Don’t write it, I tell myself, it’ll be weird.
You were already asleep! Read more in the morning and try to get back to that place – you don’t get enough as it is.
And yet? The tears keep intermittently working their way out, usually just one or two at a time… and I start writing.
For the last six days or so, I have been remotely involved in and watching the search for Brogan Dulle. Though Brogan is just a distant relative of an acquaintance, I have gotten to know his mother and several cousins as a few thousand people in Cincinnati and beyond have mounted great efforts to find Brogan and bring him home.
Tonight, it was all but confirmed he has been found dead – in a vacant building right near his apartment.
Speculation is rampant, accusations and indignant remarks high. Why did it take so long? How dare we waste resources on a suicide? It never said suicide, it is clearly a murder in this town. Would-be murder mystery novelists come out of the woodwork and naive voices wail, “but there’s NO WAY _____”.
I lie here and cry. But why? I’m a mother, and of course burying our children is, I think, universally agreed upon as one of the worst possible things – no matter the age or reason.
It’s that, and so much more. Sometimes people get taken to “one of those neighborhoods” and forced to use and sell drugs (or themselves). It’s heartbreaking, as the world we live in is so utterly broken from the stain of sin.
Sometimes though? And I am by no means asserting this must be the case with this precious young boy (especially as the family is getting much of the news live with the rest of us – nauseating beyond belief, if you ask me)… Sometimes people hurt so bad they end their lives, with little or great intention. Good, well-rounded, absurdly-loved people. People who work with kids who admire them. People who light up a room and “know no strangers.” People whom those closest to would swear have absolutely nothing bothering them. Never seem to.
I know this first hand.
It’s not the fault of the people who “should have known something was wrong”. It’s not always the fault of their community for not loving them enough while they were alive.
I hate this, but I believe it: it sort of just is what it is. Depression, anxiety, mental illness – they know no bounds on this side of eternity.
I have no idea if Brogan Dulle took his own life, made a choice that mistakenly led to the end of it, or is a victim of someone else’s hand. It doesn’t matter really, his family and friends – and dare I say so many members of this community – are crushed. Devastated beyond understanding.
But I do know this – the kind of community that I watched rally around the Dulle family needs to rally around each and every person struggling with mental illness, difficult thoughts, battles with the value of their own life.
And if we are those people? We need to speak.
Can I help you speak? To find your voice and ask for help?