What do you do?
What do you do when you lose a friend? What do you when something so horrific happens, you can’t even process it? I’m struggling to find an answer to those questions right now. I’ve written some pretty personal blogs over the last few years. Some might think it a bit much to be so candid and open when any stranger who happens upon my site can read my thoughts, but I find it helps. I can articulate thoughts through typing that I could never clear up in my head, or get out verbally. I guess you could say for me, it’s therapeutic to get something written and know it has an audience. I find some comfort in that.
After my accident five years ago, there were two things that helped me through the difficult months that followed: writing, and reading about the experiences of others. I’m not sure why it was so reassuring to read random blogs and articles even if they were unrelated to my exact experience. Maybe it’s the sense that you’re not alone; others have suffered similarly and much worse. For those in mourning or rehabilitating, life goes on, difficult though it may be. I hope that if others going through a difficult time happen upon this, they can relate. If not, I hope people at least enjoy the read. Short of that, it at least gives some insight into how my crazy mind works for those who stay for the whole thing.
After the events that took place on Saturday morning in Glendale, Arizona, the only thing I know how to do right now is write. It’s the only way I can even begin to make sense of what happened. I’m not going to link to the news article with all the gruesome details, but it’s easily searchable given the facts I will reveal below if you’re that interested.
I’ve known Mike Miller since 2nd grade. We didn’t hit it off then, when I considered joining Boy Scouts (his dad was the leader for our part of town), but backed out at the last minute. A couple of grades later, we both had a shared interest in the Phoenix Suns and basketball. At a time when I felt like an awkward outsider, he was the one friend I knew I could always count on. From about 4th grade through junior year of high school, we were best friends; playing basketball for countless hours at his house and mine. I learned how to go up and under a taller player, how to play defense against a player twice my height, and how to lose many, many consecutive games of one-on-one gracefully (or not so gracefully) over the years.
The summer before sophomore year of high school, I was lucky enough to go with his family on their annual trip to Lake Tahoe. We spent the first week camping, and the next two weeks in a cabin a few blocks from the lake. Most of our time was spent swimming, skiing, barbequing, and hanging out. Not to mention our time spent the first two days with the infamous twins from Oroville.
We grew apart later in high school. I was taking nothing but honors and AP classes. He was trying to get out of every class he could. He played on the varsity basketball team. I played on the varsity tennis team. We’d still check in pretty regularly with each other though. I remember when he excitedly talked to me about his newest crush: Adreana. I remember hanging out with them regularly as they grew closer. Then I remember the phone call that changed everything.
My memory about the summer before our senior year is fuzzy now. I don’t remember having time to even figure out what a normal wedding was supposed to look like, but before I knew it, I was the best man at their wedding. I think it was pretty rushed: had to make it official before the birth. I didn’t even own a jacket, so I wore a white dress shirt and a tie that was too long. The reception consisted of the two families in his parents’ living room. I didn’t even know I was supposed to give a speech. It felt like a birthday party. I don’t say that as an insult to the families, but I know the planning of the actual event was more of an afterthought than making sure the baby would be born in wedlock.
We really lost touch while I was in college. I can’t place dates, but I do have memories of seeing them here and there over those years. A couple of times, it was at a new apartment complex where Mike was living alone. Other times it was at a home where they were together. It was an on again, off again relationship, but I never kept in touch long enough to know how long each instance lasted. I remember we met once to go out, and another time to play some basketball. It was a sad, slow game for both of us. I remember going swimming with the three of them at their place once. They all came to a family barbeque we had one summer. I even did a CUTCO demo for them.
The CUTCO demo was one of the more recent times I saw them. It was shortly before my accident. I remember how big Valerie had grown. I saw her most often when she was a little baby, so seeing her after a few years was quite the change. A few months later, my dad helped get him a job at Unique Impressions, the print shop where I worked part-time, initially to save up for school, and then later to get back on my feet.
It was then that I learned about his mental illnesses. This was around early 2005. He told me how he went over a year with certain delusions that made it difficult for him to hold down a job. Once he was diagnosed with schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder and began taking medication for it, he realized exactly what he was thinking and saying and was very embarrassed by it. I can’t even imagine starting to lose touch with reality and struggling to realize what is real and what isn’t, but that’s what began to happen to Mike. Even more devastating is the fact that these types of diseases often don’t appear until later in life. A normal person suddenly becomes a person that is hardly recognizable to those closest to him.
I moved back to California around the same time that he started getting sicker in spring of 2005. He would tell my Dad certain things that make his statements in the police report from this weekend no surprise. They had to let him go at Unique and that’s around the time that I lost touch with him for good. I always worried about him, and hoped that he’d stay on the medication and that it would be effective. Add to that the struggles he went through with Adreana, and I knew he was facing an uphill battle. It’s tough for any teenage pregnancy and marriage to survive, but when she was pregnant again around that same time, they tried to make it work. I was never able to meet their son, but I’d like to someday.
When I first read the news of what happened, I couldn’t process it. My heart started pounding after I read the email I had received from an old friend who knew how close we were. But I still had to re-read it to understand why. I read it two more times, then stood up to head back into the kitchen. As I did, the full weight of what I had read hit me and I fell back into the chair. I kept thinking it was a typo, or that maybe they were only injured, but not actually dead. Arizona felt so far away at that moment, it didn’t feel real. I ached, and not just for Adreana, Valerie, Brian, and Mike. Images of everyone would flash in my head: Adreana’s parents, her sister, Mike’s parents, his brother, his sister. A tragedy like this affects so many people in so many ways.
What hurt most is the way it was initially reported: an open and shut domestic violence case. Here’s another deadbeat wife beater. I couldn’t help but read the comments below each of the news articles. People were ready to burn him at the stake then and there. I anxiously awaited reports about his mental state. I knew it had to be related to that. I hoped it was related to that. I couldn’t believe that the person I grew up with was a cold-blooded murderer. I saw the love and affection he would show his daughter. I never saw him act violent. I remember one fight he was in and he had no idea how to throw a punch because he never acted out violently.
Eventually the reports about his delusional state started to surface. It didn’t change people’s perceptions though. Suddenly, instead of a deadbeat, he was more of a coward, making something up to get out of it. Even if he were sick, surely his conscious would keep him from doing it, right? So and so knows someone who is bi-polar and he would never do it. So and so worked with both of them and he seemed normal, so he’s making it up. It’s awful how little people understand mental illness. It’s abhorrent how many people are quick to judge things they don’t comprehend. Sometimes, ignorance makes it easier to function in each person’s small bubble understanding of the world. I’m reminded of the Mitch Hedberg joke, “Alcoholism is a disease, but it’s the only one you can get yelled at for having. Goddamn it Otto, you are an alcoholic. Goddamn it Otto, you have Lupis…one of those two doesn’t sound right.” People are quick to defend the physically handicapped and equally quick to disregard a mental disease.
Before anyone gets worked up, I’m not defending his actions. I know that he’s going to spend the rest of his life in a prison or mental facility, and that’s where he belongs. What I’d like people to know, though, is that he was no heartless killer. He was sick, and this was a terrible, terrible consequence of that.
My heart goes out to both families and to their son. I can’t even begin to think of the road that lies ahead for him, and I hope he has all the love and support he needs to get through it. Adreana and Valerie, your time was cut far too short. Mike, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that you couldn’t be helped.
So what do I do? I remember the good times, when we were innocent kids having fun. I remember what he was like before the schizophrenia kicked in. I remember a sweet little girl and her father, and both of their eyes lighting up as he held her. I remember laughing with him and Adreana in a bar and Violet failing at Laser Tag the last time I saw them together. I wish things were different. I keep waking up thinking it was all a dream. As more time passes and I accept the reality, I remember these good times, because these memories are all I have now.