The Velocity of the Hourglass

by Kelley Gusich

Aron Visuals

In seventh grade I was thirteen, I think, which I’ll be the first to admit was a HORRIBLE year. I had big silver braces and a short curly perm, and shit came out of my mouth that was, quite literally, shit. I said horrible things to my mother that seemed to come from someone else’s mouth, that to this day (I’m almost 52) I feel bad about. I had no concept of how lucky I was, and I spent a lot of time grousing about serious first-world problems, which meant they weren’t serious at all.

But I never, ever, even one time, thought I’d be better off dead.

And that’s what this story is about, this piece that asks in all seriousness — how does someone get to the point where they feel their lives would be better if they were dead? Better for themselves or for anyone who loves them? Because I’ve never felt suicidal, but seventh grade was the beginning of a terrifying suicide-adjacent period I’ve had to explain so often I’ve lost count of the number.

It was my seventh-grade year, which was waaaay back in the early 80’s, before cell phones, social media, my heck, even MTV was new and only played music videos. The word ‘contagion’ applied only to the chicken pox. Or maybe one of those plagues we read about in history class.

But this year was the first time our little Colorado town experienced what is now…