She killed herself

Eric Bolling, the former Fox News host, received the tragic news this weekend that his son, Eric Chase Bolling, 19, was found dead in his bed Friday afternoon. The 19-year-old was a student at the University of Colorado Boulder.

The young man's death reportedly came shortly after his father parted ways with Fox News in the wake of sexual misconduct allegations. While rumors of suicide are rampant, I want to be clear that the cause of death has not been released. Bolling posted on Twitter that "details [were] still unclear." He later tweeted that "there is no sign of self harm at this point. Autopsy will be next week."

I am not, therefore, suggesting he committed suicide -- not at all. The reports, however, took my mind back to the topic in general. It's a horrific reality for too many -- both young and old -- and it grips my heart.

I dedicated a chapter of my book "Push Your Way to Purpose" to this heartrending subject because it's something we must talk about, as uncomfortable as it is. In the chapter, "She Killed Herself," I shared my reaction to the suicide of a former student and an up-close encounter with a stranger's suicide. I'd like to share an excerpt:

I got the news via a Facebook inbox message. She was dead. That was shocking enough, but the news of how she died followed, and that was earth-shattering. She killed herself -- and in the most unimaginable way.

It shook me to my core that a student who sat in my classroom every day found her life so unbearable that she ended it. My heart broke, and I found myself thinking if I had been there, this would not have happened. There is no evidence of that, of course, but I still thought it. By this time, I had moved from New York to Missouri and had transitioned into a new career. I was no longer teaching. I was more than 1,000 miles away and hadn't seen or heard from her since I left the school district. Knowing she had departed from us in this way was too much.

Let me tell you about this student. When I met her, she had what I'd call a "stank" attitude. She turned the eye-roll into an art form. Even when she was silent, the look on her face spoke volumes. It said, "Don't mess with me!" Her silent eye-roll was rivaled only by her loudness in the school hallway when she was with friends.

In spite of her attitude, she and I had a good relationship. She wasn't big on words in class. She was not going to be the first one to raise her hand, and when called upon, she was going to flash a look that said, "Can't you just leave me alone?" But because she liked me and I liked her, she combined that look with a sheepish grin. I could always make her smile in spite of her attitude, which, to be sure, was something to contend with if she didn't like you. Everything she did was in slow motion and methodical, even that smile she flashed at me in class or the hallway. I can still see her in my mind -- walking past my room the year after she was in my class, which was her eighth-grade year.

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Her story and stories like it are among the reasons I am passionate about what I do -- speaking and writing to inspire. I told an auditorium filled with staff and students in Catskill, New York, that I arrived there with a sense of urgency because, for some of them, the message I was sharing was a life or death one. I said some of them would encounter difficulties in the coming days, and they would have a decision to make. They could throw in the towel, or they could apply the message I was sharing with them -- about their true identity and purpose -- and persevere. After the presentation, several students approached me to thank me, and some hugged me. This happens often -- from students complimenting a speech to expressing gratitude. On two occasions, students confided that a friend in the audience had self-destructive tendencies and needed to hear what I said that day.

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When I speak to adult groups, they grab onto the words, too, and are vocal about what the message meant to them.

We're all different -- of different ages, races, proclivities and experiences -- but we each can benefit from a word of truth. I wish I had one more chance to see my former student. I'd do my best to impress upon her how precious she is, how much potential she has, and how far she can go. I'll never have the chance to share that truth, and, apparently, she didn't have it within herself. Oh, how I wish she had known! Heartbreaking.

I recall a time it took forever to get across a bridge I had to travel to get home from work. The cars were piled back for miles, and I didn't know why. This was before everyone carried a cell phone, so there was no one to call to get the lowdown on the holdup. I later learned a man had committed suicide. Eyewitnesses said he was driving across the bridge, stopped his car, got out, walked to the edge, and jumped. No hesitation, no looking back, nothing but stop car, go to edge, jump. Hearing that hit me hard also, and I asked the question I always ask in these situations: could he not find even a sliver of hope? What could be so bad? I say that not to trivialize the real pain people endure, but to ask, "In the midst of it, was there even one thought that tomorrow could be better? Was there one person to take his hand and hold it?" The thought that the answer to those questions was "no" is beyond sad. It ought to make all of us reach out to others and love on them.

Adrienne Ross is owner of Adrienne Ross Communications and a former Southeast Missourian editorial board member. Contact her at aross@semissourian.com.