Jagged Little Pill

“I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life, but that great consciousness of life.”

~Jack Kerouac

It's weird to know exactly what I am going to write about. Usually it's 'C'mon Jerry, think think think think!' It's never just do. That was until Wednesday. My thoughts haven't stopped, not even the marijuana and booze calmed them down. I then realized that maybe that wasn't the way to go about things. Don't drown yourself in the things that possibly destroyed the life that you are mourning. I couldn't help it.

Wednesday I got drunk. The sweet taste of the Captain on my tongue, sliding down my throat and warming the insides of my body. I was lost. We all were and I could tell that I wasn't the only one feeling it, even if no one else said it. I wanted to cry, I could feel it coming but no tears would moisten my eyes. Instead I looked straight at the washed out curtains hiding the sad face of the window. Had this all really happened? Was this all a dream?

My thoughts wouldn't stop, I didn't know what to do. So I drank, but not even the company of friends pleased me at that moment. All I wanted right then was to be with him, Mike. I wanted to be talking with him right then about how I was lost and that I needed to find my way but I didn't know how. I wanted to tell him thank you for listening to me while I babbled on about boys, drugs, sex, and drama.

I could hear his gentle voice, which contrasted with his tough looking exterior.

“Don't worry Jerry,” he would say, his goofy smile across his face. “You need another shot is what you need.”

Then I would proceed to take another one and possibly one more with him. Instead I was taking a shot for him, not with him. It was simple to see that no one wanted to really be there, yet we all couldn't be alone, even though we didn't know what to think about the whole situation.

I could still remember gasping for breath in the UC as I clicked a picture of Mike on Facebook. It lead me to his page which was flooded with wall posts by people from Bozeman. I had read them all about three or four times to think, Oh my god, this isn't just a hardcore “trolling” scheme. Mike is... dead.

I made frantic phone calls, each time hearing the same response. Silence. It was the one thing I didn't want to hear at that point in time. I wanted to hear their voices to know that it wasn't real, I wanted them to tell me, no he is fine I'm talking with him now. It wasn't the case. All I heard was the agonizing and dreaded silence of my friends who wanted to the same fake response as me.

Through-out the night, none of us could believe someone so close to us was gone. I was looking at it now from the other side. It brought to light all the things I was feeling before, but in a different perspective, a new side of things that I hadn't experienced before.

As I drank, I sat and watched, much like the wallflower that I am. It was easy, but hard to do. Watch as these people argued about suicide, getting more drunk so they could mask their sorrows. No one was going to cry in front of each other. We all had to be strong and be there when the next person needed us; we didn't want a repeat to happen.

I watched and saw how my friends were acting to such depressing news and I wanted to yell at all of them to just stop and be quiet. I wanted to tell them to stop being angry at Mike. It brought me back to that numbingly cold night on the bridge, where I was faced with two decisions: End my life and feel happier, or continue my life for my friends.

I wondered that on the old orange couch that looked like it was from a bad '70s television show. Did Mike feel like he had to choose? Did that bring him down further? Did he even actually kill himself? Questions went through my head and I got on to the different possibilities.

If he did kill himself, I know that he knew what he was doing. By taking mass amounts of pills, he would think it was poetic. Ending his life with the very thing he was once addicted to; giving into the succumb of his addictions and loosing himself in them. He was a rational thinker. Just like me that night on the bridge.

No matter how angry it made my friends, or how selfish it made me seem, I was perfectly rational in my decision to end my life that night. I wasn't crazy, I wasn't psychotic, I didn't want to be hooked on prescriptions for the rest of my life. I knew exactly what my intent on jumping from the bridge, and it wasn't to hurt myself, my friends or family. Ending my life would make me happy once and for all.

The thing is, I could see Mike doing it for that reason, he was always rationally thinking. About everything. He was always somehow still him, still raw, still a big ball of emotions that made sure everyone was alright. He wasn't happy, never really happy. You could always tell, especially with nights when he started drinking a lot or doing a bunch of club drugs.

I couldn't help but think about how the tables were turned, how things actually went after this because I never have been through it. Wednesday night was a new experience that made me look over my life, my decisions, the people I called my friends. We all had a ton of unresolved issues Wednesday night.

It wasn't until stumbling back to my dorm, feeling the warmth of the Captain still in me, not leaving my stomach any time soon, that it hit me. Mike was gone, and he wasn't just gone on a visit to someplace, I would never see him again. I wouldn't be able to talk about my sexuality with someone like I could with him, I would never see that goofy drunk smile again, I would never be able to hear his honest opinion on things. He was gone forever. No coming back.

I stopped, a tear rolled down my cheek followed by a dam of water pouring down my face. I wanted to scream but I didn't want to scare someone on accident. I wanted to yell and be angry my voice stuck. I couldn't help but be jealous. I needed to talk to Mike and tell him what I was thinking. In that walk of tears I confessed my heart to Mike. I told him how I needed him to help me through this, I needed to know that he was truly alright and happy.

It was right after I asked for some sign to show me that he was alright that in the silence of my walk back to my dorm that I heard a single bird chirp. Now, however cheesy that seems, but after reading 'Buckeyes' that I finally understood the ending of it. No matter how cliché it was, it was true. The narrator of that book knew that the hawk was his father. It was that moment when that single bird was chirping that I knew, I knew that it was Mike. He was telling me that he was okay and that things would be fine.

I woke up the next morning with the worst hangover in the world, but strangely I felt relieved. I didn't feel an overwhelming feeling of sadness for the loss of my good friend, but rather a sense of refreshment for him.

However, while I felt better about things, Sunday night rolled around. Our day for our own personal memorial service and get together. By seven that night about everyone showed up. Fitting just about twenty people into Devan's little house was enough to make us all go a little crazy.

The night though, which I stressed to everyone, was about Mike. It was not ourselves and not our drama between each other. It was our time to put away our differences and come together for Mike and we did.

It was good for everyone, to see each others feelings, to see that we could all put aside our differences just for that time being. We shared our stories about Mike, how we all thought he was one of the purest person in our group of friends, mostly because he would tell you his honest opinion and not care about how you felt about it.

“He gave his whole heart when you only gave part of yours.” Kat spoke up.

It was true and we all took a moment after that to gather our thoughts and to let it all sink in. Of course the night ended in drunken tears and beautiful memories clouded in guava flavored smoke. It was at that point where I think most of us got closure of Mike's passing.

I see now, the other side of all of this. If I would have gone that fateful night at the bridge, maybe Mike might have saved himself. Maybe he would still be alive today and that would be what matters the most. Everyone was right, Mike had the most pure and beautiful soul I've ever known. He always helped people, no matter what, and I feel like I should have talked to him more after he left. I know it's no one's fault but now I know I can't leave my friends right now. I have to help them through this and if there is one thing Mike taught me, it was to help your friends and fake it till you make it. It is now that I also understood what Jack Kerouac said about a man living on in us after he dies, because there is no doubt that Mike is in all of us right now, giving us the courage to bring ourselves out more, even if it is in a purple tele-tubby suit, riding a skate board and smoking a cigarette while trying to pick up chicks like him. No matter what it is, Mike will always be with us and is giving us the consciousness of life.