I'm addicted, yes, I surely am. I'm addicted to books.
As a teacher of writing, and big old reader from way back, this isn't a shock or surprise to most. Yet it consistently surprises ME how my addiction affects me.
RARELY will I not finish a book, even if it's total schlock. I keep on keepin' on, hoping and praying that someone out there WROTE this, and I know what that's like. It's blood, it's sweat, it's tears, and tears again, and repeat the whole process because it has to be revised so you're not an open wound on a page. And it's how DARE that editor want me to take out that oh so poignant moment I struggled with for a week of sunshiny days when I could have been among the living. And it's I have to look at it one. last. time. that turns into a major overhaul of ten pages. I respect the process AND I respect the writer for having the stones to step up the plate, take a swing at that ball that's humming past (Yeah, I'm mixing my metaphors. Just go with it, I'm on a role.) even if it's an ugly swing.
I may talk about how godawful bad the thing was, but I've only NOT finished one book in the last few years. My husband watched me try to get through it, too. He was wandering around the house doing whatever, and I was on the couch in the living room. He passed me a few times, and he said I kept saying "Hmph!" under my breath, closing the book, looking at the cover, looking at the back of it and repeating. He said then I'd wiggle around on the couch, like I couldn't get comfortable.
Books create a PHYSICAL response in me. I'm not just talking about an exciting chapter raising my heart rate or anything. I'm talking about the LACK of reading creates a feeling akin to withdrawl for me. Right now, I haven't checked anything out of the library in a while, knowing I have a ton of work with grading and scouts and kids' activities to do. So I didn't get any books. I haven't even let myself go into the second hand store that has a fabulous collection of cheap, dirty reads. But oh MAN do I feel it. I get twitchy and grumpy and I don't sleep right. I feel like everything is alternately too slow or too fast. It's like everything is just off kilter, and I'm trying to maintain like everything is normal. If the reason I denied a book is too get work done, it doesn't work. I find I'm too harsh with students, and I can't get tuned in to what their reasoning is.
At first, I was a skeptic about electronic books. I LOVE the feel of a book in my hand. The weight it has, the scraping sound a page turning makes. Reaching out your hand to find anything to mark your spot because dang, it's late and time to GO. The leaning over to a total stranger just to see what they're reading and getting into a discussion about it. Books make friends, people. Now? It's a glorious thing that e-readers were invented. I'm in the middle of a really bad time, man. I need a book bad. Something new. Nothing on my shelves is right. But MY kinda crack? I just popped online, borrowed a book from my library down to my Nook. For addictions, this is a pretty good one.
It'll be alright, just a few more minutes, and I'll be in a different place.
See ya there.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
A Day for Missing
Today is the day. My grandma, Frances, was born on this day in 1916. She was one of the most influential people in my life. She taught me to respect the arts and took me to every symphony, opera, museum event she could, even when I wasn't the most receptive audience. I learned how to read music at about the same time I learned to read because of her. She thought the most important card in anyone's wallet was a library card, and she knew with great conviction reading made people richer.
She knew how important laughing was to life. Oh my goodness, she would laugh with complete abandon, until tears ran down her beet red face, waving her hands at you to stop! stop! stop! before she burst. She knew it was equally important to life to be passionate and fired up about something. Passion feeds the soul, gets the blood pumping, the adrenaline surging, and it makes you feel you're alive. Everyone should be passionate about something. To reflect to the world disinterest is to breed disinterest within, and the world needs passion.
I can't count the number of times she asked my grandfather to go for a drive and ask to "just get lost" in a dreamy voice. She asked this of someone who knew the city like it was his bathroom, and he would respond that he couldn't. To her, life was an adventure waiting to happen. I get my travel itch from her.
I learned how to cook in her kitchen, a skill my family and friends are glad I honed. People have changed plans and driven long distances when they knew I was making a dish I learned in her kitchen. She taught herself how to cook, since when she was a newlywed, she literally could not even crack an egg. I learned to experiment in her kitchen, even if the outcome was horrible. The only failure lies in not trying. There wasn't a butcher in her neighborhood who hadn't been asked the question, "yes, this is lovely, but what do you have in BACK?" because it never hurt to ask.
She's been gone almost 20 years, and there isn't a day I don't miss her.
She knew how important laughing was to life. Oh my goodness, she would laugh with complete abandon, until tears ran down her beet red face, waving her hands at you to stop! stop! stop! before she burst. She knew it was equally important to life to be passionate and fired up about something. Passion feeds the soul, gets the blood pumping, the adrenaline surging, and it makes you feel you're alive. Everyone should be passionate about something. To reflect to the world disinterest is to breed disinterest within, and the world needs passion.
I can't count the number of times she asked my grandfather to go for a drive and ask to "just get lost" in a dreamy voice. She asked this of someone who knew the city like it was his bathroom, and he would respond that he couldn't. To her, life was an adventure waiting to happen. I get my travel itch from her.
I learned how to cook in her kitchen, a skill my family and friends are glad I honed. People have changed plans and driven long distances when they knew I was making a dish I learned in her kitchen. She taught herself how to cook, since when she was a newlywed, she literally could not even crack an egg. I learned to experiment in her kitchen, even if the outcome was horrible. The only failure lies in not trying. There wasn't a butcher in her neighborhood who hadn't been asked the question, "yes, this is lovely, but what do you have in BACK?" because it never hurt to ask.
She's been gone almost 20 years, and there isn't a day I don't miss her.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Shame on us!
Ohhhhh, internoodles! I'm getting up on my soapbox, and I am about to go ballistic, so watch out!
I have a very quiet student who has been keeping pretty much to herself. About a week ago, she sent me a desperate-sounding email saying she didn't think she was smart enough to get through this class, even though she'd had it years before at another school. She waxed on that perhaps she hadn't given herself enough time after leaving the Army and active deployment to adjust to civilian life before coming back to school. Or maybe it was the pressure of having a four year old this time as she went through school that was making everything more difficult. As a complete aside, near the end of this really stream-of-consciousness, frayed-sounding email, she said she was also under stress. Because she's homeless. With a four year old.
Stop and think about that. Homeless with a four year old.
She's a veteran of the United States military, served her country on active deployment to a foreign country, and she's homeless with a four year old. How. does. this. happen?! It happens because we have reached a point in our country where we don't value people, we value machines, including the big giant machine of politics. And if your fingers are itching to tell me everything that has been done wrong by our sitting president, save it. Scratch that itch someplace else, because this is a non-partisan issue. This is a day-to-day society issue. The fact that billions are spent on defense, but soldiers and veterans go on welfare or are homeless is disgusting and shameful. We should all be ashamed of ourselves. We're letting go of the human factor that is what made this country great. It's the different types of humans who came here and joined together with ideas and blood, sweat, and tears to create something that had never been done before. It's imperfect, but it was about humans breaking their backs and brains to make it the best it could be. That we've forgotten that it all boils down to people helping each other be better people makes me sad.
What made me hopeful again, though, was putting this student's dilemma out onto my social network. My network is made up of people from all walks of my 44 years of life. Some are people I see daily, some are people who have stood by me through countless life changes, some I knew well in my youth, but I don't see on a regular basis. Yet so many took the time to find information, pass along some hint, or even just say a prayer for her. I cannot believe the outpouring of goodwill I felt simply from those posts. It saved my hope for humanity.
I'll go to class tomorrow with a list of places this student can go to hopefully get some relief from her situation. I've still got some righteous anger going on, but now at least there's less of that than there is of hope.
I have a very quiet student who has been keeping pretty much to herself. About a week ago, she sent me a desperate-sounding email saying she didn't think she was smart enough to get through this class, even though she'd had it years before at another school. She waxed on that perhaps she hadn't given herself enough time after leaving the Army and active deployment to adjust to civilian life before coming back to school. Or maybe it was the pressure of having a four year old this time as she went through school that was making everything more difficult. As a complete aside, near the end of this really stream-of-consciousness, frayed-sounding email, she said she was also under stress. Because she's homeless. With a four year old.
Stop and think about that. Homeless with a four year old.
She's a veteran of the United States military, served her country on active deployment to a foreign country, and she's homeless with a four year old. How. does. this. happen?! It happens because we have reached a point in our country where we don't value people, we value machines, including the big giant machine of politics. And if your fingers are itching to tell me everything that has been done wrong by our sitting president, save it. Scratch that itch someplace else, because this is a non-partisan issue. This is a day-to-day society issue. The fact that billions are spent on defense, but soldiers and veterans go on welfare or are homeless is disgusting and shameful. We should all be ashamed of ourselves. We're letting go of the human factor that is what made this country great. It's the different types of humans who came here and joined together with ideas and blood, sweat, and tears to create something that had never been done before. It's imperfect, but it was about humans breaking their backs and brains to make it the best it could be. That we've forgotten that it all boils down to people helping each other be better people makes me sad.
What made me hopeful again, though, was putting this student's dilemma out onto my social network. My network is made up of people from all walks of my 44 years of life. Some are people I see daily, some are people who have stood by me through countless life changes, some I knew well in my youth, but I don't see on a regular basis. Yet so many took the time to find information, pass along some hint, or even just say a prayer for her. I cannot believe the outpouring of goodwill I felt simply from those posts. It saved my hope for humanity.
I'll go to class tomorrow with a list of places this student can go to hopefully get some relief from her situation. I've still got some righteous anger going on, but now at least there's less of that than there is of hope.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Look out, drop off line!
To the woman in the brand new BMW who could not wait two minutes for everyone in the drop off line to move forward and had to spin around from in back of me to cut me off and take the spot in front of me, nearly causing a multiple car accident, are you insane? Did you take your meds this morning?
Let's look at this from the beginning. There are at least 20 visible cars in line. We would be here until school got out if we all waited until we were at the front of the line to let our kids out, so we're reasonable people and have three or four cars at a time--just as long as they're on the concrete, not the grass--boot kiddies into the cruel day. No, I did not immediately spin out from my spot, blocking everyone else in front of me in, because I have a minivan. The doors are automatic. I need to wait until the back door closes before I put it in gear. If I don't, the door remains open, and I look like some A-Team reject, burning rubber with my door hanging open, waiting for people to jump into my van so I can rescue them. I'm not a mercenary, and anyway, it's etiquette for all of us who've dropped off to leave single file.
A second point of note is that you are driving not what I assumed to be a brand new BMW, but what I observed to be a brand new BMW from the "plate applied for" sticker, the BMW insignia (obviously) and the glow of money that hovers over that paint job. (Seriously, did you get the tears of virgins and wash it with that or what?). Do you not know that puts you at the bottom of the food chain? You are the equivalent of blood in the water, fresh meat for sharks. Me? My 2007, seen better days mini van--I call her Priscilla--we've got battle scars. We are the gladiators of the suburbs. We have picked up, dropped off, hauled stuff AND people, camped out, gotten lost and found again. A little bang or ding on Priss? That just marks her as a Warrior to others. YOUR ride? It's not made for these mean streets, so I wouldn't be tempting fate cutting people off if I were you.
Oh, and by the way that little stunt? That was your one. That's all you get, just so you know. Because I WILL get out of my van next time, IN MY PAJAMAS AND SLIPPERS and take you down to Crazy Town. I don't often visit there, but when I do, I act like I'm the mayor. It won't be pretty, my children will nearly die of embarrassment, but it will be WORTH IT!
Fair warning, that's all I'm saying.
Let's look at this from the beginning. There are at least 20 visible cars in line. We would be here until school got out if we all waited until we were at the front of the line to let our kids out, so we're reasonable people and have three or four cars at a time--just as long as they're on the concrete, not the grass--boot kiddies into the cruel day. No, I did not immediately spin out from my spot, blocking everyone else in front of me in, because I have a minivan. The doors are automatic. I need to wait until the back door closes before I put it in gear. If I don't, the door remains open, and I look like some A-Team reject, burning rubber with my door hanging open, waiting for people to jump into my van so I can rescue them. I'm not a mercenary, and anyway, it's etiquette for all of us who've dropped off to leave single file.
A second point of note is that you are driving not what I assumed to be a brand new BMW, but what I observed to be a brand new BMW from the "plate applied for" sticker, the BMW insignia (obviously) and the glow of money that hovers over that paint job. (Seriously, did you get the tears of virgins and wash it with that or what?). Do you not know that puts you at the bottom of the food chain? You are the equivalent of blood in the water, fresh meat for sharks. Me? My 2007, seen better days mini van--I call her Priscilla--we've got battle scars. We are the gladiators of the suburbs. We have picked up, dropped off, hauled stuff AND people, camped out, gotten lost and found again. A little bang or ding on Priss? That just marks her as a Warrior to others. YOUR ride? It's not made for these mean streets, so I wouldn't be tempting fate cutting people off if I were you.
Oh, and by the way that little stunt? That was your one. That's all you get, just so you know. Because I WILL get out of my van next time, IN MY PAJAMAS AND SLIPPERS and take you down to Crazy Town. I don't often visit there, but when I do, I act like I'm the mayor. It won't be pretty, my children will nearly die of embarrassment, but it will be WORTH IT!
Fair warning, that's all I'm saying.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Just an observation
As class was letting out and the building's halls were filled with the crush of students with heads down looking at their phones, letting their backpacks carelessly slung over one shoulder repeatedly bump into those around them, I noticed a newish phenomenon.
You know how etiquette says we should stay to the right and let people who are walking towards us stay to our left? No more! You know why? Most of the people are righties, and students immediately whip their phones out, and use their right hands to maneuver through their phones. This means they all drift to the left of the staircase or hallway. Those of us on the right are like salmon fighting the constant currents.
Amazing what technology can change.
You know how etiquette says we should stay to the right and let people who are walking towards us stay to our left? No more! You know why? Most of the people are righties, and students immediately whip their phones out, and use their right hands to maneuver through their phones. This means they all drift to the left of the staircase or hallway. Those of us on the right are like salmon fighting the constant currents.
Amazing what technology can change.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Spooky stuff
Some in my family are said to have "the touch" which means we have a low to mid level of psychic ability. I'm not running off to join that housewife in Jersey who has her own show or anything, but I definitely have something I don't understand going on. As a kid, I remember having imaginary friends that seemed awfully "solid" to me, and I often told my mom certain people "glowed" with different colors. As an adult, I seem to know people's first names before I'm introduced to them with terrific accuracy, and as a waitress, I can't even count the number of times I brought out a dish and customers would tell me it was the wrong one, but that was ok, because they couldn't decide between what they'd ordered and what I'd brought. The most jarring instances for me today are when I can sense someone is ill. I don't have any control over it, I just get a palatable feeling that people are sick. I shrug it off, but nine times out of ten, I'll later find that person has been fighting some serious illness for quite some time.
I mention all this, because I know my son has inherited some of this. Even though my mom passed away when he was only three months old, he would often as a toddler talk about how Grammy had come in to talk to him, and I remember hearing him babble often in his room. In some ways, I thought nothing of it, until he mentioned an aunt who had also passed away who I wasn't particularly close to. There's no way I'd ever have mentioned her, yet he knew her by name.
One of the most striking events that showed me psychic energy is a real thing was after the young man from my last post had died. My son had just turned five, and we often talked about this young man, especially right before we'd go to his home. I wanted my son to understand why he wouldn't see his buddy and if he had questions, I preferred to answer them. Once, while I was going through this, Cubby said to me, "Mom, you say I won't get to see him anymore, but he comes to see me all the time." I was lucky to choke out a "what now?" before Cubby went on to tell me that this young man came to him every night, sat on his bed, talked about video games, various superheroes, airplanes, and all my son's favorite things. I sort of reserved me judgment, thinking maybe there was a good helping of wishful thinking in there.
Cubby came to me very sad one day and said to me that this young man had come to him and told him two important things. One was that he didn't want Cubby playing with guns, and that he should never ever touch a gun without an adult around. While I knew this young man had used a handgun to end his life, there's NO way Cubby would have. It's only in the last year I've told him that fact. The other thing was that Cubby wouldn't be seeing this young man anymore, because his grandfather needed his company, and he had to go be with him, but he told Cubby to remember him. What I knew, but Cubby didn't, was that this young man's grandfather had passed away from cancer very recently.
Do I believe in psychics? You bet, and not just because that's a great memory for my son to have.
Any times you've known something there was no way you could have? Any times you've felt someone's presence near you? Let's save the scary ones for Halloween.
I mention all this, because I know my son has inherited some of this. Even though my mom passed away when he was only three months old, he would often as a toddler talk about how Grammy had come in to talk to him, and I remember hearing him babble often in his room. In some ways, I thought nothing of it, until he mentioned an aunt who had also passed away who I wasn't particularly close to. There's no way I'd ever have mentioned her, yet he knew her by name.
One of the most striking events that showed me psychic energy is a real thing was after the young man from my last post had died. My son had just turned five, and we often talked about this young man, especially right before we'd go to his home. I wanted my son to understand why he wouldn't see his buddy and if he had questions, I preferred to answer them. Once, while I was going through this, Cubby said to me, "Mom, you say I won't get to see him anymore, but he comes to see me all the time." I was lucky to choke out a "what now?" before Cubby went on to tell me that this young man came to him every night, sat on his bed, talked about video games, various superheroes, airplanes, and all my son's favorite things. I sort of reserved me judgment, thinking maybe there was a good helping of wishful thinking in there.
Cubby came to me very sad one day and said to me that this young man had come to him and told him two important things. One was that he didn't want Cubby playing with guns, and that he should never ever touch a gun without an adult around. While I knew this young man had used a handgun to end his life, there's NO way Cubby would have. It's only in the last year I've told him that fact. The other thing was that Cubby wouldn't be seeing this young man anymore, because his grandfather needed his company, and he had to go be with him, but he told Cubby to remember him. What I knew, but Cubby didn't, was that this young man's grandfather had passed away from cancer very recently.
Do I believe in psychics? You bet, and not just because that's a great memory for my son to have.
Any times you've known something there was no way you could have? Any times you've felt someone's presence near you? Let's save the scary ones for Halloween.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Suicide Awareness Day
The day is nearing its end, but today is Suicide Awareness Day. I really struggled with whether or not I should post this blog today. I ultimately decided one perspective may change a life, so here goes.
In 1995 I met a person who, for a time, would fill a place in my heart as one of my best friends. She already had kids, but I wasn't even married yet. I spent a LOT of time with this growing family, often taking on childcare, giving advice, and getting to know the kids as well as I knew the parents. When I had my son, the first two years of his life, his care when I was at work fell to this woman. Our kids, especially mine and her youngest, were effectively raised as cousins. A truly fabulous thing happened with her then ten year old son and mine. As the youngest in his clan, you'd think her son would welcome the opportunity of a younger boy in the house for the opportunity to spread a little good natured torturing around. Not so. He loved my son absolutely and totally. I will never forget how he let my son, then a two year old, wander into his room, where NO ONE was allowed. He would hand Cubby a video game controller that wasn't hooked to a game and let him sit right next to him while he played. Cubby thought he was the bomb! I can't count the number of times I had to wait for the school bus, because even if I got off early from work and could have gone home, it would have ruined both boys' days if they didn't get a chance to see each other.
As things happen, the loving boy grew into a teenager. He was often sullen, as teens are, but he was also equally smiling and enjoying the company of those around him. He had issues beyond the norm that were both organic and environmental in nature, but he was such a loving child, so many of those issues seemed to take a backseat to those around him. It wasn't until a horrible morning in March just a few years ago that those issues overcame him, and he took his own life. He didn't leave a note, so we'll never really know what was going on inside his head. Later, it was found that he'd looked at sites on the internet that talked about ways to commit suicide. There was a journal found, but it equally spoke of future goals and snippets of songs and poetry as it did fatigue of living this life day in and day out for a shy kid who hadn't quite found his niche in life.
Those left behind? For each person there is a different emotion, depending upon the day, the hour, the minute. For some, there was anger, shock, denial, avoidance, a feeling of being unmoored on a choppy sea. I watched his family devolve in ways that stretched, frayed, and sometimes broke their relationships with each other and me. They lost so much more than just one person. I've seen the pain in their eyes and the void there too when there are no more tears the body can give, but the heart is still sobbing. I've felt the anger myself. I'm angry that at five my son idolized this boy, but at 11 Cubby can barely remember him, despite talking openly about him all these years and a picture still plastered on my fridge. I'm angry that I had to talk to my son about guns and never to play around with them, then tell him why I was so adamant about it. I'm sad too. Sad that I'm the one talking with Cubby about superheroes and going to The Dark Knight Rises with him, when I know he would have schooled Cubby on all things superhero and probably would have seen the movie with him. God knows I'm worried too. While they may not have shared DNA, I look at the similarities I see--a love of superheroes, camoflauge clothing, graphic arts, a sensitivity that can't be taught--and I think "please, God, not my son too."
Because it isn't right for parents to bury their children. When the cause is something as preventable as suicide, it feels even more wrong.
For parents, check in on your kid. I don't care if you think your kid will hate you, if they SAY they hate you, check in on them. Snoop like you're the freaking CIA. I used to believe in privacy for teens, but I don't anymore. Raid their rooms, and if you find a scrap of evidence you think they're hurting themselves or planning to, make them talk to someone. If they won't talk to you, find someone they will, THAT DAY. Especially be on the look out if they give away their things, seem to be settling old scores by talking things out all of a sudden. If they've been in a constant bad mood and are suddenly happy, be cautious. That can often be when they've made a decision to harm themselves. If someone close to them has committed suicide recently, that often sort of gives permission to those who are contemplating it to also do the deed.
This young man lived in a home where he could have gone to any number of people and voiced his concerns and fears, and anyone would have listened. Sometimes, they just don't come to you. They just don't.
For those who suffer with the thoughts in your head, please, please, please, contact someone. ANYONE. I know you don't believe it, but there are people in your life who love you beyond measure, so much they can't put it into words. It's just that living the routine of life has made them forget to stop and tell you that you are worth more than the moon and stars and oxygen combined. I promise, it WILL get better. If you think it can't get better at home, find some place you are safe and work on "better" there. Call a hotline, talk to a friend, clergyman, teacher, someone who will listen. Tell them it's important, because it is. YOU are.
1-800-273-TALK (8255) is the number of the 24 hour National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. Call them if you need to. Be known for the courage it took to call, not for your last act.
In 1995 I met a person who, for a time, would fill a place in my heart as one of my best friends. She already had kids, but I wasn't even married yet. I spent a LOT of time with this growing family, often taking on childcare, giving advice, and getting to know the kids as well as I knew the parents. When I had my son, the first two years of his life, his care when I was at work fell to this woman. Our kids, especially mine and her youngest, were effectively raised as cousins. A truly fabulous thing happened with her then ten year old son and mine. As the youngest in his clan, you'd think her son would welcome the opportunity of a younger boy in the house for the opportunity to spread a little good natured torturing around. Not so. He loved my son absolutely and totally. I will never forget how he let my son, then a two year old, wander into his room, where NO ONE was allowed. He would hand Cubby a video game controller that wasn't hooked to a game and let him sit right next to him while he played. Cubby thought he was the bomb! I can't count the number of times I had to wait for the school bus, because even if I got off early from work and could have gone home, it would have ruined both boys' days if they didn't get a chance to see each other.
As things happen, the loving boy grew into a teenager. He was often sullen, as teens are, but he was also equally smiling and enjoying the company of those around him. He had issues beyond the norm that were both organic and environmental in nature, but he was such a loving child, so many of those issues seemed to take a backseat to those around him. It wasn't until a horrible morning in March just a few years ago that those issues overcame him, and he took his own life. He didn't leave a note, so we'll never really know what was going on inside his head. Later, it was found that he'd looked at sites on the internet that talked about ways to commit suicide. There was a journal found, but it equally spoke of future goals and snippets of songs and poetry as it did fatigue of living this life day in and day out for a shy kid who hadn't quite found his niche in life.
Those left behind? For each person there is a different emotion, depending upon the day, the hour, the minute. For some, there was anger, shock, denial, avoidance, a feeling of being unmoored on a choppy sea. I watched his family devolve in ways that stretched, frayed, and sometimes broke their relationships with each other and me. They lost so much more than just one person. I've seen the pain in their eyes and the void there too when there are no more tears the body can give, but the heart is still sobbing. I've felt the anger myself. I'm angry that at five my son idolized this boy, but at 11 Cubby can barely remember him, despite talking openly about him all these years and a picture still plastered on my fridge. I'm angry that I had to talk to my son about guns and never to play around with them, then tell him why I was so adamant about it. I'm sad too. Sad that I'm the one talking with Cubby about superheroes and going to The Dark Knight Rises with him, when I know he would have schooled Cubby on all things superhero and probably would have seen the movie with him. God knows I'm worried too. While they may not have shared DNA, I look at the similarities I see--a love of superheroes, camoflauge clothing, graphic arts, a sensitivity that can't be taught--and I think "please, God, not my son too."
Because it isn't right for parents to bury their children. When the cause is something as preventable as suicide, it feels even more wrong.
For parents, check in on your kid. I don't care if you think your kid will hate you, if they SAY they hate you, check in on them. Snoop like you're the freaking CIA. I used to believe in privacy for teens, but I don't anymore. Raid their rooms, and if you find a scrap of evidence you think they're hurting themselves or planning to, make them talk to someone. If they won't talk to you, find someone they will, THAT DAY. Especially be on the look out if they give away their things, seem to be settling old scores by talking things out all of a sudden. If they've been in a constant bad mood and are suddenly happy, be cautious. That can often be when they've made a decision to harm themselves. If someone close to them has committed suicide recently, that often sort of gives permission to those who are contemplating it to also do the deed.
This young man lived in a home where he could have gone to any number of people and voiced his concerns and fears, and anyone would have listened. Sometimes, they just don't come to you. They just don't.
For those who suffer with the thoughts in your head, please, please, please, contact someone. ANYONE. I know you don't believe it, but there are people in your life who love you beyond measure, so much they can't put it into words. It's just that living the routine of life has made them forget to stop and tell you that you are worth more than the moon and stars and oxygen combined. I promise, it WILL get better. If you think it can't get better at home, find some place you are safe and work on "better" there. Call a hotline, talk to a friend, clergyman, teacher, someone who will listen. Tell them it's important, because it is. YOU are.
1-800-273-TALK (8255) is the number of the 24 hour National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. Call them if you need to. Be known for the courage it took to call, not for your last act.
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