He used to talk a lot about death, but he made it sound lovely in a way that pulled me in rather than pushed me away

When I was 17 I dated a boy who suffered from mental illness. He didn’t know it then and I didn’t either, but as time went on it became apparent. I told myself it was an illusion, that he was edgy and passionate, not suicidal and manic. He used to talk a lot about death, but he made it sound lovely in a way that pulled me in rather than pushed me away.

Once he engrossed me in a conversation about suicide. He made me really think about how I’d do it if I decided it was my time to go. We thought together about this, seriously, for almost a week before coming to conclusions that we had to justify. I told him I’d search for a building with the best view, make my way to the edge of its highest point, and step off—hoping my last moments would give me an inclination of what it feels like to fly. He told me that he would use a gun. Make it big, red, telling. He wanted to leave a mark. He said that when he was found, his body would be a piece of art—even citing Jackson Pollock.

I found the courage to completely leave this boy when I was 19. He begged me to stay, threatened to paint his blood on the walls if I went. With courage, I knew he was not my burden to bearer. So I called the police and reported his threats of self harm. His mom and older sister called me several times, leaving voicemails full of hate, cursing me for poisoning him. For ruining his life by calling authorities who committed him.

Awhile ago his younger sister reached out to me to tell me that he had attempted to take his life. He left a note blaming me for giving up on him. For taking his heart and pulling it apart. His younger sister told me she wanted me to know, but that she thanks me for trying to help him.

Last night, this boy, now a broken man, sat down and wrote another note. He told his mom and sisters that he loves them. He cursed the world for being so destructive and religion for giving people false hope. Then he thanked the girl who did what she could to always see the beauty in his darkness. Me.

Then he did exactly what he said he would do.

What he left behind was not a work of art.

I do not want condolences. I grieved the loss of him long ago. I did not love the boy he was when I knew him. This was the boy who once pushed me down a flight of stairs and later laughed calling it poetry—paying attention to the bumps of my body hitting the stairs in hopes of tapping out a new meter. I did not love the man he became under the influence of his family. A man who refused to take his medication and blamed me for tainting his identity with a stigma that something is wrong with him. What I loved and what I grieve is the person he could have been if everything else didn’t fail him.

He was an artist. He played the guitar and wrote poems. He was also an addict and manic. These are not faults. They are what made him a whole, complex person. I just wish he would’ve embraced what all of these aspects meant so that he could truly live.

I hope in whatever comes after life, he finds peace and accepts himself fully and completely.