Caution - Volunteering for the PTA May Cause Suicide!

This past Thursday started out just like any other day, but by noon things were steadily going down hill. I drove to Stamford for a lunchtime meeting and found a parking spot on the street, behind another car. When I got out of the car I noticed a sign on the street that made me question whether I was parked legally. There was a parking lot right in front of the building where I was headed, so I hopped backed in my car to move it, just to be on the safe side. I turned the key in the ignition, and...nothing. I tried again - nothing. My meeting was starting, so I left the car and headed into the building. I'd deal with the car after the meeting.

The meeting was scheduled to run two hours, but I left after an hour and a half so that I could deal with my car. On my way out of the building, I phoned Triple A.  We agreed it was likely a dead battery. They would get to me within 45 minutes and give me a jump start. If I was lucky, I'd still make it back to work in time for my 3 pm meeting.

I got into my car while I waited for Triple A and decided to give the engine one more try. I turned the key in the ignition and, reluctantly, the car started. Yahoo! I called back Triple A and canceled the service call, phoned my office to cancel my 3 pm meeting, and then drove directly to a garage around the corner from my house.

The garage didn't have the size battery I needed in stock, but they called to have one delivered and assured me that delivery time was usually under 15 minutes. An hour and half later the battery finally arrived and a few minutes after that I was on my way. By now, it was nearly time to pick Sarah up at school after field hockey practice, so I dashed home, let the dogs out quickly, checked my email, put the dogs back in their crates and then headed out again.

On my way to the car, I saw the mailman pulling away from our mailbox, so I quickly collected our mail, and then hopped into the car. There were only two pieces of what I call "real mail" - mail that is not a bill or a catalog.  I could tell from the return address that one was from friends of ours and was probably a birth announcement. The other piece was more mysterious. It was addressed solely to me in what I would describe as youthful handwriting and there was no return address. I wondered if it could be from a friend of Emma's. I have really enjoyed seeing and hearing from her friends over these past three years, so with some happy anticipation, I tore open the envelope before starting the car.

When I looked inside the envelope, I saw a newspaper clipping which I immediately recognized as the CT Post article that I had been interviewed for three months ago. Tucked inside that clipping was a note that said, "Maybe if you spent more time with your kids instead of running PTAs your family would not have suffered this unspeakable tragedy. Family first!" The exclamation point had a little heart where the period should be.

I shoved the note back into the envelope and threw the envelope onto the floor of the car. I'm not sure I was breathing. I was completely in shock. I had to get Sarah, so I turned on the car and headed for Milford, but before I had gotten very far I burst into tears. I knew I shouldn't make the drive in that condition, so I frantically began calling Peter. I reached him within a few minutes and he packed up quickly and headed for Milford, urging me to call a friend when I got back home. He was angry and worried and clearly felt helpless.

Consciously and subconsciously I have dreaded a moment like that for most of the last three years. I know that families are often blamed for suicide deaths and there was no reason to believe we would be immune to that. When the CT Post reporter left a message for me saying that she wanted to interview me for an article about teen suicide, I hesitated before calling her back. Maybe I didn't need to open myself up to criticism and backlash. There's a saying, though: 'Be the change you want to see." If I wanted to see a world in which the myths that surround suicide are shattered, and where those who suffer  and survivors of suicide loss feel free to seek help and support without shame or stigma, I had to help build that world. Telling my story is the first step.
 
Over the last few days, as a result of receiving that hateful note,  I have struggled with two competing emotions: wanting to vociferously defend my track record as a parent, on the one hand; and wanting to curl up under a rock and hide, on the other.  The first is not an option. The author of that note didn't have the courage to sign his/her message. I don't have the option of facing my accuser. Curling up under a rock is not an option either. I have another child and that child needs her mother. A few days after Emma died, my very wise and very strong, Sarah,  looked me and Peter in the eyes and said, "We are not going to let this destroy us." For the last three years we have worked really hard to carry on, remember Emma, use our gifts, and stay strong - together; because that is what families do.

If you would like to help us prevent suicide, please join us for the Out of the Darkness Walk on Saturday, October 27th at Sherwood Island. You can join or contribute to Team Emma by clicking here.

Underestimating the Foe - The Denial of Depression

So many times, the stories that are published in the media after the death by suicide of a high profile person exacerbate the public's misunderstanding of suicide. Too often when the media asks the "why" question, they focus on the potential triggers that were perceptible to the outside world, and neglect to look for the root cause which, for 90% of the people who die by suicide, is depression or some other form of mental illness. Here's a link to an important commentary by Dominique Browning that, in my estimation, gets it right:

Mary Richardson Kennedy - The Denial of Depression