Today is the last day of National Suicide Prevention Week in the United States of America. September 8-14, 2019.
It’s been quite a week. The stench of death still stings strong in the nostrils of anyone who has read or watched the aftermath of Hurricane Dorian.
On Monday, Pastor Jarrid Wilson kills himself. As a pastor’s wife, I ache for his widow, Juli. Can’t imagine what she is going through—what she will go through as the shock wears off and our world continues swirling though hers stopped cold.
And then there is Wednesday. “9-11” Nearly every post on Facebook is a meme with some image or story reminding Americans of the day their world stopped turning in 2001. My friend Stan changes his profile picture, as he does each 9-11, to the haunting “Falling Man” image. My stomach tightens and I throw up in my mouth a little when I re-see that image— slim young man, head-first-off-a-Twin-Tower, one knee bent, back straight, arms to his sides.
I weep. I don’t know what I feel. Every year it’s the same. The Falling Man is so graceful. So…desperate? Bold? I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I always wonder if it’s suicide or self-preservation-that-ends-in-death. And does it even matter what I wonder? I just look at his image and I ache for him, too. For his family. For the nation that still has PTSD because of what happened that day in New York City. WE WILL NEVER FORGET.
Oh, and Friday. Friday my sister posts on her Instagram @Winter_Can_Wait. That’s nothing unusual. She’s a fab photographer and often posts thought-provoking quotes from famous folks and well-edited images. But, Friday… Friday is different. Friday Winter_Can_Wait makes herself vulnerable. The V-word. Brené Brown would be So. Stinkin’. Proud. I am—and I’m not even a V-word Queen like Brené.
Sis and I text back and forth. She has a vulnerability hangover before she even imbibes in the head-reeling, cold-sweating, heart-racing, home-grown-ale called “Sharing Your Suicide Story.” I encourage her via text message:
Sister! What a piece of writing! Wow!
I remember that.
Couldn’t get to you fast enough.
I’m so thankful you survived.
Please tell me you posted that.
I have not posted it…
…I have never talked about this
or told anyone in all these years.
It is good to get it out.
Good to talk about it.
It was a horrible time.
I will post it on my blog.
I will share and share it!
Would it help someone?
It gives hope.
It NEEDS to be shared.
Do you want to talk about that experience?
What was the catalyst for you to give up?
Feelings of rejection.
I’m so very, very sorry.
And I sucked as a sister
during those years.
I loved you.
But I was too far away.
No, don’t be sorry.
It has all made me who I am
and has led me to my purpose.
Have you posted yet?
Having second and fifth thoughts about sharing it.
Post your poem.
Makes me feel nauseated.
So many judgers and haters!
I know. I know.
I am being Jonah –
running from what God has called me to do.
You can do it!
That was 30 years ago.
The raw pain.
The fresh writing.
The healing that comes
from releasing all of that.
It’s a real struggle.
One can easily be in a black hole.
I wrote a whole book about it, remember?
I feel sick.
Are u sure?
I am posting.
I might be
It’s going to be okay.
Healing comes when we share.
When we tell our story,
When we are heard,
When we help others heal.
This is huge.
This is the biggest thing I’ve ever shared.
It’s Suicide Prevention Week.
People are already seeing my post!
It’s out there.
Let the healing begin…
I am flapping.
And then the likes and comments begin:
“This is the most powerful and reality-based image and words. Oh my…stopped in my tracks by you…”
“Huge courage…I better understand the “light” you strive to shine
…if this helps but one person this share will be priceless.”
And now today, 213 likes and 57 comments later:
“…Your post from yesterday kept going through my head.
I’m a big fan of losing the stigma of psychic illness,
was so proud of you to reach out and show your vulnerable true self.
I was truly touched, again,
thanks so much for sharing and showing that you, I, we are not alone.”
I’m proud of my sister. Proud of God’s power to pull us out of black holes. Proud of the way the Holy Spirit works with our wounded, abused, neglected, abandoned, tender, vulnerable hearts.
I watched a TED Talk https://youtu.be/PY9DcIMGxMs about how the opposite of addiction is connection. The enemy of our souls works endlessly to isolate us, to disconnect us—from God, from one another. Once the wounded are separated from the pack, we are easy prey for all kinds of soul-destroying activities and substances, and the evil spirits that latch onto the vulnerable, including the haunting spirit of suicide.
Kris Vallaton says this in his latest blog post, How to Overcome a Spirit of Suicide. https://krisvallotton.com/fight-suicidal-thoughts/
“I’d like to propose that it is not in your nature to want to destroy your life and the very thought of it comes from the devil. Self-preservation is built into every creature God created! It is not your nature to want to destroy yourself!”
We were created to live forever. With sin came death. But with the death of Jesus Christ came life! Say this aloud, and put your name right in there.
“For God so loved_____________that He gave His one and only Son. If I believe in Him, I will not perish, but I will have eternal life.” John 3:16
That’s God’s promise. It was His promise for every hurricane victim, for Jarrid Wilson, for the Falling Man, for my Sis as a teenager, and for you and me today. Live loved, my friend. LIVE! You are so LOVED!
I was 16
The winter snow was still on the ground
in patches. Slushy. Muddy.
Everything was darkness.
I couldn’t climb out, I couldn’t see out, I couldn’t feel, I couldn’t see anything… nothing.
Cold and numb I opened the bottle.
I choked down a handful…
“How many did you take? How many?!!!”
They screamed. They whispered. The harsh tone scolded. Was it worry or disdain?
Questions, accusations, nothing even mattered. Nothing.
“We have to pump her stomach.”
Shivering, shaking, vomiting.
So cold. So dark.
“I don’t want to be here.
I don’t want to be anywhere.
Nobody wants me. Nobody sees me. Invisible.
I am nobody. I mean nothing.”
“You can’t go back to your school now.”
“Where’s your mother?” Where is your closest family member?” “Do you have a parent here? In the states?” ((Does anyone want you?)) Do you have a number we can call?”
White sheets. Vomiting.
“Here’s another one.”
Clip board. White coats.
So cold. Shivering. Shaking
“Attempted suicide. Pills”
Questions. More and more questions.
Doctors. Therapists. Nurses.
24 hour supervision.
No possessions. Nothing sharp.
Not even a pen…
It gets better.
You do matter.
Someone sees you.
Someone hears you.
You are not alone.
There is light even when
You can’t see it.
It’s inside of you.
Stay here. You are
Wanted. You are welcome.
You are enough. I will never
Judge you. You are safe.
Talk to someone.
My name means something.
My story matters.
I am here.
Tell me about my trauma.