Читать книгу Emotionally Naked - Anne Moss Rogers - Страница 15

 Trigger Warning: Suicide method mentioned briefly

It was June 5, 2015, in Virginia—a warm day, but I was cold and shivering as I sat in the back of a police car in a parking lot. My husband was in the front passenger seat. The officer, dressed in a nicely tailored gray suit and yellow tie, made a quarter turn in the driver's seat so he could see both of us. On some other day, I would have thought him handsome.

“I have some sad news to share. Your son Charles has been found dead this morning… .” An electric shock surged though my body and air was siphoned out of my lungs. When my breathing recovered and my lungs remembered what to do, soul-crushing wails of agony and loss erupted. My chest burned, my ears filled with noise, and my mind was watery and unhinged as the unspeakable tragedy that forever changed our lives was delivered in a single sentence.

Moments later, my husband, Randy, paused and asked, “How did he die?” For some reason, this question stunned me. I thought, How do you think he died? He was addicted to heroin, for God's sake. I was prepared to hear “overdose.” But instead the officer said, “He hanged himself,” and my husband banged his fists on his lap and the glove box, wailing in inexplicable emotional pain as I stared at his explosion in shock, unable to move. The statement by the officer dangled in the air outside of my consciousness, trying to get in while confusion and denial obstructed its path. My first instinct was to find the escape route from the agony and slide into another life that was shiny and happy. Rocking back and forth and wailing guttural, inhuman sounds, I had the primal urge to grab the edges of yesterday and bring it back so we could do the day over and achieve a better outcome. We love him. How could he kill himself? I didn't understand why suicide and it would be a long time before I would.

There was an immediate and desperate longing in my soul for one more hug. My irrational disbelief that this couldn't be true curled around the edges of my trauma and the raw, naked pain of losing my son was forever imprinted on my soul. Bits and pieces of information floated about, screaming their importance with no place to land, only to be retrieved later when my mind had the ability to absorb them and put the pieces together.

I am the mother of a child who killed himself.

Struggling to make Charles's life count, I spent five months after his death writing a newspaper article about my family's tragedy that went viral, creating an audience for my newly minted blog, Emotionally Naked^®. This is where I wrote in my public journal to work through my grief. Eighteen months later, my business partner and I sold our successful digital marketing company and I became an author and an emotionally naked speaker on subjects few want to talk about.

Charles was complex, adorable, frustrating, hilarious, effervescent, electric, charming, eccentric, and a creative genius. From the time he came into the world to the time he left, his presence was all-consuming. He pushed boundaries past comfortable, questioned everything, and was relentless and persistent when he wanted something. When Charles waltzed in, the fun had arrived. Faces brightened, bodies turned toward him like he brought the sunshine in his pocket and he was there to hand it out. He was one of those bigger-than-life personalities who exceeded his allotment of space on earth despite his six-foot-two, 130-pound frame. Charles was the younger of my two sons, the funniest, most popular kid in school. Yet this funniest, most popular kid suffered from depression in middle school, and by high school was misusing drugs and alcohol to numb feelings of suicide we never knew about. His substance misuse led to deeper depression and an addiction to heroin, and he took his life while going through withdrawal.

Connection was Charles's gift and he demonstrated it over and over. No child ever entered his school and sat alone at lunch or felt friendless. He was the first to make new kids feel welcome. And given his popularity, that attention was like a social promotion.

It was a teacher who first suggested my child might be suffering from depression. It was a teacher who stars in one of my favorite photos of Charles (Figure P.1). And it was a teacher who wrote me the kindest, most heartfelt note after he died by suicide. My son's education shaped his writing and encouraged daily journal entries—a habit that evolved into his writing hundreds of hip-hop-style rhyme schemes that offered me a window into his tortured, artistic soul after his death. It was those notebooks he left behind that helped me understand the why behind his suicide. Some of these lyrics were included in my first book, Diary of a Broken Mind: A Mother's Story, a Son's Suicide, and the Haunting Lyrics He Left Behind.

Figure P.1 Charles on Homecoming Court, escorted by his favorite teacher, Kerry Fretwell.

While there are precious memories from his school days, there were horror stories, too. Zero-tolerance policies and rigid school administrators who defaulted to punitive measures perpetuated my youngest son's feelings of worthlessness, and unnecessary suspensions caused frustrating setbacks to his fragile progress with depression. Misunderstanding shaped their authoritarian responses when what was needed was empathy and compassion.

After students leave school, they rarely remember their test scores. They remember their interaction and experiences with peers, teachers, administrators, teammates, band leaders, school counselors, principals, drama teachers, janitors, bus drivers, cafeteria staff, librarians, school nurses, and coaches. Schools have something few other environments have, and that's opportunity for genuine human connection, which has gotten lost in the digital age. This is the most valuable currency in our universe today and a foundation for emotional wellness.

After Charles died, a young woman who suffered from depression reached out and told me a story that happened in high school. On one particular day, the dark fog of depression moved in and took her motivation hostage, but she made a Herculean effort to get out of bed and go to school. Later that day, she and her friends stood chatting in the hallway between classes. She was struggling to hold onto her mask of a clown, looked up, and was stunned to see Charles staring right at her. She said she knew Charles, since everyone did. But they had never met and she didn't know he knew her. As soon as eye contact was returned, my son walked towards her, stopped about two feet away, and broke out into a rap song he created on the spot, just for her (also known as freestyling). She and her friends were shocked at first but soon burst out laughing.

When he finished his song, he bent over, hugged her, and said, “Pretty girls shouldn't look so sad,” and then made his way down the hall. She told me she had never experienced such kindness and it was a moment she tucked away in her mental library of precious memories.

While I will always miss my son's beautiful curly hair and his sense of humor, his tall, skinny hugs and the way he altered his voice when he greeted his dog, what I miss most was his capacity for love. In a world where no one has time to listen, he did. In a disconnected world where no one has time to connect, he made time. As talented and funny as he was, this was his greatest gift—letting other people know they mattered. That is the legacy I carry forward in my son's name. And that is why today, educators invite me into their classrooms and auditoriums to share our family's story, the coping strategies that helped me find emotional healing, and the workshop that helps kids become aware of what defines healthy and unhealthy coping skills.

Many people ask me how I can work with suicide prevention and loss every day after losing a child to this cause of death. My answer is that the universe pushed me towards it. And even after the most devastating loss of my life, I have hope. Because more people survive thoughts of suicide than act on them. And your help and mentorship can prevent tragedy by integrating innovative strategies and small culture shifts in your classes that facilitate connection and healthy coping strategies. You have the relationships. And the goal of this book is to nurture those relationships, empower you with the tools and education to spot students at risk, listen, and introduce them to the next level of care.

There are days when I do want to give up this cause because it's like pushing a spiked ball uphill in a driving snowstorm. But then I get letters from students after a presentation and it reinforces my resolve and rekindles my passion to keep doing what I'm doing.