On Dec. 15, 2023, my fish tried to kill himself. I can’t help but wonder—what did I miss? What were the warning signs that I was too busy to recognize? Too selfish, too self-absorbed in my own life and my own problems to even think, for a singular moment, about what could be going through Jr. Jr.’s head. Just because a glass barrier and a predisposition to breathing water separate us physically, how was I so ignorant?
The beginning of our relationship was nothing short of wonderful—the honeymoon phase, as some say. We only had each other. After I won him at the Great Allentown Fair, it was just him and I in my box of a freshman dorm. I would chat with him as I did my makeup every morning, turn my computer slightly so he could watch “American Idol” with me and even sometimes ask him for opinions on my outfits. I swear he would nod.
He was living in the best I could do for him—a $7 crate from Target, and he seemed happy. And so was I. But soon enough, I realized I needed some sort of independence. I was putting myself out there, making friends. I was sending them outfit suggestions, watching movies in their dorms. Though I would always smile at him on my way out, I felt guilty. I could make other friends, but he had no way of meeting other fish. There were no Facebook groups he could join to meet others like him, or groups of like-minded people playing on the green outside. He couldn’t move onwards like I could, so he took his fate into his own hands and prepared for deadly consequences.
The National Institute of Mental Health finds there to be three vocal warning signs of suicide—wanting to die, great guilt and shame and being a burden to others. Oh my god, did I make Jr. Jr. feel like he was a burden? Though I never knew he vocalized it, as I can barely make out the consonants hidden within the bubbles he gurgles, he could’ve been responding to my sighs of having to clean his water, or transport him home for every break. What about the time I shamed him for getting too big, complaining about having to buy another tank? The possibility of his listening allows my guilt to consume me. Oh god, would I have been blamed in his suicide note?
Last time I took him home, he did the unthinkable. My friend and I were on Route 78, cruising through Northern New Jersey, on our way home to feast on turkey and stuffing and corn and pumpkin pie. “Amy,” she quivers. “Amy!” she yells suddenly. “What?” I yell feverishly back. I can’t take my eyes off of the road, but I knew it had to be about Jr. Jr. residing on her lap in a plastic bag shut inside of his tank (container, if we’re being honest). “He bit through the bag! Water is flooding the tank, and his bag is draining! He’s going to die.” She’s screaming as she tells me, and I start screaming too. Immediately, I put my hazards on, go from eighty miles per hour to zero in about thirty seconds and pull over on the shoulder. I run around the car, the unrelenting highway traffic shaking the ground under me as I kneel next to the passenger side. My friend and I dump the bag with a mere few inches of water left into the tank, Jr. Jr. looking panicked, looking around in a daze. Once he plops in the tank, he’s completely loose in it, no lid to lessen the bumps. We drive the rest of the way in silence, not going any faster than thirty miles an hour, with Jr. Jr. now happily swimming, bopping his head to the music in the passenger seat. I guess I should’ve noticed the warning signs. I mean, they were literally right next to me. Was he begging for an escape, looking for a secondary world, bigger than his barren 12-inch by 12-inch tank? Maybe? Probably? I can’t believe the thought didn’t even cross my mind. It keeps me awake at night.
Relationships change after something so sudden, so drastic. I was the one that saw it when it finally happened. I was the one who saw him swim to the back of his tank, wind up and muster up the strength to dive outwards. He cascaded towards the ground in slow motion, water droplets glistening, tail swaying, fins pumping. I heard the splat of slimy orange scales on my kitchen floor, and I jumped straight upwards with a scream. I was home alone, mouth agape. Nineteen years of life, including a year and a half of college, no one had ever shown me a powerpoint on what to do if you witness a suicide.
I did the only thing I know how—I called my mom. Screaming sobbing weeping laughing, I heard her phone connect to Bluetooth as I screamed into the line, as she asked me twice if I could hear her, as my fish was flopping on the floor a foot away from me, mouth open, searching, screaming for water. I crept forward and backed away time after time, reaching downwards towards the fish. I just couldn’t pick up a cold (almost) dead fish with my bare hands.
My mother reminded me that I wouldn’t have to. In my kitchen, the very same room my (almost) dead fish was lying on– no longer flopping, but lying in stillness– we have a ladle. A magnificent, long black ladle, the messiah of my tragic Friday afternoon.
I screamed as I scooped, I scooped him right up. Holding the ladle as far away from my trembling body as possible, squealing mercilessly. I shut my eyes and dumped it over, praying he landed in the tank. Of course, he lived. He immediately began swimming in the tank once again, looking around, presumably for food flakes at the top of his tank. Meanwhile, I layed on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for my heartbeat to return to its resting rate. It took about half an hour. As a reparation for my sins, the next morning, I drove to Petco full of shame, and bought him a nicer tank.
Amy Swartz ‘26 is an English & creative writing and political science double major. She is a General Editorial Assistant, and is thrilled to be a part of such an amazing organization! Outside of the Weekly, you can always find her reading a new book, updating her Spotify playlists, or rewatching an episode of New Girl!
