In Memory of Hannah
The friend whose creative soul is part of the fabric of CATHARSIS
You never knew what color her hair was going to be. When a mutual friend introduced us during our sophomore year of college (mine at Belmont, hers at what was then still called David Lipscomb), it was blue over natural blond. At first I was skeptical, then within a few minutes, I knew I had found a lifelong kindred spirit.
What none of us knew was how brief her life would turn out to be.
Hannah was a visual artist, with all the light and shadow that temperament often brings. She was hilarious, with an easy laugh and sparkling eyes that saw through everyone and loved them (us) anyway. There was a mixture of mischief and purity about her. Generous and uplifting, she took her faith and her friendships seriously, writing us letters of encouragement, listening for hours as we all navigated the minor dramas of university life.
Hannah knew how to make spaces beautiful. In Fall 2002 when I recorded my first CD, she came with me to a mentor’s art-filled home and designed all the staging for the cover of Tapestries of Grace. Unlike myself, she had a natural instinct for textures, styles, what kind of black shoes went with what kind of black dress, how to best bring out the energy of a place, or person.
It was sometime that winter that something went very wrong. Her eyes became deadened, and she was terribly depressed, unable to think clearly, seeing images of razor blades everywhere. The three of us closest to her tried to support her as best we could, but she eventually had to be hospitalized. I drove out to Stewart’s Ferry to see her, having no idea what to do or say. It didn’t matter; she said afterward she would always remember I was the friend who came to visit her in the psych ward.
Bipolar disorder was diagnosed, medicine prescribed, decisions made.
Hannah’s father flew to town and took her back to California. A meteorologist, he was familiar with variations in weather and seemed to take his daughter’s in stride.
From what I knew of Hannah’s relationship with her mother (now deceased), though, I was worried that returning home would only make things harder for her.
Yet, to our relief, she seemed to be getting better, healing. I missed having her nearby, but we kept in touch by phone calls that slowly had more space between them, as my senior year stayed brimful with classes, concerts, thesis obligations, and starting to plan for life after Belmont. Meanwhile, Hannah engaged in therapy, cared for a family’s children on an island in Alaska, painted murals back in Escondido, resumed her studies, and began a romantic relationship that appeared to hold much joy.
I never returned her last phone call.
I had meant to, kept running out of time all week, but she’d seemed cheery in her voicemail and I didn’t get a sense of urgency. Seemed, appeared: we never know.
Instead, on April 2, 2004, I received a phone call from the friend who had introduced us, telling me that Hannah had taken her own life the day before. She was 21.
She had taken enough pills to end it all. Everyone had thought she was flourishing. The funeral was the following week. I was in shock. I lacked the money and bandwidth for a sudden flight to California. Aside from my grandparents, this was the first significant death I had experienced, the first loss of a friend and peer, the first suicide.
I spent the next month in a haze of grief, and while I completed all my college commitments well outwardly, inwardly it would be years before I (and her other close friends) really recovered. How could someone of such deep kindness and faith, with such gifts to offer the world, who was so cherished, experience such internal agony beyond what any of us could fathom, such intense emotional pain that death seemed the only way forward?
This question haunted me over the next decade, as I enjoyed the first phase of my career in music (and the other creative souls I got to encounter in the process), until pursuing a PhD and discovering transliminality through my research provided some of the answers I was seeking.
I have long sensed that Hannah is at peace, that her sparkling joy was restored to her in the hereafter. Sometimes I get the feeling she’s there helping me with creative endeavors, just as my late grandfather sends help with my writing.
How I wish CATHARSIS had existed 22 years ago, for Hannah and so many others. She would have loved it. I am quite sure she will help us decorate it, in the fullness of time. Some spirits have such a lightness that a clinical setting cannot heal, but only constrain.
May her laughter fill the walls, her warmth and vibrancy inspire the décor, and her gift for seeing wounded people as beautiful infuse our healing center with light.
hbb 7/15/82-4/1/04