When angry count to ten before you speak. If very angry, count to one hundred. Thomas Jefferson
I am at a million and counting. I guess you could say that I am angry a lot. It has been that way since Peyton's suicide. People tell me I should let it go. Those are the people that piss me off the most.
You could say I have had anger issues since Peyton's suicide. In the 16 months since his death, my emotions have been all over the place. There is no ride at Six Flags that can compare to the tumultuous adventure I have lived. One day, I am jumping up and down on deck at the state swim meet cheering on my swimmers, embracing them in a monster bear hug for their unexpected state title, and two days later, I am trying to find a reason to get out of bed and go to work.
Trust me, it is not fun being angry. Most of the time, I am an even keeled person. Many would say boring. I'm a high school English teacher/coach. I live in the suburbs, drive an undistinguished truck, read pulp novels, watch the Walking Dead, and love Mexican food, but when I get mad, I get pissed. Not turning green and smash mad, but pretty damn angry.
So what brings about this anger? Cowardice and intentional ignorance. Just last week it happened again. A former student from my school, away at college, took their life. I heard about it the same way I hear about many tragedies in our community, through the grapevine. It started with the usual misinformation until I was able to talk to enough people to put together the actual story. The young man had been popular at the school, had a large group of friends, took part in athletics and other activities, and for all intents and purposes, seemed to be doing well in college. Then, without any perceived warning, he chose suicide. According to statistics, a suicide affects at least six people intimately. In a close knit community such as ours, you would expect the effects to be far reaching. After all, he had just graduated. His friends weren't confined to the class of 2015, and there were many students at the school who considered him a friend.
Common sense would dictate that you alert the teachers. After all, his friends might be sitting in their classes trying to sort through their feelings of anger, guilt, and abandonment. Even students who were on the fringe of his group would be struggling. After all, this would be the third suicide of a young person in the area in less than four months, but the silence was deafening. Sure, they alerted his teachers from the previous year, but no one else. WTF!?!?!?!?!?
Why is this district so unwilling to address this topic? Is their thinking stuck in the 1950's? Do they think that by uttering the word "Suicide" they are putting this idea into the heads of students? Maybe they still think you can get the clap from a toilet seat as well, or that that your neighbor is a commie and should be reported to the McCarthy Hearings.
I'm sorry if I am ranting, but this is not the first time this has happened. The frustration is endless and maddening. How long are we going to pretend that this is not a problem within our community. Do people really think that by not talking about suicide that kids will never think of it? How does that approach work with drinking or drugs? I'll tell you there is no drug problem in our community, the kids can get their hands on just about anything they want. No problem.
So what can the community do? Here's a thought, take a tragedy and make something positive out of it. Don't let a person's suicide be in vain. Use it to save other lives. I made that decision when Peyton died. I made a decision to save as many people as possible. Has all my ranting and raving made a difference? I have no idea, but it is not for a lack of trying. Self help guru Dr. Wayne Dyer once said, "There's nothing wrong with anger provided you use it constructively." I am trying to turn my anger into something good. What about you?
Monday, February 29, 2016
Friday, February 19, 2016
Dead Kids Don't Take Tests
If you are one of my regular readers, please excuse this post. It is not intended for you, chances are, the people that it is intended for will never read it, but I have to unburden myself. Now people that know me well know I can be a snarky a-hole. My ability to piss off and offend people is pretty damn good, I usually take that approach when I am frustrated with something or some one. This is one of those times.
A while back I wrote a blog entry entitled An Open Letter to School Boards Everywhere. I wrote it in reaction to two suicides locally. I presented a reasonable, logical argument as to why suicide recognition and prevention training, as well as mental health awareness training, would be a good thing. I even presented data (modern education lives and breathes data) for their perusal. It performed better than any of my other posts. It was even published in a newspaper and an enews letter. I was actually pretty darn proud of myself. Silly me actually hoped that our local school board would change their long time stance of saying nothing, pretending nothing happened, and hope it goes away quietly. But alas, nothing has changed. I figured that I would keep plugging away.
Then about two weeks ago, two students at Plano East High School completed suicide on the same night. For those that are not familiar with Plano, it is a suburb of Dallas, and Plano East has a student population of over 5,000 students. Now East went through the standard protocol of bringing in counselors for the students, saying and doing all the right things. However, East went a step beyond and reached out to the community and held an open forum at the school. According to Susan Modisette, an assistant superintendent for the Plano school district. “We wanted to equip our campus administrators, teachers, families and students as best we could and give them the opportunity to share their experiences and listen to experts who could help them heal in a way that works best for them.”
What a remarkable concept!!! A school actually educating and helping the community in the wake of a devastating tragedy!!! Who knew???
That brings me to the snarky, a-hole part of this entry. To all the other districts out there that have experienced similar tragedies, but have done nothing, I ask you, Why the Hell Not!?!?!?! What are you waiting for!?!?!? When are you going to realize that this problem will not go away on its own no matter how much you ignore it!?!?!?!? How many more young people have to die by their own hand before you actually quit worrying about test scores and the status quo and do something!?!?!?! I know that there are districts that wish this problem would go away, but as the old saying goes, "Wish in one hand and sh*t in the other and sees which one fills up faster. " The lives of the children that you are elected to represent are far more important than any test score.
I know some of you are reluctant to act because you are afraid of offending you broad base of voters, or you don't want to make them uncomfortable with such a taboo topic. I'll let you in on a little secret, talking about suicide is a hell of a lot easier than dealing with it, and trust me, you don't want to try it out just to make sure. In my humble opinion, it is better to have a few pissed off parents than one dead kid. I know this is a moral decision, as pissed off parents vote, and kids, dead or not, don't, but hey, you go with your gut. If your gut tells you that one or two dead kids is acceptable, then go with it. If not, then do something about it. While it is true that you might lose your job as a school board member, but at least your conscience will be clean.
I find it funny that there are so many people within school districts that are dedicated to improving test scores, but so few dedicated to keep those students alive long enough to take those tests. But I can see the dilemma here. After all, school districts are judged by how well they do on those state mandated tests, but what if some of those kids that could really help the over all average aren't around come test time? How wold that reflect on your scores. After all, dead kids don't take tests.
A while back I wrote a blog entry entitled An Open Letter to School Boards Everywhere. I wrote it in reaction to two suicides locally. I presented a reasonable, logical argument as to why suicide recognition and prevention training, as well as mental health awareness training, would be a good thing. I even presented data (modern education lives and breathes data) for their perusal. It performed better than any of my other posts. It was even published in a newspaper and an enews letter. I was actually pretty darn proud of myself. Silly me actually hoped that our local school board would change their long time stance of saying nothing, pretending nothing happened, and hope it goes away quietly. But alas, nothing has changed. I figured that I would keep plugging away.
Then about two weeks ago, two students at Plano East High School completed suicide on the same night. For those that are not familiar with Plano, it is a suburb of Dallas, and Plano East has a student population of over 5,000 students. Now East went through the standard protocol of bringing in counselors for the students, saying and doing all the right things. However, East went a step beyond and reached out to the community and held an open forum at the school. According to Susan Modisette, an assistant superintendent for the Plano school district. “We wanted to equip our campus administrators, teachers, families and students as best we could and give them the opportunity to share their experiences and listen to experts who could help them heal in a way that works best for them.”
What a remarkable concept!!! A school actually educating and helping the community in the wake of a devastating tragedy!!! Who knew???
That brings me to the snarky, a-hole part of this entry. To all the other districts out there that have experienced similar tragedies, but have done nothing, I ask you, Why the Hell Not!?!?!?! What are you waiting for!?!?!? When are you going to realize that this problem will not go away on its own no matter how much you ignore it!?!?!?!? How many more young people have to die by their own hand before you actually quit worrying about test scores and the status quo and do something!?!?!?! I know that there are districts that wish this problem would go away, but as the old saying goes, "Wish in one hand and sh*t in the other and sees which one fills up faster. " The lives of the children that you are elected to represent are far more important than any test score.
I know some of you are reluctant to act because you are afraid of offending you broad base of voters, or you don't want to make them uncomfortable with such a taboo topic. I'll let you in on a little secret, talking about suicide is a hell of a lot easier than dealing with it, and trust me, you don't want to try it out just to make sure. In my humble opinion, it is better to have a few pissed off parents than one dead kid. I know this is a moral decision, as pissed off parents vote, and kids, dead or not, don't, but hey, you go with your gut. If your gut tells you that one or two dead kids is acceptable, then go with it. If not, then do something about it. While it is true that you might lose your job as a school board member, but at least your conscience will be clean.
I find it funny that there are so many people within school districts that are dedicated to improving test scores, but so few dedicated to keep those students alive long enough to take those tests. But I can see the dilemma here. After all, school districts are judged by how well they do on those state mandated tests, but what if some of those kids that could really help the over all average aren't around come test time? How wold that reflect on your scores. After all, dead kids don't take tests.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
About Your Brother
One Friday, our family had piled into the SUV and was heading out to a family dinner. Ian was prattling on from the back seat about something that only a 13 year old boy would find funny or interesting. Emmy was in a good mood and laughing at her brother. Suddenly out of nowhere, Emmy blurted out "Peyton is in Heaven with God." The car got very quiet before I responded by agreeing, "yes, he is". We had followed advice after Peyton's death, and told her the truth. Even though she was only two at the time, she seemed to understand. What happened next left us all speechless. She told us that she, "Played with Peyton every night in her imagination."
It took all my will to focus on the road in front of me. Although I have grown used to Emmy making random statements, after all, she is three and a half, and randomness is part of her personality, but this one hit me like a hammer. I have been struggling lately. In my blog entry Onward Through The Fog , I talked about the struggles of the second year as the reality of Peyton's suicide have really began to sink in. As we drove on, I began to think about she would remember her brother as she gets older. I decided to tell her all I could about their relationship so that she would never forget.
Dear Emmy,
I want you to know about Peyton. First of all, know that he loved you. He wasn't able to be there when you were born, but thanks to the marvels of technology and wifi, he was able to see you shortly after you entered the world. I'll never forget the smile on his face as he looked down at his little sister. I knew then and there that you would hold a special place in his heart. He met you for the first time four days later. At the time, he was living in Round Rock with his mother. He only came to see us twice a month, but this visit was special. He was coming to see and hold you for the first time. He was so scared the first time he help you. Unlike Ian, who had two younger sisters at his dad's house, Peyton had never been around a baby before. The first time he held you, he was nervous. If I had to guess, he was afraid he might break you. Every time you moved or made a sound, he stiffened as though he had commit a flagrant sin. He eventually learned that it was alright for him to hold you and play with you.
Peyton loved to make you laugh, Emmy. Once he discovered he had the gift of entertaining you, it was a task he cherished. He would get on the floor with you and make your toys come to life. He possessed a gift for making your animals and dolls talk, and both of you loved it.
That's not to say all was sunshine and puppy dogs. Peyton wasn't always thrilled to have a little sister. Your presence meant that he no longer had Daddy all to himself. Not only that, but we were no longer able to get up and go on a whim. A baby meant a level of planning equal to the D-Day invasion, and spontaneous adventures were a thing of the past. However, when we did go out, he enjoyed being the big brother and pushing you in your stroller while making the obligatory engine noises.
Perhaps Peyton's favorite thing to do was take you on the carousel at the mall. He would volunteer his own money to take you on, walk you around to find your favorite animal, put you up, and buckle you in. I loved watching the two of you go round and round. Your face was flush with excitement, and Peyton's filled with pride for being such a good big brother and seeing the joy and excitement in your eyes.
I still remember that fateful October day. Your mommy and I picked you up from school and began the long journey to Austin to say good bye. It was hard for you to stay in the hospital with us, and there were times that we took you outside to run and play, but for a two year old, you did an impressive job. You would sit in my lap next to Peyton's bed, talk to him, and hold his hand. You were by Peyton's side when he left us. You were able to hold his hand, kiss him on the forehead and tell him goodbye.
We took you to the funeral home to see Peyton one last time before the funeral. You seemed a bit confused because we had told you Peyton had gone to heaven to be with God, but there he was. It is hard to explain the concept of a soul to a child, but you seemed to grasp it. You were so well behaved at the funeral. You sat quietly and listened to the service. Afterwards, you let people hug you and tell you how special your brother was.
Since Peyton's funeral, I have done everything I could to keep him alive for you. I have all the cards people sent us, newspaper articles, news stories, and of course, my collection of writings for you.
You have been a part of Peyton's memory too, Emmy. You helped deliver boxes to the Ronald McDonald House, you walked in the rain to help raise awareness of suicide, and you cuddled tightly with me on those days where I am just a bit overwhelmed. You and mommy and Ian have helped me through those dark days where I am overwhelmed.
This past Sunday, we had your 4th birthday party at ASI Gymnastics. You were so excited and reminded my so much of Peyton at that age. You ran around non-stop the entire time, going from one area to another, bouncing, swinging climbing, and sliding. How I wished that Peyton could have been there with you, playing alongside. I just hope that as you swung off the rope into the foam pit, that Peyton was there with you in your imagination.
It took all my will to focus on the road in front of me. Although I have grown used to Emmy making random statements, after all, she is three and a half, and randomness is part of her personality, but this one hit me like a hammer. I have been struggling lately. In my blog entry Onward Through The Fog , I talked about the struggles of the second year as the reality of Peyton's suicide have really began to sink in. As we drove on, I began to think about she would remember her brother as she gets older. I decided to tell her all I could about their relationship so that she would never forget.
Dear Emmy,
I want you to know about Peyton. First of all, know that he loved you. He wasn't able to be there when you were born, but thanks to the marvels of technology and wifi, he was able to see you shortly after you entered the world. I'll never forget the smile on his face as he looked down at his little sister. I knew then and there that you would hold a special place in his heart. He met you for the first time four days later. At the time, he was living in Round Rock with his mother. He only came to see us twice a month, but this visit was special. He was coming to see and hold you for the first time. He was so scared the first time he help you. Unlike Ian, who had two younger sisters at his dad's house, Peyton had never been around a baby before. The first time he held you, he was nervous. If I had to guess, he was afraid he might break you. Every time you moved or made a sound, he stiffened as though he had commit a flagrant sin. He eventually learned that it was alright for him to hold you and play with you.
Peyton loved to make you laugh, Emmy. Once he discovered he had the gift of entertaining you, it was a task he cherished. He would get on the floor with you and make your toys come to life. He possessed a gift for making your animals and dolls talk, and both of you loved it.
That's not to say all was sunshine and puppy dogs. Peyton wasn't always thrilled to have a little sister. Your presence meant that he no longer had Daddy all to himself. Not only that, but we were no longer able to get up and go on a whim. A baby meant a level of planning equal to the D-Day invasion, and spontaneous adventures were a thing of the past. However, when we did go out, he enjoyed being the big brother and pushing you in your stroller while making the obligatory engine noises.
Perhaps Peyton's favorite thing to do was take you on the carousel at the mall. He would volunteer his own money to take you on, walk you around to find your favorite animal, put you up, and buckle you in. I loved watching the two of you go round and round. Your face was flush with excitement, and Peyton's filled with pride for being such a good big brother and seeing the joy and excitement in your eyes.
I still remember that fateful October day. Your mommy and I picked you up from school and began the long journey to Austin to say good bye. It was hard for you to stay in the hospital with us, and there were times that we took you outside to run and play, but for a two year old, you did an impressive job. You would sit in my lap next to Peyton's bed, talk to him, and hold his hand. You were by Peyton's side when he left us. You were able to hold his hand, kiss him on the forehead and tell him goodbye.
We took you to the funeral home to see Peyton one last time before the funeral. You seemed a bit confused because we had told you Peyton had gone to heaven to be with God, but there he was. It is hard to explain the concept of a soul to a child, but you seemed to grasp it. You were so well behaved at the funeral. You sat quietly and listened to the service. Afterwards, you let people hug you and tell you how special your brother was.
Since Peyton's funeral, I have done everything I could to keep him alive for you. I have all the cards people sent us, newspaper articles, news stories, and of course, my collection of writings for you.
You have been a part of Peyton's memory too, Emmy. You helped deliver boxes to the Ronald McDonald House, you walked in the rain to help raise awareness of suicide, and you cuddled tightly with me on those days where I am just a bit overwhelmed. You and mommy and Ian have helped me through those dark days where I am overwhelmed.
This past Sunday, we had your 4th birthday party at ASI Gymnastics. You were so excited and reminded my so much of Peyton at that age. You ran around non-stop the entire time, going from one area to another, bouncing, swinging climbing, and sliding. How I wished that Peyton could have been there with you, playing alongside. I just hope that as you swung off the rope into the foam pit, that Peyton was there with you in your imagination.
Friday, January 15, 2016
I Am Not Ashamed of My Mental Illness
I spoke so much about being a manic-depressive. I want to bring everyone back to my earliest memories of this companion of mine. Some people call this companion I have an ailment, or worse a terrible nightmare from which some people cannot awaken. I know that I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have nothing that should garner a stigma.~ Richard Dreyfuss, Academy Award Winning Actor
Earlier today, my Twitter friend Linda Diaz of Lauryn's Law tagged me in a post for an article from Washington Post about Rachel Griffin. Rachel is a singer/songwriter in New York, as well as a grad student at NYU. Most importantly, Rachel suffers from Mental Illness. Rachel recently put out the call on Twitter with the hashtag #iamnotashamed in order for people to openly disclose their mental illness. The comments and Tweets have been overwhelmingly positive.
Now for many when they read the previous paragraph, they may have thought, "How can she do anything if she has mental illness?" or "Why would she admit to this?" The answer is easy. Because by creating awareness, she is creating understanding.
The problem is the stigma and stereotype that exists in the world about mental illness. Far too many tend to see the stereotype rather than the reality. They picture people with mental illness as extras from One Few Over the Cuckoo's Nest, walking around institutions in bathrobes, drooling on themselves; or as maniacal characters such as the Joker from The Dark Knight; or the depressed, black clad Emo such The Cure's Robert Smith . Sufferers of mental illness are all of the above and none of the above.
Yes, there are the tragedies of such famous people who dealt with mental illness such as Vincent Van Gogh, Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, Kurt Cobain, and Heath Ledger. All were brilliantly creative people that battled their demons, but in the end, lost. These are the stories that we are all familiar with because of the tragic end. But there are people who have triumphed as well. Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, John Nash of A Beautiful Mind fame, Charles Dickens, former Today host Jane Pauley, 60 Minutes reporter Mike Wallace, NFL Hall of Famer Charles Haley, Princess Diana, and Star Wars star Carrie Fisher. That is not to say their lives were not without incident, but they were able to persevere.
I admire these people as well as feel their pain. See, I too suffer from clinical depression, and have for many years. When I was young, I knew there was something different about me. I would go through long spells where I felt off, knowing that something was wrong, but not knowing what. I would sit in class and think that I was the only one that felt that way. As I got older, I would begin to feel desperate, to fear the future, to worry about little things, to blow things out of proportion, to lose sleep over things I had no control of, to feel lonely and sad, and to feel so down, it seemed that there was no way up. I took comfort in beer, and would drink enough to help me calm down and sleep. I would often drink to excess with my friends on weekends. I thought it was part of having a good time, of being in my 20's and fitting in, I was smart enough to know alcohol was a depressant, but I didn't care. Looking back I realize it was because I felt so low that I would use it as an excuse to numb myself to the perceived reality around me.
Finally in my 30's, as my first marriage was falling apart, in large part due to self destructive behavior, I finally reached out for help. I spoke to my doctor and was prescribed Zoloft. After a while, it began to work. The feelings of despair began to dissipate, and the anxiety that had helped provoke my fears was lessened. For the first time in years, I felt somewhat normal, and began to work on putting my marriage back together. Unfortunately, I made the mistake that many do, declared myself cured and stopped taking the medication. Things quickly fell apart again, and because of that, so did my marriage. I was soon divorced, living in a small apartment and seeing my son Peyton every other weekend. I went back to not only beer, but vodka as well. I would come home and mix a strong drink to help me calm my nerves and relax, blot out my feelings and get me to sleep.
I never considered myself an alcoholic, I never turned to the "hair of the dog" in the morning, never missed work or even drank at work, but I could see myself becoming overly dependent on it. My lowest point came after a minor outpatient procedure. The procedure was on a Friday morning, and I spent the afternoon and evening in an anesthesia induced haze. The next morning, as the last of the anesthesia wore off, and my mind raced, I felt the most incredible psychological pain imaginable. I wept, cried and at my lowest thought about how easy it would be to stop the pain by taking all of the Ambien in my medicine cabinet. Then I thought about my son, my recently widowed father, and other family members, and knew I couldn't. I made an appointment that Monday and renewed my prescription for Zoloft. This time, it didn't work like before, and my doctor changed me to Cymbalta which did the job. I knew this time that depression was not temporary, but my permanent companion. Once I had my mind back in order, I got my life in order. I soon met the love of my life, Lisa, who became my wife. We had a beautiful daughter, Emmalee, bought a new house, and all seemed well. I was living the American Dream.
That all came crashing down on October 8, 2014. I received the call that Peyton, just 13, had hung himself, and he passed away five days later on the 13th. This threatened to plunge me into a darkness from which there would be no return, but this time I was ready. I had my meds adjusted, got into counseling and support, and made a conscious about not letting myself find comfort or escape in anything, be it food or alcohol, and except for a slip on the first New Year's Eve without Peyton, I have done well, and continue to do so.
Now here I am talking openly about my mental illness and encouraging others to do the same. Every day is a challenge. The fog has lifted from Peyton's death, and I never know what will trigger the tears, sadness, or anxiety. I take my medication, talk openly about my struggles and try to help others. I keep hoping that one day, the stigma of mental illness will be lifted, and the people suffering will be treated with the same dignity and respect that other illnesses receive. Until then, I will continue to talk and proudly proclaim "I am not ashamed of my mental illness!"
Author's Note: the first time I posted on Twitter, I received a tweet from some one under the handle of @jailina_ telling me that because medical science hadn't conclusively proven mental illness, then there really wasn't anything wrong with me, and that it was all in my head. If you deal with mental illness, and some one tells you this, ignore them. Studies of the human brain are still going on, yet the human mind is still a mystery. Stay strong, ignore the naysayers and tell them #Iamnotashamed.
Earlier today, my Twitter friend Linda Diaz of Lauryn's Law tagged me in a post for an article from Washington Post about Rachel Griffin. Rachel is a singer/songwriter in New York, as well as a grad student at NYU. Most importantly, Rachel suffers from Mental Illness. Rachel recently put out the call on Twitter with the hashtag #iamnotashamed in order for people to openly disclose their mental illness. The comments and Tweets have been overwhelmingly positive.
Now for many when they read the previous paragraph, they may have thought, "How can she do anything if she has mental illness?" or "Why would she admit to this?" The answer is easy. Because by creating awareness, she is creating understanding.
The problem is the stigma and stereotype that exists in the world about mental illness. Far too many tend to see the stereotype rather than the reality. They picture people with mental illness as extras from One Few Over the Cuckoo's Nest, walking around institutions in bathrobes, drooling on themselves; or as maniacal characters such as the Joker from The Dark Knight; or the depressed, black clad Emo such The Cure's Robert Smith . Sufferers of mental illness are all of the above and none of the above.
Yes, there are the tragedies of such famous people who dealt with mental illness such as Vincent Van Gogh, Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, Kurt Cobain, and Heath Ledger. All were brilliantly creative people that battled their demons, but in the end, lost. These are the stories that we are all familiar with because of the tragic end. But there are people who have triumphed as well. Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, John Nash of A Beautiful Mind fame, Charles Dickens, former Today host Jane Pauley, 60 Minutes reporter Mike Wallace, NFL Hall of Famer Charles Haley, Princess Diana, and Star Wars star Carrie Fisher. That is not to say their lives were not without incident, but they were able to persevere.
I admire these people as well as feel their pain. See, I too suffer from clinical depression, and have for many years. When I was young, I knew there was something different about me. I would go through long spells where I felt off, knowing that something was wrong, but not knowing what. I would sit in class and think that I was the only one that felt that way. As I got older, I would begin to feel desperate, to fear the future, to worry about little things, to blow things out of proportion, to lose sleep over things I had no control of, to feel lonely and sad, and to feel so down, it seemed that there was no way up. I took comfort in beer, and would drink enough to help me calm down and sleep. I would often drink to excess with my friends on weekends. I thought it was part of having a good time, of being in my 20's and fitting in, I was smart enough to know alcohol was a depressant, but I didn't care. Looking back I realize it was because I felt so low that I would use it as an excuse to numb myself to the perceived reality around me.
Finally in my 30's, as my first marriage was falling apart, in large part due to self destructive behavior, I finally reached out for help. I spoke to my doctor and was prescribed Zoloft. After a while, it began to work. The feelings of despair began to dissipate, and the anxiety that had helped provoke my fears was lessened. For the first time in years, I felt somewhat normal, and began to work on putting my marriage back together. Unfortunately, I made the mistake that many do, declared myself cured and stopped taking the medication. Things quickly fell apart again, and because of that, so did my marriage. I was soon divorced, living in a small apartment and seeing my son Peyton every other weekend. I went back to not only beer, but vodka as well. I would come home and mix a strong drink to help me calm my nerves and relax, blot out my feelings and get me to sleep.
I never considered myself an alcoholic, I never turned to the "hair of the dog" in the morning, never missed work or even drank at work, but I could see myself becoming overly dependent on it. My lowest point came after a minor outpatient procedure. The procedure was on a Friday morning, and I spent the afternoon and evening in an anesthesia induced haze. The next morning, as the last of the anesthesia wore off, and my mind raced, I felt the most incredible psychological pain imaginable. I wept, cried and at my lowest thought about how easy it would be to stop the pain by taking all of the Ambien in my medicine cabinet. Then I thought about my son, my recently widowed father, and other family members, and knew I couldn't. I made an appointment that Monday and renewed my prescription for Zoloft. This time, it didn't work like before, and my doctor changed me to Cymbalta which did the job. I knew this time that depression was not temporary, but my permanent companion. Once I had my mind back in order, I got my life in order. I soon met the love of my life, Lisa, who became my wife. We had a beautiful daughter, Emmalee, bought a new house, and all seemed well. I was living the American Dream.
That all came crashing down on October 8, 2014. I received the call that Peyton, just 13, had hung himself, and he passed away five days later on the 13th. This threatened to plunge me into a darkness from which there would be no return, but this time I was ready. I had my meds adjusted, got into counseling and support, and made a conscious about not letting myself find comfort or escape in anything, be it food or alcohol, and except for a slip on the first New Year's Eve without Peyton, I have done well, and continue to do so.
Now here I am talking openly about my mental illness and encouraging others to do the same. Every day is a challenge. The fog has lifted from Peyton's death, and I never know what will trigger the tears, sadness, or anxiety. I take my medication, talk openly about my struggles and try to help others. I keep hoping that one day, the stigma of mental illness will be lifted, and the people suffering will be treated with the same dignity and respect that other illnesses receive. Until then, I will continue to talk and proudly proclaim "I am not ashamed of my mental illness!"
Author's Note: the first time I posted on Twitter, I received a tweet from some one under the handle of @jailina_ telling me that because medical science hadn't conclusively proven mental illness, then there really wasn't anything wrong with me, and that it was all in my head. If you deal with mental illness, and some one tells you this, ignore them. Studies of the human brain are still going on, yet the human mind is still a mystery. Stay strong, ignore the naysayers and tell them #Iamnotashamed.
Monday, January 11, 2016
Suicide Is Not Funny
Earlier this week, I saw a post on Twitter about Maggie Harder, a young lady from Canada that was upset by suicide themed t-shirts that are being sold on Amazon (in their humor section). The various shirts have sayings such as "Got Suicide?" or "Suicide Watch" which also has an image of one person on a chair with a noose around their neck while another person sits, watches, and eats popcorn.
First of all, I applaud Maggie for seeing a problem and taking a stand Not only are these shirts insensitive to those who have lost loved ones to suicide, but they also poke fun at one of the most crippling diseases in society, mental illness. as a person that has struggled with depression for years, and lost my son to suicide, I really don't see the humor, or any kind of rational logic, in these shirts.
The shirts boast such sayings as "Suicide makes our lives so much easier" and "Stressed, depressed but well dressed." Really? My life has been a living hell since the death of my son. Every day is a struggle just to get out of bed, get dressed and go to work. Do I want to turn off the alarm, pull the covers back over my head, and curl up into a ball? Every damn day. But I don't. It would be so easy. No one would blame me, after all, the pain I live with daily is just as crippling as any physical ailment. There are days where I have no energy, no desire to do anything. There are days where getting from the bed to the couch is a chore. There are even days where I think about how easy it would be to make the pain go away, but I don't. I refuse to give in, and I will not.
Sadly, there are far too many people out there that suffer from forms of mental illness, mainly depression. According to that Archives of General Psychiatry, almost 15 million adults suffer from some sort of persistent depression. Depression is also one of the leading causes of suicide. almost two-thirds of the suicides completed in the US each year are linked to depression, and 90 percent of all who complete suicide are suffering from some form of mental illness, most of them untreated, so I am not seeing the joke.
Amazon is not the only culprit. Several TV shows use suicide as a punch line. Perhaps the most prevalent is Family Guy. One episode goes so far as to show Peter taking off his belt, attaching it to the ceiling fan, and hanging himself. Another has Stewie encouraging Meg to kill herself in order to get a full page in the year book. I know the show prides itself on being politically incorrect and not sparing any group, from racial minorities to the physically handicapped. However, there are some topics that are just off limits, and suicide is one of them. While the show's creator, Seth McFarlane may defend itself as saying that much of the show is satire, I can't see how he could defend these scenes. After all, satire is humor designed to bring about change, but I fail to see how Peter dangling from a ceiling fan is going to help.
Every day, I stand in front of a class of students, and we read literature that deals with topics ranging from the abolition of slavery, religious beliefs, and women's rights. We see how perceptions have changed over time, and how authors have addressed these topics in order to bring about change. Perhaps it is time to take the same approach with the topics of mental illness and suicide. Perhaps through a voice of reason, some one will use their talents to bring these topics to light and help bring about a change in perception too.
To those that have lost some one to suicide, and to those struggling daily under the weight of mental illness, I implore you to take a stand and make your voice heard. Until people realize that there is no humor is suicide, then nothing will change. It is not just a joke or a t-shirt, it is an issue that needs to be addressed.
Author's Note: I began this entry on Sunday, January 9, 2016. Before I published it, I went to the Amazon website, and saw that they no longer offer the above mentioned shirts. To the people that spoke out in outrage, especially Maggie Harder, thank you.
First of all, I applaud Maggie for seeing a problem and taking a stand Not only are these shirts insensitive to those who have lost loved ones to suicide, but they also poke fun at one of the most crippling diseases in society, mental illness. as a person that has struggled with depression for years, and lost my son to suicide, I really don't see the humor, or any kind of rational logic, in these shirts.
The shirts boast such sayings as "Suicide makes our lives so much easier" and "Stressed, depressed but well dressed." Really? My life has been a living hell since the death of my son. Every day is a struggle just to get out of bed, get dressed and go to work. Do I want to turn off the alarm, pull the covers back over my head, and curl up into a ball? Every damn day. But I don't. It would be so easy. No one would blame me, after all, the pain I live with daily is just as crippling as any physical ailment. There are days where I have no energy, no desire to do anything. There are days where getting from the bed to the couch is a chore. There are even days where I think about how easy it would be to make the pain go away, but I don't. I refuse to give in, and I will not.
Sadly, there are far too many people out there that suffer from forms of mental illness, mainly depression. According to that Archives of General Psychiatry, almost 15 million adults suffer from some sort of persistent depression. Depression is also one of the leading causes of suicide. almost two-thirds of the suicides completed in the US each year are linked to depression, and 90 percent of all who complete suicide are suffering from some form of mental illness, most of them untreated, so I am not seeing the joke.
Amazon is not the only culprit. Several TV shows use suicide as a punch line. Perhaps the most prevalent is Family Guy. One episode goes so far as to show Peter taking off his belt, attaching it to the ceiling fan, and hanging himself. Another has Stewie encouraging Meg to kill herself in order to get a full page in the year book. I know the show prides itself on being politically incorrect and not sparing any group, from racial minorities to the physically handicapped. However, there are some topics that are just off limits, and suicide is one of them. While the show's creator, Seth McFarlane may defend itself as saying that much of the show is satire, I can't see how he could defend these scenes. After all, satire is humor designed to bring about change, but I fail to see how Peter dangling from a ceiling fan is going to help.
Every day, I stand in front of a class of students, and we read literature that deals with topics ranging from the abolition of slavery, religious beliefs, and women's rights. We see how perceptions have changed over time, and how authors have addressed these topics in order to bring about change. Perhaps it is time to take the same approach with the topics of mental illness and suicide. Perhaps through a voice of reason, some one will use their talents to bring these topics to light and help bring about a change in perception too.
To those that have lost some one to suicide, and to those struggling daily under the weight of mental illness, I implore you to take a stand and make your voice heard. Until people realize that there is no humor is suicide, then nothing will change. It is not just a joke or a t-shirt, it is an issue that needs to be addressed.
Author's Note: I began this entry on Sunday, January 9, 2016. Before I published it, I went to the Amazon website, and saw that they no longer offer the above mentioned shirts. To the people that spoke out in outrage, especially Maggie Harder, thank you.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
An Open Letter to School Boards Everywhere
To School Boards Everywhere:
My name is David James. I am a teacher and coach at College Park High School in The Woodlands, Texas, part of the Conroe Independent School District. I was hoping that I might have a few minutes of your time. I would like to talk to all of you about suicide. I know it is not a popular topic, and honestly, it is not an easy to talk about, and in some areas, it may even be taboo, but it is one that must be addressed, and you, as school boards have an obligation to the students of your districts. The majority of their parents voted for you, so you have an obligation.
I realize this may not be the best time for many of you. It is January, and for all the districts in Texas, that means that STAAR testing is just two and a half months away, in Massachusetts, the first part of the MCAS is less than a month away, our neighbors to the far north in Alaska will be getting AMPed up in March, and in the Heartland, Nebraskans will be looking forward to (or dreading) the NeSA. These tests are serious business. For some students, they determine if students should repeat a grade, and for others, if they will graduate. I know that high stakes testing is a big deal to many of you. After all, accountability ratings are important, as are state funds, but kids can't be tested if they are no longer with us.
I speak from experience when I say this. I lost my 13 year old son Peyton in October of 2014 after he hung himself. He was an eighth grader at Forbes Middle School in Georgetown, Texas. In no way am I abdicating my parental responsibility. Peyton's mother and I knew Peyton was suffering emotionally. He was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. We got him into counseling, and, through his doctor, were trying to find medications to help, but had not found one that provided the desired results. Unfortunately, we seem to be the exception, not the rule. Since Peyton's death, I have talked to other parents who lost children to suicide, and the most common threads in the narratives were "We never saw it coming" or "We had no idea our child was suicidal" and "They always seemed so happy."
To many, it may seem puzzling that these parents were in the dark about their children, and it is easy to dismiss these parents as neglectful, but one of the many things I have learned over my 25 years as an educator, kids are really good at hiding things, especially when it comes to mental health. Students in class rooms across the country, including your district, suffer in silence. They know that something is wrong with them, but they don't know what. They look around the room and mistakenly think they are the only one that feels different. They fear saying anything because they don't want to be ostracized or humiliated by their peers. They don't want to talk to talk to teachers, or counselors, or administrators for the same reasons. Well, that, plus we are adults, which means we would never understand.
Because education has become data driven, here is some data provided by the #JasonFoundation and the Centers for Disease Control (CDC):
- Suicide is the SECOND leading cause of death for ages 10-24. (CDC)
- Suicide is the SECOND leading cause of death for college-age youth and ages 12-18. (CDC)
- More teenagers and young adults die from suicide than from cancer, heart disease, AIDS, birth defects, stroke, pneumonia, influenza, and chronic lung disease, COMBINED.
- Each day in our nation there are an average of over 5,400 attempts by young people grades 7-12.
- Four out of Five teens who attempt suicide have given clear warning signs
- Over the past decade, however, the rate has again increased to 12.1 per 100,000. Every day, approximately 105 Americans die by suicide. (CDC)
- There is one death by suicide in the US every 13 minutes. (CDC)
- 16% of students reported seriously considering suicide. (CDC)
- 13% of students reported creating a plan. (CDC)
The same weekend that we lost Peyton, a junior at Georgetown High School took his life. Since then, I personally know of SEVEN student suicides just within Texas. The ages ranged from a ten year old in San Antonio to a senior in Rogers. The two most recent taking place here in the Woodlands within two weeks of each other. Through various message boards, Facebook groups, and the #PeytonHeartProject, I have been lucky to talk to parents across the country and around the world. To a person, we all agree that more can, and should, be done to educate not only students, but their parents (we grew up in an age when no one spoke of such things and could use the help).
So what can a school board do? Some states have enacted the #JasonFlattAct, that require regular training for teachers and staff in suicide recognition and prevention. If such a law exist in your state, make sure that it is followed and implemented. If not, lobby your state officials to pass such a law (such laws can be enacted with ZERO fiscal note). Even if there is no state law, what is to stop you from implementing policy locally? You could bring in experts from the community to speak to the students and/or the parents. You can enact programs designed to give students a safe place to go where they can talk to some one trained to deal with these problems. Yes, I understand that some of these things cost money, but is some one really going to complain that you are trying to save lives?
I know I have presented quite a bit for you to think about. I also know that there are people on the board or in the community that will disagree. They will say it is the responsibility of the parents to deal with the issue of suicide, and that schools should just stay with teaching core subjects and how to pass the state mandated standardized tests, but they are wrong. Mark Twain once said, "God made the Idiot for practice, and then He made the School Board." I want you to do the right thing and prove him wrong. After all, we can't teach them if they aren't there.
Sincerely,
David James
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Tragedy Strikes Yet Again
Bad news isn't wine. It doesn't improve with age.-Colin Powell
Godfather 3 was unmemorable for many reasons. Those of us that loved the first two movies and can discuss and quote them religiously were highly disappointed. However, there is one line when family patriarch Michal Corleone says"Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in." That would have been me this past Monday night.
I was busy doing nothing when I received a text from one of the other coaches. One of the cheerleaders at College Park High School, where I teach and coach, had attempted suicide, had been taken by Life Flight to the Texas Medical Center, and was listed in critical condition. I was warned by others at the school based upon my past. The last thing they wanted me to walk in on Tuesday morning was news of another attempted suicide.
I could have called in sick, taken the day off, and no one would have blamed me. Before school started, counselors and administrators began to look for me to make sure I was ok. Did I need my classes covered? Is there anything they could do for me? I asked them to read the principal's announcement to my 2nd period class, but that was it. The rest of the day, I wanted to be there for my students. I wanted to talk to them, to let them know that it was okay to be mad, scared, confused, or any of the myriad of other emotions that were over taking them at that moment. I needed to tell then that it was nobody's fault, that based on percentages, the young lady most likely suffered from some type of mental illness, and that they could openly talk, cry, or scream. I talked to them about Peyton and my experiences. I told them to ignore rumors from people, and not believe what they hear floating around in the hall. I told them to be patient, as news would be forthcoming eventually, but that it takes time. I asked them to pray if they were religious, and send positive thoughts and wishes if they weren't. I told them what I had been told while Peyton lay in his hospital bed, that the next 72 hours were crucial. Finally I told them to hope for the best, but be prepared for the worst.
I tried my best to find reliable sources that would give me any information to help me process the events. In my own way, I needed details. By no means am I an expert, but I have an unfortunate knowledge of a similar situation. As I mentioned before, I had learned about the 72 hour window, the damage to the brain when deprived of oxygen, how it dies from the top down, how the brain stem controls the most basic functions such as breathing, heartbeat, swallowing, and reaction to pain. How doctors will test this part of the brain for reactions to stimuli, and the news they give when when those tests produce no results. I also knew that news would be slow in coming, that caution would prevail, that doctors would be neutral and try not to give hope if there was none.
Several days have passed since I began this entry, and I am once again the bearer of bad news. The young lady I spoke of, Cassidy Hess, passed away on Sunday, December 20, 2015. I hop that she has found the peace that eluded her in life.
In fact, and I sit here and write this, I have received word that a 2015 graduate may have taken his life last night. Tragedy strikes yet again.
Godfather 3 was unmemorable for many reasons. Those of us that loved the first two movies and can discuss and quote them religiously were highly disappointed. However, there is one line when family patriarch Michal Corleone says"Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in." That would have been me this past Monday night.
I was busy doing nothing when I received a text from one of the other coaches. One of the cheerleaders at College Park High School, where I teach and coach, had attempted suicide, had been taken by Life Flight to the Texas Medical Center, and was listed in critical condition. I was warned by others at the school based upon my past. The last thing they wanted me to walk in on Tuesday morning was news of another attempted suicide.
I could have called in sick, taken the day off, and no one would have blamed me. Before school started, counselors and administrators began to look for me to make sure I was ok. Did I need my classes covered? Is there anything they could do for me? I asked them to read the principal's announcement to my 2nd period class, but that was it. The rest of the day, I wanted to be there for my students. I wanted to talk to them, to let them know that it was okay to be mad, scared, confused, or any of the myriad of other emotions that were over taking them at that moment. I needed to tell then that it was nobody's fault, that based on percentages, the young lady most likely suffered from some type of mental illness, and that they could openly talk, cry, or scream. I talked to them about Peyton and my experiences. I told them to ignore rumors from people, and not believe what they hear floating around in the hall. I told them to be patient, as news would be forthcoming eventually, but that it takes time. I asked them to pray if they were religious, and send positive thoughts and wishes if they weren't. I told them what I had been told while Peyton lay in his hospital bed, that the next 72 hours were crucial. Finally I told them to hope for the best, but be prepared for the worst.
I tried my best to find reliable sources that would give me any information to help me process the events. In my own way, I needed details. By no means am I an expert, but I have an unfortunate knowledge of a similar situation. As I mentioned before, I had learned about the 72 hour window, the damage to the brain when deprived of oxygen, how it dies from the top down, how the brain stem controls the most basic functions such as breathing, heartbeat, swallowing, and reaction to pain. How doctors will test this part of the brain for reactions to stimuli, and the news they give when when those tests produce no results. I also knew that news would be slow in coming, that caution would prevail, that doctors would be neutral and try not to give hope if there was none.
Several days have passed since I began this entry, and I am once again the bearer of bad news. The young lady I spoke of, Cassidy Hess, passed away on Sunday, December 20, 2015. I hop that she has found the peace that eluded her in life.
In fact, and I sit here and write this, I have received word that a 2015 graduate may have taken his life last night. Tragedy strikes yet again.
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