By Stein Thorbeck
I want to tell you a story to make you better at supporting people in pain. I was glad to be there when it happened, despite the difficulty. Further, I was thankful to know something about struggle. My experience with depression in my youth connected me to what I was seeing. These kinds of stories are hard to write about and even harder to share, but they must be told. If only to better equip those looking to help when hope disappears.
When I was a tactical (TAC) officer at West Point, there was a particular cadet. A feeler like I am. As feelers, we are left wanting in words. The little symbols and sounds flowing from our hands and falling from our mouths seem impossibly inadequate. We are explorers and we are divers – always searching for deeper chambers of the human heart to experience. This is our superpower. But sometimes, we swim too far, and can no longer find our way back – lost in the dark, sinking into the abyss.
Now I think that I could have been a better TAC officer in many ways, but there is one thing I would SURELY do again in the same way. Every morning, I prepared my mind to execute a deliberate operation. I endeavored to say good morning to every cadet under my care, using their first name. Especially so with Plebes and Yearlings (freshmen and sophomores). This operation required close study of our name roster, regular practice with these names in my notebook, and real-life application in conversation. I approached the task with an intensity required of any important test. And this test was, to me, the most important. In fact, here’s a hard truth for you:
Being “bad with names” is what you tell yourself because you don’t care enough about them.
Names connect you to people. Names transform a face.
One of these faces seemed to carry more weight as the days passed. Looking more hopeless. Looking so sad. This soul, the feeler, the explorer. One morning, I barely got a response. The cadet’s large eyes were my windows. I stepped closer and looked inside them. Something beguiled the young explorer. Brooding, off on a new kind of voyage. I suspected a journey to the seabed itself. Not likely to return. I know this look. I’ve seen it in the mirror.
I asked the cadet to see me after class.
Arriving nervous and timid, the cadet knocked on my door. We exchanged trivialities. Indeed, I could see pain. I admired this cadet’s courage though, and saw it a few other times. One of our brave ones. The brave often look timid to the outside world. Not to me. The weight of this cadet’s vacant frame sat on my office sofa. Our conversation remained at sea-level. Inside, the exploring soul before me was somewhere deep beneath the water. But I had an old wetsuit, still hanging in my closet. To my surprise, it still fit. I fastened an oxygen source behind my lips, submerged, and began my search.
Finally, after maybe an hour of strained exchange, searching everywhere I could, I sensed a human form before me. I pedaled my feet and swam closer. The human form was suspended just above the ocean floor, face up and looking away. It floated somewhere between fright and peace. A soul exposed. Our lost explorer, trapped but found. The explorer was tangled in seaweed and circled by starving creatures. I dove closer still. The explorer’s oxygen mask was missing. This cadet was holding a breath. Connected now, careful to tell nothing, offer nothing, but prepared to ask everything. I began, and the lost explorer spoke:
Explorer: “I’ve been having dark thoughts.“
Concerned Diver: “I can feel it. How dark?”
Still looking away from me. “Really dark.”
