There are too many of us.

In my work as a substitute teacher, suicide comes up all the time.   Of course, I live with the grim residue of suicide every day, but the fact that it is such an ever present topic in our schools reminds me that I am not alone as a suicide survivor.   There are too many of us.

Tragically, a local high school student took his own life last week.  A freshman.  Our community is large – maybe ten high schools – and the only way that I heard about the boy'’s death was shocked chatter in a teacher’s lounge. 

There was no notice in the paper, no obituary, no public word. I looked.  Everything is very hush, hush.  I guess that’s pretty typical; we didn’t place a public announcement either.  The people that needed to know found out.  But I will also admit that Molly’s death felt like a personal failure and at the time the last thing we wanted was public scrutiny.  I think I feel a bit differently now; whatever else her death is, it is not a personal failure.

My heart goes out to the boy’s parents and I hope that they discover fairly quickly that there are many of us – living right here in their own community – who live everyday with this loss.  We are hidden and unsure about how to be publicly supportive.  But we are here.

This is not the first suicide in our schools and administrators do not shy away from the topic.   Suicide awareness posters are publicly displayed;   just today a speaker in a high school talked about his suicide attempt; bullying prevention is part of the required curriculum at all grade levels; administrators are taking the possibility of suicide very seriously.

Of course, awareness will never be enough – but it is an important place to start.  It shocks me that at one point I actually thought that it wouldn’t happen to me.  I knew it might – I just didn’t believe it could.  And I was wrong.  

A Visit to a Meeting

I will admit I was hesitant to attend the mental health information meeting.  While I knew I would draw some comfort from the speaker who lost her daughter to suicide (and I did), I walked in to the room reluctant to admit that my life had anything to do with mental illness.

If the event had simply been presentations by people impacted by mental illness, I would have been just fine and chalked the evening up as a success.  The problem for me - and I know I am not alone - is mental health professionals.

The one at this particular meeting was down right jolly.   "Mental health treatment works," she said. "There are medications to control mental illness."  As if it was that simple.  As if those of us who lost everything to the mental illness missed the magic medication that was going to fix everything up just perfectly.   She had lots of support groups to offer.   I wanted to ring her neck.  (Figuratively, but you get the idea.)

Dear Mental Health Professionals,  here are a few tips from some raw experience:

1) Please stop comparing mental illness to diabetes.  I am really tired of that one.  Diabetes is diagnosed through specific tests and has an accepted regimen of care that does not include drugs that are labeled as dangerous for children and adolescents.  

2) Do not tell me that mental health treatment works as a universal truth.  It does not.  Suggest that many people are helped by mental health care treatment. 

3) Talk therpay will work for some.  But if  mental illness has a physical genesis (like the ever present diabetes, for example) then talking can't be expected to result in a cure.  Acknowledge that while medications are available, there are risks associated with them that need to be carefully worked through with a doctor.

4) Draw a picture of mental health treatment in strak contrast to physical medical care.  The primary model of doctor runs tests, get results and gives patient medication does not exist in mental health. In fact, the model works in reverse.  Sort of.  There are no tests.    Tell people that; coach patients and their families on how to work most effectively within the system.

5) Advocate for funds for research.  Always. 

Cleaning out Toys

Every parent has to clean out their children’s childhood at some point; it is not a task unique to those of us who have lost a child.

At least that’s what I told myself today as we went through bags and bags of Molly’s things.

We knew what to do with the fabulous doll house and the Barbie collection.  There is a family in the neighborhood with three girls under the age of 7.  The young (and at the time childless) parents had been wonderful to Molly when she was in elementary school, trusting Molly to walk their two dogs and providing a friendly eye over Molly’s comings and goings.  It was fun to give their girls Molly’s “good stuff.”

In fact, if I have a regret, it is that we didn’t do this sooner.  Although the Barbies were carefully stored and the doll house was covered, they seemed a bit dusty – a bit worn down simply by sitting in a box.  Toys are meant to be played with.

While we were at it, we gave the girls one of several china tea sets that Molly was given as a young girl.   Molly was never the tea set type; hopefully the neighbor girls will use it!

And then there were books and DVDs and storage boxes and other miscellaneous things that we took to Goodwill.  And some of the stuff is just trash…  like the dress up clothes and the bean bag toys.   Then, there are a few things, like Molly’s horseback riding clothes, that we are going to try and sell on eBay.

My back hurts.  This was not an easy day.  But my spirit is okay.  Much as I tried, I couldn’t find Molly in all of her stuff.  She was not there.   But if one child’s day is a little brighter because of a new doll house and some Barbie clothes,  and if another child gets some great horseback riding clothes at a good price, I know that Molly would be pleased with that.  And then maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to find Molly after all.

Stepping Out..

Although understanding that I am a suicide survivor is essential to understanding who I am, it is not something that I share easily.

I have not reached out in activism.  I have not gone to support groups.  Heck, I write this blog with a nod toward my own privacy.

So it is difficult to consider accepting an invitation to attend an event about mental illness and teen suicide.  Although the speakers will be parents who lost a teenager to suicide, and I will likely relate to everything they have to say, I hesitate.  Who else will be there? Will they know me? Will I feel exposed for having simply walked in to the room? 

Despite the tears that flow in even thinking about the possibility of exploring the grief of suicide in a public forum, I am drawn to the event.  I imagine myself anonymously sitting on some folding chair, not even interacting.  Wait a minute, though.  What if only ten people show up?  I would have to interact.  Can I risk it?

The idea that I would have anything in common with the topic of teen suicide is horrific.  I don’t even want to admit it to myself.  Somehow, showing up at this event would be a huge acknowledgement  that I am a parent who has lost a child to suicide.

Maybe it is time.

Living on the edge….

 

 

I do a pretty damn good job of functioning on a daily basis, if I do say so myself.  I head to work everyday.  I laugh.   I have fun.

And I keep myself busy.

The alternative to busy-ness is to replay Molly’s life and death over again and again in my mind.  And within the replays are recurring pauses: was her suicide my fault?  Could I have done anything differently?  Am I a good person?  Was I a good parent? 

Endless.

A brief visit to the edge of boredom is a prayer.  A moment of connection.  But beyond that moment is a burning anguish that cannot be quenched and surely has the power to consume me.

I will not be consumed.  Not today.

A week after Labor Day

There is no way to stretch the summer any further than this.  It is done.  And to put a word to it, the end of summer is depressing.

At least I am thinking it’s that end of summer that has me so down today.  Maybe it is the weather, too – a week of rain will take a toll on anyone’s spirit.    Take the rain, consider the earthquake, hurricane, and flooding we’ve endured over the last couple of weeks and top it off with the 9/11 coverage; end of the world jokes don’t seem that far fetched.

And, despite the fun of being back to work, there is the predictability of it too.  And the predictable part can press ruts right down into my soul.  Routine CAN be good.  I know that.  I just have to make friends with it.

People are asking things of me. Which is great. I am happy about that. But it is tough too, because there is a piece of me that does not want to be generous. I don’t want to put myself out there, meet new people, tell and re-tell my story. Much easier to simply hang out at my own pace in my own little world.

My semester starts in a week.  And my volunteer commitments are gearing up as well.  Everything is just that tad bit out of my control, signaling that summer days are over.

I know that I say that I am trying to make the most of my days.  And for the most part I am.  Just not this one.

Feeling Good/Feeling Guilty

For the most part, I am a happy person.  Perhaps a bit impatient, but for the most part, happy.  And I know that in the scheme of things, I am a lucky person too.

Even as I type those words, however, I feel compeled to edit myself, questioning how it could be possible for someone to have lost a teenager to suicide and still be happy or consder themselves lucky.

Except that it is possible.   I am sad at times, in tears at times, unable to even think about it  at times.  But I also feel happiness and recognize the many, many ways that I have been lucky.  Heck, I am Molly's mom and that is one of the highlights of my life.  So, yes.  I am lucky and happy. No edit required.