DAY 10 - World Suicide Prevention Day 2021

 

Every year, World Suicide Prevention Day falls on September 10th. 

This year, take a moment to reach out to those you care about who have high risk factors for suicide.

If you know a trans person, or a child who is being bullied, reach out. If you know a veteran with PTSD or someone who endured childhood trauma that resulted in CPTSD, reach out. If you know someone who struggles with bipolar disorder, or major depressive disorder, or OCD, or any other mental illness, reach out. If you know someone who struggles with addiction or alcoholism or an eating disorder, reach out. Maybe you know someone who has attempted suicide before, or someone who has lost someone to suicide (both of which are suicide risk factors, too) - reach out.

Today is a good day to reach out to the people you are concerned about, the people you love, and the people whose lives have been touched by suicide. Sometimes one conversation, one reminder, one person telling another that they love them - sometimes this is all that is needed in order to shift someone from thinking about suicide, to thinking about getting help. 

Reach out.

Mental Health Awareness Month. Because we are needed in this world.

These Things I Know

 

Written by Jim Yoder, April 29, 2021

Nine years ago this morning, Tammee left us.

We have so many questions. We work so hard to try and know things.
Why didn’t we see something? Why didn’t we realize she was in danger?
Why didn’t she say something? Reach out?
What was she thinking? How was she hurting so badly inside?
What could we have done differently? Would it have mattered?
.
Here’s an idea:

Let’s don’t focus on what we can’t know.
Instead, what if we focus on what we DO know about her?
.
I’ll start:

I know Tammee loved with abandon, loved deeply, and cared deeply.
I know Tammee valued her family, her faith, her friends.
I know Tammee was adventurous, even to a fault. Whether flying airplanes, scuba diving, riding horses, driving motorcycles, she loved speed and exhilaration.
I know Tammee danced always like no one was watching, even though entire dance floors would stop and clear to watch her (which would always then embarrass her greatly).
I know Tammee was impulsive, always choosing immediate action over analysis and planning. I know this caused many wonderful things to happen, and sometimes not so wonderful.
I know Tammee was in great pain and fear 24x7.

When her psychosis and extreme paranoid delusions began 11 years prior to her death, her and everyone’s lives changed drastically, and survival became our driving focus. She suffered on a scale that devastates me to this day, and will forever affect me.
I know Tammee was somehow stronger than anyone I’ve ever known, and it still amazes me.
I know Tammee loved me.
I know Tammee is in heaven.
I know I loved her always, and will love her forever.
These things I know.

Fly free, Tammee Lee! 

Jim Yoder lives in Kansas. He sings in a gospel band, he's a Kansas City Royals fan, and he is a survivor of suicide loss. On April 29, 2012, Jim lost his wife Tammee. Yesterday, Jim shared the note above with his fellow loss survivors. 

The anniversaries of my own two primary suicide losses are in April. As we round the corner from this month into May, what Jim wrote was a beautiful reminder to me that we can move forward holding equal amounts of Grace as grief.

Holding The Truth For You

Last Sunday, I received a message on Facebook from someone I'd never met. I was deeply touched by what she said. Her words could mirror my own that first year after John died. She speaks for so many spouses and partners who are new to suicide loss. 

Of her grief, the extraordinary pain of guilt intermingled with loss, and her acknowledgement of how important it is to not feel alone, I will say this:

She is why I write.

Sunday, 4/4/21

Hi Chelise,

I found your blog through a facebook suicide loss group. Thank you so much for it. I've been reading through your posts. I need them. 

My husband of 23 years took his life on Christmas, 2020. The only things keeping me clinging to life are my family, friends, support groups, and blogs like yours.

My guilt is all-consuming. My husband had what I would call functional depression and alcoholism. But the alcoholism was severely affecting our relationship. In the last few years, things were very strained. We fought a lot. I said hurtful things. He wouldn't get help, and I became angry, desperate, even bitter. All of the worst things. 

What I wanted underneath it all was just for him to get help, to be present for himself, for us. I wanted to have the man I saw when he wasn't drinking. Now he's gone. And I blame myself for everything I ever said, didn't say, did and didn't do. I feel I could have saved him. But I never had a clue suicide was a possibility. I knew nothing. I was a fool. 

I saw what you posted from another blogger: "I fought so hard to save her when she was sick. & while it took awhile, at some point after her passing I realized it was now time ~that I fight, to save me." 

I can't imagine ever wanting to save me. 

I feel I deserve a life of punishing myself. How can I possibly live on knowing he took his life, and our relationship could have been part of that. I love him more than anything in this world. 

Thank you for all you do. Your blog means so much. 

- Sarah*

Here was my reply:

Oh Sarah.

My heart hurts for you. We have so much in common. The first years after John died were riddled with so much guilt. So often, it was hard to breathe under the weight of it.

Please know that functioning depression does not mean that it is not life threatening - and it was not your job to fix that. It would have been impossible. His alcoholism increased his risk, not you and what you did or didn't do.

Guilt is common with all grief, but it is nearly universal with suicide loss. Your guilt is proof of being a suicide loss survivor, not proof of actually having done something to feel guilty about. There is something I often share with those who've lost their partners and who'd been struggling/fighting/setting firm boundaries with, or even leaving, at the time that their partner died. It is true for you too:

Your husband did not die because of the things you did or didn't do. And he was not dealing with mental health issues because of your fights. Your struggles with your husband were likely due to the same things that killed him - the alcoholism and the depression.

Partners have arguments. Even terrible ones. We have people in our suicide loss survivor group who were in the process of pursuing a divorce from their partner. It is not their fault that their partner died. There are many people in the group who were mid-fight with a husband when he suddenly completed right in front of them. Their argument/s, however ugly or painful, were not responsible for their partner's death.

I don't know what your exact circumstances are, but just like I know for certain that those people are not responsible for their partner's death, I know this is true for you too. If you can't yet take that in, please be very gentle with yourself.

And know that I, and so many other survivors, will hold the truth for you. You are not responsible. We will hold this truth for you until you are ready to take that deep breath and reach out for the self compassion that you so deserve.

💓 - Chelise

If you are a suicide loss survivor and can relate to Sarah's feelings, please try to take this in. You are not at fault. And you are not alone.

*Sarah is not the actual name of the woman who wrote me the letter. I changed her name in this blog post, for privacy reasons. 

Mental Health Deserves The Spotlight

 

Combat harmful misinformation by educating yourself yourself about mental illness.

Combat stigma by speaking up for those who suffer from mental illness.

Combat needless suffering by offering a compassionate hand to those who struggle with mental illness.

Advocate for yourself and reach out for help if you are enduring the symptoms of mental illness without support. You are important, you are not alone, your life matters, and you are needed in this world.

From Project Hope:

Mental health is a global crisis that affects people across all walks of life.

Mental health is essential to a healthy life. But millions of people around the world struggle silently with anxiety, fear, isolation, and depression, lacking access to the quality care they need.

Mental health is a human right — and everyone deserves access to the care they need to reach their full potential.

And according to NAMI (the National Alliance on Mental Illness), the link between mental illness and suicide can not be ignored.

Like any other health emergency, it’s important to address a mental health crisis like suicide quickly and effectively. Unlike other health emergencies, mental health crises don’t have *instructions or resources on how to help or what to expect (like the Heimlich Maneuver or CPR). 

If your friend or family member struggles with suicidal ideation day-to-day, let them know that they can talk with you about what they’re going through. Make sure that you adopt an open and compassionate mindset when they’re talking. Instead of “arguing” or trying to disprove any negative statements they make (“Your life isn’t that bad!”), try active listening techniques such as reflecting their feelings and summarizing their thoughts. This can help your loved one feel heard and validated.

Let them know that mental health professionals are trained to help people understand their feelings and improve mental wellness and resiliency. Psychotherapy, like cognitive behavioral therapy and dialectical behavior therapy, can help a person with thoughts of suicide recognize ineffective patterns of thinking and behavior, validate their feelings and learn coping skills. Suicidal thoughts are a symptom, just like any other — they can be treated, and they can improve over time.

Suicide is not the answer. There is hope.

*NAMI has created Navigating a Mental Health Crisis: A NAMI Resource Guide for Those Experiencing a Mental Health Emergency, so people experiencing mental health emergencies and their loved ones can have the answers and information they need when they need it most.

Many Busy Days

Hold me closer, tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
You had a busy day today

There is a story here. It is the story of a journey. A seven year journey. And a six year journey. And a one year journey. And a seven month journey. This is the story of one journey and many journeys. 

I'll start at the beginning, seven years ago.

In 2013, inspired by the counselors who (I believe) helped to save my son's life, I registered with CCAPP (California Consortium of Addiction Programs and Professionals) to become a drug and alcohol counselor. As with many social service vocations, certification (credentialing) was going to be necessary to work in the field. At the time, this required taking 12 academic classes and working just over 1,800 practicum (internship) hours. And all of this needed to be completed within five years. These requirements were non-negotiable. As soon as I registered, the clock started ticking.

But I didn't take any classes in 2013 or in 2014 either. You see, in late 2013, I'd had a relapse and overdose. So the year of 2014 was dedicated to creating a foundation for not just my son's recovery, but my own recovery, as well.

After my overdose, I moved into a sober living house (SLE) and I lived there for close to two years. In 2015 I spent many late nights sitting at the kitchen table of that house, studying for classes and exams. My roommates (also in new recovery) were very patient with me when, night after night, half that table was taken up by textbooks and note paper.

In May of 2016, I was taking one of my last classes at Cal State University, East Bay. At that class, (the amazing) Jimmy Isch was invited to speak. He was recruiting interns for the agency he worked for - Second Chance Recovery Center in Hayward, California. When he talked about Second Chance, he explained that they worked with underserved communities, including the homeless. Many clients were dual diagnosis, as well (dealing with illnesses such as PTSD in addition to their addictions). And there was one other thing he emphasized when he was recruiting interns. "You need to be able to write," he said. I knew then, this was the internship I wanted.

I started right away, but only worked a few hours each week. My plan was to complete the bulk of the hours I needed by working full time, starting in April of the following year (2017). Everything went as scheduled and I was set to begin my full time hours on April 3rd. But then something happened.

On April 2, 2017, John died.

Everything in my life came to a halt as I tried to recover from his loss. My practicum hours had to wait. Second Chance was incredibly supportive. Everyone was very patient, taking my shifts when needed, and helping me with my work on the days that I did make it to the office. So I continued as I had before, a part time intern. It was all I could manage. Suicide loss stays with you always, but for me, the first year was particularly hard. By the time 2018 rolled around, I was in trouble. I simply wasn't going to complete the hours I needed in order to apply to take the statewide chemical dependency counselor exam (the IC&RC). My five years were up.

So, I filed an application for a one year hardship extension. Armed with medical records from my 2013 overdose and a copy of John's 2017 obituary - my one year extension was approved. I made plans to work more hours. I believed that I could do it. That I could finally complete the bulk of my hours.

But 2019 was another brutal year. Loss after loss, yet again. Family members, dear friends, clients, and many other people I knew. Midway through the year, I was on the verge of a breakdown. Still, in August of 2019, I was finally ready to apply to take the official IC&RC exam. I filled out my application papers, and added documentation. The documentation included my transcripts from Cal State, and signed proof of those 1,800 internship hours. As I was filling out the application, I re-read the requirements in order to ensure that I had everything needed. As I read, I noticed there was a discrepancy between what I was submitting and what was required. I was confused. I still remember that moment. I was at work sitting in the room where staff completed their notes after a counseling shift. No one else was in the room, and I was glad. Because suddenly, I couldn't breathe. I fought off tears.

You see, in the six years that had passed since I first registered to become a counselor - the requirements had changed. For the first time, I realized that I was missing multiple required classes, and I was over 300 hours short of those that were now required in a practicum. I was already deeply overwhelmed by the grief of loss, and desperately fighting to control the beginnings of an eating disorder relapse. I was too ashamed to talk to anyone about the fact that I was likely to lose the six year long goal of becoming a fully credentialed counselor, too.

I was angry and overwhelmed and extra sensitive to absolutely everything. I lashed out at people I loved. One particularly hard night, my son asked me if I would go into the hospital. So, I did. The truth is, I didn't want to live anymore. I just wanted to be done.

I did live through the next several months though, but only because of the unwavering love of my son and my closest friends. More than once, the people who cared about me sat me down and said, 'Please make it through this.' In fact, on Christmas night, my son told me this same thing. "Mom, I need you to live." It was the greatest gift he could give me, I suppose, telling me that he needed me in his life. So I kept trying, even when I didn't want to. I complained to one friend that it was too much to ask of me. She told me something that we often hear in our circles of recovery. "Well, act as if," she said. "Act as if you want to live. That's enough for now."

I have two close friends whom I met in eating disorder treatment many years ago. Each one reached out to me. They buoyed my hopes when it came to the eating disorder part of my treatment this time around. "You can do it" really means something when the words are coming from people who've done it before, themselves.

Another friend came to my house one night with two matching pairs of pink onesie pajamas. She told me that we were going to put them on and sit on the couch and watch a stupid movie together. You don't have a choice, she said. It is amazing to me that there are times when I have no idea how to help myself, but sometimes there are others who know exactly what I need.

Equally important, John Macaluso's mother (and we'd lost John only two and a half years earlier) called me every single day for months. She wanted to make sure I knew that when a person deals with mental illness - even if, while suffering, they lash out at people they care about - it doesn't mean that they themselves are less lovable, less forgivable, or less of a valued person. My own mother is not living, but there were many nights that I spent at Jo Macaluso's house, just so I could be near a mother who loved me.

Always, all of these people reminded me that even if did cruel things while sick - those actions did not determine who I was as a whole. One friend reminded me that what you do while having a nervous breakdown does not take away the value you have as a friend.

I was in day treatment when my counselors encouraged me to apply for a second hardship extension. They believed in me, they said. They believed I would be able to complete the additional classes and the additional hours I needed in order to take the IC&RC exam. I was desperately trying to find a will to live and they were telling me I should be applying for something that would happen in the future. I knew enough about suicide prevention to know what they were doing. Any step I took that spoke to the promise of a future, was a good step. And so that is what I did. I applied for a second extension. It can be hard to get the second extension. If you are approved, it's your last chance. You will get no more extensions beyond the two years. That's it. Period. Once again I gathered transcripts and medical records, and once again I submitted a copy of John's obituary. I included a letter from my supervisor at Second Chance that verified that I was a good intern with lots of promise and who was well liked by staff and clients alike. I submitted the application. Two weeks later, I received a letter telling me that the second extension was approved.

October 5th of 2019 marked six years since the day in 2013 that I'd overdosed. And the next day, October 6th, 2019, marked six years from the day that I began my journey of recovery. Meanwhile I was bouncing between inpatient and outpatient day treatment. Just like they had done six years earlier, my treatment team and the people who loved me made sure I lived through the last months of 2019 and the first months of 2020. I sure didn't know how to do it on my own, I leaned into all these people and learned to pick up the pieces of me that shatter when grief is too heavy for me to bear. And I leaned into this too - the one thing that has remained constant from October 6th, 2013, until today:

I stayed sober.

Staying clean and sober when you are in eating disorder treatment can feel so very unfair. My primary addiction had been to anxiety medications, and for the past six years I have had to manage learning to eat again and all the accompanying anxiety inherent in that, without medication.

This time around, it felt too hard. Just getting to day treatment felt impossible on most days. Seven years ago when I went through this process, even my doctors and my treatment team were at a loss as to how to help me. How to keep me in treatment at a time when my PTSD was so activated that I could barely breathe, much less eat. At that time, they suggested a service dog. So, from 2013 - 2015, I'd had a wonderful service dog - Butter - who came with me everywhere. He came with me to the hospital when I was in treatment. He came with me to the meetings that supported my sobriety. He came with me to work and he came with me to school. Butter ushered me into the life that I have today. But Butter was an older dog. In 2015 he passed away. Although I was heartbroken, I knew I was ready to move on without a dog at my side.

She needs a service dog again, is what my doctor said this time around. And so, that is what we did. We trained my tiny dog Peanut to be of service. Most often, the service she provides is to sit quietly for hours at a time. Peanut is a spitfire ball of energy, but she learned her service skill right away. That dog can sit beside my chair or in my lap for up to six hours, without complaint. So again, a dog accompanied me to treatment. Slowly, we noticed that I could eat again. Soon after, I could sit through a day of treatment without crying the entire time. One week though, people were particularly scared for my life. Once again, the people who loved me pleaded with me to go into the hospital. So in I went, yet again. My doctor knew that my efforts at eating would be lost if I was hospitalized without help for my anxiety. So my sweet little service dog came with me. She slept beside me in my hospital bed. Sometimes in the middle of the night she would bark at the nurses as they passed by my bedroom door. One of the nurses put a sign on my door, so that others wouldn't be startled.

"Beware of Service Dog," it said. "She may bark if you enter the room."

Beware of service dog. I thought that was the funniest thing. I just laughed and laughed.

I left the hospital two days before Thanksgiving, but I was in day treatment for a total of seven months. I've never been in treatment for so long. I just couldn't find purchase for a way to forgive myself for struggling so much.

Perhaps the beginning of my true journey toward healing began one February day, while I was at day treatment. I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, with my face in my hands. I didn't know what to do with the self hatred that had been so unrelenting. Sarah, a fellow patient, sat down beside me. She knew that I couldn't forgive myself when my mental illness has impacted the people I love. "Maybe you can't do anything to change the way you behaved when your struggles were at their worst - but today you can do the thing that you wish your boyfriend who died could have done for you, and the thing that the people who are in your life are asking of you, now." She looked at me, and then she finished. "Find a way to stay alive."

During those seven months that I was in treatment, I continued to work towards my counseling credential. I had to complete multiple classes. My friends and family cheered me on as I completed one class, and then another, and then another too. I was still in treatment, but I had to work as many hours as I could. Second Chance accommodated me every step of the way. At one point I apologized to one of my supervisors. I couldn't return to taking day shifts, because my treatment was going to last for yet another month. And his response was to tell me that he didn't care how long it took, Second Chance just wanted me back healthy and ok. So I worked as many part time hours as I could. My little Peanut came with me to work, and soon she became more popular than I was. More clients at Second Chance know Peanut's name, than they do mine. By March, I'd completed the last of the hours I needed in order to apply for the IC&RC exam,.

Staff at Second Chance Hayward Recovery Center.

Left to Right, Andrea Caracol, Wendy Love, Chelise Stroud, Jimmy Isch

Dan Castro in the right forefront.

With all of this love and support surrounding me, and because of the extraordinary team at Alta Bates Herrick Hospital, in April of 2020 I was ready to leave day treatment. My feet were shaky but they were there, underneath me, once again. That same month, I submitted my shiny new application to take the statewide IC&RC exam, so that I could finally be fully certified as a drug and alcohol counselor. I held my breath and waited. Within a week, I received notification that all of my requirements had been met, and I received my hard-fought Candidate Admission Letter. Now I could schedule my exam. Except for one thing. There was a worldwide pandemic and all exams had been suspended. So I waited. I worked at Second Chance. I played with my dog. I mended some relationships, and I surrounded myself with lots of love. Maybe not physically, but through the phone, and zoom, and even through the mail. Week after week passed, I waited, still. With the expiration of my second hardship year looming, I began to get worried. I called the credentialing agency. What if I can't take the exam in time? Will I be allowed another extension, even just for a few months, because the exams had been suspended? The answer was no. The state had not, as of yet, made any allowances for that. So, I kept waiting. Finally, in mid May, they opened up exam registration. The first appointment I could get was two months away, on July 10th, 2020.

The next two months were a flurry of studying. I'd taken so many of my academic classes five years earlier. I was worried that I wouldn't remember what I needed to know in order to pass the exam. Did I remember anything about pharmacology? The difference between agonists and antagonists and the partials of both? What about the differences between statewide and federal regulations and assembly bills? 42 CFR Part 2? AB109? It was disconcerting when I realized how little I'd retained of these types of details. I read and I researched and I pre-tested, nonstop for eight weeks in a row. People worked with me as I memorized hundreds of flashcards. My job gave me time off so I could study. On the week before the exam, one person stayed up, twice, until the wee hours of the night, so that he could quiz me on 450 potential exam questions. Likely, he could pass the exam himself, now. Finally, the exam day came. I prepared the people close to me for the inevitability that I was going to fail. I just could not remember enough. Too many flashcards and too many practice exam questions. My brain couldn't take it all in.

The exam was three hours long, and it was harder than I expected. It did cover a great deal that I hadn't studied. There were many questions where I wasn't sure about the answer - I just had to pick the best one I could. When I finished the last question, I still had time left. But I used every minute of the three hours in order to check and re-check my answers. I was still checking answers when 'Time is Up' flashed on the screen and locked me out of the test. I blinked, and then the exam result appeared.

Congratulations! Your scores indicate you have passed the IC&RC exam.

I realized I was holding my breath. I don't know. Maybe it was the only real breath I'd taken in over a year. If you had sat down with me one year ago, I was so enmeshed in all the loss in my life, in many ways I myself had become the walking dead. But that is not who I am today. How beautiful it is, what can happen if you just don't give up.

So yeah. I did a thing. A great big little 'ol thing that was seven years in the making. That same night, one of the women in my online suicide loss survivors group posted a request. In that group, we do whatever we can to share hope. This was her request:

Share something positive that happened today.

So I wrote it down there, first.

I passed my IC&RC exam to become a fully credentialed drug and alcohol counselor here in the state of California. ❤

That was where I wanted to write it. On that thread, in that group. I know there are a lot of people who are proud of me. That amazing man who is in my life, and John's mom, and the people I work with, and even more friends. And I know that wherever John is, he is proud of me, too.

I also know this: Whether you are a suicide attempt survivor, a suicide loss survivor, or someone who is dealing with thoughts of suicide right now - I have been where you are. Please hold on. You may have a lot of heartbreak ahead of you. But, you will also have many busy days ahead, and there will even be moments of joy, and miracles too. I promise.

I Wish I Could Show You

I wish I could show you,

when you are lonely or in darkness,

the astonishing light of your own being.

-Hafiz

Four years ago, I posted the quote above on my Facebook Page. It was meant for my boyfriend John to see. He was struggling at the time, not believing that he brought value to the world. It is such a common woe for those of us who deal with suicidality. We use our mistakes, our faults, the ways we lash out at the people we love - as proof that we are not worthy of life. The premise is heartbreaking and inaccurate. But for those who've been suicidal or who've had an attempt, the misconception is often there. I only hurt people. My leaving will be a relief to many.

In the ways that John hurt over feeling unworthy, I hurt in the ways that I could not get through to him. At times, his mental illness took away his ability to see his own value in the world. In the end, his pain was insurmountable. John died ten months after I'd posted the quote above. He died while I and others tried desperately to impart to him how important he was to us all. And when he died, just as many of us struggled with the question - had the limits of our love failed him?

Those of you who have supported someone dealing with a mental illness know that some days it takes a profound amount of commitment to find the strength to not walk away. I suppose it is only love that gives us the muscle.

With John, on some days I could handle the commitment. On other days I couldn't. On some days I probably helped John. On other days I probably made his pain worse.

In the end though, I have learned that neither my efforts nor my mistakes were responsible for his suicide.

My closeness to him couldn't save him. My boundaries didn't kill him.

I know.

Some people who knew John well told me that they believed he'd lived longer than he would have, because of me.

I don't know if that's true. Part of that sentiment touches my heart, part of it breaks my heart at the same time.

What I do know is this: I will never regret any of the times that I stuck it out with him. There were many times when John's illness dictated his actions and the words that he said to me, and in the same measure - the words he said to himself. Still, I will never regret the times I stayed, nor will I regret the times I left and then returned. John was not the worst of his illness. John was also and always the best of who he was as a human being, too. I knew that. Ultimately, every time I stayed and every time I returned, meant I had more time with John. And when he died, I didn't just miss the parts of him that were 'healthy' - I missed all of him.

I have had many times to stop and think about these things over the past year. Though my mother died 18 years ago, and John died 3 years ago, this past year has also been one of the most difficult of my life. I experienced so much loss, yet again. The people I loved the most were experiencing profound loss too. To say I fell apart would be an understatement. In no small part, I am alive today because of the people in my life who took the time to remind me that I had a light inside of me, and that even if I felt unlovable, I was loved.

There were days that turned into weeks and then months when it seemed like the only conversation I could have was to rattle off my faults and my mistakes as if they were reasons for people to leave me. In many ways, I used those judgments as a way to leave myself.

I'm here because people stood beside me (sometimes they got down in the dirt and sat beside me) and took on the brunt of my hurt and my anger and my pain - just so they could remind me over and over again that I was loved still, that I was loved always, and that even in the midst of my mistakes and all that anger and all my hurt, that I was loved, period.

Some stepped away for short periods and then returned. (We all need to breathe sometimes.) Some had the fortitude to sit beside me every single day.

No matter. If there was one crux that kept me alive, it was this. All of them recognized that it was my illness that was breaking me apart. None of them blamed me. None of them called me crazy. None of them said I was sick. Perhaps most importantly, none of the people who loved me told me I was unforgivable for the ways that I was lashing out - whether I was lashing out at them, or at myself. All of them focused on one thing through it all. And that was to tell me that I was loved.

Suffering from mental illness or not, I do believe we are all accountable for our actions. I had apologies to make when I began to lift my head up again. It was a gift that people let me make them. Perhaps the most poignant response came from a friend who said to me "I don't need you to apologize - I just need you to stick around. Stay in my life and that's apology enough for me."

Maybe I did help keep John alive for a little bit longer.

Maybe all of us that reach down into the mud and yuck that comes alongside loving those who suffer from mental illness - maybe we are all extending the lives of those we love.

My heart is with all of us who've  had to navigate how to let someone know that they deserve to be cared about - especially when that person's illness is telling them the opposite.

My heart is with all of us who've had to step away from those dealing with mental illness. Our own psyche, our own trauma, our own boundaries, are so important too.

And my heart is with all of us who've struggled with mental illness and who feel ashamed about the ways our illnesses have impacted the people we love.

Wherever we are on that spectrum - the truth is, all of us are bringing a light to the world that cannot be replaced, and we should not be judged.

And this too: everyone finds themselves lonely or in darkness, sometimes. May we never forget - even in the darkness, our light still shines. When we remain in a place that is dictated by love- or at the least return to that place if we've stepped away - even if it means we get just one more day, there is so much hope and beauty possible. It is astonishing. 

Moving From Talk to Taking Action

Looking at what is going on in the world today, I believe that it is possible to transform our current horror and heartbreak into healing and action. It is my great hope that we are moving toward the right side of history - a history that will acknowledge on all fronts that black lives matter. I also understand that 'my great hope' is not good enough. 

This discussion has a place on this blog because social justice, racial inequity, and resources related to mental health treatment are intrinsically connected. All of these issues must be addressed when it comes to effective suicide prevention. 

So today, I am grateful that Gigi Crowder, L.E., Executive Director of  NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) Contra Costa, has allowed Lighting Up The Sky to share her personal statement in regard to these matters.

Gigi Crowder's words: 

At the Moraga, California Black Lives Matter protest where I spoke on Thursday, many young people carried signs that read 'Silence is Equal to Violence!' I loved the energy of this group of young mostly white American youth. They are fearless and will lead the way to affecting change.  I hope many of you will join them. Those who are familiar with my work to improve outcomes for POC (people of color)  have reached out to me, sharing their concerns. They recognize the advocacy I do for my Black community and knew this would be a difficult time for me. It is extremely hard to see so much pain, and I recognize the devastating trauma that will follow. As a transitioning age adult, I know this time is like no other in history and we must maximize the momentum. To have so many people outside of my community finally hear the cries of the African American Community and join in the struggle, is breathtaking and nothing I ever thought I would see in my lifetime. I am cautiously optimistic, recognizing that out of chaos, as a woman of strong faith I can also see opportunity.

I know the remainder of this message will be difficult for some to digest. I learned a long time ago what people think of me is none of my business. Many of my colleagues have asked how they can assist in supporting African Americans in fighting for social justice for Black people. For those that are serious, I have some of my own suggestions. Rather than solely focus on what happened in Minneapolis or Georgia, please first look at what happens daily right in your own local county. Look at the horrific disparities African-Americans experience so often, being criminalized for living with mental illness (which is a medical condition). 

In Contra Costa County, all one needs to do is visit our criminal justice mental health units to witness a glaring example of the consequences of being black and living with mental illness. Many who live with severe mental illness receive their treatment in the most restricted environments without opportunities to recover.

Sadly, we lost a young man, Miles Hall, who lived with mental illness. On June 2, 2019, he died at the hands of Walnut Creek police officers. In my opinion he was murdered. His mom did everything a mom should do to get him assistance. Taun Hall attended our NAMI Family to Family course, she was trying to get him eligible for our Assisted Outpatient Treatment Program, she built a relationship with Walnut Creek police and their Mental Health Evaluation Team officer, yet the system failed her. You can learn more and join our fight for justice by visiting www.justiceformileshall.org.

For any well-meaning individual who desires to make a difference demonstrating that black lives matter, you must move from talk to taking action.

At NAMI Contra Costa, for several years we have received a small amount of  funding to do specific outreach to the Asian/Pacific Islander (API) and to the Latinx Communities. I was so excited and shared with many community members that this upcoming fiscal year we would (for the first time) receive $20,000 from the Mental Healthy Services Act to fund two part time outreach workers for the Black Community. I understand we must look beyond language barriers and also consider cultural barriers if we are to reduce health disparities. Yep, it was only $20,000, the same amount we receive to support the API and Latinx communities. Not a lot of money, but I can make it go a long way toward supporting families. Imagine my surprise a few weeks ago to learn we will not be receiving those minuscule funds. In the midst of this global health crisis - one that has highlighted the disparities in my African American community - it feels heartless that these funds are now not going to be coming. So yes, I am angry. We need these additional funds to hire outreach workers more than ever now! Black parents comprise the bulk of calls that we receive for families who have a loved one involved in the criminal justice system.

If you want to do something to support black families share your discontent about us not getting funding. Write a letter, make a call, do something but don’t remain silent. Question the decision! The need has been  demonstrated. I created and run the East County African American Family Support Group out of my home monthly. It started with 2-4 moms and dads, and has now swelled to over 10 attendees.

I have been in this field for over 35 years and it certainly feels like every time African Americans are ready to move forward someone puts a foot on our necks to impede our progress. Please ask yourself how you can help to dismantle the institutional racism that permeates health care systems throughout the nation. Ask yourself am I a part of the problem or do I have the courage to position myself to offer a viable solution?

Finally, when working with African Americans please 'see them,’ and honor their heritage by allowing them the opportunity to contribute to their wellness journey. Ty are the experts of themselves. Understand, the old mantra, 'I don’t see color,’ is not helpful. You need to see color to understand the additional barriers faced by BIPOC. When working with African Americans, please consider utilizing culturally responsive, community defined, strategies that have been proven to produce better outcomes. Feel free to consult with me if you need assistance with this. 

Finally if you are an ally, don’t give up your privilege, but use it for good. It is time for allies to become accomplice to achieve equitable services for all.

I promise to continue doing my part. Let’s stand together strong and make a difference demonstrating that in Contra Costa County, Black Lives and Black Minds Really do Matter!

Blessings, 

Gigi R. Crowder, L.E.

Executive Director 

NAMI Contra Costa 

Miles Hall

February 15, 1996 - June 2, 2019

Committing to Better Use of Language - DAY 23

The language we use when we are talking about suicide matters. In some situations, subtle differences in language come down to more than just semantics. Often, language is the initial framework we use in order to categorize or interpret actions. In fact, this framework is one of the objectives of language itself.

Because suicide is so stigmatized, we often have trouble talking about it. Understanding the subtleties of the language we use or even knowing what to say, can be confusing. That being said - I will speak for many of us whose lives who have been touched by suicide:

Please stop saying 'committed suicide'.

I could go on and on about this. I could beg people to be more considerate, more thoughtful, more understanding, or to just educate themselves about the causes of suicide. Today though, I am not going to beg. Besides, all of those things are blog posts of their own. For the sake of this one, I will try to simplify.

Consider this: for survivors of suicide loss and for survivors of suicide attempts - the connotation (the definition itself) of the word 'committed' only serves to increase stigma and exacerbate pain:

com·mit

/kəˈmit/

Learn to pronounce

verb

past tense: committed; past participle: committed

1. 1.

   carry out or perpetrate (a mistake, crime, or immoral act).

   
   

   "he committed an uncharacteristic error"

For most of us whose lives have been touched by suicide, hearing the term 'committed suicide' is hurtful.

I don't want to beg you to understand that we are in enough pain already. My hope is that our pain alone is enough to help you to reconsider the terminology you are using.

While I recognize this isn't always the case, the vast majority of those who have died by suicide had been dealing with mental illness. Therefore, the suicidality was a symptom of their illness. Because of this, it is inaccurate and somewhat cruel to use language that squarely places the blame for their death on an immoral act they were responsible for.

For those who are not dealing with mental health issues, we are often unable to comprehend the depth of pain that it can cause. And mental illness can also contribute to all of these things as well: a decrease in pain tolerance; an inability to understand long term consequences; and, a lack of impulse control. Put all those things together, and without adequate treatment mental illness becomes potentially fatal.

Please consider that mental illness is also about things that we, as a culture (and even scientifically) are only just beginning to understand. The impact of trauma, the subtle balance of chemical activity in the brain, the delicate nature of neural pathways and the impact on a person when those neural pathways are disturbed or broken. These things are the causes of potentially fatal mental illness. While we don't fully understand all of these causes (yet) - what we can say is that none of those things are the fault of the person who is suffering.

As a person who endures mental illness, let me put this even more clearly:

I did not choose to be ill. I do not want to be ill. Often, this illness hurts. Often, this illness breaks my own heart. Often, I am fearful that I will lose my own life to this illness. 

My life is spent constantly trying to address and manage the symptoms of my illness. Some days are better than others. But never, am I 'committing' my mental illness on you.

Sadly, oftentimes the thoughts that complicate my own suicidality are directly related to the language our culture uses. Specifically, if I was worthy of life, I would stop committing the crime of suffering from mental illness.

Mental illness is not the fault of the person who is suffering.  Please, see it for what it is and change your language accordingly.

We do not say 'he committed cancer.'
We do not say 'she committed heart disease'
We do not say 'he committed alzheimers'

Please stop saying that those who lost their lives to the symptoms of mental illness 'committed' suicide.

Please. Stop.

Here is language that is more appropriate:

They died by suicide.
They lost their life to suicide. 
Suicide was the cause of their death.

Or, to be even more accurate you could say: "They were mentally ill, and their illness was fatal."

Please stop indicting me and my loved ones and all of us who struggle with mental illness. Please stop criminalizing those of us who are struggling still, and those who have already lost their lives.

I don't want to beg you.

But I am begging you.

Please stop using the terminology: 'committed' suicide.