This story contains the topic of suicide. If you or anyone you know are having thoughts of suicide, please call 988.
I knew you when you shined bright like the sun. Your laughter was so contagious we’d laugh so hard our bellies hurt. Your smile made everyone feel calm, as if we were closing our eyes and picturing our own serenity. The way you stood tall … just like the resilient trees that don’t budge in strong winds. To me, you ran as long and as fast as Forrest Gump. Your humor reminded me of the beautiful Robin Williams. Your sarcasm, Ron White. You were my very best friend, Scotty, not just the big brother we lost 13 years ago.
That New Year’s Day was crisp and cloudy, and I swear the wildlife was quieter than usual. Everyone in the family just wanted to spend time with you while you were home from Fort Campbell, not fully understanding what was eating away inside you, and never imagining we were seeing you for the last time.
I remember so clearly walking past you with this air of thickness between us. We shot small glances at one another, because we were arguing like siblings do. You had always insisted I finish anything I started. Like the cheerleading squad. I just wanted you to not give up on yourself either.
I heard the crank of Poppy’s car and the music coming from inside until it was silenced by the door that separated us.
When I went back inside, Mom was doing chores, and I sat on a bar stool and started texting on my phone. We were all lounging, laughing, and telling stories, when the mood suddenly shifted like a massive earthquake. Mom got a text and dropped her phone and sprinted down the hall toward the bedrooms.
She was fumbling around, frantically shuffling for something. Then, she came out clutching your pillowcase and a letter.
“Your brother is going to kill himself,” she told us in shock and panic.
Oh, f---, Scotty. What were you thinking? Everyone was running in slow motion like in the movies, but they were talking so fast that it was blurry. The feeling of helplessness was overwhelming, truly not knowing what to do as Mom and Dad rushed out the door. Sis was pacing and pushing the numbers so hard on the phone I’m surprised she didn’t crush them. Em just kept calling you, Scotty, over and over, her voice shaking and quivering, cursing and begging her big brother to answer.
She was only 10, you know, seven years younger than me. Poppy wanted to leave, flustered, trying to pick himself out of that chair he sat in all day, but it seemed the weight of Mom’s words weighed him down. You remember my boyfriend, Cody? He flew into the house and hugged me, but I didn’t feel it, Scotty. It was like someone injected me with a numbing agent, and I couldn’t feel anything.
I didn’t remember the shadows creeping across the wall as the sun went down, or the lights being turned on as the evening set in. My mind was in a fog, not being able to see anything clearly. I remember calling you too, over and over and then giving up, like I lost all faith.
Then I got a call from one of our cousins: Your brother died, she told me. And it lit a fire inside me, Scotty, a rage like wildfire spreading through a forest. How dare someone tell me you were dead. How would she know? I saw red as I yelled back, telling her she had no idea what she was talking about. Told her to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.
Uncle Ray and Aunt Charlene picked us up later. The 45-minute car ride to the hospital felt like a 12-hour flight. I was so lost in shock. I remember how the lights were blinding as I walked into this conference room full of family, but they all seemed like a bunch of strangers. Sadness swept across everyone’s face, Scotty. There was this silence, like we were in a theater just before the movie started, and everyone got quiet.
My heart just started racing after they called us down to a room where you were on life support, not knowing what would be on the other side. Dad came out with a blood-stained T-shirt and no expression, except for a scrunch of the mouth and a hand reaching out.
I was so confused by what was written on a tag on the door. “Man in uniform.” That made no sense at the time, until we found out. You were wearing your Army uniform when they found you? Why, Scotty? What were you trying to tell us? But you didn’t have any identification.
So to them, you were just a “Man in uniform.”
The label left me feeling like a child whose parents were trying to explain something beyond comprehension. The moment Ma touched your cheek, holding a bloody tissue from wiping your nose, has forever stained my memories. Your face used to be slim and narrow but was round. And your hair, which once felt like butter, was straw-like and stiff. I could see the dried blood under your nose and mouth. You had this wrap around your head, but it did not look like you, Scotty. Your arms were the only things that seemed familiar. I walked over and touched you, and you felt frozen. No matter what they used to heat you up, no matter the eight blankets that covered your body … it didn’t change the fact—you were dying.
That night was like walking in a dream, but the moment I touched you brought me back to reality. I tried to rub your arm or tickle your feet to tell you to stop messing around and come back to us.
When they pronounced you brain dead … when we had decided whether to disconnect life support … Mom begged and pleaded against it, Scotty. She wanted to bring her boy home and care for you. Dad and I knew the reality. I watched Ma, Dad, and Em say their goodbyes. Their sobs will forever bring tears to my eyes. I don’t remember the drive home, or the conversations that night. I remember someone holding me, trying to comfort me as much as possible. Jan. 1, 2012, is the day that forever changed my life physically, mentally, and spiritually—and for everyone who loved you, Scotty.
As days, weeks, and years went by, this hollow feeling grew within me. I know we questioned ourselves “why,” more than I think people ask God why. We fell apart as we went through the grieving process in our own ways. There were so many hard conversations about how we felt when you died. But we grew to be respectful of one another’s grief and that we all lost you in a different way.
I blamed myself, our family, the ass----- from school, and how the military did nothing but break you down to make you feel worthless. I have since realized that it wasn’t you or any of us, but the demons that you had grappled with up until your death.
When I discovered that video on your phone, Scotty, only then did I start to understand your pain. “Don’t make the mistakes I did. … Live life and forget about me and move on. … I’m not going back.”
F---, Scotty, you wanted us to forget you? How? There were constant reminders at home: The pictures of you on the wall haunted me, breaking me more and more the longer I had to look at them. Your room was still together but cleaned and organized. My whole being wanted you to come home.
Today my grieving is about what could have been or seeing our family miss out on milestones. The things we should have been able to experience with you, but we can’t and never will.
To this day, I still miss you so much, Scotty. Depression is an ongoing battle for me.
I was close to doing the same thing you did as traumatic experiences—even before you died—blinded me to the beauty in life. I wanted to quit, I was in so much pain after losing you but realize now my daughters need me. I wish they could have experienced having you as an uncle. Even with my struggles and many obstacles, I choose to stay. There is always a better tomorrow. Here I am today, still struggling, but I think it’s worth everything and everyone in my life today.
Something I wish I could have told you, and what others need to know, is you are beyond loved by someone, and you need to talk about the s--- that’s going on in your mind, no matter what it is. The destruction and torment your loved ones face is something you can’t possibly imagine. Here I am 13 years later, and I am still wrapped up in grief, Scotty. It’s a never-ending cycle, but I can work through it.
Pvt. 2nd Class Blake Scott Wayne Jr. was among 4,000 service members of the United States military who committed suicide since 2010.
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Editors Note: This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter.
