13 Reasons Why and Suicide or Hard Conversations with my Boys

I like talking to my sons in the car.  I control how loud the radio is.  They can't run away.  We can talk without looking at each other. I don't shy away from the difficult conversations.  We've talked about the divorce, Dad and Mom dating other people, wet dreams, racism, abuse and homophobia.  A lot of times I talk and they listen.  On really good days, they ask questions and tell me their thoughts. I was dropping them off at school when the radio station started discussing 13 Reasons Why, the Netflix series.  This was one of those moments I embraced as a moment to face them in honesty and openness, hoping they would gain clarity, and started by asking what they know about it.

Kid1 knew the basic story.  I admitted that I had binge watched the whole shebang over a couple of days.  It draws you in, but not in a responsible way.  I had to point out a few things that I felt needed to be pointed out and I'm giving you the benefit of that talk.

First we talked about our own experiences.  I started with theirs.  My older two sons were taken by ambulance from school after telling their teachers they wanted to kill themselves.  As hard as that was, I'm grateful they talked to adults they could trust.  They made the choice to verbalize their feelings and we were able to support them by getting help. It's the kind of experience that shakes a family up.  My younger kids learned from what the oldest did, but I hope to teach my kids from what I know.

Depression isn't a life sentence.  We are given coping skills by example from our parents.  If I learn how to navigate depression, being self aware with self love and amazing coping skills, they could learn from me.  It's possible to break a family cycle of anything but if it's to be done, it has to be done by me.  I don't get to sit this one out and hope they float.  You don't just survive life after the existence that I have had.  You thrive, you take names with your notes, and you hold the hands of those looking for guidance.

Back to my boys . . . We talked about the series. This was a book and a work of fiction. Suicide is permanent and discussing it with my kids, it's important for me to remember those teen years when everything was immediate and there was no real concept of permanence.  For my own memories, what lasted a few weeks or months seemed to be the end of the world and lasted the rest of my life.  At least until the next big thing to shake me to my core.

Suicide never gives a person as much control or power as Hannah (from the series) had.  You have nothing in death.  Even martyrs have no power, as the control of the movement is carried on by the living.  Hannah's revenge plot was carried out by the living.

This doesn't negate the power of what she endured.  The reality of some of that story is a reality for many teens.  The takeaway I wanted my kids to understand is that should they choose to watch it, they needed to pay attention to the fact that Hannah doesn't take ownership of her situation or her reaction.  She blames everyone else for a choice she made on her own.

When I watched it, the part that didn't fit for me was her depression.  She was sad.  She was alienated and targeted.  Was she depressed? My depression has looked like a desire to stay in bed and be isolated.  She wanted to be around others.  My appetite was affected and at the end of the series, I couldn't relate to her.  The finality of her choice looked nothing like the times I debated "to be or not to be." It looked like she stepped outside of deciding to end her life, and made her death a revenge plot.  In depressed states, I rarely thought about anyone but me.  I wasn't capable of it.  I wasn't able to look outside of the immediate moment and onto a moment in the next hour, let alone 13 tapes later.

I was open and honest with my kids about my experience.  I told them about the time I was hospitalized for my first suicide attempt at 14.  It wasn't about being held by the hospital so I wouldn't hurt myself.  I was hospitalized for an overdose of Tylenol and they kept me until they were able to get me stable.  I told them about getting help then.  I told them about getting help for the baby blues when my firstborn was a few months old. I described pushing Kid1 in a stroller to see my therapist because I needed help.  I reminded them about the period when my middle son was facing severe depression the first time. I was also taking care of their Dad's late Uncle's affairs.  To me, family means commitment and duty.  I had only met this Uncle a handful of times, but when it was time to take care of his remains and spending weeks on end to clear out his apartment, I was the only family willing to do so.  I was overwhelmed and unable to spend time with a therapist of my own, so I sought help with my general practitioner and she put me on antidepressants.  It was what I needed until I was able to safely care for my own emotional needs.  The lesson was that I got help and I kept getting help.

I also told my sons about what I'm feeling now.  I told them how hard it was to lose my children in a miscarriage.  I told them I'm not ready to release their ashes but it's something we will do soon.  I explained that I cry when I need to and get space when I need to.  I've been gardening and baking and shopping because this is my version of self care.  I write and cry and sing out loud because this is how I heal.  I start a new position in Santa Monica tomorrow and I will be near the ocean and find peace with the sounds and smell.  All this means I'm not okay, but I will be and it gets better each day.  It helps to be self aware which is something I am still learning.  It helps to know what is something I need to work through and what is something that comes from other people.

I explained that I don't get to blame others for what I feel.  Maybe I'm a strong person and that means others take it for granted that I can handle everything.  Maybe I'm so hated that others like to kick me when I'm down.  Maybe the idea of losing a child is something that makes others face that fear on their own and that makes people uncomfortable.  There were three specific moments right after my miscarriage that I felt like being alone were better options.

The day after I found out I had miscarried was a Thursday.  I was walking around, knowing my twins had stopped living inside of me.  I felt so trapped and betrayed by my body. It felt like my heart was fractured and my belly felt heavy and burdened instead of light and filled with hope and life. I was trapped in my home and my skin.  I went for a walk through Chinatown to escape my thoughts.  I was called and then called out for not helping someone else through my grief.  I explained that my boyfriend and I were helping each other through it all and I was told, "who is helping me?" For a moment I felt like I was wrong for focusing on healing with my boyfriend as they were our kids.  I worked through the anger and realised I wasn't wrong in doing what we needed to in order to get through what we had to get through. I wasn't responsible for how others needed to face our loss.

The day after the abortion I didn't want, I was called by someone else and told I was so hated that this person couldn't find empathy for me, and somehow I was supposed to make this person feel better.  I was putting him in an awkward position, somehow. I was packing away my maternity clothes that no longer fit and ultrasounds that were no longer a focus of hope.  In my grief, I was preparing for my boyfriend and my sons to come home.  In a rare moment I was trapped in a feeling that I hadn't known in months or maybe a year.  I was manipulated and made to feel bad by someone that no longer matters in my life.  It took a while to separate what was grief and what was irrelevant so I could move on.  When I felt the power of my grief removed from the pain of someone else's expectation, I felt peace.  I know I couldn't have controlled what happened and I was dealing appropriately with what we were given.  I felt peace in knowing I wasn't being unreasonable but the call I took was.

On Monday, not yet a week from the news, I was making calls to have my babies cremated and I was expected to stop that to help someone else with everyday life.  I did.  I managed to function outside of my expectations and do what I was asked.  I needed time to myself and to take care of my children but outside life rarely allows you the space you need.  I was intentional with responding to the situation and not reacting the way my heart wanted me to.

I am accountable for how I choose to react or respond.

I am worthy of loving myself.  Self love when angry, sad, or hurt.  I am worthy of it.

I am not expected to take care of others, although it is nice to know I can because I'm a strong woman.

I can separate my feelings from those imposed on me.

I can ask for help.

I hope that at the end of the day my kids can learn from my experiences and know that there is help and hope and a future through depression.  You get to live and in living through your pain and finding the rainbows through the storms, you get to help others.  It's a gift. I don't hate 13 Reasons Why.  I'm grateful for the conversation it started.

As of now, I'm still involved in self care and my family is loving the gluten free red velvet cakes I keep baking.  My yard looks nicer than it has and in a few weeks we'll have fresh veggies warm from the sun.  And I'm still here.

My Suicide Attempt Survival Story

This post has been brewing in my mind for a bit, and it's time.  It's not that I'm suicidal or even depressed right now.  I've decided today will be a great day and I'm expecting something good is on it's way.  I believe in choosing my moods and the feelings usually follow. After that serendipity and the universe conspire to surprise me.

Yesterday I started clicking through an article on Facebook.  It was one of those "21 celebs that took their own lives" type of stories that make you click through each and every one so you get the full exposure to all of their partners and sponsors or ads.  This was a horrible set up, as it allowed the author to repeatedly rephrase their sentiment, nullifying the tragedy of a life unfulfilled into statistics and cliche.

I'm writing to make it clear that I will never call suicide a coward's way out.

My first suicide attempt was a couple of months into the 7th grade.  I'm 38 now.

I don't remember wanting to die.  I felt overwhelmed.  I had my first crush and it turned obsessive and it was the first of many unhealthy infatuations.  My great grandfather had just died and the family was planning on driving out to Houston and I didn't want to go.  We had visited often enough, every few years.  All of my memories were of him being bedridden with a colostomy bag attached to the bed in varying degrees of fullness.  I would have to climb on the bed to give him a hug and a kiss where his lips couldn't quite pucker, and it was warm and wet.  I couldn't understand his slurred speech. I'd wander through his immaculate house full of mirrors and fiber optic lamps, and crystal vases filled with bright silk flowers in unnatural colors.  I didn't feel an attachment to him, and I didn't want to have to pack up during the school year to head out on a trip to Texas for a funeral.  I felt lost, and uncared for.

That night I snuck out of the house around 10 to go for a walk.  Late night strolls are how I will always self medicate. I snuck back in, and didn't get caught.  I grabbed a bottle of Advil and a bottle of Tylenol and started swallowing pills, one at a time and one bottle at a time.  In the morning when I woke up vomiting, it still didn't occur to me that I might die at that point.  I told my Dad I had taken pills.  I don't even remember which parent or if both of them were with me in the Kaiser emergency room.  I was so far from understanding the gravity of the situation.  I was almost nonchalant, in between puking.

Advil would've given me a stomachache.  Tylenol needed to be flushed out of my system because my liver couldn't process it.  I had my stomach pumped and was in intensive care for a few days, drinking medicine mixed with apple juice to make it more palatable.  It was years before I could smell apple juice without wanting to vomit.  It finally hit me when I was next to a mother with her anorexic baby.  When I saw her reaction to what I was there for, I saw the stigma attached to suicide in a way that I couldn't grasp before.  I had months of therapy, and never saw that it made a difference. I still don't know that I was depressed enough to kill myself, or if I was just bored and lonely.  To this day, I only take medication when absolutely necessary and I am really happy that I'm not on any medications.

Years later, during and right after high school, I made attempts.  The most dangerous attempt wasn't a fully formed thought of wanting death.  The attempts that came later were an absolute contemplation.  I will not deny that I was so depressed, I felt dying would be better than living. They were so long ago, I can't remember a sequence, and I'm not sure it would matter.

I was drinking.  It wasn't like the dream I had last night at a bar with friends and a sweating MGD in my hands.  I was drinking alone with a knife in my hands.  I always had knives around me when I was younger.  I had a knife and I was making superficial slices along my wrists.  They were tiny scratches that didn't draw blood. I was depressed and I wanted that feeling to end, but I was more afraid of killing myself.

Another time I was sober and crying, and held a knife over my stomach.  In a rage, I had stabbed a bible multiple times because I couldn't find comfort in faith and I was ready to turn that knife on my gut.  I wanted to cut out the ache and hollow feeling in my chest.  Again, I was more afraid of the pain.

I had a bottle of vicodin once.  I held it and considered taking them, one after another as I did when I was younger.  I called someone to talk to.  She told me she didn't feel qualified and I should call someone else.  That depression was quickly replaced with rage, and I put the pills down.

I won't say that feeling is forever gone.  I know that sometimes depression will visit.  It's always a slow and gradual feeling that creeps up and if I don't take time to reflect on how I'm doing, it'll sneak up on me until it is all I can see.  When my husband told me he was leaving me, I was very aware of all I felt, and I was determined to not go on anti-depressants again because of how terrible withdrawals felt.  I had rage.  I was lost.  I was broken.  I was angry.  But I refused to be depressed and those moments came, but I fought hard to push them away.  During that time, I can say I was never a danger to myself or anyone else.  Having a mom willing to fund a 100 pound heavy bag and hand wraps really helped.

My most recent bout of severe depression was two years ago.  It was a time when I was dealing with my husband's late uncle, and a suicidal kid2, and a husband that wanted more of my attention than I was capable of giving to him, while trying not to destroy the eggshells I walked on by going against his wishes in making final arrangements for his uncle.  His mood on that was fickle and one moment he approved and was grateful.  The next he was angry at me for doing it.  A lot of our marriage, I ended up doing what meant the most to me whether or not I was given permission, and  I have a degree because of that.  Our son was being bullied and teased and I felt so powerless.  I was so busy worrying about how everyone else was doing that I didn't see my own feelings taking a dive.  One day I was on the freeway and I was surprised by an errant thought of crashing into the center divider.  It wasn't something I wanted to do, but it was a thought that crossed my mind. I got home and called my doctor for an appointment and anti-depressants.  They helped.  It took a while to kick in, but once they started working, I was able to take the hits, and not feel like I needed to do something drastic and scary.  It gave me an ability to get through what I needed to.  Now drastic and scary looks like cutting my hair into something so short my curls make me resemble a peppy poodle.

I never saw suicide as an easy out.  It seemed like an only out. It was difficult and terrifying. I can't say killing myself would've been brave.  I know when I've thought about it, I never worried about how my family would react.  I have a sister that beat cancer.  I've imagined losing her, and the thought of what her loss would do to me has backed me off of the ledge a few times.  I won't say I think of how it would hurt her if I were to die.  At my lowest I'm too selfish for that.  It takes my self focus into another person I love and my perspective shifts just enough to step back and remember a person I love, and get lost in nostalgia of her teaching me to throw a football or the red Minnie Mouse watch she bought me. I remember the first house party she took me to and her looking me in the eye with a pointed finger and threatening me about taking something and having it hit me years later that she meant taking drugs.

Being suicidal is selfish.  I can say that.  It's not selfish in the way where I would ever bash someone with it as a sharp accusation. It's selfish because the times I have been there, I didn't feel like anyone else had my concerns as their priority.  I felt I was doing what was best for me.  It wasn't about cowardice in facing a difficult life.  I didn't think that far ahead.  I didn't think farther than how I felt in that exact moment.  It's not that I didn't care about anyone.  I was just so consumed, it didn't occur to me that other people would exist in the bubble of hell I was in.

Suicide isn't the easy way out.  It's a more difficult decision than trying to get through another day of despair.  Depression that visits in cycles is something you can get used to.  Deciding you've had enough is stepping out into something new and terrifying.  I'm not advocating suicide. Clearly, I'm still alive and kicking through adversity.  I'm such a believer in life, I've given birth to three of my children and four that belong to other people. I'm just saying it's not okay to negate a life based on a choice you have never been faced with, or choose to not remember.  It's not okay to call a person's existence a cliche and ignore the devastation they've left in their wake because you don't agree with their choice.  Or because you are too afraid to try to understand it. They left behind a family marked by stigma.  That family has a lot to reconcile, but sometimes saying you don't know what to say, and offering a hug or practical help around the house is enough.  You don't have to replace their loss, or feel it fully, but let them know they are not alone and not forgotten.

I'm Sharing My Coping Skills

It's unfortunate that life seldom flows in ways that are consistent and expected.  Those who marry would never divorce.  Parents would never bury their children. Dreams and plans would never be deferred or denied and disappointments would not be part of the human experience. But then we'd also never understand the peace and joy that come from knowing what their absence really looks like. I wasn't always a coping kinda gal.  There were a few times in my life when I decided quitting made more sense, or that I needed help because I couldn't do it on my own.  I'm really glad that I'm not a superstar at everything I do.  Failure can be an amazing blessing.  Depression has been a life time companion since the 7th grade.  Don't get me wrong, I was a bit of a loner long before then, but I think of the 7th grade as the starting point because that was when puberty hit, and those grown up hormones destroyed what ever illusion of normalcy I had going.

Hormones made my body change.  Long before that, I remember walking home from school one day and I must have been in about the third grade when a guy in a red car pulled up to me to ask for directions. I don't think my parents allowed me to walk to and from school before then.  I lived in East Hollywood in the 80's and early 90's and I was walking down Virgil near the city property on Santa Monica. I saw my first penis that day.  I didn't realize I should feel fear when the driver pulled over and asked me questions while his pants were unzipped and he had his penis in his hand.  I was confused about what he was doing and had no idea where he wanted to go. I think I was most concerned about not knowing where he wanted to go.  When I was 10 years old, a neighbor in his teens put his hand on my ankle and started moving up.  I didn't know what to do and stopped him at the the middle of my thigh.  There were plenty of other stories about my youth being perverted and my personal space invaded but by Grace alone I can say it stopped at physical violence and I feel without being physically beaten my emotional scars are harder to see but are getting easier to heal. Puberty made me much more obvious to men and the hormones made me feel like I wasn't loved on top of that. Rejecting advances is a skill I learned early on, but that brokenness that wanted acceptance made that a bag of confusion that I still have collecting dust in my closet somewhere. I pick it up from time to time and start to unpack things, but then I shove it deeper than it was.  It's on my to do list and will probably be worked out in a blog post one day. Usually when I'm feeling low, I start exposing flesh in skimpier than normal clothes. That's me regressing. My first real attempt at suicide happened in the 7th grade with a bottle and a half of over the counter pain medication.

I was hospitalized.  My stomach was pumped and I'll never forget the neon green bile that made it's way out of me through the tube that was shoved up my nose.  Ice water was supposed to numb my throat, but it didn't.  I was in intensive care next to an anorexic infant and when her mother discovered why I was there, the curtain around them closed so she could hold her contempt without having to see me. My great grandfather died and I was alone in a hospital bed while most of the family went to Texas for his funeral.  My oldest sister stayed behind and checked on me from time to time. I was in the hospital bed when I got my third period.  It took a few more to realize PMS was real and genuinely going to mess with me as long as I am fertile. It's one of the reasons I loved being pregnant.

Years later there was another attempt or two but nothing quite as serious or dangerous as that first time, and the last attempt was before my second decade.  In hindsight I wasn't quite as motivated to end my life as I was to end that feeling.  Time and experience has taught me that those feelings are cyclical and will pass. It helps to not dwell on the low points, but to change my focus. It helps to curtail the low before it bottoms out, and it hurts to not let other burdens add pressure when I'm already feeling like Atlas with my world on my shoulders. When I'm good, I'm really good.  When I'm low, I'm doing everything I can think of to get better.  I try to find something positive or stick to something physical.  Angry sex used to be my go to. Now I pull weeds.

I gave my firstborn life, and he gave me the baby blues.  I finally sought help when he was about 4 months old.  I remember crying on the phone with my mom and thanking her for not killing me in my infancy.  That was when I realized it wasn't normal. Therapy helped.  Talking to someone that didn't expect me to do it all and do it well was enough.

There was one point when I was on medication a few years back.  I had been dealing with funeral arrangements and cleaning out a hoarder nightmare without the support I needed. It was my father in law's brother and at his request but against my husband's wishes.  It was also at a time when my second child was transitioning from his public school to a nonpublic school because his emotional needs weren't being met and his depression and suicide attempts were hard on me too.  Going off of the meds was difficult.  I was often dizzy and started having irrational panic attacks when my youngest wanted to snuggle with me.  I was glad when things settled into normalcy which is still a constantly shifting landscape. If I can help it I will never go on anti-depressants again.

Last year my marriage ended.  I'm still married, but it's over.  Neither of us has filed but that just speaks of our stubbornness. He decided we were done and it was almost a year before I decided I liked his decision and while I continue to forgive him, I no longer want him back.  I told my doctor in the beginning and she asked if I wanted to go back on meds.  I was quick to say no.  I started seeing a therapist.  I realized I had given her enough of my deductible when she was telling me I was inspiring her.  I already had the skills I needed to get through that phase and I thought she might have been taking notes.

I was setting goals.  I was reading books on finance because it was an area of my life I needed control over.  I started setting 18 month plans and long term goals because Suze Orman and Sheryl Sandberg give great advice.  I learned about Leaning In and it showed me where to focus my energies.

I made improvements to my home.  I created a space that I wanted to be in, putting my degrees in frames and on the walls, along with the kid's certificates and awards.  I didn't for so long because for  long time my husband only had his high school diploma, certificate of baptism, and a picture with other security guards from and old job.  I didn't want to make him feel bad. I was doing the things around the house I had always wanted to do, but I was no longer waiting for someone to do things for me.  When the kids are gone, I'm not in a hurry to get home, but once I am home, I love being in the quiet.

I started buying things I had wanted for myself without waiting for someone to buy them for me.  I love Pandora charms and fresh flowers.  I didn't realize how much I love fresh cut flowers until recently.  He didn't buy them often, and sometimes not at all. I'm still not a fan of baby's breath, but flowers cut in their prime and set on my table for a private show have made that something I now do for myself, along with regular hair cuts and nail appointments. Some things require planning and saving, but I am no longer waiting for something that might not happen and hoping it might be able to happen without planning for it to.

I apply sensory techniques I learned for my autistic sons.  I have a plastic bin filled with playground sand that I stick my feet in on some mornings while sipping coffee on my front porch.  Just an hour ago I was walking on bubble wrap in my bare feet. I keep Play Doh cups in my desk at work and work the dough with my left hand while clicking my mouse with my right.  I have a small bottle of bubbles in my car.  When I get stuck in traffic I blow bubbles.  It is silly.  Other grown ups giggle at me or smile.  I sometimes smile or wink back. Slow intentional breaths required for blowing bubbles also triggers the parasympathetic response. The breathing helps slow down my heart rate and lower my blood pressure.  Most commutes to work include loud music that I sing and dance to in my seat.

This is how I cope when life throws me a curve ball and I've just finished a manicure with wet nails. This is how I face the lemons I was handed and make a gluten free lemon curd tart with spiced whipped cream and stretch what's left into lemonade.