A Mother's Reckoning: Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy(40)

We had no gravesite, so I spent hours in Dylan’s room trying to intuit the answers to the questions plaguing us. I was shocked to find a pack of cigarettes in one of his drawers. Not long before he died, I’d thought I smelled tobacco on him, and asked him outright if he was smoking. He gave me an exasperated look and said, “I’m not that stupid!” It seemed as if he had real disdain for the practice, and I’d believed him. The cigarettes in his drawer suggested he’d straight-out lied.

I was also saddened to find a nearly empty bottle of St. John’s-wort in Dylan’s medicine cabinet. I’d been in his bathroom lots of times in the previous months, to make sure he was keeping it clean, but I’d never looked inside the medicine cabinet. St. John’s-wort is a natural antidepressant found at health food stores and drugstores. Here was bald, incontrovertible evidence that Dylan had been depressed enough to try to alleviate those feelings through medication. The expiration date on the bottle indicated he’d had it a long time.

I was beginning to appreciate how gullible I had been. Our mail was filled with letters from people, mostly adults, confessing the illicit activities they’d hidden from their parents when they were themselves teenagers: sexual exploits, drug use, theft. A few of the stories were funny—foolish adolescent decisions with happy endings. (One letter writer had been apprehended by the police on the roof of his childhood home without any pants on.) But most were tragic, and represented years of painful silence.

This collective unburdening was taking place in our own circle of friends, too. Almost everyone who visited told me something they’d hidden from their parents during their teenage years: drinking and drug use, a road trip to Vegas, years of drugstore shoplifting, a much-older boyfriend. Prompted by the events at Columbine, one friend finally admitted to his father (and to us) that as a young boy he had been sexually molested by their neighbor over a period of years. I caught myself silently wondering what everyone in the world was wondering about me: How could his dad not have noticed something so huge?

We also received a letter, postmarked April 27, 1999, which I reprint here with permission of the author, although I have changed names and places to protect the privacy of those involved. It came from Cindy Worth, a woman of about our age. Tom had known her family growing up, and had stayed in touch with them through the years. We both admired the Worths; they were successful and happy, pillars of their church—good people—and I was always struck by how loving and close they were to one another.

With real sadness and alarm, we read the following:

Dear Tom, Sue and Byron,

Forgive me for the length of this letter, but there is so much to say. I hope that by sharing my story with you, you will find some comfort and peace and better understand why Dylan didn’t talk to you about the pain and anger he was suffering.

Mom and Dad moved to Colorado [when] I was 14 years old. Almost from the start, I was harassed by a group of boys who called me “Flipper” because my nose is long. They would walk behind me in the school hallways and sing the theme song to the Flipper TV show. They hung used tampons and kotex in my locker, and stole letters from my notebook. They read unmailed letters to my friends back home in the boy’s locker room before football practice.

The culmination to the harassment occurred when I was raped by a football player. He boasted to his friends that it would have been “better” had he not looked at my ugly face.

I never told Mom and Dad—not until a couple of days ago. I wanted them to know—and I want you to know—why I didn’t tell them. It might help to understand why Dylan didn’t talk to you about his problems.

I felt a tremendous amount of shame about being a target of harassment and assault. I can tell you from first-hand experience that young people blame themselves for the pain they suffer. I believed there must have been something wrong with me for people to treat me this way.

I wanted Mom and Dad to think the best of me. I assumed that if I told them what happened, they would think of me as I thought of myself—flawed and ugly.

I was too young and confused to recognize that what had happened was a crime. I thought that if I told anyone, the taunting would get worse.

I suffered in silence for about 3 months, all the while becoming more and more depressed. I was contemplating suicide when I met someone who, literally, saved my life.

Ken was a funny-looking, outgoing, joyful kind of guy, somewhat of an outsider himself, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He sought me out and became my friend. After several weeks I felt safe enough with him to tell him what happened. This sweet, gentle 14-year-old boy had enough wisdom to listen and hug me while I shed gallons of tears. Ken grew up to become a minister. He was and always will be MY minister.

This is what SHOULD have happened for Dylan. A friend, a peer, should have been there for him. A friend who could guide Dylan away from anger and depression, not feed it.

Please know this. This friend could not have been you, Tom and Sue, as his parents. Or you, Byron, as his brother. The process of growing up and separation makes it extremely difficult for children to seek out their parents and siblings for help with these hidden, painful problems.

I believe with every fiber in my body and stirring in my soul that Dylan is with the Lord and that we will see him and rejoice with him again.

I love you. We love you. We are lifting you up.

Cindy



Tom and I reread this letter many times. Tom had known Cindy her whole life; I’d known her more than twenty years. Our children had celebrated their birthdays together. Neither of us would ever have imagined she’d experienced anything such as she described—either the bullying or the rape—or that she’d been so close to suicide. We spoke to her devastated parents a week or two later. They had also been utterly shocked by what they’d learned.