How to Be with a Suicidal Friend

View fullsize

I've been truly suicidal twice in my life.  But I've lived with clinical depression most of my adult life.

I was a happy, healthy, well-adjusted kid.  Just ask my parents.  Somewhere around age 30, I got hit with a whole wheelbarrow of emotions, and the tendency to cry when absolutely nothing was wrong.  And it's never left.  This post is not about that.  But you can read about it here.

The first time I was in a place where I could have truly committed the act? It came on suddenly. You NEVER hear that.  There's this idea out there that people who kill themselves have been in the throes of depression (secretly or openly).  I'm here to tell you, THAT is not my experience. I was NOT in a season of melancholy leading up to this night.  I was with friends, and had a moment of feeling acute rejection---which was not detectable to them.  It was a thought which grew into a big, black cloud in a matter of hours.  By the time 2 of them had dropped me off at my apartment, I was swirling in deep, black darkness.  It's tough to even describe, but as surely as I've felt the presence of God----that night the presence of evil wrapped itself around me like the worst kind of blanket, and slowly began to suck the life out of me. 

I was absolutely despondent and filled with a deep sense of hopelessness.  More than anything, I wanted to go and jump in front of the E train which was a few blocks away.  Only sheer exhaustion kept me from doing it.

I'm not going to pretend my experience is the same as everyone else's.  But, besides that night---my first 2 years back in the Northwest?  I prayed every day for God to kill me---or to let me go home, to heaven.  And I entertained suicidal ideation for years---as a way of escape, any time life got tough and for a long time after New York?  Life was always tough.  I've been around the block a few times on the suicide thing.

So here's my best advice on what to say, and NOT to say.

1.  Offer absolute acceptance and love and not one shred of judgment.

If your friend has told you they are suicidal, they are handing you a huge gift of trust.  In the two times I was suicidal---I could not tell a soul.  In fact for me, one of the things which has to be present for me to truly be capable of the act---is I have to feel cut off from my main support system.  Something has gotten in the way of those closest friendships or I wouldn't feel what I feel.

2.  Don't give advice.

The sheer level of grief a suicidal person is experiencing is life draining.  They are exhausted. Having to listen to someone go on and on about how they overcame something or having to hear a person talk down to them (no matter your intentions, this is how it will come across) while pretending to be grateful will drain them further, and make them feel more like a loser.

3.  Listen, listen, listen

Find out what has been happening in their life.  What brought them to this place?   What would give them hope?  What do they feel like they need right now to make life worth living? What are they angry about?  How can you best support them in this time?

4.  Know that talking about suicide is not going to make them more likely to commit it.

If they have opened the door and invited you in, telling you they want to die---they need to talk about it.  They want to talk about it.  Find out how long they have been thinking about it. Find out how they intend to carry it out.  (If they have a plan on how to end their life, stay with them until you feel they are out of danger, or until someone else can be there, especially if they have the means at their disposal to do it.)

5. Help them discover why they want to kill themselves.

In most of my suicide ideation? I am hurt by someone close to me and want revenge.  I want to take my anger out on myself so that whomever I'm mad at will be sad and I'll get even. Sometimes, though---it's just an escape---the same as a movie might be.  Having a "way out" can provide comfort when the pain is sharp.

Some people kill themselves over despair over their future, feeling trapped in an oppressive work environment or relationship.  Some people panic when big world events happen like the stock market crashes. There will always be an element of hopelessness in a suicidal person. The key is finding out what is making them feel that way.  

After you've helped someone figure out why they want to die, gently lead them to alternatives which might accomplish their true goal.  So, for me?  Reminding me of how the person I'm angry with has shown me love would help.  Or reminding me of upcoming events I want to be present for might help.

6. Be real

The two things which made me stop even thinking about suicide are these:

1-I read about all the attempts gone bad.  The internet is full of stories of individuals who tried to kill themselves and the aftermath they now live in.  Turns out?  It's not that easy to do.  And people mess it up ALL THE TIME.  And live maimed the rest of their life.  Scary stuff.

2-It's a hard question theologically.  And not one I suggest you broach with certainty.  But I've come to the personal conclusion that suicide is murder.  And unrepented murder.  I don't want to take a chance on eternity with that on my record.  Scary stuff.

Yes, I would talk to suicidal people about these two things.  It might be the only thing which saves their life.  They might get mad.  But mad energizes.  And energy is good.

7.  Do not take the stance that the person "just wants attention."  

First of all, SO WHAT IF THEY DO?  I have no problem giving the homeless money EVEN if I know they'll use it to drink---because Damn it, if anyone has a right to drink---it's someone with no home!!!! (Most people drink for much less!) If someone is in despair enough to outright ask for attention by saying the "S" word-----WHY WITHHOLD IT?  

Second, being suicidal invites shame.  It is a TOUGH thing to admit out loud even to those close.  People don't throw that word around lightly.  If a person admits to feeling this way, and you have any ounce of love for them (or humanity) take it seriously.  Smother them with love. Where did we ever get this idea that giving someone what they are asking for LOUDLY is less worthy than giving it to them just because???? (Yes, this attitude makes me absolutely crazy.)

Third, most suicidal people are not just wanting attention.  If they are talking about it, then they are thinking seriously about it, and are in deep pain.

8. Keep treating them normal.

After the crisis has passed, be normal.  Don't walk on eggshells around them.  Check in on them, but don't tiptoe.  Ask them for favors.  Make them feel needed.  Tell them your problems. Maybe not the next day, but let them know you still see them as a whole, sane, wonderful person that you love, want in your life, and even need.

Sooner or later, we all encounter people in crisis.  Sooner or later, we all are the person in crisis. We all need one another, and we can all be the friend that comes alongside.

If you're ever feeling suicidal, message me or call me.  

Here's another option I've used from time to time:

http://www.samaritans.org/

Be well, friends.

Alejandrina

I thought she was a boy when I first met her.  She walked into class with careless confidence, wearing a cub scout shirt, and a headband which kept her 2 long braids in place.  She had that free spirit thing going, which has always simultaneously drawn me to a person, and also made me jealous.  

Almost immediately, the teasing and taunting started.  Kids were mean, and no one wanted to be her friend.  I wasn't sure why, except different is bad, and Alejandrina was different.  Unlike the predominantly Alaskan Native class, she was loud, gregarious, and breezy.  She was comfortable in her own skin and as a newcomer, an outsider to a class who had been together since Kindergarten, maybe that was too much.  Our class was not kind to her.

As adults in a politically correct society, we purpose to be good at inclusion and acceptance.  In the church, we teach it and value it and tell ourselves we are good at it. When we invite someone to an event that we might not ordinarily invite, we think we've been inclusive.  When we reach out to someone outside of our circle of friends and bring them into the conversation or the group, we feel good about ourselves, and go to bed without guilt.  Maybe because we did more than others in our group, and so our comparison frees us to feel charitable.

But sometimes I wonder how the Alejandrinas of our workplaces and churches and small groups truly feel.  Do they notice that we are nice to them at church, but never seek their company outside of it?  Do they feel like a project of ours or do they feel loved unconditionally? Are they grateful for any kindness, or do they resent token love which holds a promise of something deeper, but never quite comes to fruition?  Are they grateful for mentorship, but wonder why they aren't good enough just to be our friend?

All of us are "different" in some context.  All of us have been that new person, or the one who sticks out, the one not quite like the others.  That feeling of being the one at odds has a strong effect on the psyche.  Stay too long the outsider, or the dissenter, or the newbie, and you start to wonder what's wrong with you, when in completely different contexts the people who make up the majority might be the "different" ones.  The need to fit in is a strong force, which can crush a spirit if left unfulfilled.

From what my parents tell me, Alejandrina's parents wore the "different" label too. Perhaps their well-traveled lives had been far more diverse than those of ours in isolated SE Alaska.  Perhaps their educational ideas were different than those of the conservative high school where they briefly taught.  Maybe they dressed differently, like their daughter.

My friend Alejandrina's family did not last long in Sitka.  Sadly, they did not last long in this world. Their experience of not being accepted made them easy targets for a group who would accept them, and would include them.  They became a part of the infamous Jonestown cult led by Jim Jones.  We understand they died in Georgetown amongst many others.

I've thought about Alejandrina many times over the years.  I loved everything about her, because she was my complete opposite.  Had we more time, I can just imagine the many adventures we might have had.  If life had given me daughters, one of them would have borne her name.

RIP, friend.  I accepted you.  Our friendship was real.  You mattered in this world and you inspire me still.

---

photo credit: AlexandraGalvis via photopin cc

On Not Giving Up

I started Crossfit two and a half months ago.  It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.  It’s one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done.  There are times I have to force myself to go to “the box”, and once there force myself to keep moving, when every muscle in my body is screaming at me to stop.  There are moves that greatly scare me because they are so counter-intuitive to any way I’ve ever moved my body before.  There are times it’s tough because I get asked more often than I’d like, “Is this your first time?”

By English: Cpl. Jennifer B. Poole [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Every one of us have had things we’ve tried or seasons in our lives which required staying power.  We all have stories of perseverance thru trials which made us stronger, and that taught us lessons which could only be learned by walking thru difficult times.  Crossfit is like that.

My first year of teaching was like that.  I was teaching at a school in the South Bronx, in a neighborhood which Jonathan Kozol, documents in his book, Amazing Grace, as being “the poorest congressional district in the country,” and the police precinct having the highest homicidal and rape rate in the country.

I had 27 second graders, and my most difficult ones, eventually ended up in classes with small class sizes to go with their high needs.  One, whom I’ll call Jontae, had to be entreated to come in on the first day.  Administrators spent 45 minutes coaxing him in.  I quickly learned not to get too physically close to Jontae, unless I wanted to be called Motherfucker and Bitch.  I also learned he had no intention of ever doing what I asked.

One of my little girls was a crack baby.  Tasha was skinny skinny, had a wonderful grandma who did the best she could, but due to the drugs in Tasha’s system when she was born, Tasha had physical as well as emotional challenges.  She was prone to teasing, because of the continual thick green congestion in her nose.  She left piles of torn paper wherever she had been.  But, she was a fiery little girl, who didn’t take anything from anyone and kids learned to leave her alone or face her wrath.

Andina made her entrance to second grade an hour late, coming in, flinging her backpack across the room, shouting, “I don’t wanna be in this stupid class.”  It was one of those moments when you stop and ask yourself, “How exactly did I get here?”

The year ended up holding nearly every experience a typical teacher might have in the course of their careers including events such as: watching a colleague being hauled off to jail on false abuse accusations, being told by a fellow (adult) teacher to move because I was sitting in her seat in the teacher’s lounge, having mice in the classroom, having to turn a class around in the stairwell because someone had defecated in ours—again, placing second grade students as guards watching our outside bulletin board because bands of older students kicked out of their classrooms would rip them down.  The entire school board was forced to resign due to corruption, I had to report the physical abuse of a child and his siblings and then wait 8 hours in a courthouse 300 feet away from the man I was testifying against, only to be told to come back the next day.  There are more stories in that first year than I can tell here, and some belong only to late night conversations after hours of honesty, laughter, and self- disclosure.

If ever it has been true in my life, it was true that first year of teaching: I needed staying power.  I remember sitting in my pastor’s office, wanting to quit, wanting to go home.  It was too hard, I told him.  He and his wife did their best to pour courage into me that evening, but ultimately I returned to the classroom because there was no safety net if I failed.  I had dreamed of NYC and destiny for years.  I could not fail.  It would be giving up everything God had called me to, and the loss of purpose was a cost too great to bear.

So, I drafted a letter to my boss, asking for help, and received it in small measure.  The rest of my year was no easier, and in fact, near the end I fled the classroom one afternoon crying, and our librarian had to watch my group while I recovered.  But I didn’t quit.  I spent 3 more years in the Bronx, and quickly learned classroom management skills which have served me my entire career.  The next year at the same school, I was given one of the toughest boys coming up.  I determined I was going to like him, and he was going to like me. I learned that the secret of really good teaching (like everything else) is being intentional about cultivating good relationships with students, and the harder, the sooner.  Giovanni and I had a great year together, and the Christmas card he gave me is still one of my favorite mementos of teaching.  I learned staying power.

In Biblical Greek, the word for patience is HUPOMONE.  It means “to stay under,” and applied carries the idea of not moving out from under a trial, a circumstance, a season. Hupomone is staying power. 

I’m at a time in my life today and for the past 6 months really, once again in need of Hupomone.  It’s not a story I can share, but it is a culminating battle of life, the kind which calls to arms every skill and victory from the past. It’s a battle begun in childhood, and one I’ve been expecting for a long time.  It demands every ounce of spiritual strength, mental strength, and emotional strength I possess.  In some ways it’s the toughest battle I ever remember fighting, and it’s made tougher because it’s a fight I must fight alone.  I bear huge battle scars already, and it’s difficult to see from my vantage point what ground has been gained, or how much longer the battle must rage on. 

Today, I’m thankful for the battles of the past, because without the strength and faith gained in those scuffles, I surely would have given up on the battlefield already, or just plain walked away and refused to be a warrior any longer, allowing the enemy of our souls to turn me into a bitter one, devoid of hope.

Maybe you are in a similar place.  Lately, I’ve heard of a lot of stories which sound familiar to mine; defining, catastrophic battles that can change a destiny.  Maybe you are in a battle which cannot be shared, maybe you are in an alone season too.  Have hope.  We’ve been training for this all our Christian lives.  We can do this.

Maybe you can’t relate to a word I’ve written, and are questioning my theology.  Be nice anyway, and try not to judge.  Your battle will come, as sure as your Father in heaven loves you. 

One way I endure particularly tough Crossfit WOD’s, is to find the parts of the workout I like and look forward to those parts during the parts I don’t like.  Today the sun is out, and I have dinner plans with some friends.  The battle rages on, but I choose to rejoice.  And I choose to Hupomone. 

Into Every Life

View fullsize

On January 16, 1997 Ennis Cosby, son of Bill Cosby was murdered on a highway in California while changing a tire. That event was significant to me. Being a child of the 80's, I grew up watching The Cosby Show. Before that, I spent hours watching Saturday morning cartoons and Fat Albert. My dad had Bill Cosby albums and I remember listening to them with him as a kid. Bill Cosby was a moral hero to me.

I was living in New York City in 1997, and the news stations were overtaken with the sad story. t was then that I realized that no one is immune from pain. I had watched close friends face tragedy and overwhelming pain. I had watched people I deeply loved divorce, face betrayals, lose life dreams, lose children, lose homes, and face horrific circumstances no one should ever have to face.

ut oddly enough, it was Bill Cosby's public loss which drove the point of universal pain home for me. Theologians have sought to answer the problem of pain since probably our father Adam got kicked out of the garden.  I won't repeat their efforts here.

I have just one point.

Pain produces either mercy or bitterness.

When I see the young and judgmental, or those who operate more in law than grace; when I see harshness in a person, when I see great judgementalness (which can manifest via gossip, or clique-ishness, or snobbery, or harsh preaching, or pointing out other's faults, or self-righteousness or any other number of ways); when I see this, I know the person is positioned for tremendous pain.

know because I've been all of those things. Many days, I still am. And pain has come, to break all of those things off of me.  One purpose of pain is to create mercy and grace in an individual.

Whatever other purposes pain serves in our life, I want to cooperate with it. I want to allow pain to produce compassion and understanding and grace and mercy in my life. If pain makes me bitter, I will only be positioned for more pain.

I don’t know why Bill Cosby lost his son.  Some pain is so great and so horrific that it can’t be explained this side of heaven.  I only know that this seems to be true:  Into every life . . . you know the rest.