That Story I Was Going To Tell Ya...

Deeply personal, continue at your own risk...

Lyrics to that song I mentioned last night:
Rowing out into the air.
Taking blankets to the bay.
It's the same
And he was fine,
and, in the first place, he was around.
That was another country, that was another country.

I'm taking these dumb paper lanterns down.
Yards, no, miles they strung along.
And me with them.
And how was I supposed to know about that?
That was another country, that was another country

Are you alright, are you alright?
You are my friend, are you alright?…

I (re-)met this super-shy, quiet poet boy from Wyoming while I was in the MTC in October 1992. He was headed to Arizona and our district did teaching splits with his. While we were talking we realized we’d attended the same Shakespeare seminar, we liked many of the same writers, and had indeed met before (which made our paths crossing again seem more fateful). After we had gone our separate ways to our missions, I was happy and surpised to get a letter with some poetry and AZ photos enclosed from him. We carried on a great correspondence from then on, culminating in a proposal-by-mail that included a “promise ring.” This development made me a little uncomfortable. It semed like a natural progression, but kind of ---I dunno, premature? I mean, it wasn’t like I was going to be seeing other people while serving a mission. But I agreed to resume our relationship and plan for marriage after our missions with a goal to marry in February 1995. After that, we agreed to chill and focus on making the most of the time remaining on our missions.

Except it didn’t go that way. This man began to struggle, big time, in the field. While I was just hitting my stride and really getting into the rhythm and consecration of mission life, my friend was falling apart. The medication he had been taking to control his manic-depression stopped working rather abruptly right around my half-way mark. In his letters, he chronicled his struggles to stay in the field, to find a new psychiatrist and a new cocktail of prescriptions that would allow him to finish his mission . My heart was breaking for him—I was familiar with this struggle. My once-and-future boyfriend/ fiance from high school days was going through it when I left for the MTC; my BYU boyfriend who was at home waiting for me (unbeknownst to me at the time) had also struggled with depression so deep, he’d attempted to take his own life (and eventually succeeded). Red flags were flying, I truly mourned for him because I realized then what a high price he was paying for his creativity—the very thing that had attracted me to him came with a hefty side of mental illness.(By the way, this is one of my Big Questions for God. I can’t wait to ask him why creative genius usually comes with strings of chemical imbalance, manic depression, so much heartache. Maybe the answers will be obvious to me by then, but I really want toknow because it really makes me sad). It became clear by midsummer that he was not well at all, that he was not getting better, and he would be honorably released from his mission and head home to Wyoming.

I knew in my gut that I probably would never marry him at that point, but I still loved and cared for him and did not want to add to his heartache. One afternoon at a Sister’s Conference at the mission home, my president pulled me into his office. He asked me to tell him about this Elder, so I did. I told him that he wanted to get married, but I had some reservations due to the severity of his illness and I felt bad that I wasn’t “up to” being there for him the way he wanted me to. President then explained that my friend’s mission president had called him and told him that this Elder was going home, that he was very ill, and that I should know this. I replied that I DID know this, that I wasn’t surprised, but that I felt really bad for him. My President then asked me if I would accept some counsel from him. I said that I would. He then said, “The Lord wants you to know that this is a relationship that you cannot handle. This is a relationship that will only bring you sorrow.” I nodded. He continued by asking me if I could taper off my correspondence with him, and then when I got home, “give him a wide berth.” I asked what he meant by that, and he said, “Avoid getting involved with him again.” I said that I would. President said, "I don't know if you can. It will be hard."

I was crying a little by this point, but it wasn’t because I was sad to get this counsel—on the contrary, I was so touched that my Heavenly Father and my president cared enough to get this message to me. But I was so sad for my friend. He was so good—golden good—with so much potential, and I knew there was no way around hurting him. And I HATED that. However, from the very second my president uttered those words, I had every intention—a 100% commitment—to obey.

And I did. My friend continued to write me, but my letters dwindled down to a handful thereafter, to nothing after Christmas. He wrote to me of life at home in exruciating detail sometimes, which signaled to me that he had cycled back to being manic. And I could tell that he was frustrated with me—rightfully—but he seemed to understand my desire to focus on my mission and be obedient (I never told him what exactly my president said, but he realized soon enough that we were done). By the time I finished my mission we were out of touch and remained so forever.

I still have a soft, somewhat guilty spot in my soul for what happened between us, but I hadn’t “gone there” or even thought of him for years when last year, a poem he wrote for me slipped out of an old copy of the scriptures I had taken on my mission with me. I read it again and thought, I should google him and just try to find out where he ended up.

When I googled his very unusual name, the only thing relevant that came up was his obituary. And it wasn’t even an obit, really—just his name and some dates of his life and death and memorial. But undeniably him. He had died in Wyoming in 1994. This information was like a punch in the stomach, literally knocking air out of me for a moment. That little knot of guilt swelled in me with the horrifying thought, “What if he went home and felt so bad that he just took his own life the next summer? I added to that pain!” The date of his death was only a year after he had gone home from his mission. I felt sick. I needed to know what happened.

I typed his name into facebook and found a girl who seemed like she might be his sister. I sent a message explaining that I had been a friend of her brother’s and had just googled him and found out he died and aked if she would write back and share some more information with me. She did; I was right. He had driven his car up into the hills, rigged it up to asphyxiate himself with exhaust, and had just drifted off to sleep in the back seat. A hiker found him later. Heart-crushing, no? I admit, though, to feeling relieved when she told me that he had met and proposed to another girl in that year, and it was THAT break up that contributed to this final downward spiral. Small comfort.

While I was waiting to get all of this story, I was communicating with my Georgia who knows this sad side of mortality better than anyone should. Here’s a bit of our exchange:

GEO: I don't remember ever meeting X, but the story sounds familiar. So very sad. I'd be willing to bet your hunch is correct. I loved a mad artist too, for a few years. Only he'd tried to kill himself BEFORE meeting me… And another one too, who unfortunately succeeded. It's horrible stuff. I'm so glad I finally picked the right artist, one who's mad but not THAT kind of mad. Love you, James.

ME: Here is part of what X’s sister sent to me:

X had a major psychological condition. The kind they put people in institutions for. (pardon my spelling).

He got engaged and was really happy. Giddy. I was so happy for him. He deserved it. He decided that he was okay now and went off his meds cold turkey. He started acting crazy and his fiancee broke of the engagement.

He drove his car up to the mountains and set things up to axphisciate (I have no idea how to spell that) himself. He died in his sleep in the backseat of his car. I don't think he suffered any physical pain. It's hard to say.

A hiker found his body. It is horribly sad.

X off his meds is not X. My grandma was on her way to see him because he called her and told her he was loosing it and he was afraid. As always, he was trying to hold it together.

***
[heavy, heavy sigh] I can't help feeling crazy-sad, but also incredibly blessed and guided.

GEO: Poor, poor sweet baby. This rips my heart out. The sweet thing is knowing that he is wrapped up in love now, and that he is perfectly, generously, eternally understood and succored. The cross some people carry in life is so heavy. I'm sad for his family, and so so so so sorry for his fiancee. I hope she isn't losing it herself. What a burden. Those folks are all in my thoughts and prayers. And you are too. I'm awful glad you married Rich, the well and strong. (I mean, I know we've all got our "things," but some of us aren't coming apart at the seams.) This is a heartbreak I'm glad you haven't had to endure on such an intimate level. Love you, Jamie girl. xoxoxo

ME: You know, the lovely thing about Rich is that he IS so well and strong, and patient. I trust him like I've never trusted ANYONE, which has allowed me to be the crazy one for a while and work out all my "things." I could never have made it through the violent rollercoaster of childbirth and motherhood with anyone else, I just know it. And I thank Heavenly Father for His wisdom, for protecting me from myself and giving me something better than what I thought I wanted for myself. I am also thankful everyday for you, and good friends who coached me through that freaky decade without being judgmental, just cheering me on. Thanks for your patience and love--I know I was a mess when you met me, and you helped me grow up.
Hugs--I miss you.
***

Rowing out into the air
Driving home, home from the bay.
And we sang.
And he was fine
And what is more, he was around
That was another country, that was another country

But are you alright, are you alright?
You are still my friend, you didn't go out of my life