Triggers. For those of us that are combating grief, the term takes on a whole new meaning. These are the things that set off yet another crying jag, an ache in the heart, or just completely deflate us. We never know when they are going to come mainly because we have no idea what they will be. Anything from a song on the radio, a smell, a sound, or even seeing some one that resembles our departed love one.
For me, the most recent trigger came this past Thursday morning. I was in the living room scrolling through Facebook to kill time before I took Emmy to her swim lesson. I came across a picture that Peyton's mom had posted for #TBT. It was from one year ago while they were on vacation. There was nothing special about the picture, just Peyton with his hat pulled down low grinning his goofy grin at the camera. All of sudden i felt my chest tighten and my eyes water. Before I knew it, I was crying, and made no effort to stop. I pulled Emmy up on the couch with me and held on tight, but just couldn't seem to stop the tears. Finally after a few minutes, I was able to compose myself. I still had that hollow feeling in my chest as I went into my bedroom to get my wallet and keys. As I stood at my dresser, I looked on to the cedar chest sitting next to it. On top of the chest was what I needed to turn my mood around. It was an ordinary cardboard box, but it was what was inside of it that truly mattered. Dozens of knitted hearts that had been sent to me by my Angel from Jersey, Jill Kubin.
I have never met Jill Kubin. I have never talked on the phone with Jill or held any kind of conversation with her. I don't know what her favorite flavor of ice cream is. I don't know where or when she was born. I don't know where she grew up or where she went to school. In fact for some one that I call an angel, I know very little if anything about the woman, but it is what I do know about Jill Kubin that allows me to call her an angel.
The first time I ever heard the name Jill Kubin was in February of 2015. I had begun following a page on Facebook called The Sidewalk Smiles Campaign. I was trying to expand the reach of Products for Peyton was attempting to get in touch with any group or organization that I thought would help. The person behind Sidewalk Smiles is Julia Kubin, Jill's daughter. This amazing child had a brilliant idea. Her and her friends in the Town of Morristown, New Jersey would go and stand on street corners while holding signs with the simple sentence, "Your Are Beautiful" written on them. They would take their signs with them wherever they went spreading this simple message to as many as they could with the goal of stopping bullying and harassment. I introduced myself over Facebook and thanked her for what she was doing and told her about Peyton. Shortly there after, I heard from Jill for the first time. Jill messaged me and told me about her other daughter, Emily, and that Emily was involved with the Hats for Hope Initiative. Jill told me that they wanted to do a hat drive in Peyton's honor in order to bring attention to the consequences of bullying. I whole heartedly agreed, and over the course of the next few months, they began to collect knit hats for the homeless made by people from throughout the country. It seemed that every time I would log on to Facebook, there was another picture Emily had posted showing more and more hats that she had received. For the first time, I knew Peyton's message was getting out there, and more importantly, people cared enough to do something about it.
Jill's next idea is the reason I am working on this entry. It is called the #Peyton Heart Project. Jill originally came up with the idea of giving a knit heart to each of the incoming freshmen at the local high school so that every student would know some one cared about them. She asked me if she could name this after Peyton as well, and of course I agreed. What was originally a good idea became a great idea when her daughter Julia began leaving the hearts, each containing a small message, in various public places for find. The next thing I knew, people as far away as South Dakota and England were getting involved. They were either passing out hearts or knitting them, and word began to spread. Eventually, Jill sent me a box of these hearts to me so that I could leave them for people. I began to leave a few here and there, from the local mall to bookstores and restaurants. I never heard anything about any of the hearts I left, but was hoping they made it into the hands of someone that would truly love it.
As I said before, on Thursday, I was having a bad day. As I left to take Emmy to her swim lesson, I saw the box, and loaded up the pockets of my cargo shorts. I left a couple at the pool, and after her lesson, Emmy and I headed to the mall (July in Texas is indoor activity time) so Emmy could play on the play ground. As we went into various stores, I left the hearts where I hoped they would be found. That night, I had to run to the local Petsmart to get dog food. I left a few here and there in the store, and had one more in my pocket as I headed to my truck. Rather than take it home, I left it under the wiper of the car next to me. The next morning, Lisa was looking at Facebook and came to show me. The lady who had found the heart on her window had posted it on Facebook. Joy flooded my heart, and I knew that some one had been reached. She had actually hears about Peyton, and was now spreading the word. Once again, when I needed a jolt of inspiration, Jill Kubin had been the mastermind.
New Jersey takes more abuse than most states. It is a puncline, whipping boy and red headed step child all rolled into one. Some of the abuse may be well deserved (they did elect Chris Christie after all), other times it comes at the expense of a network choosing the worst possible representatives of the state and highlighting their lives (Jersey Shore any one?). However, I will say that Jersey doesn't always deserve the punches it take, and in the case of three angels, Jill, Julia and Emily Kubin, I know there are some damn good reasons to love the state.
I know I have probably left things out, and no matter what I say, it will never do justice to Jill, Julia and Emily, but I want to thank them from the bottom of my heart for all that they have done for me, my family, and most of all, the memory of Peyton.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Saturday, July 18, 2015
A Questionable Death
On Friday, July 10, 2015, a 28 year old woman was pulled over in Prarie View, Texas for failing to signal properly. According to witnesses and news reports, she was asked to extinguish a cigarette but refused. Words were exchanged, and the situation escalated. She was then taken to the ground and arrested for assault on a public servant. She was taken to the Waller county jail where she was working on posting her $500 bond. According to friends, she seemed to be in good spirits. However, at 9:00 AM Monday, July 13, the same young woman was found in her cell not breathing and unresponsive. Jail staff performed CPR, but it was too late, and she was pronounced dead. The cause given was self inflicted asphyxiation. According to a statement, a garbage bag was used by the woman and an autopsy by the Harris County Medical Examiner confirmed the cause of death. The woman's family is outraged saying that her death is suspicious. They claim that there is no way this woman would have committed. The Waller County District Attorney has begun an investigation and asked both the Texas Rangers and the FBI to investigate. If the facts com out that there was foul play, then all parties involved should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, but that is not why I am writing about this.
Over the course of the past week, this story has received a great deal of traction in the Houston area news, as well as national news and of course it has taken center stage on social media as well. There are racial undertones to the story, but that is not my focus here. Instead, I want to examine the reaction of the public to suicide, and how their actions showed how far we, as a society, must go in order to understand mental illness and the motivations of a person to complete suicide.
In March, this young woman posted a Youtube video saying that she had been dealing with some depression and PTSD. I empathized with her. I have dealt with the same thing after Peyton's suicide. However, the reaction of people from her friends to people on social media showed how little others understand. I have heard and read everything from "That was in March, she would have been better by now, " to "Depression goes away, so it couldn't have been that" to "She probably had a bad day and thought she was depressed." My reactions to these statements ranged anywhere from bewilderment to wanting to climb into the TV, grab the person by the collar, slap them around while yelling, "You are part of the problem!!!! Shut up and educate yourself. " This is what is wrong when it comes to mental health, a total and complete misunderstanding, as well as a plethora of misinformation surrounding it.
Depression is not something you get over, nor does it go away like the common cold, and who knows better if they are depressed than the depressed person. As an adult, I knew that my depression was more than just a bad day, and I am sure this woman did as well. Depression is an illness, much the same as cancer, and like many illnesses, it doesn't just "go away". and just like you would never tell a cancer patient to get over it, or that it is all in their head, the same goes for some one suffering from depression.
The other aspect was the subject of her suicide, and the lack of understanding by the public. Once aging, I cringed in horror at the statements people made. Apparently the woman had moved from Chicago to Prairie View to begin a new job and start her life again, so people said there was no way she would have killed herself because she had a new job, or because she was a spiritual person, because she always seemed positive, the list is endless. In the end, there is no telling what the trigger was, if in fact she did kill herself. I can speculate, but I don't know. I am sure that spending three days in any jail is not good for the psyche of any person. Being charged with a felony can endanger a job, the looming court battles ahead, who knows? Others have stated that she never said she was suicidal when they booked her into jail. Once again, three days lone in a jail cell for a person that is suffering from depression can change things. In addition, I spoke to a nurse that works in a hospital ER that receives more than it's fair share of patients that are brought in after an arrest. She has had several lie to her about being suicidal in order to have the opportunity to attempt suicide. Most people that plan on taking their own lives do not broadcast it. Most won't tell people because they don't want to be stopped. Some are even able to put on a smile and lie straight to your face right up until the point that they follow through on their plans.
If the death of this young woman was in fact a suicide, then let us hope that it turns into a teachable moment. Perhaps her death will not be in vain if others can learn from it. To the woman her self, I just want to say, Rest in Peace.
Over the course of the past week, this story has received a great deal of traction in the Houston area news, as well as national news and of course it has taken center stage on social media as well. There are racial undertones to the story, but that is not my focus here. Instead, I want to examine the reaction of the public to suicide, and how their actions showed how far we, as a society, must go in order to understand mental illness and the motivations of a person to complete suicide.
In March, this young woman posted a Youtube video saying that she had been dealing with some depression and PTSD. I empathized with her. I have dealt with the same thing after Peyton's suicide. However, the reaction of people from her friends to people on social media showed how little others understand. I have heard and read everything from "That was in March, she would have been better by now, " to "Depression goes away, so it couldn't have been that" to "She probably had a bad day and thought she was depressed." My reactions to these statements ranged anywhere from bewilderment to wanting to climb into the TV, grab the person by the collar, slap them around while yelling, "You are part of the problem!!!! Shut up and educate yourself. " This is what is wrong when it comes to mental health, a total and complete misunderstanding, as well as a plethora of misinformation surrounding it.
Depression is not something you get over, nor does it go away like the common cold, and who knows better if they are depressed than the depressed person. As an adult, I knew that my depression was more than just a bad day, and I am sure this woman did as well. Depression is an illness, much the same as cancer, and like many illnesses, it doesn't just "go away". and just like you would never tell a cancer patient to get over it, or that it is all in their head, the same goes for some one suffering from depression.
The other aspect was the subject of her suicide, and the lack of understanding by the public. Once aging, I cringed in horror at the statements people made. Apparently the woman had moved from Chicago to Prairie View to begin a new job and start her life again, so people said there was no way she would have killed herself because she had a new job, or because she was a spiritual person, because she always seemed positive, the list is endless. In the end, there is no telling what the trigger was, if in fact she did kill herself. I can speculate, but I don't know. I am sure that spending three days in any jail is not good for the psyche of any person. Being charged with a felony can endanger a job, the looming court battles ahead, who knows? Others have stated that she never said she was suicidal when they booked her into jail. Once again, three days lone in a jail cell for a person that is suffering from depression can change things. In addition, I spoke to a nurse that works in a hospital ER that receives more than it's fair share of patients that are brought in after an arrest. She has had several lie to her about being suicidal in order to have the opportunity to attempt suicide. Most people that plan on taking their own lives do not broadcast it. Most won't tell people because they don't want to be stopped. Some are even able to put on a smile and lie straight to your face right up until the point that they follow through on their plans.
If the death of this young woman was in fact a suicide, then let us hope that it turns into a teachable moment. Perhaps her death will not be in vain if others can learn from it. To the woman her self, I just want to say, Rest in Peace.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Ignorance Is Fatal
On Tuesday, July 7th, 37 year old Dennis Clevenger jumped to his death from the top level of a parking garage in The Woodlands, TX. There was a brief article in the community newspaper, some mention of it on local Facebook pages, but for the most part, it went unnoticed. No news crew from Houston made their way up I-45 to cover the story, even though several reporters from various stations call The Woodlands home. There was little else said. The only comment in the online version of the community paper was anger at the paper for posting s picture of the body covered by a sheet taken from above. A Google search of Dennis Clevenger didn't reveal much, nor did a search on Facebook. For the most part, the life of Dennis Clevenger was limited to a mere six paragraphs. We have no idea as to why Dennis was on that parking garage that day. It seems that the reporters from the paper ran a quick Google search themselves, and when they found nothing, moved on.
Unfortunately, an opportunity to educate the public, to bring to light to the far reaching effects of suicide, or to talk about the stigma of mental illness went away. This seems to be par for the course, not only in communities such as The Woodlands, but communities throughout the country.
I went back through the comments on Facebook to see if any one had comment. Perhaps some one would have talked about how Dennis had suffered a series of setbacks recently, or had battled depression, or been recently divorced and lost his kids in a heated custody battle. Nope. No such luck. The comments were heavy on the "oh my", "such a tragedy", and "prayers for the family" to the "I had to find a different jogging route", "this made me late for work", and even one ignoramus who referred to Dennis as "cowardly" because he "took the easy way out". I could let this jackhole get off easy. After I explained that his view was one of pure, unadulterated ignorance, I asked if he suffered from mental illness, if he had ever suffered from emotional pain so crippling that it physically hurt, and if by saying that suicide was cowardly, would he be willing to come and debate his views to my survivors group. I even told him when and where we met. The next thing I knew, the jackhole's comments disappeared. It was jackhole's ignorance that led me to thinking about one of my favorite quotes from literature, "Ignorance is fatal."
The quote itself is from Usher II in Ray Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles. In this story, our protagonist Mr. Stendhal plots revenge on the Moral Climates people. These are the people on Earth that had deemed science fiction and fantasy inappropriate and ordered all of these books destroyed, including Stendhal's (see Farenhiet 451). Now the same group had come to Mars and set about telling others what they could read and believe. The head of this group was Mr. Garrett. Garrett arrived at Stendal's house, and watched as other members of Moral Climates were killed off one by one in methods directly from Stendahl's (and my) beloved Edgar Allan Poe. Finally, Garrett, the last one left alive, was led into the catacombs and was in the process of being walled up alive by Stendhal in much the same fashion as Montresor had walled up the unfortunate Fortunato in The Cask of Amotillado. Stendhal lectured Garrett about how his ignorance and arrogance had led him down there. Garrett had never read Poe or he would have realized what was about to happen. Instead Garrett had allowed others to tell him what was bad and not acceptable rather than deciding for himself. As Stendahl places the last few bricks into place. he reminds Garrett that "Ignorance is fatal" as he places the last brick into place.
I see the jackhole on Facebook as a modern day Garrett. Based upon what he had said, he subscribed to some very outdated and erroneous information. Had he bothered to do even the most rudimentary research into suicide and the causes behind it, he might not have sounded like such a jack hole. I think that for the most part, people who suffer from mental illness battle it for as long as they can. I tried to use the analogy of a terminal cancer patient choosing to end their life on their own terms rather than live with excruciating and debilitating pain, but then I got to thinking about the analogy itself. People with cancer aren't afraid to come forward and discuss their illness. If some one in the community has cancer, others will rally around that person, they hold fundraisers, open Fund Me pages, and bring casseroles. On the other hand, if some one in the community suffered from mental illness, no one holds a bake sale, probably because no one knows. The family will keep it to themselves, that is if they even admit that it is happening. And why does this happen? Because people choose to be ignorant about it. Instead of, "That Timmy is a fighter. I hope he beats this," we get "Stay away from Timmy. Kid's got a screw loose. Best thing they can do is ship the little nut job out to an asylum. God I hope he didn't give it to our kids." Little do they know, mental illness, like cancer is not contagious, but, it can be just as deadly.
It is this ignorance that is truly fatal. It is ignorance that keeps parents from admitting that their child night have a problem. It is ignorance that keeps schools from openly addressing the topic of mental illness and suicide with students even though a student is much more likely to die of suicide than a fire or shooter in the school (both of which they are required to have multiple drills for). It is ignorance that perpetuates the stereotype of the mentally ill as writing fan letters to Jodie Foster or planning the next Columbine. It is ignorance that makes jackholes on Facebook say that some one who dies of suicide is a coward rather than saying that the person's desire to end their pain outweighed their desire to live.
So tonight, I want to tell Dennis Clevenger that I hope he is at peace. That where ever he is, the pain is over and cannot hurt him any more, "Requiescat in Pace". And for those that choose not to fully educate themselves, or regurgitate what they have been told without verifying what they are saying, "Ignorance is fatal."
Unfortunately, an opportunity to educate the public, to bring to light to the far reaching effects of suicide, or to talk about the stigma of mental illness went away. This seems to be par for the course, not only in communities such as The Woodlands, but communities throughout the country.
I went back through the comments on Facebook to see if any one had comment. Perhaps some one would have talked about how Dennis had suffered a series of setbacks recently, or had battled depression, or been recently divorced and lost his kids in a heated custody battle. Nope. No such luck. The comments were heavy on the "oh my", "such a tragedy", and "prayers for the family" to the "I had to find a different jogging route", "this made me late for work", and even one ignoramus who referred to Dennis as "cowardly" because he "took the easy way out". I could let this jackhole get off easy. After I explained that his view was one of pure, unadulterated ignorance, I asked if he suffered from mental illness, if he had ever suffered from emotional pain so crippling that it physically hurt, and if by saying that suicide was cowardly, would he be willing to come and debate his views to my survivors group. I even told him when and where we met. The next thing I knew, the jackhole's comments disappeared. It was jackhole's ignorance that led me to thinking about one of my favorite quotes from literature, "Ignorance is fatal."
The quote itself is from Usher II in Ray Bradbury's The Martian Chronicles. In this story, our protagonist Mr. Stendhal plots revenge on the Moral Climates people. These are the people on Earth that had deemed science fiction and fantasy inappropriate and ordered all of these books destroyed, including Stendhal's (see Farenhiet 451). Now the same group had come to Mars and set about telling others what they could read and believe. The head of this group was Mr. Garrett. Garrett arrived at Stendal's house, and watched as other members of Moral Climates were killed off one by one in methods directly from Stendahl's (and my) beloved Edgar Allan Poe. Finally, Garrett, the last one left alive, was led into the catacombs and was in the process of being walled up alive by Stendhal in much the same fashion as Montresor had walled up the unfortunate Fortunato in The Cask of Amotillado. Stendhal lectured Garrett about how his ignorance and arrogance had led him down there. Garrett had never read Poe or he would have realized what was about to happen. Instead Garrett had allowed others to tell him what was bad and not acceptable rather than deciding for himself. As Stendahl places the last few bricks into place. he reminds Garrett that "Ignorance is fatal" as he places the last brick into place.
I see the jackhole on Facebook as a modern day Garrett. Based upon what he had said, he subscribed to some very outdated and erroneous information. Had he bothered to do even the most rudimentary research into suicide and the causes behind it, he might not have sounded like such a jack hole. I think that for the most part, people who suffer from mental illness battle it for as long as they can. I tried to use the analogy of a terminal cancer patient choosing to end their life on their own terms rather than live with excruciating and debilitating pain, but then I got to thinking about the analogy itself. People with cancer aren't afraid to come forward and discuss their illness. If some one in the community has cancer, others will rally around that person, they hold fundraisers, open Fund Me pages, and bring casseroles. On the other hand, if some one in the community suffered from mental illness, no one holds a bake sale, probably because no one knows. The family will keep it to themselves, that is if they even admit that it is happening. And why does this happen? Because people choose to be ignorant about it. Instead of, "That Timmy is a fighter. I hope he beats this," we get "Stay away from Timmy. Kid's got a screw loose. Best thing they can do is ship the little nut job out to an asylum. God I hope he didn't give it to our kids." Little do they know, mental illness, like cancer is not contagious, but, it can be just as deadly.
It is this ignorance that is truly fatal. It is ignorance that keeps parents from admitting that their child night have a problem. It is ignorance that keeps schools from openly addressing the topic of mental illness and suicide with students even though a student is much more likely to die of suicide than a fire or shooter in the school (both of which they are required to have multiple drills for). It is ignorance that perpetuates the stereotype of the mentally ill as writing fan letters to Jodie Foster or planning the next Columbine. It is ignorance that makes jackholes on Facebook say that some one who dies of suicide is a coward rather than saying that the person's desire to end their pain outweighed their desire to live.
So tonight, I want to tell Dennis Clevenger that I hope he is at peace. That where ever he is, the pain is over and cannot hurt him any more, "Requiescat in Pace". And for those that choose not to fully educate themselves, or regurgitate what they have been told without verifying what they are saying, "Ignorance is fatal."
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Statistics Don't Lie
Last week, the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP) released suicide statistics about suicide in each of the 50 states as well as the District of Columbia. When I saw them putting them out on Twitter, I kept checking back and refreshing until they put up the Texas stats. I immediately saved the picture and then began to absorb the information.
For example, suicide is the 2nd leading cause of death among 15-34 year olds in the state and the third among persons 10-14. In cottage groups, a person is more likely to die by suicide than they are to be murdered. In fact, for the entire state of Texas, suicides outnumbered homicides 2 to 1. For those outside of the state, who envision Texas as the wild west, I am sure that comes as a surprise, and for those that live in the larger metropolitan areas such as Dallas, Houston and San Antonio, who are subjected to almost nightly reports of homicides on the evening news, might find that surprising as well.
In my school district, as a teacher, I am required to review the evacuation plan with all my classes on the first day in case of fire, the lock down plan in case of an intruder, even the policy if a student comes in late or has to pee, but there is no mention of what a student is to do if they feel sad, or left out, or hopeless, or in so much emotional pain that they don't feel that they can go on. Now entering my 25th year in the classroom, I can count on one hand the number of fires and lock downs I have experienced, but would need to take off my shoes and socks to count the number of students that have taken their lives.
Now the question here is why don't we know this? The answer is simple, no one wants to talk about this dirty little secret. I know that the news media, both print and broadcast, are hesitant to cover suicides, and if they do, the name of the deceased is rarely, if ever, published. Even if it is a suicide, it might be referred to as an accidental death. Incidents such as one car accidents, drug overdoses, even gun accidents might not be revealed for why they really are. Generally, unless the suicide is that of a celebrity such as Robin Williams, or some other high profile person, the public remains uninformed. This is a kind of double edged sword. On one hand, I can understand not wanting to bring any more pain to the family to any more than they have already endured, but at the same, that ignorance can be fatal.
The time has come to educate the masses. With 90% of suicides being carried out by people suffering from some sort of mental illness, the first step is removing the stigma. Let those who have spent their lives suffering know that they are not alone, and that help is available. Let the public know that those who do suffer are not the stereotypes that are common in the media and on TV. Let those who live with a mentally ill person know that there is nothing to be ashamed of, that it ins't their fault, and the worst thing they can do is to hide it.
As macabre as it sounds, despite the tragedy of Robin Williams's suicide, it was one of the best things that could have happened in the mental health community. Williams's death actually made it okay to talk about mental health. For the first time, people actually knew some one else that was dealing with the same demons they were. Others realized that despite fame and riches, people can suffer silently, and even more so, hide how they really feel from the world. Most of all, an uneducated public finally began talking about how real and crippling emotional pain can be.
Two months and two days after Robin Williams passed away after hanging himself, my son Peyton did the same thing. This time, there was no media coverage, no headlines, no talking heads on the evening news speaking to a mental health professional about the why's and what's of suicide. There was just me, a bald 49 year old high school English teacher. I made vow to educate as many as I could to avoid having to hear about another person dealing with so much pain that their desire to end it causes them to take their life, or for a parent to deal with the gut wrenching pain of losing a loved one to suicide. Thus far, the task has been difficult, and I have met with a great deal of resistance in my community, but if I can get a 16 year old to read, understand and even appreciate Whitman, Thoreau, Bierce, Crane and many others, then I can handle this as well.
For example, suicide is the 2nd leading cause of death among 15-34 year olds in the state and the third among persons 10-14. In cottage groups, a person is more likely to die by suicide than they are to be murdered. In fact, for the entire state of Texas, suicides outnumbered homicides 2 to 1. For those outside of the state, who envision Texas as the wild west, I am sure that comes as a surprise, and for those that live in the larger metropolitan areas such as Dallas, Houston and San Antonio, who are subjected to almost nightly reports of homicides on the evening news, might find that surprising as well.
In my school district, as a teacher, I am required to review the evacuation plan with all my classes on the first day in case of fire, the lock down plan in case of an intruder, even the policy if a student comes in late or has to pee, but there is no mention of what a student is to do if they feel sad, or left out, or hopeless, or in so much emotional pain that they don't feel that they can go on. Now entering my 25th year in the classroom, I can count on one hand the number of fires and lock downs I have experienced, but would need to take off my shoes and socks to count the number of students that have taken their lives.
Now the question here is why don't we know this? The answer is simple, no one wants to talk about this dirty little secret. I know that the news media, both print and broadcast, are hesitant to cover suicides, and if they do, the name of the deceased is rarely, if ever, published. Even if it is a suicide, it might be referred to as an accidental death. Incidents such as one car accidents, drug overdoses, even gun accidents might not be revealed for why they really are. Generally, unless the suicide is that of a celebrity such as Robin Williams, or some other high profile person, the public remains uninformed. This is a kind of double edged sword. On one hand, I can understand not wanting to bring any more pain to the family to any more than they have already endured, but at the same, that ignorance can be fatal.
The time has come to educate the masses. With 90% of suicides being carried out by people suffering from some sort of mental illness, the first step is removing the stigma. Let those who have spent their lives suffering know that they are not alone, and that help is available. Let the public know that those who do suffer are not the stereotypes that are common in the media and on TV. Let those who live with a mentally ill person know that there is nothing to be ashamed of, that it ins't their fault, and the worst thing they can do is to hide it.
As macabre as it sounds, despite the tragedy of Robin Williams's suicide, it was one of the best things that could have happened in the mental health community. Williams's death actually made it okay to talk about mental health. For the first time, people actually knew some one else that was dealing with the same demons they were. Others realized that despite fame and riches, people can suffer silently, and even more so, hide how they really feel from the world. Most of all, an uneducated public finally began talking about how real and crippling emotional pain can be.
Two months and two days after Robin Williams passed away after hanging himself, my son Peyton did the same thing. This time, there was no media coverage, no headlines, no talking heads on the evening news speaking to a mental health professional about the why's and what's of suicide. There was just me, a bald 49 year old high school English teacher. I made vow to educate as many as I could to avoid having to hear about another person dealing with so much pain that their desire to end it causes them to take their life, or for a parent to deal with the gut wrenching pain of losing a loved one to suicide. Thus far, the task has been difficult, and I have met with a great deal of resistance in my community, but if I can get a 16 year old to read, understand and even appreciate Whitman, Thoreau, Bierce, Crane and many others, then I can handle this as well.
Monday, June 22, 2015
God Trusts Me Too Much
There is an old adage that God will never give you more than you can handle. Over the last week, I discovered he either trusts me too much or has a seriously warped sense of humor. Over the span of eight days, I had to deal with three different days where I wish he didn't have so much faith in me.
The first was June 13th. That was the eight month anniversary of Peyton's death from suicide. In a way, it is strange that I still measure his passing in months. In a way, I feel like a new parent when you measure your child's age by months until they hit a year. I did the same thing with Peyton and Emmy, once they hit a year, I began to tell people they were a year, or just over a year, or almost two. I stopped counting off months. I wonder if I will do the same thing in October when the once year anniversary of his passing arrives. There really is no telling. Right now, with the wound so raw, I still count months. The day itself matched my mood. It was gray and dreary with rain off and on. I did my usual posting on Facebook and Twitter, but aside from that, I did nothing all day. In a lot of ways, it is still hard to believe that he is gone. I look at pictures and videos of him, and it is like he is still with us. The the realization will hit that he is never coming back, and that drops me deep down into depression. I hate that people are able to go on with their lives while I struggle with the day to day never knowing what will trigger the next breakdown, the next stream of tears.
Three days later, June 16th, was supposed to be Peyton's 14th birthday. Instead, based on what I have seen others do on various suicide based Facebook pages, I started calling it Payton's First "Forever 13" Birthday. It still sounds strange, but it seemed to fit the occasion. I knew I had to do something to recognize it, so I asked for suggestions from people that have traveled the same long road as me, and they suggested every thing from a balloon release to a grave side memorial. Because we had Peyton cremated and his ashes are sitting on my dresser (I'm not ready to let go), I decided to go with a balloon release. I posted the event on Facebook and Twitter and received a good reaction. Yes, there were those that were against it because of possible damage to the environment, and I understand, but I needed to do something, so that is what I went with. I ordered the balloons and encouraged others to come and join us. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had different plans, and they showed up in the the form of Tropical Storm Bill. Now the local news teams in the Houston area would have had you believing that it was the Apocalypse, and after the storms of Memorial Day weekend, no one wanted more rain. Fortunately, Bill turned out to be nothing more than a popcorn fart for most of the area. Yes, it was cloudy with intermittent rain, but not the gather the animals of the world by twos kind of weather we were told to prepare for. About 40 people braved the rain and warnings to show up for the release. As we all stood out in the field across the street, a cold rain began to fall, and upon release, many of the balloons headed straight to the ground where they popped unceremoniously. Yes, a few brave and hearty balloons made it, but they were the exception rather than the rule.
The biggest trail was yesterday, June 21st, Father's Day. Father's Day is perhaps the most ignored "Holiday" there is. Whereas Mother's Day is during the school year when kids make decorative cards and gifts, and husbands are forced to look for the Holy Grail of gifts because the asshole Bob down the street went all out in an effort to make the rest of us look like fools, and none of us want to be the douche bag that went cheap on his wife. No, Father's Day is usually a day when Dad is left alone to watch the US Open in peace, and the kids go out and do all the yard work poorly, thus creating more work for dear old Dad next weekend. For me, it was yet another reminder that Peyton was gone. I woke up and went out to the living room to sit on the coach and read. I liked the idea of silence, and enjoyed the time to myself. soon enough my wife and daughter were awake, and the day went on like another with the glaring exception of the missing boy that would have bitched and complained that he didn't want to watch golf all damn day. Instead, I let loose with the occasional stream of tears and self pity that goes along with being a suicide survivor.
Now that stretch is over. June 22nd is here, and my focus has shifted. I am trying to get the College Park High School branch of The Locker (www.thelocker.info) off the ground. I am bound and determined to get this going at CP knowing that it will benefit students as well as help carry on the goodwill that Peyton would have wanted.
Trust me God. I have this.
The first was June 13th. That was the eight month anniversary of Peyton's death from suicide. In a way, it is strange that I still measure his passing in months. In a way, I feel like a new parent when you measure your child's age by months until they hit a year. I did the same thing with Peyton and Emmy, once they hit a year, I began to tell people they were a year, or just over a year, or almost two. I stopped counting off months. I wonder if I will do the same thing in October when the once year anniversary of his passing arrives. There really is no telling. Right now, with the wound so raw, I still count months. The day itself matched my mood. It was gray and dreary with rain off and on. I did my usual posting on Facebook and Twitter, but aside from that, I did nothing all day. In a lot of ways, it is still hard to believe that he is gone. I look at pictures and videos of him, and it is like he is still with us. The the realization will hit that he is never coming back, and that drops me deep down into depression. I hate that people are able to go on with their lives while I struggle with the day to day never knowing what will trigger the next breakdown, the next stream of tears.
Three days later, June 16th, was supposed to be Peyton's 14th birthday. Instead, based on what I have seen others do on various suicide based Facebook pages, I started calling it Payton's First "Forever 13" Birthday. It still sounds strange, but it seemed to fit the occasion. I knew I had to do something to recognize it, so I asked for suggestions from people that have traveled the same long road as me, and they suggested every thing from a balloon release to a grave side memorial. Because we had Peyton cremated and his ashes are sitting on my dresser (I'm not ready to let go), I decided to go with a balloon release. I posted the event on Facebook and Twitter and received a good reaction. Yes, there were those that were against it because of possible damage to the environment, and I understand, but I needed to do something, so that is what I went with. I ordered the balloons and encouraged others to come and join us. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had different plans, and they showed up in the the form of Tropical Storm Bill. Now the local news teams in the Houston area would have had you believing that it was the Apocalypse, and after the storms of Memorial Day weekend, no one wanted more rain. Fortunately, Bill turned out to be nothing more than a popcorn fart for most of the area. Yes, it was cloudy with intermittent rain, but not the gather the animals of the world by twos kind of weather we were told to prepare for. About 40 people braved the rain and warnings to show up for the release. As we all stood out in the field across the street, a cold rain began to fall, and upon release, many of the balloons headed straight to the ground where they popped unceremoniously. Yes, a few brave and hearty balloons made it, but they were the exception rather than the rule.
The biggest trail was yesterday, June 21st, Father's Day. Father's Day is perhaps the most ignored "Holiday" there is. Whereas Mother's Day is during the school year when kids make decorative cards and gifts, and husbands are forced to look for the Holy Grail of gifts because the asshole Bob down the street went all out in an effort to make the rest of us look like fools, and none of us want to be the douche bag that went cheap on his wife. No, Father's Day is usually a day when Dad is left alone to watch the US Open in peace, and the kids go out and do all the yard work poorly, thus creating more work for dear old Dad next weekend. For me, it was yet another reminder that Peyton was gone. I woke up and went out to the living room to sit on the coach and read. I liked the idea of silence, and enjoyed the time to myself. soon enough my wife and daughter were awake, and the day went on like another with the glaring exception of the missing boy that would have bitched and complained that he didn't want to watch golf all damn day. Instead, I let loose with the occasional stream of tears and self pity that goes along with being a suicide survivor.
Now that stretch is over. June 22nd is here, and my focus has shifted. I am trying to get the College Park High School branch of The Locker (www.thelocker.info) off the ground. I am bound and determined to get this going at CP knowing that it will benefit students as well as help carry on the goodwill that Peyton would have wanted.
Trust me God. I have this.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
The Doctor, Donuts, and the Dead
Today is June 13, 2015, and it is eight months to the day that Peyton passed away after he hung himself on October 8th. Here in the Houston area, the weather matches my mood. It is a gray, cloudy day, and we have been hit with several showers already, and there is a promise of more on the way.
I came up to the office in our house to write. I had no idea what I wanted to say, but I felt the compulsion to write. As I sat at the desk, I look out the doors of the office to our play room at Ian, Peyton's step brother, playing lego Batman on the Xbox. It is the latest version, and I think about how much Peyton would have loved it. It was one of the few games we could play together without making each other crazy. In part because one of the goals is to collect other characters from the DC Universe. When we played the previous version, every time a character was collected, peyton would inevitably want to know who it was. I got in the habit of keeping my iPad with me so we could look the character up and look at their backstory. This was a big factor for him in the free play section of the game, as he would only use characters he felt were cool enough to play.
Super heroes were one of the bonds the two of us shared. We saw all the movies together and discussed the merits of each individual character. I think our favorite character was Batman. Maybe because he was a normal person, just like us, that saw a problem and decided to do something about it. We saw all the movies, even the wretched Batman and Robin (George Clooney? Really?), but we preferred the newer Christian Bale version. Most of all, we both liked to make the raspy voiced announcement that "I am Batman." At his funeral, I placed a small Lego Batman figure in his casket with him and identical to the one I keep on my keychain.
I also started thinking about how diverse the two of us were. I have been a coach at the high school and junior high for over 20 years. Athletics make up a big part of my life, but for Peyton, they were something he would try, but quickly lose interest in. He played basketball and t-ball through the YMCA, but didn't care for either, as games with a strict set of rules didn't interest him. If he wasn't able to create his own rules, or find some wiggle room in them, then he chose to pass. He was on a summer league swim team for a season, even received the Most Improved Swimmer trophy, but to him, pools were for playing not working. He even tried out for the track team in 7th grade, but never made it to a meet.
Throughout my career, Peyton spent many Friday nights in the bleachers, but the game on the field held no interest compared to running around on the field and wrestling with Ian (a perk of being a coaches kid) after the game. Track meets for him meant either discussing video and computer games with my athletes in the know, or educating the uninformed. He would even volunteer to time at swim meets, but was more interested in seeing how quickly he could start and stop the watch or how many times he could stop it at exactly one second.
We were both obsessive over the pop culture we loved. One time, after and intense Nerf gun war, I stood over him, pointed my gun at him and asked if he was ready to surrender. He responded with "What?" to which I quickly responded, "Say 'what' again. Say 'what' again, I dare you, I double dare you, say what one more time!" Unfortunately, and thankfully, he had no clue as to what I was talking about. Peyton had no use for any movie that made you think or have a knowledge base deep enough for allusions. He loved the potty humor of Family Guy and The Simpsons, but was clueless about some of the other references which would explain why we would laugh at different times.
After his death, I wanted to understand Peyton more. The first thing I tried was Dr. Who. He was obsessed with the show. He could quote the show, tell you history of all the characters, even understand the back stories that seemed to populate the show. He would borrow my iPad and wear down the battery watching the older shows on Netflix or Amazon Prime, stopping them to give me a blow by blow account of what he had just seen. I tried to watch it with him, but I could not get into the show. There was too much background for me to truly understand, and I didn't really know where to start. He had a Dr. Who encyclopedia he had begged me to buy for him at a Half Priced Books store, but even that was no help. I just couldn't get into the show. Now I know how he felt when I made him watch Lost.
The first real connection I made with him after his death was at a place called Round Rock Donuts. Since he and his mother had moved to Round Rock, he kept telling us all about this incredible Donut Shop. To me, donuts were donuts, especially the glazed donut. Peyton kept insisting I was wrong, to the point that when we did get donuts, he wouldn't eat the glazed because they weren't as good as Round Rock Donuts.
About three weeks after Peyton's death, Lisa, Emmy and I went to Round Rock for the State Cross Country Championships. The College Park team had a good shot at the state title, and having worked with the coaches for for so long, wanted to be there to share in the joy. Alas, the title eluded them (they finished third). We had decided to spend the night and drive into Austin the next day to spend some time exploring South Congress Avenue and the various stores there. When Sunday morning dawned, we decided to visit the now infamous Round Rock Donuts to see what Peyton was so obsessed with. What we expected and what we got were two different things. I'm used to a donut store being in a strip mall of some kind with each one being relatively the same and offering the same basic fare as any other. What we found was a free standing structure that required us to park a couple of blocks away, and then stand in a line that stretched out the door. At first, I thought its location next to a church may have had something to do with the line, but judging by the clientele, that was not the case. We ordered the glazed donuts Peyton had preached about for several years and found a table outside to eat. OMG!!! he was so right. The donuts, still warm, were a far above anything I had ever tried before. They melted in my mouth, and despite having already eaten at the hotel, I ate all of them and contemplated getting back in the ever growing line to get more. As I sat there, I felt a bond with Peyton that had been missing since his death. I could picture him sitting there gloating about how good they were, and how I should have listened to him sooner.
When season five of The Walking Dead premiered, Peyton's mother Jacki had posted on Facebook how much Peyton had loved this show and that they had always watched it together, but he wouldn't be there to see this one. I remember how he had talked about this show, but I had never seen it. For one, AMC had not been an HD channel on our cable service, and I was never really a fan of zombie movies. I did like Zombieland, but that was more because of the humor behind the premise than anything. Once again, seeing an opportunity to bond with Peyton, I started to watch it on Netflix. After one episode, I was hooked. Soon, I became as engrossed in the lives of Daryl, Rick, Carl and Carol as Peyton was. I could see why it appealed to him, and thought how much I would have loved to sit there with him and hate on Carl together just like every one else.
There are still things that I think about that bring me close to Peyton. I know he would love the new Jurassic World movie, or The Avengers, or Star Wars. He would love going with me to take Emmy to story time so he could wander off to his own section of the library in search of books. Most of all, I think he would hold over me the fact that he was right about so many things and never let me forget it.
I came up to the office in our house to write. I had no idea what I wanted to say, but I felt the compulsion to write. As I sat at the desk, I look out the doors of the office to our play room at Ian, Peyton's step brother, playing lego Batman on the Xbox. It is the latest version, and I think about how much Peyton would have loved it. It was one of the few games we could play together without making each other crazy. In part because one of the goals is to collect other characters from the DC Universe. When we played the previous version, every time a character was collected, peyton would inevitably want to know who it was. I got in the habit of keeping my iPad with me so we could look the character up and look at their backstory. This was a big factor for him in the free play section of the game, as he would only use characters he felt were cool enough to play.
Super heroes were one of the bonds the two of us shared. We saw all the movies together and discussed the merits of each individual character. I think our favorite character was Batman. Maybe because he was a normal person, just like us, that saw a problem and decided to do something about it. We saw all the movies, even the wretched Batman and Robin (George Clooney? Really?), but we preferred the newer Christian Bale version. Most of all, we both liked to make the raspy voiced announcement that "I am Batman." At his funeral, I placed a small Lego Batman figure in his casket with him and identical to the one I keep on my keychain.
I also started thinking about how diverse the two of us were. I have been a coach at the high school and junior high for over 20 years. Athletics make up a big part of my life, but for Peyton, they were something he would try, but quickly lose interest in. He played basketball and t-ball through the YMCA, but didn't care for either, as games with a strict set of rules didn't interest him. If he wasn't able to create his own rules, or find some wiggle room in them, then he chose to pass. He was on a summer league swim team for a season, even received the Most Improved Swimmer trophy, but to him, pools were for playing not working. He even tried out for the track team in 7th grade, but never made it to a meet.
Throughout my career, Peyton spent many Friday nights in the bleachers, but the game on the field held no interest compared to running around on the field and wrestling with Ian (a perk of being a coaches kid) after the game. Track meets for him meant either discussing video and computer games with my athletes in the know, or educating the uninformed. He would even volunteer to time at swim meets, but was more interested in seeing how quickly he could start and stop the watch or how many times he could stop it at exactly one second.
We were both obsessive over the pop culture we loved. One time, after and intense Nerf gun war, I stood over him, pointed my gun at him and asked if he was ready to surrender. He responded with "What?" to which I quickly responded, "Say 'what' again. Say 'what' again, I dare you, I double dare you, say what one more time!" Unfortunately, and thankfully, he had no clue as to what I was talking about. Peyton had no use for any movie that made you think or have a knowledge base deep enough for allusions. He loved the potty humor of Family Guy and The Simpsons, but was clueless about some of the other references which would explain why we would laugh at different times.
After his death, I wanted to understand Peyton more. The first thing I tried was Dr. Who. He was obsessed with the show. He could quote the show, tell you history of all the characters, even understand the back stories that seemed to populate the show. He would borrow my iPad and wear down the battery watching the older shows on Netflix or Amazon Prime, stopping them to give me a blow by blow account of what he had just seen. I tried to watch it with him, but I could not get into the show. There was too much background for me to truly understand, and I didn't really know where to start. He had a Dr. Who encyclopedia he had begged me to buy for him at a Half Priced Books store, but even that was no help. I just couldn't get into the show. Now I know how he felt when I made him watch Lost.
The first real connection I made with him after his death was at a place called Round Rock Donuts. Since he and his mother had moved to Round Rock, he kept telling us all about this incredible Donut Shop. To me, donuts were donuts, especially the glazed donut. Peyton kept insisting I was wrong, to the point that when we did get donuts, he wouldn't eat the glazed because they weren't as good as Round Rock Donuts.
About three weeks after Peyton's death, Lisa, Emmy and I went to Round Rock for the State Cross Country Championships. The College Park team had a good shot at the state title, and having worked with the coaches for for so long, wanted to be there to share in the joy. Alas, the title eluded them (they finished third). We had decided to spend the night and drive into Austin the next day to spend some time exploring South Congress Avenue and the various stores there. When Sunday morning dawned, we decided to visit the now infamous Round Rock Donuts to see what Peyton was so obsessed with. What we expected and what we got were two different things. I'm used to a donut store being in a strip mall of some kind with each one being relatively the same and offering the same basic fare as any other. What we found was a free standing structure that required us to park a couple of blocks away, and then stand in a line that stretched out the door. At first, I thought its location next to a church may have had something to do with the line, but judging by the clientele, that was not the case. We ordered the glazed donuts Peyton had preached about for several years and found a table outside to eat. OMG!!! he was so right. The donuts, still warm, were a far above anything I had ever tried before. They melted in my mouth, and despite having already eaten at the hotel, I ate all of them and contemplated getting back in the ever growing line to get more. As I sat there, I felt a bond with Peyton that had been missing since his death. I could picture him sitting there gloating about how good they were, and how I should have listened to him sooner.
When season five of The Walking Dead premiered, Peyton's mother Jacki had posted on Facebook how much Peyton had loved this show and that they had always watched it together, but he wouldn't be there to see this one. I remember how he had talked about this show, but I had never seen it. For one, AMC had not been an HD channel on our cable service, and I was never really a fan of zombie movies. I did like Zombieland, but that was more because of the humor behind the premise than anything. Once again, seeing an opportunity to bond with Peyton, I started to watch it on Netflix. After one episode, I was hooked. Soon, I became as engrossed in the lives of Daryl, Rick, Carl and Carol as Peyton was. I could see why it appealed to him, and thought how much I would have loved to sit there with him and hate on Carl together just like every one else.
There are still things that I think about that bring me close to Peyton. I know he would love the new Jurassic World movie, or The Avengers, or Star Wars. He would love going with me to take Emmy to story time so he could wander off to his own section of the library in search of books. Most of all, I think he would hold over me the fact that he was right about so many things and never let me forget it.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
School's Out For Summer
Today is the last day of school. For students across the district, there is an air of excitement and anticipation. Unfortunately for me, there is a great deal of dread and angst. This will be my first summer without Peyton. My wife Lisa just posted a picture to Facebook of Ian and Emmy on their last day, and it made me think about how difficult this summer is going to be for me.
His district got out last week, so he should have already been with me. For him that meant staying at the house all day playing XBox and loving the fact that his step brother had to go today. Last year was the same thing, but Peyton had to come with me and be put to work to pay off the bill for the downloadable content he wracked up. Right now, I would give anything to have him here complaining about having to do the work.
As I sit here, I think about all the things we won't be doing. He would have gone to indoor skydiving today with Ian to help celebrate Ian's birthday. He would have gotten to complain about having to go to the library with Emmy and me for story time. He would have been arguing with me about whose turn it was on the XBox. We could have gone to the movies, the mall, the book store (he would never leave the Dr. Who display). He would have had the whole family over to celebrate his 14th birthday. Instead, I face the prospect of my first summer without him in 14 years.
About this time 14 years ago, I was pacing the halls of St. Joseph's hospital in Houston. His mother, Jacki had been admitted with preeclampsia when she was 29 weeks pregnant with Peyton. The doctors originally thought they were going to have to deliver Peyton that night. Thankfully for us, they were wrong. He held out for another four weeks, and was born on June 16, 2001, the day before Father's Day. It was the greatest gift I had ever received.
He was small, just over two pounds, but he was a fighter. He spent the first 33 days of his life in the NICU, but he never ceased to amaze the nurses and other staff members with his amazing burps.
Peyton struggled all his life with some of the effects of his premature birth. First and foremost was his size. He always seemed to be one of the smallest in his class, and it never went unnoticed among his peers. He had to wear glasses from an early age, and because of his rough and tumble personality, they were usually the toughest pair of frames his mother and I could find, so they were usually the less fashionable. Most of all Peyton had discolored permanent teeth as a result of receiving pure oxygen as a baby. This was a flaw that the other kids went after with a zeal. They questioned his brushing habits, and made other crude and crass remarks intended to hurt, and they did. It got so bad, that he never showed his teeth when he smiled for his school picutres.
Peyton wanted veneers so badly so that the comments would cease. He was so happy about the prospect of getting braces because it meant that once they were off, he would get veneers. A change in my dental insurance meant he would have to wait another year, so he endured just a little longer. At least he did until that fateful day in October.
Now I sit here and listen to my students talk about all the things they have planned. I listen to teachers talking about family vacations. I even listen to some complain about having to drag their kid to this camp and that camp. I wonder if they know that I would give my left nut to have to take Peyton to a camp, or the dentist, or lessons, or anywhere inconvenient and out of the way.
So please keep in mind that when you are driving across the country yelling at your kids in the back seat, or driving them to the mall for the umpteenth time to "hang out" with their friends, or being begged to go to the latest Marvel movie, or even yelling at them to get their ass off the couch and do something besides play video games or binge watch Netflix all damn day, at least you can.
His district got out last week, so he should have already been with me. For him that meant staying at the house all day playing XBox and loving the fact that his step brother had to go today. Last year was the same thing, but Peyton had to come with me and be put to work to pay off the bill for the downloadable content he wracked up. Right now, I would give anything to have him here complaining about having to do the work.
As I sit here, I think about all the things we won't be doing. He would have gone to indoor skydiving today with Ian to help celebrate Ian's birthday. He would have gotten to complain about having to go to the library with Emmy and me for story time. He would have been arguing with me about whose turn it was on the XBox. We could have gone to the movies, the mall, the book store (he would never leave the Dr. Who display). He would have had the whole family over to celebrate his 14th birthday. Instead, I face the prospect of my first summer without him in 14 years.
About this time 14 years ago, I was pacing the halls of St. Joseph's hospital in Houston. His mother, Jacki had been admitted with preeclampsia when she was 29 weeks pregnant with Peyton. The doctors originally thought they were going to have to deliver Peyton that night. Thankfully for us, they were wrong. He held out for another four weeks, and was born on June 16, 2001, the day before Father's Day. It was the greatest gift I had ever received.
He was small, just over two pounds, but he was a fighter. He spent the first 33 days of his life in the NICU, but he never ceased to amaze the nurses and other staff members with his amazing burps.
Peyton struggled all his life with some of the effects of his premature birth. First and foremost was his size. He always seemed to be one of the smallest in his class, and it never went unnoticed among his peers. He had to wear glasses from an early age, and because of his rough and tumble personality, they were usually the toughest pair of frames his mother and I could find, so they were usually the less fashionable. Most of all Peyton had discolored permanent teeth as a result of receiving pure oxygen as a baby. This was a flaw that the other kids went after with a zeal. They questioned his brushing habits, and made other crude and crass remarks intended to hurt, and they did. It got so bad, that he never showed his teeth when he smiled for his school picutres.
Peyton wanted veneers so badly so that the comments would cease. He was so happy about the prospect of getting braces because it meant that once they were off, he would get veneers. A change in my dental insurance meant he would have to wait another year, so he endured just a little longer. At least he did until that fateful day in October.
Now I sit here and listen to my students talk about all the things they have planned. I listen to teachers talking about family vacations. I even listen to some complain about having to drag their kid to this camp and that camp. I wonder if they know that I would give my left nut to have to take Peyton to a camp, or the dentist, or lessons, or anywhere inconvenient and out of the way.
So please keep in mind that when you are driving across the country yelling at your kids in the back seat, or driving them to the mall for the umpteenth time to "hang out" with their friends, or being begged to go to the latest Marvel movie, or even yelling at them to get their ass off the couch and do something besides play video games or binge watch Netflix all damn day, at least you can.
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