My mom and dad were living proof of the stigma of survivors of suicide. Suicide explodes into your life like a giant earthquake and in an instant your whole life is changed. One minute you’re traveling peacefully down the road of life and then the earth opens up. And just like the survivors of a real earthquake, you’re in shock and just existing amongst all the destruction.

And then there’s the social stigma. People didn’t know how to talk to us, we felt like we had leprosy or something. We felt like we were unclean and my mom and dad felt like people were avoiding them because they might catch it. People were uncomfortable about it and thought that talking about it would upset my parents so they didn’t mention it. They didn’t realize they needed to talk about it. Just like an earthquake, huge chunks of unreconciled pain lay scattered in the rubble. If no one’s there to help you pick up the pieces, they just crumble to earth in a pile of dust and that’s what happened to my family, crumbled apart.

I don’t know who wrote this but I have this on a plaque on my wall…"Being available is difficult, because it takes time, but being sensitive to the small amounts of time we can give could reap large rewards in someone's life. It doesn't really matter what we say to comfort people during a time of suffering, it's our concern and availability that count."

I’m sorry I bumped it up but it was bothering me. They told me there are risks, like a stroke, heart attack or even death but they have to say that for liability reasons. It’s just hard seeing it in the real world.

Gosh I’m overly tired. I’m going to call my pdoc and see if I can take a Klonopin and hopefully I’ll calm down and can sleep. Tomorrow’s treatment is early, 9AM and I have to be there an hour early. Not looking forward to going through this again at all.