felt and couldn’t  explain.  It was almost like I had extreme anger…yet I wasn’t angry, not  even the slightest bit.  I remember I asked for clarification because I  couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

Are you okay?

I’m fine, I said.  I sat down on the bench to process what was going on.  I wondered if I should be crying…because I wasn’t.

That’s my last memory from that day.

I  slept in a closet, in the spare bedroom.  I thought if I could hide   from the reality of the situation everything would be back to normal the  next day.  I awoke from a restless nights sleep.  I remember tossing   and turning while dreams ran through my head.  In my dreams I relived   the events of the day before, only in my dreams Stephen appeared to tell  me it was all okay.  I was disoriented and confused when I woke in the  dark windowless room.  I didn’t know how I ended up where I was, and the  entire previous day seemed like a nightmare that replayed in my mind.  I  laid there for a few moments trying to collect my thoughts.  I was sure  it was all just a dream.  I got up and walked downstairs.  I needed to  head over to Stephen’s to tell him about my dream and make sure he was  alright.  My mom was in the kitchen making breakfast.  As my hand  touched the door handle, she asked where I was going.

I’m going over to see Stephen, I replied.  

“Oh honey…” my mom said as hugged and consoled me.  

I don’t remember much from the day I realized I’d never seen my friend again.

I  remember laying in bed night after night thinking about Stephen.  I had  thoughts that I couldn’t seem to escape from.  The first was the   reality that I couldn’t cry for Stephen, about the situation, or the   fact I’d never see him again.  What was wrong with me?  Why couldn’t I   cry.  What kind of monster loses his best friend and can’t even shed a   tear?!  I tore into my myself.  I hated myself because of it.  I had to be a monster right?  How could Stephen die and I  just get on with my life like nothing happened?  I tried to think about how I’d never see him  again… I tried to think about how his mom felt…I tried to think about  how my parents would feel if I died…How would I feel if my parents  died.  Nothing worked.

The next day at school we  spent the day sharing stories, praying, and going through Stephen’s  things trying to find closure with the situation.  I looked around and  saw the tears in their eyes, from people that I thought “barely” knew  him… Here I was unable to express my grief in what I thought was an  appropriate way.  The funeral was much the same.  I remember a girl  named Hope screaming and crying out so loudly over my left shoulder.   I  sat there on the floor stone faced trying to make the tears come.  Yet,  I was unable to feel much more than what I perceived to be anger…But I  wasn’t angry, not even in the slightest.  I didn’t know what I was.   This made me feel worse about myself as nearly everyone in the funeral  home had tears by the end.  Everyone lost it when my dad spoke of seeing  Stephen just days early.

Stephen called out,  “Hey, Mike, watch this!” and he proceeded to flip through the air on the  trampoline.  Something about the hand motions that accompanied the  story have been burnt deeply in my memory.  This encounter took place on  the trampoline next door.  We shared a driveway.  This was literally  feet away from my backdoor.  I relieved this moment every time I walked  outside.  Stephen, I can still see you on that trampoline, living every moment like it was your last.

My  parents tried to get me to go to therapy and tried to get me to talk   about it.  I didn’t want to.  I’ve never been one to ask for help or   share feelings.  It’s just not in my nature.  Honestly, I don’t know if it would have helped.  I was pretty sure if the psychologist got into my  head she’d think I was evil for not being overcome with sadness.

I  was angry at God for allowing this to happen to someone so young.  I   was angry that Stephen died and not me.  I used to lay in bed begging   God to change things, and let me take Stephen’s place.  I couldn’t even cry over his death, so, surely I was far more deserving of death than   Stephen was.  Kids don’t die at 8 years old!

I’d  known him to be someone I wanted to be like.  He was so confident and  kind.   Just and caring.  He always worried about you far more than he  ever worried about himself.  It didn’t matter if you were friends or  not, he was just that kind of person.

I used to walk  down his street.  A lot.  Looking toward his front door…I hoped to see  him inside.  I hoped he’d be there staring back at me.  I just wanted to   wake up, ending this nightmare that was now my life.  Unfortunately, it was real.

As time went on, people moved on.  The  school let us plant a memorial garden with a tree.  We wore his number  on our little league Jerseys, though only for the year. Things went  pretty much back to normal, yet my reality is they were changed forever.   Stephen just seemed to fade away from everyone’s mind.  Not mine.

I  went to his graveside only twice that I can remember.  And only once   after his tombstone was finished.  His face etched beautifully into the stone… I didn’t know how to feel about everything.  In some ways I still  don’t.

Secretly, Good Riddance by Green Day is my  favorite song.  I suppose it always will be.  You used to sing it when  we were hanging out.  It played at your funeral.  It was your favorite  song and to this day I stop when I hear it to think of you.  I sing  along in my head, and I think about shooting baskets behind my garage,  playing PlayStation (especially Tomb Raider), and walking around Clinton  together.

6 Months after your death I finally  shed a tear for you, if you could even call it that.  I thought that  would solve my issues.  It didn’t.  I couldn’t shake the feeling I was  evil for taking so long to cry for my best friend’s death.  I believed  what my head told me.  Almost 20 years later I’m still not sure I’ve completely  moved on, but I’m well on my way.

Your mom handed  out your last school picture.  I keep it in a small gold frame.  I kept  it in my sock drawer, so I’d see your face everyday.  In some way I  thought if I held onto your memory I could make up for not responding to  your death the way I thought I should.  You’re long from forgotten.  I  still think about you daily.  I just hope I’m living my life in a way…making enough of a difference… all to justify your life ending so soon and mine continuing on.