A few months ago, I went to my local Barnes & Noble to buy coffee and noticed something I had never seen before. A book written by Sue Klebold, featuring a rather endearing picture of her and her youngest son on the front cover. I'm so glad I took the book home with me. A Mother's Reckoning was a 384-page roller coaster ride. I’d often find myself laughing while reading sometimes, with bloodshot eyes and tears streaming down my cheeks. I haven’t been blessed with a child yet, but I’d really like to be so I can know what it's like to love a child unconditionally in the most literal sense of the word.
Sue Klebold’s book is charming. It’s something that is entirely relatable. She talks about what her son once loved to do: playing baseball. Baseball was something he wanted to pursue but couldn’t due to some physical challenges that he experienced through no fault of his own. His lack of athletic ability is believed to have caused a lot of emotional problems as well as his lower rung on the school's social ladder. This left Dylan to then become very socially awkward and isolated. He felt as though he needed to keep to himself. Although it was unbeknownst to his family at the time, Dylan Klebold kept a journal, which would later prove to be the key in understanding this young man's descent into depression. The magnitude of this depression would send him spiraling into insanity.
The book shows some of the best memories the family shares in the years leading up to the tragedy, and Sue Klebold talks about the games her kids liked to play together when they were growing up. She mentions that she was particularly impressed by her son’s ability to ignore pain and carry his way through many things. She talks about an incident where he went mountain climbing on the same day that he had invasive dental surgery. I’ll not shy away from the fact that I was impressed by that, too.
Sue Klebold talks about the pain she felt when she went to the library, which was the place where her son Dylan took his last breath. He died alongside his friend Eric in the spot where 12 other children met a tragic, grim fate and didn't get to go home that day.
The reader is given haunting images of the many chalk outlines on the floor, and Sue states that she instantly knows which morbid imprint represents her son and which is his friend’s. The families who lost their children, and the people that had to bear witness to this horrific event, were understandably desperate to find answers. The desperation that haunted a community resulted in a court hearing in which the living victims and their families were present. This scene from the book forever burned into my memory as Sue walks through what it was like to watch the abhorrent scene as it unfolded. My eyes are tearing up now as I think about the words on the page.
As with any trial, the convicted party can be defended and experts will speak on their behalf. My heart shattered even more when, as a reader, I was given a glimpse into the mind of two people who were very mentally unstable and wanted help but didn't know where to get it. Dylan was found by experts to have very low self-esteem to the point to where it was considered a mental illness. He was a person suffering from this and, therefore, had been very sensitive to any kind of rejection—or what the rest of the world may consider to be slight inconveniences. His journal contained love poems and thoughts about college. Above all, a strong desire to end his life was present due to feeling very inadequate and unwanted.
The Journal of Eric Harris, however, contained much darker content. His journals were alleged to have contained scenes of rape, sadism and violence toward animals. Also, he had a very strong desire to die due to feelings of inadequacy and fear of his own impulses.
It’s mentioned that feelings of violence represent a need for power due to very low self-esteem and mental illness. Upon further investigation, his parents admitted that he had been taking Zoloft to combat his inner demons. His moods, according to friends, only seemed to grow darker as time went on. The makers of the anti-depressant Zoloft were sued by a survivor of the Columbine massacre shortly before the end of his life, and the family of the injured teen won the case. Eric Harris did seek help from medical professionals but was not assessed properly. This statement, above all, caused my heart to break.
If I had the chance to say anything to Sue Klebold, I’d thank her for her efforts to bring awareness to mental health issues, which, all too often, plague the youth of America. Someone's mental health is not a reflection of who they are as a person, how much other people love them or how much someone tries to do right by them. I know this from personal experience.
In my teen years, I was prescribed medication that was supposed to help me cope with the physical symptoms of my cerebral palsy. For those who don't know, cerebral palsy is a brain disorder that impairs muscle control, vision, small motor skills and the ability to move independently. I did get lucky in the fact that I’m the intellectual type. As the brain damage goes along with this disability, it can also cause mental delays.
School sports were very important to the social framework of the town in which I grew up. I was unable to participate. I spent the bulk of my summers as a child bedridden. Because of a new operation that the doctors at the children's hospital wanted to perform, these things would be a very temporary fix. Despite their painful, invasive nature, it would also strip away my privacy. And privacy, as I grew into my adolescence, was of increasing importance. With these new concerns, and my newfound ability to articulate how discontent I was feeling, the doctors came up with what seemed like the answer to my prayers; they made it seem like three bitter pills taken three times a day would improve my life. I envisioned myself playing in the yard with my dog and playing in gym class with the other students at the middle school I attended. I even envisioned maybe going to the dance with the boy from my math class, even though I was too shy to ask for an eraser. But, as is the case with most things, if something is too good to be true it probably is.
The day I opened a prescription bottle was the beginning of a nightmare that lasted for years. One I'm not sure I’ll ever be able to wake up from. Little by little, I began to quietly isolate myself. I preferred the company of loud music. Of course, this is something a lot of kids do, and the slight change in my activity level was written off by both my parents and the doctors. However, as the dosage of these pills increased, so did my levels of anxiety and depression. I didn't want to spend time with my family. I isolated myself from my friends, and they thought I was acting too good for them. This left me as an easy target for people; adults and kids with ill intentions. They would manipulate me and do crazy things. I admitted my deepest darkest secret and rumors started spreading around the school. Vicious rumors that I was promiscuous, worshiped Satan and harmed small animals. As a child, I took two things very seriously: my love for animals and my relationship with God.
I was experiencing unhealthy anger, at an unhealthy level, that was always expressed verbally. The things people said cut like knives. The most a child can face is having a beloved pet pass away, and instead of supporting me in my hour of need other people accused me of hurting my pet. These sorts of things left me vulnerable, and I began socializing less and less. I cared even less about school. I was once a straight A student, but my desire was to not go to school and deal with whatever new drama awaited me. All the negativity lead me to have anxiety attacks. The rise in anxiety paired with the disorder left me at a loss. I was even unable to use the bathroom, and this was something I went to the doctor for many times before I received an answer. It was another thing that set me apart from the other kids. This is one thing I’m still unable to shake, and I’ll often have anxiety attacks, especially while away from home because of the pressure I feel to use the bathroom in public. I think that the panic I started to feel began my binge and purge cycles, too. It didn't take long for my parents to discover there was something wrong. I’d go to the doctor on multiple occasions, and I never said a word because I was too embarrassed to admit that I had developed these issues.
There's a lot of stigma attached to children who engage in acts of self-harm or think about doing things to hurt themselves or other people. Therefore, so many don’t get mental help. What I experienced was my parents and the other adults in my life discrediting me. When I finally opened up about these things, I received a reaction of confusion and worry. But what would’ve happened if I didn’t open up about these issues? Would my life be completely different now? This dark period of my life happened over a decade ago. It has been over 12 years since I took my last dose of poison, and this medication is, much to my dismay, still prescribed to adolescents. But, I do know that I’d never wish this kind of pain on my worst enemy. However, I do understand the desire one would have to end the pain in whatever way necessary.
So, Sue Klebold, I’m so glad that you're raising awareness about these issues. I’m glad you’re trying to give your late son and others a legacy of hope, so nobody else has to suffer. In my heart, I believe that Dylan knows of your efforts. He'd be proud of you and grateful to have someone who loves him so much. I genuinely believe what you’re doing is good and can be a powerful tool for anyone who genuinely needs help.
My thoughts of love, support and prayer of better days go with you and your sons as well as those affected by the tragedy. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.
Here is an interview with Sue Klebold and Diane Sawyer on the tragic events that occurred at Columbine so many years ago.
