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We've all heard it. We've all felt it. Someone falls victim to suicide and the *nearly* unanimous cry is, “Why didn't they get help?!” “Why didn't they tell someone?!” Chances are really good that they tried. They tried really hard. But most people who are not at risk of suicide think that the path to it is paved with bright neon signs that say, “SUICIDE! THIS WAY!” The fact is that no matter what side of the political and religious spectrums you are, most people recoil from the subject of death, and the very idea that someone could intentionally end their own life goes against every fiber of our being. So, unless we are forced to deal with the ugly aftermath, we downplay it as much as possible, assuring ourselves that if we saw someone on that awful road, we would recognize it. But would we really? And do we really think that someone who is contemplating suicide sits there logically weighing the pros and cons before seeking advice from their friends and family? Yeah, I didn't think so. In order to recognize the real signs, we first need to get it out of our head that self-inflicted injury or death is about death. It's about pain. Think about the last time you got the norovirus or food poisoning. You felt horrible. It goes on and on and you just want it to stop. Your body contorts involuntarily. You can't think about anything else except that you just. Want. It. To. Stop. What if, instead of twenty-four hours, this state of being kept going – indefinitely. Now, let's imagine that, inexplicably, no one can tell that you have food poisoning. They walk by, try to have conversations with you, go about their business – all while you're being actively, violently ill. You can't speak except in single words and basic concepts. Some of the people who pass by are annoyed. They can't see what your feeling and they wonder why you won't speak in full sentences or aren't paying attention to what they were saying. Others think maybe something's wrong with you and that makes them uncomfortable, so they hurry by. Still others want to help, but they also kind of think – deep down – that you're being a big baby. “Chin up!” they say. “Everything's going to be ok! There was this time when I didn't feel good, so I started exercising and that helped so much! You should try it!” Meanwhile the life is draining out of you and you care less and less. You start to feel as numb as a rock. You may as well be one. A rock can't feel. The more pain you're in and the longer it lasts, the more you become singularly focused on just making it stop. It doesn't matter how. In your helpless state, what you need is someone to recognize that your silence is pain, that your cries are not dramatic, that you are not weak or without faith. You need someone to get down on the bathroom floor and hold your hair back. Because ultimately, it's little, real, meaningful gestures that can help guide hurting people off a path they don't even realize they are on. What signs do we need to be watching for? Everyone is different, so everyone is going to behave differently when they are struggling. Be vigilant when someone is not acting like themselves. They don't seem to be enjoying the things they usually enjoy. Smiles may be scarce and forced. They stay in bed or lay in bed for unusual lengths of times (don't we all want to curl up in bed when we aren't feeling well?). If they go as far as to communicate with us, we need to listen carefully. Don't dismiss self-deprecating language, even if it sounds like a joke. Know when to encourage socialization and when to recognize that it's too much. Recognize also that your own scope of aid may not be enough. Your friend may need gentle nudges towards getting professional help. And if we hear about someone who has fallen victim to suicide – let's not dead-shame. Instead, lets redouble our efforts and pay close attention to the hurting people in our lives. Let empathy wash away the fear and discomfort that so many of us have in the presence of pain. Embody comfort. Listen. Be there. Love.
''We as the society, are guilty of murder for every suicide...'' - Nwokeji Bianca Suicide and depression are one bloodline. Suicide is a rebirth of depression. Depression is a cancer, it eats up your mental stability and deprives you of the purpose for living. At a point, you begin to question your existence, life begins to feel worthlessly anguishing, you'll decide to take the 'easy way out', and then suicide sets in. Let me share a little story. I once knew a woman, or rather, an angel. She shined brighter than Sirius, and her smile; so beautiful and warmer than the rays of the morning sun, levitated weary souls and fixed broken hearts. She brought peace to the unrest and gave hope to the hopeless. She in fact, was a healer and people basked in the warmth she provided. However, a cursed blessing it was, that she be the healer of all except herself for on a sad Saturday morning, wails were heard; she was found dead in her room and on the table, laid a suicide note. She took her own life. Little was it known, that behind that radiating smile, was a soul drowning in a sea of depression, and struggling so hard to survive. No one knew what she was going through; the sicknesses, problems and heartbreaks she faced or; maybe we were too ignorant and selfish to notice that, the warmth she gave was from the fire that consumed her. All she needed was someone to talk to, someone who genuinely cared about her. She was drowning slowly in her sea of depression and all she needed was a lifeguard and when none came, she slowly drowned. Many people out there are like this woman, camouflaging their depression, acting all happy but deep down, they're choking, but why shouldn't they? In a society as selfish and toxic as the one we live in, I'm not least surprised. When people confidently brag about how good they are at being uncaring, why shouldn't suicide be the order of the day? Least I forget, the problem of the present day social media drama. People are out there living fake lives. Acting like life is a bed of roses. They forget that even roses have thorns and quietly the thorns pierce through their sanity. What exactly are we pretending for? Why make other feel inferior with what we posses not? The governments of the world nations are endlessly trying to stop suicide but I feel that, the power to do that, lies in us as a society and individually. Some people are already on a volatile lifeline a little intense crisis, and they vaporize into thin air. All they need is a little care and support, an anchor, a lean on shoulder. A simple act of care goes a long way to save lives. A simple greeting to that homeless man on the street, can go a long way to make him feel relevant. A simple visit to the hospital goes a long way to make the patients feel valid. A short genuine chitchat with that old lonely neighbour of yours goes a long way to resuscitate her a little longer. A little word of encouragement to that hopeless person can go a long way to keep him struggling to survive. Parents, take some time off work to be with your children, have deep talks with them. Show them that you love them, it's not all about making money. Teens and young people, you see that your friend, take some time, have deep talks, its not only about partying and fun. This should be a wakeup call to every member of the society. The moment we decide to start acting selfless, caring and showing love to one another, things will get better and suicide will be eliminated. "The end of the toxic uncaring nature of the people is the beginning of a suicide free society..." - Nwokeji Bianca
He was finally going to get to visit. This had been a long time coming, years in fact. Through a fortunate circumstance, here he was, almost two thousand miles from where he lived. Arriving late in the afternoon, the office was getting ready to close, though the grounds would stay open. The secretary found the information, pulled out a map and marked the spot. When he found the right area, he admired the scenery around him. To the West, the thick stand of trees blocked the view of the Missouri River. The North, East and South were grassy knolls dotted with headstones. He headed up the East hill. One, two, three, four rows up. Count six headstones over. Here was a man who had been proud, talented, and had a volatile temper, much like himself. Here was a man who had fought in a World War, practiced a valuable trade as an electrician, and had been cut down in the prime of his life. Here was his grandfather. He introduced himself, told a little about his life. The more he talked, the easier it became. He told his grandfather about the man's only child, the son who was also a father. He talked about siblings. As the evening gently rolled through the trees that blocked the river view, he talked and talked. There was so much to tell: stories that had been passed down, events where he had participated or at least been present. He stretched out on the grass. He told his grandfather how he regretted not having the chance to meet him in life. He told him how they'd been compared, how the similarities had been seen, both good and bad. Then he listened. He lay quietly as wave after wave of emotion washed over him. There was happiness at meeting one of his grandchildren. There was pride that swelled and almost shimmered with light at how well his boy had done. There was amazement at hearing about some of the places lived, trips taken, events in life. There was sadness, and a touch of bitterness, too: the regret at not having lived to be a part of it. Too soon, it was dark and time to go. He was only mildly surprised that he had to wipe his eyes. He thanked his grandfather, and told him that if there was any way possible, he'd visit again. Driving away, he felt both lighter and exhausted. He didn't wonder about what had been real, what had been imagined. What mattered was the connection, a connection he hoped would last.
If you're looking for a scenic, relaxing place to take a walk, ride your bike, or go for a run, look no further than the tranquil Greene River Trail running along the Monongahela River, from Millsboro to Crucible. Soon, you'll be able to enjoy the trail all the way tp the outskirts of Carmichaels, with the addition of 2.2 miles of trail from Crucible to Jessop Boat Club. The current trail is 5.1 miles long and once the addition is completed will stretch for 7.3 miles along the river, following the lines of an abandoned railroad bed. The trail expansion will include spaces for benches and picnic areas along its path. The extension project hopes to provide benefits to the local communities. Citizens will have an even better route for walking, biking, and jogging. Public access to new sections of the Monongahela River will be available and it will attract visitors as a destination for outdoor activities. The added visitors will be a boost to local economy, and should create a bigger demand for eating establishments, convenience stores, bicycle shops, and possibly lodging in towns near the trail. The plans for the extension have been in the works for a long time. It took 6 years to acquire all the land needed along the route and then extensive clearing had to be completed to begin work on the trail itself. “No one's been on this land for 60 years,” says Jake Blaker, Director of Greene County's Department of Recreation. “There's a lot of brush growth, slips and slides. We've done a lot clearing and grubbing for the extension.” Drainage, creating culverts and other environmental issues had to be addressed in the early stages of the project. A bonus in converting rails to trails is that the rail bed aids in the creation of the trail by providing a well-built and stable foundation. The surface is relatively flat, though there is often deterioration in older abandoned railways that is reconstructed. The former railroad that ran along the river was in service from 1901 to 1961 and carried coal along the track from four mines: Gateway, the original Dilworth mine, Crucible, and Nemacolin. It no longer carried coal the last ten years that it functioned, but instead carried supplies for the mines. The coal mines it serviced, much like the railroad ,are no longer there - though remnants of Gateway, Dilworth, and Crucible can be seen along the trail route and further down the river, two buildings still stand from what is left of the Nemacolin mine. The Crucible mine has been reclaimed, the steel recycled and the cement ground up and reused for the Ambridge Walmart near Rt. 65. Still standing as historical markers are the dynamite shack and cap shack. The new extension will also pass remnants of Isabella mine's tipple across the river. With the trail's extension, visitors from throughout the region will be able to appreciate the trail's scenic views of the Monongahela River, countryside, and coal industry remnants. Along the trail, visitors can stop at Pumpkin Run for additional hiking or use of its gazebos, launch watercraft from the improved boat ramp area, watch barges travel up the river, and visit Rices Landing's historic district, added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1992. The trail extension project will help preserve and enhance the scenic and historic resources of the area. The Rices Landing historic district includes a National Historic Landmark, the 110-year-old W.A. Young & Sons Foundry and Machine Shop, as well as the remains of Monongahela River Lock 6, a brick jail built in the 1850s., and other early 1900s structures. A museum, located in one of the houses from Lock 6, features history to the river and its towns. Future extension plans hope to take the Greene River Trail approximately another 7 miles along the river to Nemacolin Mine and end near the former Hatfield's Ferry power station. Farther in the future, plans for the trail will have it running along the shoulder of Rt. 21, across the Masontown Bridge and eventually connecting to the Sheepskin Trail at Point Marion - a hub on the 48-mile West Virginia Mon River Trail system and the 150-mile Great Allegheny Passage. Parking for the trail is currently available at two of the trailheads, Greene Cove Yacht Club and Rices Landing Borough, across from Pumpkin Run Park. Another parking area will be completed at the future trailhead at Jessop Boat Club. Recently added to the existing trail, a new stone bench in honor of Ralph K. Bell has been placed near the Walking Man statue. The Walking Man statue was Hans T. Lubich's Eagle Scout Project completed in 2007. The finished trail will be available to the public in the upcoming months. A dedication ceremony will be held for the opening of the trail, as well as for the addition of new plaques recognizing the historic significance of the trail.
New Blog post You can use many things that happen to you or you observe to spruce up your novel. http://www.universalchaospaladin.com/using-life-events-as-parts-of-stories/
I am here today for one reason: someone stopped me. The house was vacant, abandoned, and in a neighborhood a few miles from my house. I'd been there three days, hiding from my life. I found a discarded razor blade in the bathroom. I shaved all the hair from my forearms, testing the sharpness. My image in the mirror disgusted me. I held clumps of my shoulder-length hair and cut it all off. I cut my bangs off to my scalp. I screamed myself hoarse. Crying, shaking so much I couldn't stand, I went into another room and sat in the closet. I didn't deserve sunlight. I was dirty, a bad girl. I should kill myself. Then it wouldn't hurt anymore. No one wanted me. I held the razor against my wrist, ready to cut. But how? I didn't know. Then I heard a sound. I froze. A window opened, metal screeching. Was it going to happen again? I scooched into the corner and hid. A walkie-talkie squawked gibberish. Keys jangled. "I know you're here. Someone heard you screaming. Come on out now." His voice sounded warm and calm, not angry. "I'm a police officer. You're not in trouble. I promise." I bit my lip and closed my hand around the razor. I would use it if he was lying. But he sounded nice. I peeked out. He stood in the center of the room, arms at his sides. He had blue eyes and smiled at me. I smiled back. “Come on out. Let's talk for a minute.” He sat and crossed his legs. He said something I didn't understand into the radio on his shoulder. I crawled forward to sit next to him. I crossed my legs and put my hands in my lap, razor still hidden in my right hand. “What's your name?' he asked. “Charity,” I said. “Do you have a last name?” I gave it to him. “I'm Officer Spalding. Wanna tell me why're you here all alone?” I shrugged. “You look like you might be sad.” I nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?” I looked at him. To this day, I don't know why, but I trusted him. His eyes were clear and kind. His voice soothed me. The last few days tumbled out, words tripping over each other. I told him about the older neighborhood boy I thought was my friend. How he wanted me to meet his mom and brought me in his house, where it was pitch black. How he pushed me to the floor, took off my clothes, and forced his penis inside me. I wept, reliving the pain, the fear, the smell of his sweat, the sound of him above me. How I screamed, kicked, begged, then just fell silent as he finished. I told him about wanting to die. Office Spalding did the most amazing thing. Slowly, he put his arms around me and held me as I sobbed. He waited while I caught my breath. “What happened to your hair?” “I cut it.” “Oh. With scissors?” I shook my head, held out my hand, and opened it. “With this.” “I see. Can I have that?” I nodded. He plucked it from my hand, tucking it in one of his many pockets. “You are one brave, beautiful young lady. What happened to you isn't your fault. Bad things happen, and we must find a way to work through them. Killing yourself isn't the answer. You are precious. You are so important.” “You think so?” “I know so. Now, I'd like you to make me a promise, one you can never break. Can you do that?” I nodded. “You're going to go through tough times. You'll think you don't want to live anymore. But I want you to promise me you will never, ever, take your own life. I want your word, you won't ever kill yourself.” I thought for a moment and looked at him. Something within me spoke. “I promise.” “Good. Now, how about we get you back home? I'm sure your mom is really worried about you.” “No, she's not. She's going to be really mad.” “She might be. Don't worry, I'll talk to your mom, okay?” I nodded. He helped me to my feet. We climbed out the window and walked to his car. A crowd had gathered, strange faces I didn't recognize. Three police cars formed a semi-circle around the driveway, lights flashing. I don't remember much of the ride home. I was tired. Hungry. Scared. My mom was livid, but only because I'd been brought home by a cop. She never even reported me missing. A few weeks later she sent me back to live with my dad. I've never forgotten Officer Spalding's words. They're sealed within my soul in a special place. He was right. There have been many hard times since. There have been times I thought I would break my promise. Something just won't let me give up now, no matter how much it hurts. His words ignite the part of me that refuses to quit. He was my guardian angel. He saved my life. I have used the same exact strategy with my own family – my daughter, who struggles with mental illness daily, my son, my husband, and friends. I honor my promise every day. I have saved four people so far. I hope to keep saving more. He was right, as it turns out, I am important. I didn't know how much until many years later. Now I am important to countless people, but mostly to three special, wonderful people I love beyond words. I carry his message with me and share it with all who need to hear it.
What sport can someone do when they can't kick a ball, run, or even properly wheel a wheelchair? You would think that my perpetual ability to fall over while standing still would discourage me from playing any kind of sport, but that would make too much logical sense for my tastes. My whole family is very athletic; my Mom gloats about beating the boys' long jump team in high school, my brother has played soccer since three and my sister plays anything that catches her attention. But what to do with me? Apparently the answer was quite simple for my Mother: horseback riding. Horseback riding is one of the best things that has happened to me. During eleven years of riding, I have had ups and downs, had plenty of things to be proud of, improved my self-confidence and gained new skills. The program was called Pegasus, it is a physical therapy program for disabled riders. It entails riding for an hour and you gain basic knowledge of horses. I fell in love with it right away. For once I had the ability to move fast. Really fast. That alone gave me a whole new sense of freedom. Where I could barely walk at an average pace let alone run, the sudden ability to move at any speed while on the horse was exhilarating. Also, I was finally able to look people in the eye. From the wheelchair I was always shorter than everybody, and always looking up. Now from the horse, I was the one looking down on them. Five years in, I hurt my ankle. Since the stirrups irritated it I had to ride without them. Riding this way involves a lot of balance and skill. I was set back a few years because of the increased limitations. For a little while I felt like giving up. When one day someone pointed out something: I was the only one in my class without stirrups who didn't fall off. I realized they were right. With this new insight, I continued. It was in my 7th year in horseback riding when someone wanted to do an interview piece on Pegasus. It was summer break; I was vacationing in Nova Scotia; when my Mom asked a question out of the blue: “would I like to go on T.V. to represent the whole Pegasus program?”. Apparently she had gotten an email. About three weeks later and a whole lot of running around, I was in front of the camera, again I was being asked a question: Why do you like horseback riding? My answer was simple: the freedom of movement. But my success did not stop there. With my ankle healed up and a new horse named Soleil, my coach put me in a show. However, I wouldn't be riding against my other class mates. This time I'll be against able-bodied riders. Since it was my first large show, I didn't get my hopes up of bringing any ribbons home. I was just excited to be in the show. After the hour long show consisting of equitation which is a test of the amount of time it takes you to get your horse to respond to you. All the riders go into the ring at once and someone calls out instructions and you do it at a seconds notice. The second show was Dressage which is a pre-practiced pattern done by all riders. After both shows I was exhausted and still wasn't expecting much. Much to everyone's surprise that day I came in first, beating out the people had less physical limitations than me. I looked back at my parents, realizing the whole ring was applauding me. I sure did a lot of gloating when I got home. Flash forward a few years, I was faced with the biggest challenge of my life. At the young age of 18, I underwent a double hip reconstruction surgery which included work on my knee. The surgery itself lasted 6 hours and I was a Holland Bloorveiw Children's Rehabilitation Hospital for 5 months. The stay itself was isolating away from friends who were moving on, moving out and going to University. Worst of all, I was unable to horseback ride as horseback riding comes from the hips. Most people think you control your horse using your reins, but the horse listens to the riders' change of positioning and shifting of your weight around. It took me a full year later to literally get back on the horse. It was one of the happiest moment of my life. By that point, I was still having problems with my hips and not recovering well and I was beginning to give up hope on riding again. Getting back on diminished the fears and although I was unable to stay on for long, I did it. It took another full year to be able to stay on for the full lesson and I still have bad days. But riding overall greatly improved the speed of my healing process both on a physical and emotional level, as it gave me an intense workout and gave me new hope not to mention the emotional bond I have with my horse. Over the 10 years I have been riding I have learned many lessons, and gained confidence and pride. Before I started horseback riding I thought of myself as the girl that was in a wheelchair but could not wheel it, and the girl that loved to run but could barely stand. Now I am the woman that stands tall just on someone else's feet.
I was driving home after a day at the water park with my daughter's Girl Scout troop, about ten at night, about 40 minutes left to go. I glanced at the sleepy kids in the back. The coffee was working. I was awake and alert. Time to play some music. I fumbled between the seats for my hand-held player. A car was coming. Better let it pass first, I thought, putting both hands on the wheel. I focused on those headlights. Suddenly, they disappeared. I let off the gas, flashed my brights, and strained to see where they went. That's when I saw the car-hauler semi-truck pulled across the highway and realized those headlights hit that truck! Three heads popped up in the back. “Why are we stopping?” one asked. “There's been an accident,” I said parking at nearby warehouse. “Stay put. I'm going to see if I can help.” I hurried to the small, white car smashed into the side of the semi-trailer. Inside was a young, blonde, unconscious woman. Her head tilted unnaturally low to one side. I reached through the window, touched her shoulder, and prayed. “Please don't have put me here for nothing, Lord. Save this woman. Give her another chance, Lord. Please help her!” I felt for a pulse but couldn't find one. More people came. “There are no skid marks,” someone said. “She didn't see the truck.” The truck driver was trying to make a three-point turn. His cab was in the ditch angled towards oncoming traffic. Facing away from me, I hadn't seen it . Our headlights shined right through the trailer. I hadn't seen anything until I turned on my high beams. If I hadn't been staring straight at her headlights when they'd disappeared, I'd have hit it too. In minutes an off-duty fireman had traffic stopped behind the accident and put out flares, and an off-duty police officer was at the car calling for more help and trying to assess the girl's condition. “I can't feel her pulse,” I told him. “She's got a faint pulse,” he said. Oh thank God! ‘Thank you, God,' I thought. “Can I help?” I asked. “No, those guys will handle it,” he said indicating the firemen sprinting to the car. They affixed a neck brace and administered Oxygen. I checked the kids. They were tired and antsy. “It won't be much longer. The firemen are here,” I said then walked back to the roadside to pace and pray. I heard a bystander say, “She's dead.” No, Lord. Please! I took a deep breath and asked a nearby policewoman. “Did she die?” “Maybe you heard the Life Flight helicopter earlier?” she said. “It's been cancelled.” The next day's newspaper said the blonde "woman" was only eighteen. Her name was Amy, the same as my youngest daughter. She was to start nursing school in three weeks. Instead she was dead, and I was alive. In three weeks I'd celebrate my Amy's 2nd birthday because of her headlights. I was so angry at God. Why such a senseless death? Why have a praying Christian, a fireman, and a police officer there in minutes only for her to die? You could have stopped this, my thoughts railed at Him. You're all powerful! Why? I was sick to my stomach for three days. Eventually I realized the railing wasn't helping, wouldn't change anything. I needed to snap out of it, pull myself together. I had a family to care for--chores to do. Laundry was piling up. The lawn needed mowing. I decided to let it go—for now. I put on my work clothes and some praise music hoping to lift my spirits. I was tying my tennis shoes when I had my epiphany. "Awesome God" was playing. The chorus declared “Our God is an awesome God. He reigns from Heaven above with wisdom, power, and love. Our God is an awesome God.” At first, I was still feeling bitter and mocking God inside as I listened. All powerful, but You let her die. Wise, but you let it happen anyway. I was crying again. Why? I wouldn't do that to someone I love. As the chorus repeated “in wisdom, power, and love . . .” I finally heard it. I'd given Him credit for power, but not love. I'd said it already—I wouldn't do that to someone I loved. What if she was headed for hell? Then I realized anew that God doesn't just have love, He is love. If it hurt me to see this stranger die, how much more had it hurt Love to see His creation die? Then why? The anger was gone now. He reigns in wisdom, power and love. Yes, He is omnipotent (all powerful). Yes, He is love. So why? He is also wise. Beyond wise--He's omniscient. I know in part, but He knows it all. Yet Love to let her die because He knew something I didn't. What was that Bible verse? “All things work together for good to them that love God.” God had worked good in that accident for me. Surely omniscient, omnipotent Love had worked good for Amy as well. Was she ready to meet her maker that day? I don't know, but I believe she was as ready as she would ever be. Love would not have taken her otherwise.
Suicide. What just crossed your mind? One single word sends countless thoughts through countless heads. Just seven letters, and thousands of thoughts... Sad. Scary. Bad. Tragedy. Fear. Don't say that. You can't do that. Painfully blunt. Too much. Quiet down! Suicide is a rising epidemic worldwide. There are over 550 deaths by suicide every single year in my home state alone. Every single year this monster takes almost 600 of my people. But this monster is not suicide. "Suicide" is simply a word that means a life was taken by hands of it's own. The monster is something very different. The monster is the cause of suicide. There are many monsters, but there is one that we ignore. One we shove to the back corner, so we can pretend it doesn't exist. One monster that may be more lethal than any other. And that monster is stigma. Suicide means someone's life was taken by their own hands; but it doesn't mean that someone killed themself. I know what you're thinking. Slow down! That is literally what it means! Before you flee to the dictionary for a denotative definition, hear me out. Yes, the person died by their very own actions. But, in the majority of cases, it is my belief that they didn't kill themself. The monsters killed them. Humankind is making mounds of progress in the knowledge that people who died by suicide are rarely the cause of their own death. Through education, many are learning that mental illness is a real issue, and a very big one. Mental illness is one of the monsters that plays a large part in the majority of suicide cases. Through dedicated research, humankind has discovered ways to help people who suffer from mental illnesses, including varying forms of treatment and raising awareness. We have done a lot to lower the reach of mental illness, now it is time to put our efforts toward lowering the reach and effects of another very quiet but horribly significant monster: stigma. Stigma. Noun. A mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance, quality, or person. Mental illness kills. And so does the stigma surrounding it. Why is it that there is such a large and negative stigma surrounding mental illness and suicidal ideation? This stigma stops people with serious illnesses from reaching out for help. Somehow being mentally ill is wrong. Being suicidal is shameful. One brings it upon themself. Or, this is what the world should have us think. The stigma surrounding mental illness tells people who simply have sick brains that these horrible thoughts and feelings they deal with are their own fault, and nobody can know because it is shameful. There is an enormous pressure to hide it, and to fix it by yourself. This is not reasonable! One can expect mentally ill people to fix themselves as much as one can expect people with broken bones or physical impairments to fix themselves. Pressure builds, the issue is not helped, and the illness gets worse. Because of stigma, mental illness goes from treatable to lethal. Though it isn't ideal and nobody would wish it, mental illness is a reality that many individuals face. And still, though we have the knowledge needed to understand and accept mental illness as it is, the stigma surrounding it kills; more than the illness itself. Humankind has come so far over the years! We have learned how to treat mental illness in many cases, saving many lives! Now it is time to treat the stigma surrounding mental illness. Stigma has been killing people. It is time for people to kill stigma.
When I picked up the book 13 reasons why at a book store many years ago I had no clue it would change my life. I didn't know that I was fixing to read my story written by a stranger. A noticeable difference is that I am 31 and still alive. I lived Hannah's life but I made it. When I was 15 years old a friend called me one Friday night. She was intoxicated at a party with all males. She wasn't comfortable and asked if I could walk across the street to where the party was and stay with her. I thought nothing of it and told my parents I was sleeping over with the neighbor (just not the neighbor they thought). I cared for my friend and got her to bed with no issues. I locked her in the room and made sure none of the males present went near the room. We had all been friends for years with the exception of an older guy there. He was very attractive, rich and popular. As the early morning hours approached the friends all started to pass out. I was given my own room and soon found myself fast asleep. I woke up to the guy I didn't know asking if he could crash in there with me because the rest of the beds were taken. I remember hearing the door lock and even telling him that was a fire safety issue. I wasn't nervous because I was in a house full of people I had known for several years. I must have fallen back to sleep quickly but that wouldn't last. I was awoken to him on top of me, forcing himself inside me. I was a virgin and scared truly to make a noise. I think I may have whimpered but that only made it worse. I don't know how long it lasted. I remember he left the room and didn't come back in. I was scared to leave the room. When morning came I practically ran home. I can remember my friends calling me the next 2 days asking what had happened because the male was saying things about me that were not nice. I realized later that he immediately started saying things about my character so people would believe him when he said he never touched me. I had no intentions of telling anyone but made sure no one would believe me if I did. Something I didn't realize was that he was already 18 which made what he did statutory rape. I can remember that first day back at school how all my friends shunned me. People I had known since elementary school treated me like I did something wrong. I never told my parents. I quit cheerleading and the school newspaper. I didn't talk about it with my childhood best friends. They knew something was wrong but I shut down anytime I was asked. Things moved on and I finished the year barely passing after having been an straight a student. I thought for sure the next year would be better as junior but I was shocked the first day of school to find that my attacker had been held from graduation and would be back at the school for another year. Not only was he back at school but would be in some of my classes. I told myself that I could handle this by just pretending he didn't exist but he seemed that he needed to make my life hard. He would say things under his breath when I talked, he would loudly make comments about my reputation and would try to turn my few peers in the class against me. After a few weeks of this abuse I started taking sleeping medicine to get past the nightmares. One day he seemed particularly nasty towards me and called me to his table during lunch. He had some of his female friends call me some names and tell me how he would never have touched me. I took enough sleeping pills that night to never face him again. People wondered how I got the pills. I asked an older neighbor friend to get them for me. That moment of survival changed my life. I still didn't speak out of the attacker mostly out of fear. I felt like I was having a heart attack when I saw in the local paper that he been arrested with trying to pick up a 14 year old girl in a sting when he was 30. My first thought was he may have hurt other girls. I was so scared to tell and that may have left him able to harm others. I have dealt with the ptsd of the attack for years. Sometimes are better than others. Everyday I am glad that I didn't die when I wanted to so bad. I I am so happy that I got to meet a great man who understands my cold days. I am so thankful I got to be a mommy. When I hear people say that Hannah Baker from 13 reasons wanted attention I want to scream that she is real. She is me. I never asked for his bullying. I never asked for the whispers. I never wanted the sympathy. I just wanted to make the choice of my first time being with someone I loved not a stranger who prayed on virgins.
On Valentine's Day, I watched in horror students running with their hands up out of a school where yet another school shooting had occurred. I have followed school shooting closely since Columbine as my biggest fear is an active shooter situation and I work in a college. As more news came out about the shooter, my heart sank. He was adopted and lost both adoptive parents, one recently. I do not feel sympathy for this murderer but I do relate. I often worry about my sons. My beautiful carefree adopted boys. Being adopted doesn't end the pain and neglected feeling these toddlers experience from birth. My boys were adopted from foster care. They spent 3 years in the foster care system. Although both lived in my home for a majority of that time, my oldest son spent some time with bio mom during transition which ended up causing major regressions in behavior and attachment. My little 4 year old boy is obsessed with violence and guns. We have to monitor his every program and game. We see therapists about his violent behaviors and attachment issues. My fear is that one day it will be my son, my boy on the TV in the position of the shooter, not the victims. I try to tell myself it is irrational, he is 4 years old. I feel like I am doing everything I can to help him attach, show emotions, not react in violent outbursts, have outlets to express things but what if its not enough. What if the shooters mom did all the same things? I know some parts of our situation are not similar. My husband is very active in his boys life. They have a strong male role model not just in a father but in uncles and grandfathers. As a mother you never want to think ugly about your child but as an educated person with extensive knowledge in the affects of abandonment, attachment and adoption issues you cant help the thoughts. I write about his behaviors, thoughts, feelings. I ask him about things that are important to him. I let him tell me stories that I write in notebooks for him so he can express his imagination. I show him how to express his anger with words not actions. We don't spank which I am sure causes a lot of judgment but when a child has been abused and only knows violence spankings do not work. You have to know your child and the situation. I am sure if I had given birth to them that I would choose spanking but in his mind those spankings are not much different from the abuse he suffered. I was spanked as a child and I believe it helped me as I rarely did anything to get in trouble. My husband was spanked as a child and also led a trouble free life. That does not mean it is good for our boys. We tried to spank at first but noticed the extreme regressions our son suffered after barely getting a pop. This showed us that some kids have to have other forms of punishment. At 4 years old his offenses are not major. Tantrums on occasion. Hitting or biting siblings. Telling lies. His meltdowns are the real testing behaviors. He actually does the best in public situations, in listening skills and in opportunities to help others. He has so many strong qualities. I think I worry the most because of the mental illness his mother suffers from. I worry that he will get depressed easier. That he will be suicidal. That he will struggle making friends because of his intensity. I worry now about how to combat things that will come at him like drug use. HIs mother self medicates and I am scared the slightest teen experimentation will drag him down her rabbit hole of addiction. I mostly worry that he wont feel love, experience life and live fully.