On this day 10 years ago, my friend, John Lemoine, died.
He shot himself in a hospital parking lot. He was 24 years old.
Every year, the World Health Organization estimates that up to 800,000 people commit suicide. In the decade since John’s death, there has been a growing push against the stigma of discussing mental health. In part, I wanted to tell his story. In part, I want to tell those who may find themselves in a situation like he did that there is help available.
I met John at Cleveland High School during my freshman year in marching band. He was two years older than me, a section leader with the baritones. I played trombone, and the low brass were all seated together, which is how I got to know John. Island of misfits that we were, our friendship continued past high school.
John was a character. He was steeped in nerd culture. He loved video games and anime. He was always getting involved in the most bizarre situations. One summer, for some reason, he traveled to Detroit to sell textbooks door-to-door. I recall him telling one story about knocking on a door and a man answering who was the spitting image of Karl Marx. He offered the man a textbook. The man shook his head in silence and closed the door.
John was the kind of person who, without context, is difficult to describe. He had to be experienced, as did the ebb and flow of chaos and inconvenience that followed him.
John graduated from Delta State University in May 2011. His goal was to be a doctor, specifically a neurologist. He wanted to go to medical school but didn’t quite have the scores yet on the Medical College Admissions Test to get in, so he attended Mississippi College and graduated in a year with a master’s degree in medical biology.
On Aug. 31, 2012, I was visiting everyone in Cleveland. I had just started graduate school at the University of Mississippi. Late that evening, John, who was staying with some friends of ours, was in the kitchen on his laptop and we talked for a bit before I headed back to my dad’s place. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I remember laughing.
The next day, my friends and I had gone out to eat. None of us had seen John all day, and I remember the topic of his absence coming up, but we figured he was doing something on his own or visiting his mom, who lived in town. Later that evening we learned from the mother of John’s best friend that John had died.
John had driven to the parking lot of Bolivar Medical Center and shot himself. No warning. No signs. For all of us he was literally here one day and gone the next.
I remember his funeral as one that really celebrated his life. John’s uniform, so to speak, was a white T-shirt and jeans, and his closest friends, those who had known him since childhood, dressed like him in his honor. A lot of us were able to share stories at his funeral.
I remember quoting Aeschylus, the Greek poet, who said, “Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God." Over time, I would learn how true that quote was.
Losing John was painful. I was heartbroken. I got seriously depressed. It affected my performance in school, to the point that I quit and moved back home. That whole year remains a blur.
John has been gone longer than I knew him. I think about him often, usually when I find myself in or observing absurd situations. My friends and I all wish he were with us today.
If you are considering suicide, please call 988, the new national suicide and crisis lifeline. Reach out to someone. Talk to them. There is hope.
- Contact Kevin Edwards at 662-581-7233 or kedwards@gwcommonwealth.com.
