By: Cassandra Mischak

* NAMES WERE CHANGED OR MODIFIED TO PROTECT THE PRIVACY OF THE AFFECTED FAMILY *

Like any typical middle schooler on a Friday afternoon, I impatiently sat very inattentive throughout my last period class. I was itching in my seat as I watched the clock ploddingly tick a millimeter further minute after minute. The end of the day bell finally echoed throughout the school. Seconds later, the halls flooded with rowdy students. They were all ready for their fun-filled Friday afternoon. But, it was not just a typical Friday before the weekend… It was the last Friday before our weeklong Thanksgiving break. 

The sentimental holiday we spent with our closest family and friends.  

I dashed out the double doors of the exit where the parent pick-up line crowded the entire school. Friday afternoons middle school pick-up felt like prime-time rush hour in New York City. Horns honked, music blared, headlights flashed, and kids jumped like crazy wild animals into the passenger seat of their parents’ SUV’s.  

“Cass! Hurry! I’m over here,” shouted my mother. 

My mother hates being late, and we had 15 minutes before the start of my weekly piano lesson.  

She aggressively pounced her foot onto the gas pedal of her 2010 Silver Toyota Highlander and zoomed past every other vehicle to make it out of the hectic school parking lot as quick as possible. As she proceeded to conversate with me about my day on our 10 minute scenic drive to my piano lesson, an incoming call from Marissa interrupted our conversation.  

Marrisa. I loved Marrisa. She was with my family so often, that not only was she my mom’s best friend, but she had also become a motherly figure to me. Since she had one child that was a boy, she always considered me her “meant to be daughter” and treated me like her own.  

My mother quickly declined the call, and I proceeded to question why. “It’s just a typical Marrisa phone call… I’ll call her back later, plus, we will go over to her place right after piano and have a girl’s night,” my mother happily expressed to me. 

But little did we both know, “later” would be a little too late. 

. . .  

Between the years of 2010 and 2019, the suicide death rate increased over 33%. There were approximately 46,000 deaths by suicide in 2020, making it the 12th leading cause of death in the entire United States.  

Suicide has become uncomfortably common in this world, and the underlying reason is mental health. We, as a society, aren’t paying close enough attention to the people who suffer from mental health disorders, and sometimes, the outcomes hit a little too close to home. 

. . . 

Right as my piano lesson concluded, I energetically hopped into my mom’s car, and we drove to Marrisa’s. I was so excited. Just as excited as a little kid on Christmas morning, because every night we spent with Marrisa, I always had the time of my life. 

As we were about halfway there, my mom noticed a voicemail on her Samsung from Marrisa. The time stated 3:47 P.M. That time was from when she declined the call on the way to my lesson. My mother was curious what Marrisa had said, so she tapped the “play aloud” button on her car’s dashboard, for both of us to hear.  

“I love you, Beth,” was the only four words the voicemail transcribed over Bluetooth.  

Little did we know, this would be the last four words we heard from her.  

Something was off. I could sense it. I could feel it. I had this unexplainable feeling rush to my gut, and jolt through my body. 

We trailed up Marrisa’s driveway and strolled ourselves inside, ready for a fun evening ahead. Blind to know that what we were going to walk in on, was going to traumatize us for the rest of our lives. 

. . . 

Marrisa was fighting demons; little did we all know. If more attention was paid to her, something could have been done to help it. 

It is the little things that matter most to ones struggling with mental health. A lunch date, a simple gesture, or even, in this situation, a simple phone call could change their entire outlook on deciding to keep their life or not.  

. . . 

“MOM!” my brother shouted in nothing but panic from the top of the stairs. 

My mom sprinted from the front door to the staircase the second she heard him. She was running so fast that she was skipping step after step, up the stairs. What captured her eyes was seeing my 15-year-old brother standing at the top of the staircase, with nothing but streams of tears pouring slowly down his face. She takes the first right after the stairs to see AJ, standing in shock. He was staring at his mother, speechless. I heard him say one thing… “Mom, what type of joke is this?” 

I desperately darted up the stairs to see what was going on, and what entered my vision haunts my mind to this day.  

Marrisa. 

She ended her own life. 

She had a belt looped and pulled tight around her neck, as she so still hung from her bedpost.  

She had suffocated to death. 

The belt not only strangled her physically, but it also relieved her from her internal pain that she tried to fight throughout her life. 

She was not breathing. No pulse. Nothing. 

Her face was as pale as a ghost.  Her eyes were wide open…  bloodshot. 

It felt as if she was staring into my soul, begging for help.  

I stared at her hanging dead body, in silence. 

It was silent.  

Nobody could even speak.  

The four of us were at a loss of words. 

My mother frantically grabbed her phone out of her back left pocket. As she wailed tears of help, she instantly dialed 911 and instructed myself, my brother, and AJ to get out of the house immediately.  

Less than five urgent minutes later, three police cars, an ambulance, and two corners arrived at the scene. The sirens of the emergency vehicles pierced every neighbor’s ear, as they sped through the neighborhood.  

While the four of us sat outside on the pavement curb, impatiently waiting for the help to rescue the devastation, we could not help but notice each neighbor walk out onto their front lawns, one by one, after hearing the sirens fly into the driveway we were sitting at. Everybody stood at the ends of their driveways, with their eyes glued on us in utter confusion, watching the EMT’s bolt into the house.  

I was in such a feeling of denial. I truly believed that I was just stuck in a nightmare. I thought that I would wake up from a deep sleep, and none of this would be true. 

Ten long minutes later of the scene’s investigation, Officer Smith slowly advanced toward us with the regretful news that we knew, but we did not want to hear come true. 

He had confirmed Marrisa’s death. 

. . . 

Years later, it came to all our attention that Marrisa never did the right thing by reaching out to get the help she needed. To this day, my mother still puts Marrisa’s suicide on herself. She cannot forgive the small action of putting off the simple phone call on the way to my piano lesson. It would have taken nothing out of her to just hit the green button instead of the red.  

She believes that if she solely answered Marrisa’s call, we might not be in the place we are today…  

One less mother. 

One less wife. 

One less friend. 

If you, or someone you know, is suffering from mental health, 

Call or Text ‘988’ Suicide and Crisis Lifeline. 

Just remember, you can speak to someone now, or at any second. 

Help is always available.