When you’re suicidal, you’re not thinking of who is going to clean up the mess. You’re not thinking of who’s going to find you, go through your stuff, and examine the details. You don’t think of who you’re leaving behind or how they’re going to deal with the loss of you. You don’t care about the mess you’re leaving because you believe YOU ARE the mess.

It was around this time last year Zach texted me at 4am, telling me about yet another fight his then wife and him had gotten into. This wasn’t news or surprising to me anymore, but clearly this fight was the final straw for her. She had left him, and in the next days to come it would be made more clear as to why and what the next phase was going to be. I held Zach’s hand through every step of the way through December. Text messages, late night meetings, rant after rant after rant. When he trashed his apartment and shattered the pictures on the wall, I helped him clean up and I took one painting in particular to repair. Little did I know this painting would later be used as an icon to his memorial, I am so glad I saved that picture. I sat and listened, comforted him in the only ways I knew how. We opened up to each other about deep dark demons and feelings of isolation from the world. You know, seemingly normal topics for 20 something year olds going through hell. I kept telling him “this too shall pass” and “you’ll come out on top of this” and “you can’t see it now, but this is a blessing in disguise.” He kept telling me to go back to bed, go back home, not to worry about him. “Don’t let me be a burden to you” he would say. I assured him he wasn’t, and assured him that his well being meant more to me than a good night’s sleep in the moment. I reminded him that half our friendship was spent watching sunrises together anyway, so what was the difference.

Months passed with many ups and downs, twists and turns moving into dark moments mixed with high feelings of change and optimism. Moments that felt like growth. Moments that I learned later were just acceptance. A dark moment turned into a suicide attempt early in January. His “wife” called me one evening telling me I needed to go check on him, that she was worried and he was being crazy. You see, my husband, Jeremy (one of his best friends of nearly 20 years), and I had just moved 2 apartment complexes down from him. Partly to be close to him, partly to stay close to my mother after my father had passed away not even 8 months earlier. His wife knew that I lived the closest, and had the most contact with Zach through this whole drama. So I rushed over to find Zach safe, on the phone with his very angry and worried older brother, confessing his suicidal thoughts and inner demons. I took him out of his apartment, distracted him a little with mutual friends and video games. And as I took him back to my house to keep an eye on him and make sure he was safe, I pulled the car over. We were finally alone in the night and I just burst into angry tears. I begged him to never do that again and to please call me or ANYONE. He cried, apologized, and placated me. We went on with the night.

In the weeks that followed his older brother came down to try to change his life. We all saw positive changes in him. But when his brother left to go back to his family, something else changed. In his “quest” for sobriety and life style changes, he pushed his friends away that wanted to help. When we would deny him the things that he had been trying to avoid, he would get angry or withdraw from us. And no one wanted him to be alone, sober or not. It was in these 2 weeks that if I could go back, I would have called his mother. I would have called his brothers. I would have reached out to his second family of friends in North Carolina. I would have rallied the troops. But it all happened so fast, and he lied to us all about his mental state and clarity. Even though there was aggression about his addictions, things seemed normal. Zach was always in control of his actions. He was always a pretty chill guy, not causing uproars and generally staying pretty level-headed. In retrospect, he was actually thinking more clearly than ever. When a suicidal person makes the decision to end their life, it doesn’t happen overnight. There is always a plan, and his plan was clear: make sure everyone thinks I’m okay and we can all go back to normal, so no one comes running.

The last week of his life was thought out. He wrote music. He reached out to old friends and family to tell them he loved them and was okay. He partied. He revisited old feelings for past loves. He wrote more music. And on February 14th the night came. Nursing a hangover together, we sat and watched Kung Fu movies, something we always loved doing together. And for the first time in my entire friendship with Zach, I valued a good night’s sleep over spending time with him. I was passing out on his couch and he woke me up to tell me to go home, go back to bed, and give Jeremy a big hug and kiss for him. We hugged and kissed goodbye, he looked me dead in the eye and told me that he was lucky to have my friendship and to know me in general. He told me he loved me. He thanked for me being such a good friend. He told me how beautiful he thought I was and that he felt honored over the past couple months that people had mistaken us for a couple in public numerous times. I laughed, smiled, and thought nothing of it. Wishing him a good night’s sleep, I went home to Jeremy, fulfilled my promise of a hug and a kiss, and went to bed.

The night of the 13th, we had a conversation about his suicide attempt the month prior. I revisited my angry tears and told him how scared I was that night as I ran up the stairs to his door, hoping I wasn’t going to find the worst. He grabbed my shoulders and with tears in his eyes he promised me, “I would never do that to you. And I’m so sorry I put you through that. I promise that will never happen again.” We spent the rest of the night being pretty damn sentimental and laughing and crying over silly things.

On the 15th while helping another friend set up her 30th birthday party, I got a call and a dozen text messages from his wife. She was worried again, and was getting threats of suicide from Zach, again. I was confused because the previous week had seemingly gone so well, but I drove to his apartment. He wouldn’t answer his phone so I called Jeremy, who called Zach’s father. We were all 3 rushing there with the intent to have him baker acted or get him help. I got there first. I ran up the stairs, scared that I would find the worst, only to find a key left in his apartment door. I opened the door and found my dear friend dead in the storage closet.

His promise from 48 hours ago rang in my ears, my own screams rang in my ears, my eyes felt hot and my heart literally felt like it was being ripped from my chest. I kicked a hole in his wall. I scared the shit out of his poor cats. I held his lifeless hands and stared at his lifeless, still beautiful face. I screamed and cried some more. I found the note and wanted to burn it. I wanted to burn the whole building down. I hoped my screaming would wake him, but he had been there for hours. I saw the 18 empty beers, the empty bottle of pills, and the half smoked pack of cigarettes. I called my husband to tell him his best friend of 20 years had killed himself. After I called the police, I went back inside for one last look. I propped the door open to the closet so it would stop hitting his body from the cross breeze in his home. I gathered the note, looked at his laptop with the page on cremation pricing and what to do with remains, and continued to sit outside. It was like a bomb went off. My ears were ringing as the police crew ran upstairs. My ears were ringing when my husband ran upstairs and I tried to pull him away not to look inside. He did anyway. The ringing in my ears stopped when his brother called me and his voice broke. It stopped completely when his mother screamed into the phone “Why Katie, why” and when his father fell to his knees screaming “my baby…” in the parking lot.

These noises replayed in my ears for hours that turned into days, which turned into months. The haunting sounds of grief. There isn’t a day that goes by that there isn’t at least one memory of that weekend. Whether it’s the good memories of laughing at Kung Fu movies, or the sad memories of his family crushed in the parking lot waiting for his body to be removed.

I was the last person we all know to physically see Zach alive, and the first person to see him dead. I helped his family clean out his apartment. I took care of and then relocated his cats. I later finished the cleaning job with a couple mutual friends. I hoarded and stashed a bunch of his belongings and eventually mailed them out to more mutual friends. I spent time with his family, helped set up both of his memorial parties. I even talked to his wife numerous times. I felt like I owed everyone something for not being able to save him. The guilt became unbearable. My regrets became overwhelming. I replayed our last few months together constantly. I sketched his face in drawing books and listened to his music. I spent hours on the phone with friend after friend explaining the whole thing. The guilt and remorse spilled into every aspect of my life. My job suffered, my mental state suffered, my relationship suffered. I suffered. Feelings of grief for my father resurfaced completely. I had lost 2 very important men in my life pretty much back to back, not to mention many other family members in that short time. My father died in my arms, and then Zach completely slipped through my fingers. I began (and still have) symptoms of PTSD. Every time I walked into someone’s house, and don’t hear immediate signs of life, I 100% assume I’m going to find them dead. I have flashes of people I love and what they would look like dead so I can somehow prepare myself for finding them. My dreams at night take very strange turns. I used to dream about Zach all the time when he was alive, and I did for a little after he died. But I don’t anymore.

These past 9-10 months have been a complete blur. I feel like a stranger to myself and yet completely aware of my very essence. I have been saturated with feelings in every direction. I have stopped blaming myself for not being able to save him. I don’t feel AS responsible. But the regret of keeping quiet still haunts me. That I do feel responsible for. He confided in me the most in the last few months of his life, and I didn’t really do anything about it. I will live with that for the rest of my life. I feel honored that his family still keeps in contact with me. I am glad most of his friends and our mutual ones don’t blame me for what happened, and if they do they don’t say it out loud. I am so glad we have each other to remind ourselves of him. He was such a fantastic individual. We were all lucky to have him around, to be burdened by him. We all fell in love with the mess that was his life. I wish I could go back and say more. I wish I had not wasted the opportunities we had spending time together joking and picking on each other so much. I would have been more real, more honest, and more heartfelt. What I’ve learned is to not miss those opportunities with others now. This life is short, whether you end it yourself or not. We’re all going to die. We’ll all see Zach again someday. I know now that his message and life purpose was Unity. We’ve all come together over him. And we should all continue to come together for others so when we do finally die, there’s no regrets. Zach lived and died without fear of convictions. We could all stand to learn from that. Some days are easier than others, and on my hard days I am reminded of Zach. I am reminded to just love, and let go.

Don’t let go of your life. Don’t let go of the ones who love you. Let go of the shit that holds you down. Let go of thoughts of worthlessness. Realize that you are worth something to everyone you meet. And if the ones still here don’t give you a reason to stay, be selfish. Stay for yourself. Breathe and be grateful for this life. Challenge yourself, prove yourself wrong. Create something. Your energy bleeds into everything you come in contact with, dead or alive. Make it a positive impact.

Impact of Suicide: Katie Ragan