Mrs. Banks nods knowingly. “I used to be a research librarian. When you’re dealing with an unwieldy topic, the trick is to home in on a target. You have to aim for something specific rather than cast a wide net. So, maybe an element of the neo- Nazi movement?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
After she walks away, I ponder what she said. There is a function to search the archives, but when I used that to look for the kind of poison Meg took or the motel she went to or University of the Cascades or anything else specific to her, nothing came up.
But then I go and look at the actual notes and see that everyone has to use some form of user ID. Obviously, Meg wasn’t going to use Meg. So I try other things. Runtmeyer. But nothing comes up. Luisa, her middle name. Nothing. I type in the names of her favorite bands. The girl rock stars that she wanted to be. Nothing. I’m about ready to give up when I try Firefly.
A whole screen of messages comes up. Some of them contain references to fireflies. And there are at least a dozen usernames that are a variation of Firefly. It seems to be a popular name—maybe because fireflies have such brief lives.
And it’s while I’m contemplating the link between fireflies and suicidal people that I see it: Firefly1021. 10/21. October 21. Scottie’s birthday. With trembling fingers, I go to the oldest one, from earlier this year. The subject line reads Baby Steps.
I have been thinking of this for such a long time and I don’t know if I’m ready, but I’m ready to admit to thinking about it. Much as I like to think of myself as a Buffy, a kick-ass, fearless person, I don’t know if I’m fearless enough to do this. Is anyone?
This must be how archaeologists feel when they unearth hidden civilizations. Or how that guy felt when he found the sunken Titanic. When you know something is gone, but you’ve found it too.
Because, here, this is Meg.
I scan the replies. There are more than a dozen of them. They are so warm, welcoming her to the group, congratulating her on being brave enough to admit her feelings, telling her that her life belongs to her and it’s hers to do with as she pleases. And it’s the oddest thing, because even though I know what these people are congratulating her for, my first reaction is pride. Because these people met my Meg; they’re seeing how amazing she is.
I keep going. A lot of the missives read like they were written by sixth graders, full of typos and grammatical mistakes. But there is one at the bottom from a user called All_BS that stands out.
Baby steps? Is there such a thing? Lao-Tzu famously said: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” He also said this: “Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.” You have taken your first step, not toward death but toward a different way of living your life. That itself is the definition of fearless.
17
After I read that response to Meg’s email, I ran out of the library like the chicken shit that I am, vowing never to go back on those boards. It takes two days to break that vow. And I don’t do it out of any kind of bravery. I do it for the same reason I gave in and slept on her sheets back in Tacoma. To be closer to her. Every time I read one of her posts, even though she’s writing about death, she feels alive.
Firefly1021
Out of the Frying Pan
Here’s the thing that screws with my head. Afterlife. What if there is actually an afterlife, and it’s just as bad as the current life? What if I escape the pain of this life only to land somewhere worse? When I imagine death, it’s liberation, a release from pain. But my family is Catholic, big believers in hell, and while I don’t believe in that version of it, with devils and damnation and all that, what if there’s just more of this? What if that is what hell is?
Flg_3: Hell is a bullshit Christian construct to keep you in line. Don’t buy it. If your in pain, you do what you do to end the pain. Animals bite of there own claws. Humans are more enlitened and have different tools.
Sassafrants: Hell is other people.
Trashtalker: If the afterlife sux, kill yourself again.
All_BS: Do you remember pain from before you were born? Do you remember the torment from before you came into this world? Sometimes a pain is tolerable until it is touched, a tender bruise jostled. So it is with the pain of this life; it is brought about by this mortal coil. “It is not death or pain that is to be dreaded, but the fear of pain or death,” wrote Epictetus. Stop fearing. Stop dreading. The pain will go away and you will be freed.
All_BS. The one who called her fearless before. The one who writes in complete sentences and quotes dead philosophers. The one who, in a twisted sort of way, makes sense.
I read this latest message again, and a voice inside my head yells: Stop talking to her. Leave her alone.
As if this is still happening. As if it’s not already too late.
Firefly1021
To Medicate or Not to Medicate?
A friend told me to go to the campus health center to get some meds, so I talked to a nurse there. I didn’t tell her everything that was going on, not about what we’ve been talking about here. But the nurse started going on about the first years away at school and the Northwest Effect and it sounded like standard boilerplate. She gave me some pamphlets and samples and made me an appointment to come back in two weeks, but I think I’ll blow it off. I’ve always said it’s better to be hated than it is to be ignored. Maybe on the same lines, it’s better to feel this than to feel nothing.
It’s one thing to type messages into the ether, but it sounds like she was talking to someone in the real world, too. Someone else other than me. The hot boil of jealousy shames me. It’s so pathetic. I’m waging a tug of war, but no one else is holding the other end of the rope.
I skim the responses. Some people warn Meg about SSRIs being a mind-control plot devised by the pharmaceutical industry. Others say that taking them will numb her soul. Others claim that humans have always used mind-altering substances, and antidepressants are merely the latest incarnation.
And then there’s this response:
All_BS: There is a difference between using a natural substance like peyote to engage in a consciousness-expanding experience versus allowing a bunch of drones in lab coats to manipulate brain chemistry to such a precise degree that thoughts and feelings are controlled. Have you read Brave New World? These new miracle medications are nothing but Soma, a government-produced narcotic to blot out individuality and dissent. Firefly, it is an act of bravery to feel your feelings.
Oh, Meg would’ve loved that. It’s an act of bravery to feel your feelings, even if your feelings are telling you to die.