After I saw the dynamic between Eric and Dylan on the Basement Tapes, I found myself revisiting this episode in a new light. If Dylan didn’t want to go out with Zack or Nate or Robyn or any of his other friends, he simply told them so: “Nah, I can’t this weekend. I need to write this paper.” Only with Eric did he need me to bail him out. I never wondered about that or thought to ask Dylan: “Why can’t you just say no?” Asking for my help seemed like a sign of his good judgment, but afterward I realized that it was a portent of something much more disturbing. It was a sign I had missed until it was too late.
During one of our conversations, Frank Ochberg said, “Dylan did not have the profile of a killer, but he had vulnerability to become enmeshed with one.” FBI investigators found that Eric had tried to interest other boys in a plan of mass destruction, including Zack and Mark Manes.
They didn’t bite. Dylan did.
• • •
Randazzo: “There is often a fine line between people who are suicidal and homicidal. Most suicides are not homicidal, but many who are homicidal are there because of suicidality.”
I believe this is what happened to Dyl.
—Annotated note from interview with Dr. Marisa Randazzo, February 2015
Criminal justice specialist Dr. Adam Lankford, author of The Myth of Martyrdom, studies the suicidality of suicide bombers and mass shooters. He writes that rampage shooters, like suicide bombers, share three main characteristics: mental health issues that have produced a desire to die, a deep sense of victimization, and the desire to earn fame and glory through killing.
In one study, he looked at almost two hundred rampage shooters involved in events from 1966 to 2010. Almost half of them died by suicide as part of their attacks. Others may have intended to die, but were restrained or taken into custody before they had the chance. Truly suicidal or not, rampage shooters have less than a 1 percent chance of escaping the consequences of their actions. To plan an event with such a disastrously low chance of escape or survival implies what Lankford calls “life indifference.”
According to threat assessment experts, mass shooters almost always follow a discernible path to the shootings they commit. Recognizing the signposts on that path is the key to preventing these events. The pathway often begins with the desire to die.
For a long time, murder-suicide was viewed as a subset of murder, not of suicide. Some murder-suicides do correspond to the murder model, where suicide is a “plan B” turned to only when other escape options have failed. But a shifting understanding of suicide and a closer look at the data have revealed that many murder-suicides, if not the vast majority, have their genesis in suicidal thoughts. In other words, as Dr. Joiner writes, “If it can be shown that suicide is fundamental in murder-suicide, then suicide prevention is also murder-suicide prevention.”
In the case of Columbine, at least, I believe that is true. For years I searched for the missing integer, the piece of Dylan’s character that allowed him to do what he did. From what I’ve learned, I now believe the third segment of Dr. Joiner’s Venn diagram—the capability to die by suicide—provides part of the answer.
In his writings, Dylan takes comfort from the idea of death. But he does not seem to have the capability for suicide by himself.
As Dr. Joiner points out, people have to become desensitized to the violence and the fear of pain in order to be able to harm themselves. (He posits that this is why suicide rates are higher in populations routinely exposed to—and therefore inured to—pain and horror, such as doctors, soldiers, and people with anorexia.) Our natural instinct for survival is hardwired, and most people have to work themselves up to ignoring it over time.
Dylan couldn’t—by himself. He talks about suicide, but he does not by himself come up with a plan to do it. His writing about it, as it is about most things, is abstract. That paralysis is reflected throughout the journals. He wants a job working with computers, but he can’t get one or keep the one he gets. He talks over and over about the girl he has a crush on, but there is no evidence he made any advances toward her. He agonizes over the letter he writes to her, but doesn’t deliver it. In fact, there’s no evidence they ever spoke.
The same thing appears to be true for suicide, and he turns to Eric for help: “Soon….either ill commit suicide, or I’ll get w. [redacted girl’s name] & it will be NBK for us.” Dylan appears to have “needed” Eric’s homicidal plan in order to be able to do what he most wanted to do: die by suicide. Dr. Joiner suggested to me that planning with Eric for the rampage may have been part of the way Dylan rehearsed his own death. The preparations helped him to desensitize himself.
For years after the attack, I resisted blaming Eric for Dylan’s participation. I believed, as I still do at some level, that whatever hold Eric might have had over him, Dylan was still accountable for the choices he made. At one point, at least, he was separate enough and objective enough to tell me Eric was “crazy,” and ambivalent enough to try to get help to distance himself from the relationship.
Given what I have learned about psychopathy, I now feel differently. I find the violence and hatred seething off the page in Eric’s journals almost unreadably dark, but his writing is clear, whereas Dylan’s was not. As Dr. Langman puts it, “Dylan’s writing is jumbled, disorganized, and full of tangled syntax and misused words. Eric’s thoughts are disturbing; Dylan’s thought process is disturbed. The difference is in what Eric thinks and how Dylan thinks.”
We know Eric was overwhelmingly persuasive. His Diversion counselor, dismissing him early from the program, said at the end of her final report, “muy facile [sic] hombre,” which my Spanish-speaking friends translate as an affectionate characterization along the lines of “super-easy guy.” Eric’s perceived halo may have extended to Dylan, whose own grades weren’t good enough to justify his early dismissal from Diversion. A number of the psychologists I have spoken to have told me how scarily charismatic and charming psychopaths can be—how quick they are to find the wedge, and how masterfully they work the lever. I am not sure that Dylan, especially in an impaired state, was in a position to extricate himself from that relationship.
Dr. Randazzo has interviewed a number of would-be school shooters, intercepted before they could execute their terrible plans. She describes both their ambivalence and their tunnel vision. “When they reach that point of desperation, they’re looking for a way out. They can’t see any other options. They just don’t care.” Knowing this does not for a moment lessen Dylan’s culpability, but it may get us closer to an explanation of how he came to be there. Dr. Dwayne Fuselier, a clinical psychologist and the supervisor in charge of the FBI team during the Columbine investigation, told me, “I believe Eric went to the school to kill people and didn’t care if he died, while Dylan wanted to die and didn’t care if others died as well.”
CHAPTER 13
Pathway to Suicide
Dylan’s Junior Year
Dylan with family at a local restaurant, about three weeks before Columbine.
The Klebold Family
Four-hour lawyer appt was upsetting. The more we talked the more we saw how this “perfect” kid was not so perfect. By the time we were done we felt that our lives had not only been useless, but had been destructive….We wanted to believe that Dylan was perfect. We let ourselves accept that and really didn’t see signs of his own anger and frustration. I don’t know if I can ever live with myself. I have so much regret.
—Journal entry, May 1999
In his junior year, Dylan got into trouble. Not once or twice, but a few times, in a series of escalating events.
That makes this the hardest chapter in this book for me to write, because I know most people reading it will say: Hey, Sue: this kid was falling apart, and you just stood by and did nothing. What the hell were you thinking? The signs that Dylan was struggling were not overt or glaring, but we observed them—and misinterpreted them.
Now, the overwhelming majority of children, even if they are facing brai
n health challenges, are not going to commit a school shooting. If you live with a teenager, though, there’s a reasonable chance he or she is struggling with a brain disorder. An estimated one in five children and adolescents has a diagnosable mental health condition. Only 20 percent of those kids are identified. That is why parents too often learn or think about brain health issues in teens only after those issues result in violence, crime, or self-harm. Despite its prevalence and the danger it poses, brain illness in teenagers too often goes unrecognized, even by caring teachers, well-meaning counselors and pediatricians, and the most vigilant parents.
Left untreated, even the mildest brain health impairment can derail a young person’s life, and stop a child from reaching his or her full potential, a tragedy in itself. A disease like depression can also have much more serious consequences, as it sets many of the traps that snag children in adolescence: drug and alcohol abuse, drunk driving, petty crime, eating disorders, cutting, abusive relationships, and high-risk sexual behaviors among them.
In 1999, I did not know the difference between the sadness and lethargy I had always called depression, and clinical depression, which many sufferers describe as a feeling of nothingness. I had no idea that about 20 percent of teenagers experience a depressive episode, or that experiencing one episode puts them at higher risk of another. (A recent CDC report puts that number closer to 30 percent.)
I did not know that depression manifests itself differently in teenagers than it does in adults. Where adults may appear sad and low-energy, teenagers (especially boys) tend to withdraw and show increased irritability, self-criticism, frustration, and anger. Unexplained pains, whininess, sleep disorders, and clinginess are common symptoms of depression among younger children.
Neither did I know that the symptoms of depression in adolescents are often masked by the many other developmental and behavioral changes they’re going through, which may be one of the reasons diagnosis often comes too late. Parents may not be alarmed by a teenager who sleeps late into the weekend, or a good eater who pushes away his plate—“ugh, gross”—although changes in sleep and appetite can be symptoms of depression. Diagnosis is further complicated because many depressed children show none of these signs.
Dylan’s depression remained undiagnosed, and untreated. In this he was not alone. The vast majority of depressed teens do not get the help they need, even as their condition interferes with their relationships with friends and family and with their schoolwork, and dramatically raises the risk they’ll get into trouble with the law or die by suicide. In Dylan’s case, of course, it was both.
Tom and I did know Dylan was going through a rough patch. That year, the whole family was plagued by health problems and money worries. Tom and I spent quite a bit of time worried about Byron, who had moved into his own apartment. The overall difficulty of the year contributed to our failure to see what was right in front of us.
There is another reason Tom and I did not react with greater purpose when Dylan’s life went off the rails in junior year, and that is because he seemed to get himself back on track. At the end of that year, and throughout his senior year, after the damage and disappointment of the previous months, Dylan seemed intent to prove to us he was getting his life together.
I mention this not to make an excuse, but because it is such a common refrain among parents who have lost children to suicide. “He was so much better!” those shocked parents say—as Dylan seemed better to us.
To borrow a cliché, we thought he’d been scared straight by the gravity of the trouble he’d gotten into the year before. Unfortunately, the finish line he was moving toward with such clarity was not, as we believed, an independent life in a dorm room at the University of Arizona while earning a degree in his beloved computer science. Instead, it was a plan that would end in his own death, and those of so many others.
• • •
Things have been really happy this summer….Dylan is yukking it up and having a great time with friends.
—Journal entry, July 1997
The summer between Dylan’s sophomore and junior years was low-key. There was, however, one disturbing incident, and it involved Eric Harris.
Dylan hadn’t played soccer since kindergarten, but he decided to join the team Eric played for that summer, and they gave him a shot although he had no experience and few skills. We were pleased to hear he was joining the team, as soccer wouldn’t strain the arm he’d injured pitching. Plus, we admired his willingness to try a sport he hadn’t played in years.
Dylan wasn’t a great athlete—he was strong, but lacked agility and the coordination to manage his long, gangly limbs. He did not play soccer particularly well, but he attended practice faithfully. When the team made the playoffs, Tom and I came out to watch. Dylan played poorly, and the team lost.
Still sweaty, Eric and Dylan came over to where we were standing with the Harrises. Before we could congratulate them on a good effort, Eric began to scream. Spittle flying from his mouth, he lashed out at Dylan, ranting about his poor performance. Chattering parents and boys from both teams fell silent and stared.
Eric’s parents flanked him and guided him off the field as Tom, Dylan, and I drifted slowly, in stunned humiliation, toward our own car. I couldn’t hear what the Harrises were saying to Eric, but they appeared to be trying to settle him down. Dylan walked between Tom and me, silent and impassive.
I was shocked by the sudden inappropriateness of the display, and by the extremity of Eric’s rage. Dylan’s utter lack of affect alarmed me too; he had to be wounded, though he revealed nothing. My heart ached for him. I wanted to hug him, but he was fifteen years old and surrounded by his team. I couldn’t embarrass him further.
As soon as we got inside the car, though, I said, “Man! What a jerk! I can’t believe Eric!” As Tom started the car, Dylan stared out the window with a blank expression on his face. His calm in the face of Eric’s freak-out seemed unnatural, and I hoped he’d allow himself to acknowledge anger or humiliation as we drove away, but he did not.
I pressed him, wishing he’d blow off steam. “Didn’t it hurt your feelings, to have him act like that? I’d be incredibly upset if a friend treated me that way.” Dylan was still looking out the window, and his expression didn’t change when he answered me: “Nah. That’s just Eric.”
Tom, I could tell, was fuming. Dylan, on the other hand, appeared detached, as if he’d already shrugged it off. How fragile must Eric’s ego be, to be that upset about losing a dumb soccer game? I was more embarrassed for him than I was for Dylan; the tantrum had made Eric seem like a much younger child.
Over the course of the drive home, I kicked into my Mom Rescue Mode. As if I knew anything about it at all, I suggested various ways Dylan could fix his soccer game. I thought I was probably making his humiliation worse, but I couldn’t stop myself. I told him that if I’d learned anything in my years of being chosen last for every team in high school, it was that the best players tended to go after the ball as if their lives depended on it. The people who won were usually the ones who wanted it most.
Dylan said nothing, and I wound down. At the next game, the last of the season, he surprised us by playing better than he’d ever played before, charging to gain control of the ball. They lost, but Dylan’s coach praised his improvement, and he seemed more at ease with himself. Foolishly, I thought my advice might have helped a little, and Tom and I were both pleased to see that Eric showed no more evidence of poor sportsmanship.
Tom was furious with Eric for screaming. He never did entirely forgive him, but did not forbid the relationship. Dylan, we thought, could handle himself. In hindsight, of course, I wish we had been brutal in our separation of the two boys.
• • •
Losses and other events—whether anticipated or actual—can lead to feelings of shame, humiliation, or despair and may serve as triggering events for suicidal behavior. Triggering events include losses, such as the breakup of a relationship or a death; academic failures;
trouble with authorities, such as school suspensions or legal difficulties; bullying; or health problems. This is especially true for youth already vulnerable because of low self-esteem or a mental disorder, such as depression. Help is available and should be arranged.
—American Association of Suicidology
As soon as Dylan’s junior year started, the whole family was bombarded by problems.
The first few months of Byron’s experiment in independence were hard to watch. I reassured myself by thinking about Erma Bombeck’s statement about her own boys: they lived like hamsters. Still, I worried. At least I knew he was getting two or three decent meals a week. He came to us most Sunday evenings for dinner, and always left with a bag of hearty leftovers.
Byron’s diet and housekeeping abilities were the least of our worries about him. That fall, he weathered one crisis after another. First, a car sideswiped his while he was waiting at an intersection. His injuries were minor; nevertheless, it was scary, and his car was totaled. He continued to cycle through a succession of menial jobs. He’d often quit them for trivial reasons, like not wanting to get up early, or to wear the uniform. When he could afford to pay his bills, he’d sometimes forget.
I had a fundamental belief in Byron’s goodness, as I did in Dylan’s. “He’ll get it together,” I often reassured Tom. But when every phone call brought news of a fresh setback, even I couldn’t help wondering if Byron was ever going to settle down.
I was going through changes of my own. In September, after an extended period of political upheaval at the college where I worked, I started a new job, coordinating a small grant to help people with disabilities in the community college system acquire computer skills. I only had to go to the office four days a week, but I took a fairly significant pay cut. The grant was also time-limited, which added a degree of uncertainty. My commute was almost an hour longer than it had been, and I found it a little unsettling to know it would take me so long to get to my kids if they needed me.
Mother's Reckoning : Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy (9781101902769) Page 20
