A Little Piece of Paper

By Lele Galer

So let’s talk about suicide.

One time, I had a friend in my car who’d asked me to drive him to his brother’s vacant house. He’d been in a deep, self-flagellating depression for a month and wanted to go to an empty house—the house of a brother who’d spent years emasculating him. Seemed like a good place to kill himself.

What to do? I parked at the school, motor running.

“I’ll be back in a sec. I forgot something.”

I went to the school guidance counselor—he was the only person I knew who wouldn’t blanch at the word suicide. After a decade or so in this district, I’d have a lot more experience with suicide—and plenty of other resources—but for now, he was it.

“I have a friend, a dad at the school, who I’m pretty sure is gonna kill himself, and I need to do something quickly. I have no clue. Can you help me?”

I was breaking a lot of protocols here, and so was he, but he took out a pad of paper, scribbled a name and number, and handed it to me.

“This is the suicide prevention line number. It’s important that it’s on paper—something he can feel in his pocket. Like a lifeline. Good luck,” he added. “And it’s not your fault if it doesn’t work.”

I remembered calling a suicide prevention line when my mother announced she was killing herself on my birthday, just after I’d blown out the candles. The suicide people had said the same thing: “It’s not your fault...” All good intentions.

When I dropped my friend off, I gave him the paper. Had he just wanted a ride, and I was being an interfering crazy person? He looked at the paper and put it in his pocket. That was it. And it worked. It actually worked out. He’s fine and has lived a long and fairly happy life.

And I had been right about his plan—which was sad and also a relief. I’ve missed it twice, but I have pretty good suicide antennae.

When I was fifteen, I couldn’t stop thinking about suicide until I dared myself to do it, and when I got right to it, I decided I wouldn’t. Things were very bad for me, and the little whisper of “just do it” was a constant buzz throughout every single day. I decided to really give it two hours of serious thought—how, when, and where—and I found the self-reflection so boring that I actually bored myself out of it. And then that irritating whisper stopped forever.

I can’t think on any subject for very long, so sometimes ADD is a gift.

Ever since the suicide boredom, I’ve attracted suicide contemplators. Moths to a flame. Or maybe there are a lot more broken, lonely people out there than I thought—when I’d believed I was the only one.

My best friend’s family took me in and kept me safe. They were kind and warm, and they never asked questions. I was immensely grateful—not so much for the warmth and home, but for the no questions. I never asked them questions either—about their daughter who was killed while biking home, about the deep sadness settled into every corner of the house, about the strength it took just to greet the day and be kind.

No doubt, when I had my own teenagers, in my heart of hearts, I wanted to be the safe home to others that I’d once been given—that had saved my life.

And my very large home in New York became the place where all the local little kids came running in and stayed until their parents got home. When we moved to Pennsylvania, we had even more space—for more teens, more adults who needed a place to stay. Always a full house, and it was warm, quirky, and safe.

Most of the adults and teens were at our house because something had happened to turn their world upside down, and they just needed a place to reset.

One adult, who ended up staying for a year in the guest house, had been fired from a job where he was brilliant, then dumped by his girlfriend, and was suddenly homeless. We’d known him for a few years. He was a total asshole, but we didn’t want him to kill himself. He’s fine now—but still a major asshole.

One terrific young teen was dropped off at our place at the beginning of a summer. His mom had read in his diary that he was planning to kill himself, and she wanted me to take him “because you’re good at that stuff.” She’d said she wasn’t. His mom left so fast it was like a hit and run.

He stayed for three months and came back every summer. He’s wonderful and doing great.

I have lots of stories.

Around the dinner table one night—ten or more of us crowded around—the talk was all about a senior girl at the high school who had just been expelled. Social media was new at the time, and privacy wasn’t something most people knew how to navigate yet. She’d posted something stupid, using the expression, “I could just kill...” and the school took that as a legitimate threat. She was arrested and expelled for threatening to kill someone.

The girl’s parents were horrified and ashamed. They kicked her out of the house—no funds, no phone, no medication—and changed the locks.

That was the gist of the conversation around the table.

The teens weren’t even that surprised about the unfairness of it all. They’re used to a world that’s terribly unfair, where a few simple words can lead to life-altering miscommunications. What stunned them was that this senior girl was the most popular girl at the school. Her fall from grace was the real shock.

“I know her parents. I don’t know her,” I said. “Where is she now if she can’t go back to her parents’ house?”

“No one knows for sure, but someone said she’s living in her boyfriend’s car.”

“Anyone know how to contact her?”

“No one knows.”

The next day—strangely enough—I ran into the girl’s mother. She looked wrecked, disheveled, and wary the moment she saw me. She was one of those moms: perfect neighborhood, perfect hair, perfect clothes, clipped and upbeat, three perfect kids, handsome, jolly husband.

Not my friend, but I didn’t dislike her. If I took the time to dislike her, I’d have to dislike about 99% of the parents in my area.

When I first moved here, I went to a psychiatrist for help. I’d been horribly humiliated by a powerful group of awful moms who’d made my life hell—a different story—but while I was rambling on, trying to sort out what I’d done wrong, the psychiatrist seemed to suddenly snap to attention.

“Wait, what area do you live in exactly?” she asked.

When I told her, she actually laughed out loud.

“You know that saying, ‘It’s not you, it’s them?’”

She wished me well, said no charge, and that really helped me get through the next 24 years here.

Anyway.

“Hey there,” I said to the girl’s mom. She eyed me cautiously, like I might slap her. I paused. “So, I heard a bit about what’s going on, and I’m really sorry. Are you doing okay?”

Instant relief on her face. I’d asked about her, not her daughter.

She dove into how awful life had been for her and her husband this past week. The more she talked, the more I kept thinking about the daughter.

“So, you’re in touch with her? She has money? She’s okay?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

She hesitated. “She just called me. Must have used a friend’s phone. She asked me to bring her some clothes, and I’m about to meet her now.”

“Hey, I know this may sound weird, but if she needs a place to stay—I don’t know her or anything—but I have a huge place and, here...”

I reached into my bag, tore out a little piece of paper, and wrote down my name, number, and address, adding, “Anytime, day or night.”

I wasn’t sure if the mom would discard it, forget it, or actually hand it over. She looked at it, then at me—and it was the first honest look she’d given me.

About two hours later, just before dinner, an old car pulled up the driveway. A lovely young woman stepped out, backpack in hand. I was outside, finishing some weeding, and I jumped up to meet her. I was filthy. She was filthy.

“Hey,” I said, introducing myself.

She muttered something to the driver, who sped off. She looked frightened, uncomfortable, and so brave.

“I’m so glad you came. We’ve got a room for you upstairs. The kids can help you get sorted. Dinner’s around six?”

I was nervous but so happy she’d taken this jump into the unknown. Brave. Very brave.

She slept, ate, showered, did chores, and slowly began interacting with the others. Brick by brick, she started to reclaim her foundations, rebuild, and get strong enough to face a restart.

After about a month, she left. None of us ever saw her again.

I looked at her Instagram a few weeks ago. She looked really happy—husband, friends, and lots of photos of her hugging her mom.

Her brother once told me, “I don’t know what you did, but after she stayed at your place, she was happy. I mean, of all the kids, she’s the most successful. Who would have thought?”

“I just gave her a little piece of paper. She did all the rest.”

I’ve known so many people who have wanted to kill themselves, have tried, or suffer forever from losing a dear one who has.

Where I live, no one talks about it. But it’s everywhere.

One in five high school students say they’ve seriously considered suicide.
There’s one suicide in the U.S. every eleven minutes.
Suicide is the second leading cause of death for U.S. youth aged 15–24.
Ten percent of U.S. high school students attempted suicide last year.

Everyone knows someone who’s thinking about it.

If you can’t get them to a professional, try the little piece of paper.