I hate Christmas. The mall is full of nothing but women and children. All you hear is "I want this.", "Get me this.", "I have to have this."... and then there's the children. And they're all by my store 'cause they stuck the mall Santa right outside ringing his stupid bell. As if you need a bell to notice a 300-pound alcoholic in a red suit. "Ho, ho, ho," all day long. So, nice as can be, I go outside, ask him to shut the hell up. He takes a swing at me. So I lay a hook into his fat belly and he goes down. Beard comes off, all the kids start crying and I'm the bad guy. - Al Bundy, Married with Children
First of all, I don't hate Christmas. There are some great things about the holiday. I enjoy having two weeks off from work, Jack in the Box's eggnog shakes, watching my daughter's face light up Christmas morning, hearing John McClain say "Yippy Ki Aye Mother F*cker" to Hans Gruber, my wife's prime rib and mashed potatoes, free flowing booze (the good stuff no less) at her office Christmas Party, Zu-Zu's petals, and who doesn't love seeing Scut Farkus get his ass kicked over and over again as A Christmas Story rolls for 24 straight hours.
For me, and many others like me, Christmas hurts. It isn't the commercialism, the bickering (Merry Christmas vs. Happy Holidays), the crowds, the lines, the perpetually happy people or the continuously angry, the parties we don't want to go to, every sitcom doing a spin off of A Christmas Carol, or even commercials featuring shallow adults jumping up and down because Santa brought them a luxury SUV. For us, it is because we lost a loved one to suicide, and now we are faced with a never ending series of events that we will never get to experience with them.
I understand that other people have lost loved ones, and the holidays are rough for them as well. I lost my mother unexpectedly in July of 2005, and that first Christmas without her was difficult, and I know several people that have lost children to everything from accidents to cancer, and for them I pray daily, but for those left behind as the result of a suicide, the pain is usually worse.
Maybe our loss hurts so much because of the sudden trauma of it. There are those among us that saw the signs, or previous attempts, and were not taken by surprise, but for the majority, it was a sucker punch to the gut. If Peyton had been hit by a drunk, had his body ravaged by cancer, fallen off his bike and hit his head, or walked into a CVS and been shot by some tweaker trying to steal Sudafed, at least I would have an answer or explanation. As it stands, I, and many others, have no reason, no explanation, no nothing. Instead, we spike our eggnog and replay the situation over and over again in our heads. We sneak off to the bedroom and cry into our pillows. We watch It's A Wonderful Life and wish our guardian angel would give us a do over.
Many of us survivors of suicide want to skip Christmas all together, but alas, many of us can't. We have other children, family, and other obligations that will not allow us to just walk away. We are forced to get out ornaments or stockings with our loved ones names, We shuffle through Christmas cards and pictures with their smiling faces that hid a pain we can't even begin to fathom. We see a gift at the mall that would be perfect if they were still with us. We force ourselves to watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer with one child and imagine what it would be like to have our loved one sit next to us in wide eyed wonder one more time. We look out the window Christmas morning and see the neighbor's kid in their pajamas and robe riding their new bike only to have to turn away before the painful memories come flooding back and bring us to our knees. We go to Christmas parties and pretend to be happy only to chug down the free flowing booze in hopes that, at least temporarily, the pain goes away.
So as you travel through your neighborhood looking at the colorful lights, knowing that Shlomo's family doesn't have lights up because they are Jewish, but Cathy's and Hannah's and Cassidy's and Lauren's and Haley's and Issac's and Johnathan's and Grace's and Brandy's and Matthew's and Hunter's and Trayvon's and Jack's and Hunter's and Peyton's families don't have them out because it just hurts too damn much.
Monday, December 12, 2016
Sunday, December 4, 2016
Rest In Peace Brandy
'I love you so much just remember that please and I'm so sorry for everything.' Brandy Vela's final text to her family
On November 29th, the pain became too much for Brandy Vela to bear and she shot herself in the chest while her terrified family looked on.
The 18 year old senior at Texas City High School had endured relentless online bullying and harassment. Her tormentors use encrypted apps in order to send her messages, set up false profiles on dating websites saying she was offering herself up for sex. According to reports, she changed her number, but that didn't stop the harassment. Eventually, it all became too much, and Brandy felt that the only way to escape the pain was to end her life.
As I watched the story unfold on the local news, so many memories came flooding back to me, as Peyton had dealt with bullying and harassment at school as well. But the person I could truly empathize with was her brother Victor. As he looked into the camera and addressed those who had harassed his sister, "I'm glad you got what you wanted. I hope this makes you happy," but it wasn't what he said, but how he said it. His voice was full of the anger and sorrow that would be natural in someone who had lost a loved one so tragically, but the look in his eyes told me that who ever bullied his sister to death had better hope that the authorities found them before he did.
To the Vela family, I can't begin to express my sorrow for your loss. I can't say I know what you are going through, as we all grieve differently, but I can empathize with you over the senseless loss of a child. The fact that bullying played such a central role makes it more familiar. I know right now, that it feels as though your whole world has been turned upside down, and you have no idea how you can go on after what happened to your daughter. I can also imagine that you want frontier justice for your daughter, but there is a better way.
After I found out that Peyton had filed a harassment complaint against another student the day before he hung himself, I was livid, especially when I found out that nothing had been done. I don't know whose ass I wanted to kick more, the kid who taunted him or the administrator that did nothing. The desire to inflict bodily harm was there, and at that point, jail did not scare me. If I couldn't get my pound of flesh, I was also willing to sue the living sh*t out of the district and the parents who had raised a child who would willing harass a stranger. All I wanted was some one else to suffer the way that I was at that point. I wanted others to feel pain whether physical financial, or emotional. Just as you do right now.
However, over time I realized that no matter how ever much immediate satisfaction I would have gotten dragging an 8th grader, or administrator, into the hall and kicking their ass from one end to the other and back, would not have brought Peyton back. The blood lust dissipated quickly, and my thoughts turned to putting my own life back together again.
In fact, when I did speak to the principal of Peyton's school, my thoughts about the young man who had tormented Peyton had changed from violence to concern. Unless that child was a sociopath, he was going to need help, and lots of it. I imagined how he felt knowing that he was the final straw that sent Peyton over the edge. Now he was going to have to spend the rest of his life knowing that he had played a role in the death of some one. That in itself will be hell enough.
I also realized that the administrator that dealt with Peyton's complaint had his hands tied by a slaws that all too often allows the guilty to roam free, and a education system more concerned with test scores and public image than with the children they are entrusted with. I am sure that they wish they could have done more to help, and knowing they lost one of their students is a burden they will have to bear. In no way will I ever be able to forget what happened to Peyton, or what role his tormentors played, but I had to learn to forgive. I already had enough on my soul without having to deal with the anger and hatred. I had to learn to turn that into something positive rather than letting it eat away at me. If I was able to forgive Peyton's tormentor, then perhaps the Vela's will some day forgive Brandy's as well.
However, to the people that tormented Brandy to death, I do hope that the authorities locate you, and when they do, they prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law. Some one will have to serve as an example, and it might as well be you. As you sit in jail, let the idea of what you did to Brandy and the Vela's eat away at you. You were cowards that hid behind technology to torment another human being to the point that they actually thought ending their life was the only solution. For that, you deserve to be punished. Perhaps some day, the Vela's and society will be able to forgive you, but let's hope a jury isn't.
As I watched the story unfold on the local news, so many memories came flooding back to me, as Peyton had dealt with bullying and harassment at school as well. But the person I could truly empathize with was her brother Victor. As he looked into the camera and addressed those who had harassed his sister, "I'm glad you got what you wanted. I hope this makes you happy," but it wasn't what he said, but how he said it. His voice was full of the anger and sorrow that would be natural in someone who had lost a loved one so tragically, but the look in his eyes told me that who ever bullied his sister to death had better hope that the authorities found them before he did.
To the Vela family, I can't begin to express my sorrow for your loss. I can't say I know what you are going through, as we all grieve differently, but I can empathize with you over the senseless loss of a child. The fact that bullying played such a central role makes it more familiar. I know right now, that it feels as though your whole world has been turned upside down, and you have no idea how you can go on after what happened to your daughter. I can also imagine that you want frontier justice for your daughter, but there is a better way.
After I found out that Peyton had filed a harassment complaint against another student the day before he hung himself, I was livid, especially when I found out that nothing had been done. I don't know whose ass I wanted to kick more, the kid who taunted him or the administrator that did nothing. The desire to inflict bodily harm was there, and at that point, jail did not scare me. If I couldn't get my pound of flesh, I was also willing to sue the living sh*t out of the district and the parents who had raised a child who would willing harass a stranger. All I wanted was some one else to suffer the way that I was at that point. I wanted others to feel pain whether physical financial, or emotional. Just as you do right now.
However, over time I realized that no matter how ever much immediate satisfaction I would have gotten dragging an 8th grader, or administrator, into the hall and kicking their ass from one end to the other and back, would not have brought Peyton back. The blood lust dissipated quickly, and my thoughts turned to putting my own life back together again.
In fact, when I did speak to the principal of Peyton's school, my thoughts about the young man who had tormented Peyton had changed from violence to concern. Unless that child was a sociopath, he was going to need help, and lots of it. I imagined how he felt knowing that he was the final straw that sent Peyton over the edge. Now he was going to have to spend the rest of his life knowing that he had played a role in the death of some one. That in itself will be hell enough.
I also realized that the administrator that dealt with Peyton's complaint had his hands tied by a slaws that all too often allows the guilty to roam free, and a education system more concerned with test scores and public image than with the children they are entrusted with. I am sure that they wish they could have done more to help, and knowing they lost one of their students is a burden they will have to bear. In no way will I ever be able to forget what happened to Peyton, or what role his tormentors played, but I had to learn to forgive. I already had enough on my soul without having to deal with the anger and hatred. I had to learn to turn that into something positive rather than letting it eat away at me. If I was able to forgive Peyton's tormentor, then perhaps the Vela's will some day forgive Brandy's as well.
Monday, November 28, 2016
A Challenge To The Coaches Of Texas And Beyond
What is a coach? We are teachers. Educators. We have the same obligations as all teachers, except we probably have more influence over young people than anybody but their families. And, in a lot of cases, more than their families. Joe Paterno
I am proud to say that I have been a coach (and teacher) here in Texas for 26 years. It is a job that I have loved and hated at the same time for each and every one of those 26 years. Like many, I started out at the middle school level learning the basics, everything from planning for a game, washing uniforms, and helping the same kid put the knee pads in his pants for the eighth week in a row. I have won games and lost them. I have had undefeated seasons, as well as winless ones. I have seen scrubs become stars and vice-versa. I have seen the young men and women under my tutelage become soldiers, doctors, lawyers, social workers, and yes, coaches. Most of all, I have come to see and appreciate the awesome power of influence that coaches have to shape and influence the athletes and students that we are charged with.
None of this was more evident than on November 5, 2016, when 40 of my swimmers joined my family and me for the Out of the Darkness Walk at the Woodlands Waterway. The Out of the Darkness Walk is an annual event held in cities across the country to promote and educate people about suicide awareness and prevention. Not only did they raise funds and participate in the walk, but they listened to speakers and others tell their stories, visited with exhibitors, and learned how they could help in their own community.
Before school began, it had been decided by head coach Rachel Banes and I that our swimmers would take part in some kind of community service project. Not only would it serve as team building, but provide our kids with an insight into the lives of others, especially outside the bubble of The Woodlands. As far as which project we would undertake, that decision was easy.
On October 8, 2014, my 13 year old son Peyton came home to his mother's house and hung himself. Despite the heroic efforts of first responders, and the doctor's and nurses at Dell children's Medical Center in Austin, he passed away from his injuries on October 13, 2014. In the days, weeks and months that followed, there was an outpouring of support from the coaching staff. Meals were prepared, collections were taken, a Go Fund Me page started, and many made the 300 mile round trip from Conroe to Round Rock to attend his funeral.
After his death, I started #Products4Peyton to collect toiletries for the Ronald McDonald House where my family stayed while Peyton was in the hospital. It was my way to repay an incredible organization for their kindness and charity during an emotionally trying time for my family. Because the Gulf TISCA meet is held at the Conroe ISD Natatorium, I reached out to the other coaches to encourage their swimmers to bring in donations. I was not prepared for the volume of donations that we received. Toiletries took over the coaches office and locker room, and they continued to come in until we were able to deliver over 250 boxes to various Ronald McDonald Houses in Texas.
It was then that I realized how powerful a coaches' influence can be. The other coaches took up my cause and encouraged their athletes to contribute. Because of this, hundreds of people benefitted from the kindness of strangers. Think about what could happen if we all chose some kind of community service project for our teams. It can be anything from projects in your own community to nationwide campaigns. The key is, to get your athletes involved.
I am sure by now that many of us have seen the story of Florida State wide receiver Travis Rudolph and sixth grader Bo Paske, and how sitting with one child at lunch has changed his life. When Travis say down to eat with Bo, he had no idea of the positives that would come out of it. All he saw was a little boy eating alone. But Travis is not the only one. Student athletes at Penn State, Tulsa, Miami of Ohio, Duke, and even College of Mount Saint Vincent, to name a few, participate in community service, and have seen the positive effects in their communities.
Your students could read to younger students, pick up litter, volunteer with senior citizens, or run with shelter dogs. Some states, such as Maryland and California, have gone so far as to require community service hours as a condition of graduation.
So here is my challenge, choose a community service project and get your athletes involved. Get your captains and team leaders together and discuss what they want to do. Perhaps one or two have already been involved in projects that could expand to the team. You also need to make sure that you are involved. I know time is a valuable commodity, but if we want our athletes to buy into it, then we must as well. You can start small in your community by reading to elementary students, having a party for the special needs kids, cleaning up trash in the community, or sponsoring families or children over the holidays. Or you could have your athletes take part in national events such as Out of the Darkness Walks and Race for the cure. The key is to have them actively participate, not just donate money.
As coaches, we all love to look up in the stands and see that the community has come out to support us. Now, shouldn't we be willing to support the community?
Are you up to the challenge?
I am proud to say that I have been a coach (and teacher) here in Texas for 26 years. It is a job that I have loved and hated at the same time for each and every one of those 26 years. Like many, I started out at the middle school level learning the basics, everything from planning for a game, washing uniforms, and helping the same kid put the knee pads in his pants for the eighth week in a row. I have won games and lost them. I have had undefeated seasons, as well as winless ones. I have seen scrubs become stars and vice-versa. I have seen the young men and women under my tutelage become soldiers, doctors, lawyers, social workers, and yes, coaches. Most of all, I have come to see and appreciate the awesome power of influence that coaches have to shape and influence the athletes and students that we are charged with.
None of this was more evident than on November 5, 2016, when 40 of my swimmers joined my family and me for the Out of the Darkness Walk at the Woodlands Waterway. The Out of the Darkness Walk is an annual event held in cities across the country to promote and educate people about suicide awareness and prevention. Not only did they raise funds and participate in the walk, but they listened to speakers and others tell their stories, visited with exhibitors, and learned how they could help in their own community.
Before school began, it had been decided by head coach Rachel Banes and I that our swimmers would take part in some kind of community service project. Not only would it serve as team building, but provide our kids with an insight into the lives of others, especially outside the bubble of The Woodlands. As far as which project we would undertake, that decision was easy.
On October 8, 2014, my 13 year old son Peyton came home to his mother's house and hung himself. Despite the heroic efforts of first responders, and the doctor's and nurses at Dell children's Medical Center in Austin, he passed away from his injuries on October 13, 2014. In the days, weeks and months that followed, there was an outpouring of support from the coaching staff. Meals were prepared, collections were taken, a Go Fund Me page started, and many made the 300 mile round trip from Conroe to Round Rock to attend his funeral.
After his death, I started #Products4Peyton to collect toiletries for the Ronald McDonald House where my family stayed while Peyton was in the hospital. It was my way to repay an incredible organization for their kindness and charity during an emotionally trying time for my family. Because the Gulf TISCA meet is held at the Conroe ISD Natatorium, I reached out to the other coaches to encourage their swimmers to bring in donations. I was not prepared for the volume of donations that we received. Toiletries took over the coaches office and locker room, and they continued to come in until we were able to deliver over 250 boxes to various Ronald McDonald Houses in Texas.
It was then that I realized how powerful a coaches' influence can be. The other coaches took up my cause and encouraged their athletes to contribute. Because of this, hundreds of people benefitted from the kindness of strangers. Think about what could happen if we all chose some kind of community service project for our teams. It can be anything from projects in your own community to nationwide campaigns. The key is, to get your athletes involved.
I am sure by now that many of us have seen the story of Florida State wide receiver Travis Rudolph and sixth grader Bo Paske, and how sitting with one child at lunch has changed his life. When Travis say down to eat with Bo, he had no idea of the positives that would come out of it. All he saw was a little boy eating alone. But Travis is not the only one. Student athletes at Penn State, Tulsa, Miami of Ohio, Duke, and even College of Mount Saint Vincent, to name a few, participate in community service, and have seen the positive effects in their communities.
Your students could read to younger students, pick up litter, volunteer with senior citizens, or run with shelter dogs. Some states, such as Maryland and California, have gone so far as to require community service hours as a condition of graduation.
So here is my challenge, choose a community service project and get your athletes involved. Get your captains and team leaders together and discuss what they want to do. Perhaps one or two have already been involved in projects that could expand to the team. You also need to make sure that you are involved. I know time is a valuable commodity, but if we want our athletes to buy into it, then we must as well. You can start small in your community by reading to elementary students, having a party for the special needs kids, cleaning up trash in the community, or sponsoring families or children over the holidays. Or you could have your athletes take part in national events such as Out of the Darkness Walks and Race for the cure. The key is to have them actively participate, not just donate money.
As coaches, we all love to look up in the stands and see that the community has come out to support us. Now, shouldn't we be willing to support the community?
Are you up to the challenge?
Friday, September 30, 2016
Peyton, I Would Still Die For You
The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time. -Mark Twain
Next Saturday, it will be two years since Peyton, my 13 year old son, came home from school, went to his room and hung himself. He clung to life for five days, but his injuries were too severe and he passed away on October 13, 2014. Not a day goes by that I do not miss him, mourn him, cry for him, and wish that God would have taken me instead of him.
I had just gotten in my truck to leave work. My day had been sh*tty, and I just wanted to get home. I was sitting in the truck, trying to catch my breath from a sprint through the driving rain, when my phone rang. I saw it was Jacki, Peyton's mother, and thought seriously about letting it go to voicemail. I didn't want to deal with any more drama at that moment, but something made me answer.
All she said was, "David, you need to speak to this police officer," In the second it took for her to hand the phone over, my mind raced through several scenarios from "there has been an accident" to "Peyton's temper has finally gotten the best of him."
The officer took the phone "Sir, this is Officer So and So (I remember so many details of that day, but names still elude me) of the Georgetown Police Department. Peyton James has hung himself." With those five words, my world turned upside down forever.
I sat in my truck, in that empty parking lot, momentarily stunned, listening to the rain pound on the roof before I completely lost it. I screamed, yelled, beat on the steering wheel and the roof of the cab with all my might. I bargained with God and offered my life for Peyton's. Through tears and snot I kept screaming, "Dear God take me," but he didn't. Never had I felt so convicted about something as I did at that moment.
When we arrived at the hospital, the doctor took us aside and told us about Peyton's injuries. Because of the trauma to the organs from the CPR and the lack of oxygen, there was the possibility of organ damage. When the doctor said that, there was never any doubt that if Peyton needed a kidney, a liver, heel, even a heart, I would be first in line to donate.
Over the next five days, I sat by Peyton's side as he drifted further and further away. I held his hand and once again, bargained with God to take my life and spare Peyton's. In a time of helplessness, when everything else was beyond my ability to aide my son, it was all I could do. I hoped that every time I closed my eyes, I would open them to nothingness, or to a bright light that was drawing me closer. I even went to the chapel in the hospital to offer myself. Unfortunately, God was not in a mood to bargain, and my pleadings went unanswered until it was too late and Peyton was gone.
I know I am not the first parent to offer myself as they sat at their child's bedside, nor was it the first for me. From the time Peyton was a baby with his first of many ear infections, to his first stitches, to knocking out a tooth, I wanted to take away his pain and anguish. I would have gladly carried that pain with me to alleviate him, but now it was for keeps, but I was still willing and wanting to change places. I think that is part of being a parent. We all go out of our way to take care of and protect our kids. We want what is best for our kids and sacrifice for ourselves.
Now it has been almost two years. Peyton would have been a sophomore in high school. He would be old enough to get his learner's permit and beg me to let him drive. He would have been coming up with a theatrical way to ask girls to homecoming. He would have been arguing with me about everything from grades to curfew. Instead, his ashes sit on my dresser and gather dust. His room is slowly being converted to an office. His step-brother is buying a suit for homecoming, and his sister is already planning her fifth birthday. All of the things Peyton could have been and done are nothing but assumption and speculation.
As for me, my life goes on slowly and methodically. I think about all of the aggravation and headaches Peyton would be causing, all the unreasonable demands he would be making, the money he would ask for, and the future he would be planning. I still want that for him. If God has a way to change the past, I would still let him take me so that Peyton could live his life. Just so you know, Peyton, I would still die for you.
Next Saturday, it will be two years since Peyton, my 13 year old son, came home from school, went to his room and hung himself. He clung to life for five days, but his injuries were too severe and he passed away on October 13, 2014. Not a day goes by that I do not miss him, mourn him, cry for him, and wish that God would have taken me instead of him.
I had just gotten in my truck to leave work. My day had been sh*tty, and I just wanted to get home. I was sitting in the truck, trying to catch my breath from a sprint through the driving rain, when my phone rang. I saw it was Jacki, Peyton's mother, and thought seriously about letting it go to voicemail. I didn't want to deal with any more drama at that moment, but something made me answer.
All she said was, "David, you need to speak to this police officer," In the second it took for her to hand the phone over, my mind raced through several scenarios from "there has been an accident" to "Peyton's temper has finally gotten the best of him."
The officer took the phone "Sir, this is Officer So and So (I remember so many details of that day, but names still elude me) of the Georgetown Police Department. Peyton James has hung himself." With those five words, my world turned upside down forever.
I sat in my truck, in that empty parking lot, momentarily stunned, listening to the rain pound on the roof before I completely lost it. I screamed, yelled, beat on the steering wheel and the roof of the cab with all my might. I bargained with God and offered my life for Peyton's. Through tears and snot I kept screaming, "Dear God take me," but he didn't. Never had I felt so convicted about something as I did at that moment.
When we arrived at the hospital, the doctor took us aside and told us about Peyton's injuries. Because of the trauma to the organs from the CPR and the lack of oxygen, there was the possibility of organ damage. When the doctor said that, there was never any doubt that if Peyton needed a kidney, a liver, heel, even a heart, I would be first in line to donate.
Over the next five days, I sat by Peyton's side as he drifted further and further away. I held his hand and once again, bargained with God to take my life and spare Peyton's. In a time of helplessness, when everything else was beyond my ability to aide my son, it was all I could do. I hoped that every time I closed my eyes, I would open them to nothingness, or to a bright light that was drawing me closer. I even went to the chapel in the hospital to offer myself. Unfortunately, God was not in a mood to bargain, and my pleadings went unanswered until it was too late and Peyton was gone.
I know I am not the first parent to offer myself as they sat at their child's bedside, nor was it the first for me. From the time Peyton was a baby with his first of many ear infections, to his first stitches, to knocking out a tooth, I wanted to take away his pain and anguish. I would have gladly carried that pain with me to alleviate him, but now it was for keeps, but I was still willing and wanting to change places. I think that is part of being a parent. We all go out of our way to take care of and protect our kids. We want what is best for our kids and sacrifice for ourselves.
Now it has been almost two years. Peyton would have been a sophomore in high school. He would be old enough to get his learner's permit and beg me to let him drive. He would have been coming up with a theatrical way to ask girls to homecoming. He would have been arguing with me about everything from grades to curfew. Instead, his ashes sit on my dresser and gather dust. His room is slowly being converted to an office. His step-brother is buying a suit for homecoming, and his sister is already planning her fifth birthday. All of the things Peyton could have been and done are nothing but assumption and speculation.
As for me, my life goes on slowly and methodically. I think about all of the aggravation and headaches Peyton would be causing, all the unreasonable demands he would be making, the money he would ask for, and the future he would be planning. I still want that for him. If God has a way to change the past, I would still let him take me so that Peyton could live his life. Just so you know, Peyton, I would still die for you.
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Living With Depression
That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key. -Elizabeth Wurtzel
When I was a 15, I had just finished my sophomore year of high school, and it was summer break. Back in those days, we usually got out of school before Memorial Day, and didn't go back until after Labor day. That meant three wonderful months of swimming, riding bikes, hanging out, watching MTV actually play music videos, and all around tomfoolery. But for me, it was the first time I ever truly knew what depression was, and it became something I had to deal with the rest of my life.
I remember sitting around with my friends the day school got out. We were sitting on the hill (ok, a mound of dirt covered with grass, but in Houston, it was a hill) outside the community pool, and every one was talking about their summer plans. They were all enthused about what lay ahead over the next three months, but I wasn't. I was about to start working as a life guard, a dream job for a kid at that time, but I was unhappy, I didn't know why. I also noticed that I would tend to binge eat. Because I had a job, I had money, so I would ride my bike to the store and buy boxes of Little Debbie's snack cakes, or candy or chips and consume them at once. Because I was always active, it never really bothered me, and over time, I learned to turn it toward healthier foods, and this was the start of a life long practice that went with my depression.
I never told anyone what was going on. To be honest, I was embarrassed and ashamed. It seemed as all my other friends had their act together, and I was some kind of reject. I hid my problems behind sarcasm. I tried to take as many people with me as possible by being a smartass. Looking back, I know that I was trying to make others feel as bad as I did. I figured if I felt like shit, then others should too. It was a paradox. I wanted friends, and I wanted people to like me, but at the same time, I would push others away in an effort to keep them from finding out that there was something wrong with me thinking if they knew, they wouldn't want to hang out with damaged goods. I figured I would hurt them before they hurt me. This was a pattern that would occur time and time again throughout my life.
This continued through college and into adulthood, but now, I would also throw alcohol into the mix to start numbing my feelings. It wasn’t until I was an adult in my late 30’s that I even dared to speak up about it and seek treatment. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand that depression is not like other illnesses. I began to feel better, so I stopped taking my meds and going to therapy. That mistake cost me my marriage, my house, and my son. Now I speak openly and unashamed, not only for myself, but for others, so that they know it is ok to not be ok.
So what is it like to live with a mental illness? For me, I live with depression and anxiety. The biggest challenge I face every day is getting out of bed. When the alarm goes off in the morning (although I am usually awake and full of dread long before that), I have to decide if I am going to face my demons, or give in and call in sick. My anxiety has already told me that If I go in, something will happen that will put me in an unfavorable position. My depression tells me that it doesn’t matter what I do in class, the kids won’t care, they’ll fail, and it will be my fault. I take my medication that is supposed to help, and I have no doubt that it does help, because the illness hasn't taken over yet. I go through my morning routine, pour my coffee, and get in my truck for the drive to work. Some days I hope that someone will rear end me or t-bone me and put me in the hospital for a few days. Others I wish my daughter was sick. Any legitimate excuse to stay home because I refuse to let the illness win and make me stay home. I will not give in to it, and I will not let it dictate my life.
At work, the same student behavior that I used to find humorous or just ignore, now pisses me off. "This is stupid" or "I don't want to do this," hit me like hot needles under my nails. I want to scream "You have opportunities my son never will! Shut up and take advantage of those chances instead of bitching about it," but instead, I just a take a deep breath, look at the clock, bite my tongue, and count the minutes left in the class.
I hear snippets of conversations in the halls about parties, drugs, and alcohol, and wonder, "Are they trying to tame the monster as me?" If they are, they're going about it the wrong way, as so many of their generation does, but because the monster has become "He who shall not be named," so in the "not my child" era they use what is available to numb the pain instead of what is proper.
Emails scare the hell out of me as well. If I get an email entitled "Meeting" or "Conference" or anything similar, I have a small panic attack because I think I have done or said something wrong, or some parent wants their kid out of my class because my illness might be contagious. To make matters worse, the state of Texas has adopted a new teacher appraisal system that has good teachers nervous, so it has ramped up my anxiety 100% and has me believing my future at my job is in danger. Even though I have been told I am a good teacher, I still an't help but think that I am on the verge of unemployment.
When I'm at home, there are times I'll binge watch Netflix, play Xbox, or lose myself in a book rather than face life because all around me are reminders of Peyton, who he was, and who he never will be. One of my worst habits to to grab a bag of chips or cookies and eat the pain away. I want to hold my daughter close and never let go, but she is too much like her brother, and can't sit still. At bedtime, I rely on Ambien to sleep, otherwise the anxiety of what has or might happen keeps poking at my brain until the wee hours of the morning.
I have to make myself take part in activities, to go places, to do things. The things I used to love to do hardly interest me. I battle daily to be as normal as I can, but it isn’t easy. I know it puts a strain on my family, and that in itself tears me apart. I keep people at an arm’s length because in my mind, I feel like I don’t deserve for people to love me or care for me. I know that I am wrong to think that way, but that is the way the illness works, and that is why I fight it with medication and therapy.
Every day is a continuous battle for me, and I hate that. Yes, there are good days, but they are far outnumbered by the bad. I take my meds, but sometimes wonder if it is even worth it. Maybe I should have the doctor increase the dose, but would that turn me into an emotionless zombie? My job frustrates me to no end because of my inability to remember things, and because I feel as though the subject I used to love has now become nothing more than a test, so I think about what I could do besides teaching, or could I teach a subject that actually has relevance. I also know it affects my family, and they suffer, which deepens my depression even more.
I want to "snap out of it" or just "choose to be happy", both sage bits of advice people have given me, but I can't. I have an illness that tries to control my life. I fight it the best I can, but it isn't easy. Some days I wish it was cancer or gangrene so it could be cut out of me, but it isn't. It is in my brain, and I need that. I never asked to be perpetually miserable, to cry without warning, to hide the tears welling up in my eyes, or to go home exhausted everyday without the energy to play with my daughter. So bear with me. I'm trying. I really am.
When I was a 15, I had just finished my sophomore year of high school, and it was summer break. Back in those days, we usually got out of school before Memorial Day, and didn't go back until after Labor day. That meant three wonderful months of swimming, riding bikes, hanging out, watching MTV actually play music videos, and all around tomfoolery. But for me, it was the first time I ever truly knew what depression was, and it became something I had to deal with the rest of my life.
I remember sitting around with my friends the day school got out. We were sitting on the hill (ok, a mound of dirt covered with grass, but in Houston, it was a hill) outside the community pool, and every one was talking about their summer plans. They were all enthused about what lay ahead over the next three months, but I wasn't. I was about to start working as a life guard, a dream job for a kid at that time, but I was unhappy, I didn't know why. I also noticed that I would tend to binge eat. Because I had a job, I had money, so I would ride my bike to the store and buy boxes of Little Debbie's snack cakes, or candy or chips and consume them at once. Because I was always active, it never really bothered me, and over time, I learned to turn it toward healthier foods, and this was the start of a life long practice that went with my depression.
I never told anyone what was going on. To be honest, I was embarrassed and ashamed. It seemed as all my other friends had their act together, and I was some kind of reject. I hid my problems behind sarcasm. I tried to take as many people with me as possible by being a smartass. Looking back, I know that I was trying to make others feel as bad as I did. I figured if I felt like shit, then others should too. It was a paradox. I wanted friends, and I wanted people to like me, but at the same time, I would push others away in an effort to keep them from finding out that there was something wrong with me thinking if they knew, they wouldn't want to hang out with damaged goods. I figured I would hurt them before they hurt me. This was a pattern that would occur time and time again throughout my life.
This continued through college and into adulthood, but now, I would also throw alcohol into the mix to start numbing my feelings. It wasn’t until I was an adult in my late 30’s that I even dared to speak up about it and seek treatment. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand that depression is not like other illnesses. I began to feel better, so I stopped taking my meds and going to therapy. That mistake cost me my marriage, my house, and my son. Now I speak openly and unashamed, not only for myself, but for others, so that they know it is ok to not be ok.
So what is it like to live with a mental illness? For me, I live with depression and anxiety. The biggest challenge I face every day is getting out of bed. When the alarm goes off in the morning (although I am usually awake and full of dread long before that), I have to decide if I am going to face my demons, or give in and call in sick. My anxiety has already told me that If I go in, something will happen that will put me in an unfavorable position. My depression tells me that it doesn’t matter what I do in class, the kids won’t care, they’ll fail, and it will be my fault. I take my medication that is supposed to help, and I have no doubt that it does help, because the illness hasn't taken over yet. I go through my morning routine, pour my coffee, and get in my truck for the drive to work. Some days I hope that someone will rear end me or t-bone me and put me in the hospital for a few days. Others I wish my daughter was sick. Any legitimate excuse to stay home because I refuse to let the illness win and make me stay home. I will not give in to it, and I will not let it dictate my life.
At work, the same student behavior that I used to find humorous or just ignore, now pisses me off. "This is stupid" or "I don't want to do this," hit me like hot needles under my nails. I want to scream "You have opportunities my son never will! Shut up and take advantage of those chances instead of bitching about it," but instead, I just a take a deep breath, look at the clock, bite my tongue, and count the minutes left in the class.
I hear snippets of conversations in the halls about parties, drugs, and alcohol, and wonder, "Are they trying to tame the monster as me?" If they are, they're going about it the wrong way, as so many of their generation does, but because the monster has become "He who shall not be named," so in the "not my child" era they use what is available to numb the pain instead of what is proper.
Emails scare the hell out of me as well. If I get an email entitled "Meeting" or "Conference" or anything similar, I have a small panic attack because I think I have done or said something wrong, or some parent wants their kid out of my class because my illness might be contagious. To make matters worse, the state of Texas has adopted a new teacher appraisal system that has good teachers nervous, so it has ramped up my anxiety 100% and has me believing my future at my job is in danger. Even though I have been told I am a good teacher, I still an't help but think that I am on the verge of unemployment.
When I'm at home, there are times I'll binge watch Netflix, play Xbox, or lose myself in a book rather than face life because all around me are reminders of Peyton, who he was, and who he never will be. One of my worst habits to to grab a bag of chips or cookies and eat the pain away. I want to hold my daughter close and never let go, but she is too much like her brother, and can't sit still. At bedtime, I rely on Ambien to sleep, otherwise the anxiety of what has or might happen keeps poking at my brain until the wee hours of the morning.
I have to make myself take part in activities, to go places, to do things. The things I used to love to do hardly interest me. I battle daily to be as normal as I can, but it isn’t easy. I know it puts a strain on my family, and that in itself tears me apart. I keep people at an arm’s length because in my mind, I feel like I don’t deserve for people to love me or care for me. I know that I am wrong to think that way, but that is the way the illness works, and that is why I fight it with medication and therapy.
Every day is a continuous battle for me, and I hate that. Yes, there are good days, but they are far outnumbered by the bad. I take my meds, but sometimes wonder if it is even worth it. Maybe I should have the doctor increase the dose, but would that turn me into an emotionless zombie? My job frustrates me to no end because of my inability to remember things, and because I feel as though the subject I used to love has now become nothing more than a test, so I think about what I could do besides teaching, or could I teach a subject that actually has relevance. I also know it affects my family, and they suffer, which deepens my depression even more.
I want to "snap out of it" or just "choose to be happy", both sage bits of advice people have given me, but I can't. I have an illness that tries to control my life. I fight it the best I can, but it isn't easy. Some days I wish it was cancer or gangrene so it could be cut out of me, but it isn't. It is in my brain, and I need that. I never asked to be perpetually miserable, to cry without warning, to hide the tears welling up in my eyes, or to go home exhausted everyday without the energy to play with my daughter. So bear with me. I'm trying. I really am.
Thursday, September 8, 2016
A Sh*tty Pair of Sunglasses
trig·ger (triɡər) noun an event or circumstance that is the cause of a particular action, process, or situation.
I hate triggers. They are cruel, heartless, and generally unintentional reminders of an unfortunate past that all too often sneak up on us when we least expect them. Triggers are ruthless little bastards that seemingly come out of nowhere to ruin our day and turn people into quivering masses of jelly and tears. The amazing part of a trigger is that you never know when it will affect you. It could be something that you have seen over and over again on a daily basis, but on that one particular day, it hits you from out of the blue.
A trigger can be in the form of a song that reminds you of a love long lost, it can be a scent in the air that takes you back to a time when your life was not what you had hoped for, or a sensation that leaves you hollow and empty. For people like me that have lost a loved one to suicide, they can be especially harsh, a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick to the face that drops you to your knees and leaves you on the floor of the coaches locker room screaming into a towel to muffle your anguish.
My trigger was a sh*tty pair of convenience store sunglasses. Peyton had found them at a track meet about six months before his death. They were mirrored, Aviator ripoffs that some kid had left behind at the long jump pit. I told him to wear them around in case some one recognized them and wanted them back. He strolled around the whole day with those ridiculous glasses on, and at the end of the day, asked me to put them in my backpack for safe keeping. Since that day, those glasses stayed in my bag. Through the rest of that season it was because I thought I may need them in case I forgot my own sunglasses. Last year, it was because I convinced myself I might need them, but in reality, it was because I couldn't bear the idea of getting rid of them, even after I found a pair of Ray Bans after a meet in Houston. Once the season was over, I hung my back pack on a hook in my locker and left it there over the summer, untouched until last week.
The month of August has been a cornucopia of weather changes here in the Houston area. We ended almost two months of little to no rain with several days of torrential down pours followed by an almost daily chance of isolated thunderstorms, some possibly severe. That meant that the bright blue cloudless sky I saw out of my window at the end of 5th period might be replaced by a downpour of Biblical proportions by the end of 6th, or vice versa.
It was on a day when all looked bleak weather wise that the nature gods took perverse pleasure on the populace. After a morning of rain and gray clouds, the sun came out to heat the Earth and raise not only the temperature, but the humidity, to equatorial levels as well. I had ventured out of the coaches office that day to drop off papers for copies. Having noticed the bright sunlight, I went to the locker room see if my old Ray Bans were still in my track backpack. When I opened up the side pocket, a spray can of sun screen, several pens and pencils, the Ray Bans, and the sh*tty pair of sunglasses fell onto the floor. After a wave of profanity, I bent to pick up the flotsam from the floor. I shoveled most of it back into the side pocket, the Ray Bans were hooked into my collar, and the last thing left were the sh*tty sunglasses. Rather than put them back, I knelt there staring at them. I started to think about how they came to be in my possession, and then the wave hit me. Suddenly, I was flat on my ass on the floor. I tried to hold in the tears, but they came anyway. I scooted across the floor and grabbed a towel from the basket, buried my face, and cried. We're not talking just a few tears, this time, the water works opened and I let them flow. I didn't care, I just needed to let out what had been building for a while. Eventually, I composed myself, picked myself up off the ground, washed my face, and headed back to my day.This is not the first trigger I have dealt with since Peyton's death, but this one floored me.
I have been dealing with triggers since Peyton's death in October of 2014. Whether it was walking past his room, looking at pictures on my phone, going places we had been together, his birthday, the anniversary of his death, seeing his friends growing up, or his sister Emmy ask when she will see him again. I know I am not alone in my grief. There are so many people out there that can no longer live a normal life as they had before the suicide of their loved one. It is little things like triggers that get in their way, that stop them in the middle of a store, oblivious to everyone and everything around them, and leave them dumbfounded. No one asks for this life, but unfortunately, there are far too many living it.
One of the worst for many survivors of suicide is the terminology in today's society. You refer to people that are different as crazy or insane without taking into account that 90% of people that complete suicide are dealing with some sort of mental illness. You make statements such as "I should just kill myself," or "if I were her, I would commit suicide." You make gestures such as shooting yourself in the head (the number one method of suicide) or hanging yourself (number two) When we hear or see you spout such ignorance, we want to scream at you, grab you by the lapels and shake you, and pummel some sense into you. I know you may be thinking "How was I to know that you lost some one?" With an excess of 40,000 suicides in the US each year, and with each death affecting on average six people intimately, there is a good chance that some one in your life, be it a friend, relative, or acquaintance, has been affected.
Just last night, a friend of mine posted to face book about a t-shirt she had seen that depicted a San Francisco Giants fan standing on a chair with a noose around his neck, a Los Angeles Dodgers fan sitting down, eating popcorn and seemingly enjoying it, and the caption reading "Suicide Watch". I had seen similar shirts before on Amazon, and heard the anguished and angry responses of people who has suffered loss, and now I have to hear them again. Seeing this image was a trigger for some, and caused them grief. For others, there was outrage that some one would find this funny.
As I stated earlier, triggers are ruthless little bastards. They have the power to bring a person to their knees. Some are unavoidable because of their personal nature, but others can be avoided. References to suicide and killing one's self as a joke, should become taboo in our society. You would never tell some one they should contract leukemia or heart disease, so why suicide?
I hate triggers. They are cruel, heartless, and generally unintentional reminders of an unfortunate past that all too often sneak up on us when we least expect them. Triggers are ruthless little bastards that seemingly come out of nowhere to ruin our day and turn people into quivering masses of jelly and tears. The amazing part of a trigger is that you never know when it will affect you. It could be something that you have seen over and over again on a daily basis, but on that one particular day, it hits you from out of the blue.
A trigger can be in the form of a song that reminds you of a love long lost, it can be a scent in the air that takes you back to a time when your life was not what you had hoped for, or a sensation that leaves you hollow and empty. For people like me that have lost a loved one to suicide, they can be especially harsh, a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick to the face that drops you to your knees and leaves you on the floor of the coaches locker room screaming into a towel to muffle your anguish.
My trigger was a sh*tty pair of convenience store sunglasses. Peyton had found them at a track meet about six months before his death. They were mirrored, Aviator ripoffs that some kid had left behind at the long jump pit. I told him to wear them around in case some one recognized them and wanted them back. He strolled around the whole day with those ridiculous glasses on, and at the end of the day, asked me to put them in my backpack for safe keeping. Since that day, those glasses stayed in my bag. Through the rest of that season it was because I thought I may need them in case I forgot my own sunglasses. Last year, it was because I convinced myself I might need them, but in reality, it was because I couldn't bear the idea of getting rid of them, even after I found a pair of Ray Bans after a meet in Houston. Once the season was over, I hung my back pack on a hook in my locker and left it there over the summer, untouched until last week.
The month of August has been a cornucopia of weather changes here in the Houston area. We ended almost two months of little to no rain with several days of torrential down pours followed by an almost daily chance of isolated thunderstorms, some possibly severe. That meant that the bright blue cloudless sky I saw out of my window at the end of 5th period might be replaced by a downpour of Biblical proportions by the end of 6th, or vice versa.
It was on a day when all looked bleak weather wise that the nature gods took perverse pleasure on the populace. After a morning of rain and gray clouds, the sun came out to heat the Earth and raise not only the temperature, but the humidity, to equatorial levels as well. I had ventured out of the coaches office that day to drop off papers for copies. Having noticed the bright sunlight, I went to the locker room see if my old Ray Bans were still in my track backpack. When I opened up the side pocket, a spray can of sun screen, several pens and pencils, the Ray Bans, and the sh*tty pair of sunglasses fell onto the floor. After a wave of profanity, I bent to pick up the flotsam from the floor. I shoveled most of it back into the side pocket, the Ray Bans were hooked into my collar, and the last thing left were the sh*tty sunglasses. Rather than put them back, I knelt there staring at them. I started to think about how they came to be in my possession, and then the wave hit me. Suddenly, I was flat on my ass on the floor. I tried to hold in the tears, but they came anyway. I scooted across the floor and grabbed a towel from the basket, buried my face, and cried. We're not talking just a few tears, this time, the water works opened and I let them flow. I didn't care, I just needed to let out what had been building for a while. Eventually, I composed myself, picked myself up off the ground, washed my face, and headed back to my day.This is not the first trigger I have dealt with since Peyton's death, but this one floored me.
I have been dealing with triggers since Peyton's death in October of 2014. Whether it was walking past his room, looking at pictures on my phone, going places we had been together, his birthday, the anniversary of his death, seeing his friends growing up, or his sister Emmy ask when she will see him again. I know I am not alone in my grief. There are so many people out there that can no longer live a normal life as they had before the suicide of their loved one. It is little things like triggers that get in their way, that stop them in the middle of a store, oblivious to everyone and everything around them, and leave them dumbfounded. No one asks for this life, but unfortunately, there are far too many living it.
One of the worst for many survivors of suicide is the terminology in today's society. You refer to people that are different as crazy or insane without taking into account that 90% of people that complete suicide are dealing with some sort of mental illness. You make statements such as "I should just kill myself," or "if I were her, I would commit suicide." You make gestures such as shooting yourself in the head (the number one method of suicide) or hanging yourself (number two) When we hear or see you spout such ignorance, we want to scream at you, grab you by the lapels and shake you, and pummel some sense into you. I know you may be thinking "How was I to know that you lost some one?" With an excess of 40,000 suicides in the US each year, and with each death affecting on average six people intimately, there is a good chance that some one in your life, be it a friend, relative, or acquaintance, has been affected.
Just last night, a friend of mine posted to face book about a t-shirt she had seen that depicted a San Francisco Giants fan standing on a chair with a noose around his neck, a Los Angeles Dodgers fan sitting down, eating popcorn and seemingly enjoying it, and the caption reading "Suicide Watch". I had seen similar shirts before on Amazon, and heard the anguished and angry responses of people who has suffered loss, and now I have to hear them again. Seeing this image was a trigger for some, and caused them grief. For others, there was outrage that some one would find this funny.
As I stated earlier, triggers are ruthless little bastards. They have the power to bring a person to their knees. Some are unavoidable because of their personal nature, but others can be avoided. References to suicide and killing one's self as a joke, should become taboo in our society. You would never tell some one they should contract leukemia or heart disease, so why suicide?
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Dear Stranger: Thank You For The Giant Heart
Like many parents after a long family holiday, I usually welcome the moment when my kids head back to school.- Jose Andres
The first day of school is a bitch. As a teacher, I miss the old days when we would start school on a Wednesday. You could spend the first three days getting all the beginning of the year paper work, get to know you, and other activities out of the way and then you came back Monday and started teaching.
As a parent who lost his son to suicide, it is a bitter reminder that my son is dead and will never have another first day of anything. Yes, I have a step-son and daughter that still have a first day, but it does not replace seeing your first born on the first day. I remember taking off half a day to take Peyton to kindergarten on the first day, and receiving a picture from his mother every year at their annual "First day of School Breakfast". For the last two years, I have had to look on #Timehop to see his last first day.
Needless to say, I spent Monday in a sh*t mood. I avoided Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter for the most part because I didn't want to see all of the pictures that people had posted of their smiling children heading back to school. I was exhausted by night time, went to bed early, and woke up Tuesday morning dreading another day of back to school activities, shortened classes, paperwork, schedule changes, figuring out where to out the students I had no desks for, and the other joys of the first week. I went through my morning routine of a shower, getting dressed, putting on the accursed post surgery walking boot, grabbing my lunch from the fridge, pouring my vat of coffee and heading to work. On the way to work, I had to deal with those that are blinker usage challenged, can't comprehend speed limits, and feel that traffic laws are for suckers. I limped into the building and headed for the work room to check my box (The architects who designed the building are still laughing how they managed to put the teacher boxes in an area where two people walking in the opposite direction cannot pass without turning sideways or gaining intimate knowledge of each other) because you never know what last minute notices, bonus checks, or bite sized Hershey bars might be waiting for you.
On this day, I could see nothing peeking out, so I reached in. I felt something soft and pulled out an enormous heart made from yarn. The heart itself was a larger version of the ones that people make for the #PeytonHeartProject. There was no tag or name on it, I even squatted among the throng of teachers trying to squeeze into the crowd to get a better look, but there was nothing. I took the elevator up to my room, took the obligatory selfie with it, posted it to social media, found the perfect place to hang it above my desk, sat down and lost my sh*t.
People need to understand what it is like to lose a loved one to suicide. Once the initial shock of Peyton's death was over, the world went on spinning for most people. Yes, there were those that mourned along with me, but eventually they went back to their families and lives while I was left to try and make sense of my life. I would drive down the freeway, walk through the mall, or sit in a restaurant and see people laughing, having fun and carrying on without a worry in the world, and I would want to shout, "What the f**k is wrong with you! My son is killed himself and you don't care!" I was feeling that way on Tuesday as adults and kids alike talked about the first day of school. I wanted nothing to do with happy people, but just wanted the day to end so I could go home. Then I got your heart.
I don't think you realize how much a small gesture to a parent who has lost a child, or other loved one, to suicide means. We feel forgotten or avoided. Our loved one didn't fight the good fight against cancer or some other insidious disease. They weren't taken from us by a thoughtless drunk or careless texter. They weren't cut down on the battlefield or in the line of duty. Our loved fought bravely against the demons in their heads, the bullies in the hall, the expectations they couldn't live up to, or the pressures of a life they had never achieved, and they took their own life in order to end the agonizing pain that they were living with. Unfortunately, because of a lack of understanding and education, people brand them as cowards or crazy, and those of us that are left behind feel avoided, shunned, and forgotten. Our friends no longer call, we are kept at a distance, or ignored. Maybe it is because people don't know what to say, maybe it is because the subject of suicide is so taboo, or maybe, because of the lack of understanding, people are afraid that what ever caused our love one to take their lives might be contagious, and now we are infected, and they could be next.
On that day, you let me know that Peyton had not been forgotten, and you let me know that some one cared. That heart will always occupy a special place in my classroom and in my heart. You may be a a teacher, a student, a parent, or none of the afore mentioned. I don't even know if you realized the effect that heart would have on me that day. But I want you to know that some thing so simple meant so much to me on a day I needed it the most, and for that Dear Stranger, thank you.
The first day of school is a bitch. As a teacher, I miss the old days when we would start school on a Wednesday. You could spend the first three days getting all the beginning of the year paper work, get to know you, and other activities out of the way and then you came back Monday and started teaching.
As a parent who lost his son to suicide, it is a bitter reminder that my son is dead and will never have another first day of anything. Yes, I have a step-son and daughter that still have a first day, but it does not replace seeing your first born on the first day. I remember taking off half a day to take Peyton to kindergarten on the first day, and receiving a picture from his mother every year at their annual "First day of School Breakfast". For the last two years, I have had to look on #Timehop to see his last first day.
Needless to say, I spent Monday in a sh*t mood. I avoided Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter for the most part because I didn't want to see all of the pictures that people had posted of their smiling children heading back to school. I was exhausted by night time, went to bed early, and woke up Tuesday morning dreading another day of back to school activities, shortened classes, paperwork, schedule changes, figuring out where to out the students I had no desks for, and the other joys of the first week. I went through my morning routine of a shower, getting dressed, putting on the accursed post surgery walking boot, grabbing my lunch from the fridge, pouring my vat of coffee and heading to work. On the way to work, I had to deal with those that are blinker usage challenged, can't comprehend speed limits, and feel that traffic laws are for suckers. I limped into the building and headed for the work room to check my box (The architects who designed the building are still laughing how they managed to put the teacher boxes in an area where two people walking in the opposite direction cannot pass without turning sideways or gaining intimate knowledge of each other) because you never know what last minute notices, bonus checks, or bite sized Hershey bars might be waiting for you.
On this day, I could see nothing peeking out, so I reached in. I felt something soft and pulled out an enormous heart made from yarn. The heart itself was a larger version of the ones that people make for the #PeytonHeartProject. There was no tag or name on it, I even squatted among the throng of teachers trying to squeeze into the crowd to get a better look, but there was nothing. I took the elevator up to my room, took the obligatory selfie with it, posted it to social media, found the perfect place to hang it above my desk, sat down and lost my sh*t.
People need to understand what it is like to lose a loved one to suicide. Once the initial shock of Peyton's death was over, the world went on spinning for most people. Yes, there were those that mourned along with me, but eventually they went back to their families and lives while I was left to try and make sense of my life. I would drive down the freeway, walk through the mall, or sit in a restaurant and see people laughing, having fun and carrying on without a worry in the world, and I would want to shout, "What the f**k is wrong with you! My son is killed himself and you don't care!" I was feeling that way on Tuesday as adults and kids alike talked about the first day of school. I wanted nothing to do with happy people, but just wanted the day to end so I could go home. Then I got your heart.
On that day, you let me know that Peyton had not been forgotten, and you let me know that some one cared. That heart will always occupy a special place in my classroom and in my heart. You may be a a teacher, a student, a parent, or none of the afore mentioned. I don't even know if you realized the effect that heart would have on me that day. But I want you to know that some thing so simple meant so much to me on a day I needed it the most, and for that Dear Stranger, thank you.
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