I've done a lot of reading about suicide over the past 2+ years, but I have read little that has struck a chord with me more than a recent column by Michael Landsberg, a Toronto sportscaster. I encourage you to read it.
One of the myths about depression that Landsberg takes on is that depressed people always look like those mopey, energy-less people in commercials for antidepressants. They don't. Those commercials are a real disservice to high functioning people with depression whose very serious illness isn't recognized or is minimized because they don't look the part.
Click here to read Landsberg: His Depression and his Friend, Wade Belak
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
September 11th Anniversary
It seems almost impossible to reflect on the events of September 11, 2001 without thinking about where you were and what you were doing when you first heard the news of the terrorist attacks. The world changed for Americans in important ways that day, and so I suppose it's natural to focus on the turning point; that moment when you crossed into a new reality.
I was just settling into work when I heard the news of the first plane crash. Emma was in fourth grade and Sarah had just started kindergarten. As the day began, I thought that adjusting to a new reality meant adjusting to the fact that both my babies were now in school. I was still feeling pangs of emotion as I watched them both climb the steps into the school bus that morning. It was a welcome distraction to be able to head right off to work and focus on something else.
But I was not to get that opportunity on the morning of September 11, 2001. A colleague was listening to the radio and almost as soon as I arrived at work she began coming out into the hallway to report news in confusing, chaotic snippets: a plane crash; an explosion at the Twin Towers; a plane has hit the Twin Towers; and another; an explosion at the Pentagon. At first it was unclear what was happening or whether it was related. The world just seemed to be spinning out of control.
I'm not sure when I personally integrated all those separate news snippets into an understanding of what unfolded that day. I know that that morning I was only absorbing the chaos and devastation that was erupting in lower Manhattan. I remember my colleague coming into the hallway to report that the first tower had fallen. I was sitting at my desk and the tears welled up in my eyes. Another colleague poked her head in and saw me crying. Are you okay? Are you worried about someone? I'm sure my emotions were more tangled than this, but all I could say by way of explanation was, "I know that there are children at my kids' school who have just lost a parent."
And then I struggled with what to do for my own kids. I wanted desperately to see them, to hug them, to reassure them that everything was okay; but I also knew that they were exactly where they should be: in school, proceeding happily through a normal school day - as long as that was really what was happening. I called the school and, not unexpectedly, had trouble getting through. I was struggling to contain my own anxiety as I continued to call. I didn't want my kids to be left alone in a school that had been cleared out because of panic. I decided to head to the school and see for myself what was happening there.
When I got to the school I was very reassured. Somehow the teachers and administrators were managing to proceed through the day normally. Some children had been picked up by parents, but most remained. The children who remained knew nothing of what had unfolded that morning. It would be our job to explain that to them in the days and weeks ahead. Truth be told, none of us really understood what had happened at that point. We were shocked and bewildered, and more scared than our kids needed to know.
It was late afternoon before I was able to speak to Peter. He was relieved to know that the girls had had a normal day and were playing happily. He had had the difficult job of containing his emotion and leading his students through a normal day and was exhausted. He told me he might get home late. He had volunteered to stay late at school while they sorted through plans for various students. They knew they had kids who had parents who worked in the Twin Towers, even one family that had both parents working in the Towers. They were scrambling to make contact so that they could be sure no child was sent home to an empty house. I cried again.
Peter reminds me that the next evening our neighborhood, like neighborhoods all over the country, held a candlelight vigil at dusk. As we strolled through the streets with candles, it was Emma who first piped up in song, and with her brave little voice leading the way, the rest of us joined in singing songs of hope and compassion.
Ten years ago, as I struggled to comprehend the shock, trauma and devastation felt by those who lost a loved one in 9/11 I would have used the expressions that many of us use when we are not personally touched by a tragedy: "I can only imagine'" or "I can't even begin to imagine." But now, having lost my precious Emma in a shocking, traumatic and devastating way, I can well imagine - not know, but definitely imagine. And it makes this anniversary all the more real and emotional.
It's uncanny how often people who are reflecting on September 11, 2001 talk about the kind of day it was. The weather was picture perfect. It was sunny with a cloudless blue sky and unnaturally still air. June 17th, 2009 started out the same way: sunny, warm, and a beautiful blue sky over head. There was nothing on either day that hinted at the devastation that was unfolding.
It makes me appreciate the rain. Sometimes it just feels more honest.
I was just settling into work when I heard the news of the first plane crash. Emma was in fourth grade and Sarah had just started kindergarten. As the day began, I thought that adjusting to a new reality meant adjusting to the fact that both my babies were now in school. I was still feeling pangs of emotion as I watched them both climb the steps into the school bus that morning. It was a welcome distraction to be able to head right off to work and focus on something else.
But I was not to get that opportunity on the morning of September 11, 2001. A colleague was listening to the radio and almost as soon as I arrived at work she began coming out into the hallway to report news in confusing, chaotic snippets: a plane crash; an explosion at the Twin Towers; a plane has hit the Twin Towers; and another; an explosion at the Pentagon. At first it was unclear what was happening or whether it was related. The world just seemed to be spinning out of control.
I'm not sure when I personally integrated all those separate news snippets into an understanding of what unfolded that day. I know that that morning I was only absorbing the chaos and devastation that was erupting in lower Manhattan. I remember my colleague coming into the hallway to report that the first tower had fallen. I was sitting at my desk and the tears welled up in my eyes. Another colleague poked her head in and saw me crying. Are you okay? Are you worried about someone? I'm sure my emotions were more tangled than this, but all I could say by way of explanation was, "I know that there are children at my kids' school who have just lost a parent."
And then I struggled with what to do for my own kids. I wanted desperately to see them, to hug them, to reassure them that everything was okay; but I also knew that they were exactly where they should be: in school, proceeding happily through a normal school day - as long as that was really what was happening. I called the school and, not unexpectedly, had trouble getting through. I was struggling to contain my own anxiety as I continued to call. I didn't want my kids to be left alone in a school that had been cleared out because of panic. I decided to head to the school and see for myself what was happening there.
When I got to the school I was very reassured. Somehow the teachers and administrators were managing to proceed through the day normally. Some children had been picked up by parents, but most remained. The children who remained knew nothing of what had unfolded that morning. It would be our job to explain that to them in the days and weeks ahead. Truth be told, none of us really understood what had happened at that point. We were shocked and bewildered, and more scared than our kids needed to know.
It was late afternoon before I was able to speak to Peter. He was relieved to know that the girls had had a normal day and were playing happily. He had had the difficult job of containing his emotion and leading his students through a normal day and was exhausted. He told me he might get home late. He had volunteered to stay late at school while they sorted through plans for various students. They knew they had kids who had parents who worked in the Twin Towers, even one family that had both parents working in the Towers. They were scrambling to make contact so that they could be sure no child was sent home to an empty house. I cried again.
Peter reminds me that the next evening our neighborhood, like neighborhoods all over the country, held a candlelight vigil at dusk. As we strolled through the streets with candles, it was Emma who first piped up in song, and with her brave little voice leading the way, the rest of us joined in singing songs of hope and compassion.
Ten years ago, as I struggled to comprehend the shock, trauma and devastation felt by those who lost a loved one in 9/11 I would have used the expressions that many of us use when we are not personally touched by a tragedy: "I can only imagine'" or "I can't even begin to imagine." But now, having lost my precious Emma in a shocking, traumatic and devastating way, I can well imagine - not know, but definitely imagine. And it makes this anniversary all the more real and emotional.
It's uncanny how often people who are reflecting on September 11, 2001 talk about the kind of day it was. The weather was picture perfect. It was sunny with a cloudless blue sky and unnaturally still air. June 17th, 2009 started out the same way: sunny, warm, and a beautiful blue sky over head. There was nothing on either day that hinted at the devastation that was unfolding.
It makes me appreciate the rain. Sometimes it just feels more honest.
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