A tribute for Chris.

You were the first person who wasn't related to me to call me pretty. I remember it distinctly: It was in 7th grade, in Mr. Mcnally's classroom, waiting for the buses to be called. You were goofy and so sweet and smiling and jolly (Was it real, this happy demeanor, even then?).

And I was anything but pretty then. I was a blur of anger and hurt and bad fashion choices vaguely related to punk and anxiety. But you saw differently. You were nice to me (you were nice to everyone). And so launched a relationship.

We talked almost every night for years on AIM (god, remember when AIM was cool?), sometimes about BS, sometimes about our demons. I told you about my anxiety and not being able to eat, you told me about your depression and later, your addictions. It always seemed like a cry for attention (why wasn't what we gave enough?). We talked less after I went to treatment. I kept trying to tell you, It gets better! (for you, I guess it didn't).

You told me a few weeks ago you were cleaning things out (Was that a sign? Should I have known?) and found my 8th grade picture that you'd kept. We joked around; I promised to call when I came home and I never did (WHY?).

Last night, I find out that you've ended your own life.

I can't do anything. I can't sleep. I start eating something and I walk away from it. I cry. I've hugged my brother for the first time in years (you've got our attention now, in the saddest way imaginable). I can't imagine that way your close friends must feel. Your sister. Your father. That kind of loss is literally incomprehensible to me.

We weren't even that close since I've left for college, (something I blame entirely on myself for being so ready to get rid of this place). Thanks to that same eager attitude, I'll probably miss your wake and funeral (WHY DIDN'T I CALL YOU?). And all I want to do is be here, with other sad people. I've tried to find my yearbook; I remember handing it to you, you smiled (you always smiled) and wrote something that was sad and sweet and probably mentioned my boobs. But now I can't find it. I've tried so hard to scrub the PA off me, to box the Valley out of my life that when I need it, it isn't here (why aren't you here?).

Too many young people have died in this Valley. I've been to a funeral or viewing of a person under 24 every year since sophomore year of high school. I almost miss the way we expressed grief when the first person we all knew died, in tenth grade. It was loud and public and inexperienced and embarrassing. No one tempered their sadness or edited themselves based on how well they knew her. We all just sobbed uniformly, for her and her close friends and her family, until it hurt a little less. I wish I could grieve for you like I was 15 (I wish we'd talked like we did at 15). I really do.

I sincerely do hope you've found peace. That there has been some relief from whatever tormented you here on earth. You were a good person, and I hope you believed that about yourself. We all did.

<3 The Sheriff

Chris Bennetsen 2/9/89-6/2/10