The persistence of memory persists.

I know I'm not the only one that had a hard week, friends.

Tuesday was the ninth anniversary of my friend Marialla’s passing. And Wednesday marked ten years since the morning she walked me to Northwestern Hospital to be admitted to the psychiatric ward during a very intense mixed episode. These dates seem like they were yesterday, even if the calendar says otherwise.

This is not the first time that I have written about Mari on this blog. When she died, she left a big hole in my heart and life. She left behind holes in the hearts of so many devastated friends. She left a giant hole in her small tight-knit family.

Mari was larger than life. She talked too much and too loud, she laughed too loud, she was too intense, she was too much. I loved her not in spite of this, but because she was a living folk hero with outsized gifts and outsized struggles.

A fellow bipolar kid, she refused to take meds because they blunted her edge. She internalized a lot of stigma about her own illness, but not mine, and that is why she took me to the psych ward that lovely spring day. She stayed with me in the extremely cold emergency room for many hours that day so I wouldn’t be alone. Hugging me and talking to me, she made me feel cared for and loved when I was feeling utterly and completely worthless.

I had been in this bipolar mixed state for a few weeks, and because I am a relatively talented actor, I had been keeping it to myself, but early that morning I had snapped and decided to end my life and began to enact my plan. That is all I will say about that—I don’t wish to trigger anyone else.

But I had made a promise to my psychiatrist when I begrudgingly admitted to “fleeting suicidal ideation” (it was fleeting in the way that a klaxon going off next to your ear for a month straight is fleeting) a few weeks prior, that I would call her if the thoughts became unbearable and that I felt compelled to act.

I just could not die without giving her the chance to help. I had made a promise. That promise was probably the most important promise I have made outside of my wedding vows.

I called Dr. Mermigas and let her know what was happening, and she told me to call an ambulance. I refused. That would be an outrageous expense, and I was perfectly able to take public transit there. After all, I had called when it got too hard to bear. She said that I had one hour to get to the hospital, or she was going to have to call 911 to come get me. She also demanded that I have someone go with me to the hospital. My sister and roommate were at work, so I called Marialla and she said that we could meet at her place and walk over since she literally lived above the Red Line stop closest to the hospital. I threw a few things in a bag and headed to Mari’s. When we got to the hospital, I called Dr. Mermigas and let her know that I was at the hospital, that I had a friend with me and that I had already begun the check-in process. She told me to have the hospital call her as soon as I was in the emergency room itself. They did and I had fulfilled my promise.

I think of this day often. I think of my dear lost friend. I think of the phone call I didn’t make on May 20, 2011 to thank her for saving my life the year prior. The phone call I could not make, because she had already died on the 19th. There are so many things I wish that I had said to her, things like:

“Don’t throw your life away over a boy named Bryan.”

“You’re only twenty-eight, you have not failed at life.”

“I love you, and I want to be friends with you when we’re in our eighties and nineties.”

“Please stop drinking. It’s killing you.”

And it did. She drank herself to death at the age of 28.

I don’t think she intended to.

But she drank on a perforated ulcer until she couldn’t eat. She had gotten so thin that she had no fat reserves and her body started to convert her muscle protein to energy, which destroyed her kidneys. By the time she realized this and called 911, it was too late. She died after a couple of days in renal failure at the same hospital that she had taken me to almost a year to the day.

My friend had saved me, and in the year that I spent making myself better, I had not noticed how bad she had gotten. I lived with this guilt for many years. Intellectually I knew that it was not my fault, that she had many friends, friends that were much closer to her than I. I have long ago forgiven myself, but I still miss her and wish that I had been able to help her.

I always will.

This week is always hard for me. Too many persistent bittersweet memories. Laughter and tears shared. The times we fought and times we clung to each other for comfort. I miss it all. And it is so much harder with not being able to see any of my friends. I know we’re all struggling right now, thank you for letting me write a bit about how I still grieve over my friend.

This is still a blog about doing things.

I have still worked on my goals this week. I did not get a video of guitar playing made yet, but I have practiced every day except for one this week. I had to let my fingers rest—they were hurting like crazy on Sunday! Hug your loved ones if you can.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

Drop me a line: jeremydnichols@gmail.com

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