TMI, in Honor of World Suicide Prevention Day

While I was pregnant with my fifth, the whole world fell apart. Some nut jobs flew planes into the twin towers and the Pentagon. People started getting envelopes with anthrax. My girl scout co-leader staged a coup. ("Good news! We have enough girls from our school to start our very own troop!") The city came into my home under the guise of a rehab loan to insulate our ceiling and get a safe water heater, and decided that a third of my home had been built illegally and needed to come down. I already was experiencing my usual pregnancy depression, and things went south from there. I couldn't take it. I didn't want to take it. Thoughts of death filled my every spare thought. I wanted to die with every iota of myself.

It was obvious that I needed to get back on anti-depressants. I'd gone off mine because I didn't want the extra risks for the pregnancy, but the truth was that suicide was 100% deadly to a fetus. The benefits clearly outweighed the risks. I happened to have insurance at that point so I called Kaiser to get an appointment with a therapist and/or psychiatrist. They asked basic questions to ascertain whether I was planning on killing myself. I knew that a yes to any of those questions would result in a "5150," an involuntary stay at a psych hospital. My kids were 10, 8, 5, and 3 at the time. Where would they go?  The only possible answer: "No, I am not going to kill myself." The Kaiser employee, having determined that she didn't need to send the police to save me, scheduled me for the next available appointment, four months from then. Four months. Luckily, I got into my primary care physician after only a month for an SSRI. I just "talked back to the crazy" while I waited.

My crazy brain thought of caulking myself and the kids into the kitchen and having a "movie, ice cream and pizza party" while the gas was on, and I told the crazy brain to SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP, I'd ponder snow camping and freezing to death, and I told myself that it wouldn't work and to SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. Envying people with cancer, wishing for a meteorite to take me and my house out, hoping for a deadly car accident, all were greeted with my standard SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. Never underestimate the power of telling the horrid thoughts no. It got me through while I waited for help.

Eventually, I got my SSRI and I started meeting with the Kaiser therapist, a kind of crappy therapist actually. It was enough to keep my domino up. Kaiser eventually got me in to see a psychiatrist and she was a delight. I later found a private therapist who was willing to do phone therapy with me and I worked hard to find my joi de vivre again. The meds stopped the death thoughts. The therapy gave me tools to deal with the emotions that come with life's trials. I was out of my house for fifteen months with a young family. It sucked in the biggest possible way, but I stayed alive. And I got better.

My husband later told me that while crazy me and sane me were fighting it out in my brain, I was calmer than usual and easier to get along with. He couldn't tell that I was on the edge of the abyss. I was running girl scout meetings and interviewing contractors and meeting with midwives and homeschooling and wanting to die with every iota of my being. I talked to some of my closest friends about it. I talked to my husband about it. They all knew I was stressed, but they didn't know how tempted I was. How close I was. Even though I was saying it, they weren't seeing it.

One of my closest friends saw it. She was similarly tempted. She and I made a living pact, similar to a suicide pact, with a happier outcome. The image of the line of dominoes falling and standing strong to hold up the dominoes that depended on me came from this pact of ours.  If I were to kill myself, people would be affected. Period. A lot of people.

I don't say this because I am immensely popular. I say it because when Carla jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, it affected me. We weren't close, but she was my friend. She bought cookies from my girl scouts. She was a Pampered Chef host for me. We'd talked about life, parenting. I say it because when the daughter of one of my best friends from college took her life a few weeks ago, when the sweet girl from my first married ward and sister of my good friend killed herself last week, those deaths affected me. When they died, my domino took a hit, a big hit. Every domino that falls hits so many others. Some we would never suspect. I do not want to knock other people's dominoes over.

I'm not blaming people who kill themselves. Depression is a real illness.When people kill themselves they are not being selfish. They are being sick. Their brain chemicals and their hormones are out of whack. When I started taking the SSRI, my death thoughts stopped. I didn't have to shut them up. They went away because my chemical imbalance was being corrected. It wasn't magic. I had to try several different kinds of SSRIs and fiddle with the dosages with my doctor, but it worked. I'm healthier.

I'm not sharing all this for a big pity party or a love-on-Jami-fest.  I'm sharing it because I know right now there's someone doing all the stuff they are supposed to be doing while envisioning their own death, while googling painless suicide methods, while trying to figure out how to do it with the least amount of harm to those left behind. I'm begging those people to stay, to please get help, even though it all seems insurmountable.

There are happy days ahead even if you can't imagine them now. Believe me. Believe all of the survivors before you. Please seek help. For every time I've thought that life was hopeless and there was no point in going on, I've had a dozen where I experienced peace and joy that I would not have happened if I'd given up. It's not all fields of daisies, but it's do-able with moments of delight.

Those of you who are supporting someone who is tempted by suicide, I need to tell you that if they decide they are going to kill themselves no amount of following them around and trying to fix it will stop them. This is their battle. BUT you can help. You can be there. You can not judge. You can not make it worse by making it about you. You can not give up on them. There are many resources (some conflicting) that you can explore, including seeking therapy on your own. Here's a nice starting point.

For those of you who are on the edge, have been on the edge or might be on the edge in the future,  I give you one of the best self care lists I've ever run into.  Seriously, click on it and try a few of the things. I also give you the number to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255. Also I remind you that no one can be you. Not to your kids or your friends. Not to your mom or dad. Not to your mail carrier. You are the only you that is ever going to be and you are precious. Please stay with us. Stay to experience those bright moments of joy that will surely come. Stay to someday hold the hand of someone else who wants to die. Don't buy the lie that it won't get better. It will. Don't buy the lie that we'd be better off without you. We won't be. Stay. Please.

Just Whining

Speaking to me is a bit risky these days. I burst into tears without warning. Not without reason, just without warning. Wanna talk about my mom's cancer? Leakage. Wanna talk older children's testimonies? Shaky voice. Tears. Snot. How's about the homeschooling of my special daughter? Bewildered look. Quivering lip. A muttered mention of an upcoming appointment with the pediatric neurologist which might (or might not) yield helpful information.

New charter school for three of the kids? Good for two. Pretty unpleasant for one. It's likely I can get through that subject with a totally calm face. But don't ask how I'm feeling. Don't ask how my husband's business is going. Or how the finances are coming along. Definitely don't ask how all these stressors affect my poor husband.

How's the rheumatoid arthritis? Better, thanks. Yay, I can hold a convo on that one. The weather? It's been strange lately, don't you think? As long as I stay away from anything that I need to talk about I can talk. Ironic, no?

I've taken to ditching Sunday School for the family history library. (Dead folks ask no questions. If they're rejecting the gospel, they are keeping it to themselves. There's not a thoughtless comment among them.) At home (in between dealing with all of that weepy stuff) I've planted my butt in front of the twenty-some odd seasons of Star Trek in all it's mind-numbing diversity.

The bishop wants to meet with Sam and I to talk. I can't think of anything I'd rather do less than cry for the bishop, but I can't even manage to say that without crying. Maybe I can pull off the first lady adoring gaze at my husband while pondering peaceful fields of wildflowers. I don't have a good hat, but I still think I can do it. Sam can field the questions.

But then again the bishop might just be asking us to work in the nursery. He's a nice guy; I'm sure it'll be fine. Tearful, but fine.

I Need More

I think I may need an adjustment on my anti-depressants. I'm hoping that doubling the dosage will bring the excellent mood lift that the current dosage used to bring.



We may need to move to the half-gallon, but if that doesn't work I may have to take drastic measures to restore my equilibrium.

Not to Whine or Anything

Here I find myself, several weeks into a bout of writer's block that is not a matter of having nothing to say, but rather a matter have only grumpy things to say. I keep trying to wait out the crap until I have something cheerful to say, but I've decided that I won't find cheerfulness by allowing myself to fill to the brim with doom. Perhaps a little purging will help.

I just need to list the stuff that has happened in my neighborhood. 

1.  On a gorgeous Spring day about three weeks ago, my next-door neighbor (a truly nice guy) died in front of my house. He slumped over in his little scooter right in front of my driveway. I'm glad he was out and about, because he loved the open air. Still...
2. Early Sunday morning somebody knocked on a neighbor's front door. As the neighbor was unlocking the door,  a gun was fired through the closed door. The refrigerator next to door stopped the bullet from continuing into the front room where the children lay sleeping. It's one of those places where a dozen people are shoved into 500 sq ft. And people come and go all hours of the day and night. It was about something, but everyone has a different version of what that something was. Maybe race. Maybe drugs. Maybe a woman. Maybe revenge. No telling really.
3. Across the street we've got another place with a dozen people in it. They're dealing meth. 
   
4. On the other side of my house, the house has been "empty" for a few months. The guys who were living there had never paid any rent, other than the original deposit. They didn't speak and were rather secretive. Kind of creepy really. I wasn't sad when they were evicted. But I was sad when I found out that a variety of homeless druggies have been squatting in the place while it's been empty. It does look like a nice couple is moving in now. The mom works for the property management company that has been hired to clean up the crazy mess.
   
5. Just past that house is our neighborhood convicted rapist who has paid his debt to society. He's a friendly fellow. He likes to give the kids ice cream and dollar bills.
   
6. Just past him is the house that was raided about six months back by fifteen police officers with riffles and bulletproof vests. Immigration issues.
   
7. The teenyboppers/Serrano gang members wander up and down our street, swearing at each other. We've got a little graffiti here, a pair of shoes hanging on the telephone wires there. It's charming. Adds that je ne sais quoi.
   

And I am stuck here. Yes, I could let the bank repossess the house. Yes, I could move to some cheaper part of the country with no job, no savings. Seems like a bad plan though. Anyhow, thanks for listening: I just needed to spew.

Jerry Springer Strikes Again

Well, in an effort to improve my blog traffic I arranged for a little event yesterday. My neighbor lost his mind. Now that doesn't happen every day. Oh, come on! Doesn't that make you want to click over here just a little bit?

It was a dark and stormy morning. [Really, I'm not making that up.] As I was lying down with my baby at nap time, a huge crunch disturbed our peace. The unmistakable crumpling crunchy thud of fiberglass and metal hitting something very solid. I bolted out of bed and ran to the window. Not a thing. Moments later J came running in, "Where's the phone? A van just crashed. In front of the neighbor's house, into their tree."

How fast can a woman dial 911? Pretty darn fast. I reported the accident and ran out to see if anyone needed help. The van had hit the tree alright. Hard. But the airbag had not deployed and there was no one to be seen anywhere.

Curious and concerned, I approached the front door. Much screaming and swearing greeted me. A fight was clearly in progress. I tentatively knocked. As fools rush in where angels fear to tread, I knocked harder.

The door opened and Little T and Baby A peeked out. "Hi Jami. Where's V?" L.T. said as if there wasn't a car wrapped around their tree and lunatic raving in the living room.

"Hi dude. Is your mom here?"

M rounded the corner, calm, resolute. "Hi, Jami."

"Um, are you OK?"

"No."

"Um, I called 911. The police are coming. Do you want me to call back?"

"No."

"Would you...uh...do you think maybe the kids would like a play date?"

Long pause. "Yeah. Thanks. That's a good idea."

"Hey guys! Wanna come over and play with N and C?"

"YAY!"

So over they came. N pulled out her babysitting bag. She was totally prepared for just such a moment. Games, coloring, fun galore. As the festivities were getting under way, a different neighbor came to my door and motioned me outside.

"Jami, the police are here."

"Yeah, I know. I've got the kids."

"They have guns."

"What?" I stepped out further. The police were blocking the roads. Easily a dozen of them were setting up behind the shrubbery in the park, behind the bounce house and tree at the church across the street, on the roof of the house behind the screamer. Shields, bullhorns, and sure enough...guns.

"Oh crap. I've got to tell her." [Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.] I began walking to the screaming house. 

"WALK AWAY FROM THE HOUSE. GO BACK INTO YOUR HOUSES," bullhorned the spastic police officer.

I pondered obeying him as I continued toward the door. This was getting out of control. If I could just tell M what was going on, she could come have a chat and diffuse the situation a bit. What are they going to do: shoot me?

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! WALK AWAY FROM THE HOUSE. GET OVER HERE NOW!" Geez, he was irritating. I stopped walking.

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! STOP! GET OVER HERE NOW." Hm. Idiot. He just might shoot me.  I walked over to a calmer more intelligent looking officer. The bullhorn man's head blew off. Something about come here? Jail? Whatever. I was on a mission.

I attempted to gain permission to go over and talk to my friend. How many different ways can an officer say, "HELL NO!"?

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS!  GO INSIDE YOUR HOUSE." That blasted man was at it again. "LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS!"

I explained to the officer I was standing next to that I wasn't going to go inside, that they were blowing this event way out of proportion. And someone was going to get hurt. [Fools rush in.] The officer informed me that the man had a bow and arrow. I refrained from laughing at him. He told me to go stand back and spoke to Officer Bullhorn who then quieted down. 

I stood back and went over to the female police officer. She found a new way to say, "HELL NO!"

They put somebody new on the bullhorn. "RESIDENTS OF 555 ALPHABET STREET: PLEASE COME OUTSIDE." I suspected at the time that the residents of 555 ABC St couldn't hear him, didn't even know they were there. [This was later confirmed.] So we all went through an hour of "Please come out. No one has committed a crime. We just want to talk to you."

Eventually M came outside. I'm guessing to come see how the kids were doing.  She looked around calmly, said something quietly to the closest officers and went back inside. She came out again about a half hour later.  Whew. I felt better. 

After she finished talking to the police, I called her over. She confirmed that her husband had lost his mind, that she'd been trying to get him help, and that no one would help.  I spoke to her about her school children. I suggested that I pick them up when I got mine and go directly to McDonalds Playplace. Do not pass home, do not mention the situation. Administer french fries. The plan was approved and I went back home. 

As I was crossing the street, "LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! GO INSIDE YOUR HOME." Yeah, yeah. I waved and pointed at my house. I'm a goin'.

I checked in on J and N.  They were doing a great babysitting job. The little monkeys had no idea of the chaos reigning in the street. We can't hear street noises in our house. Thank God! When Little T asked what his mom and dad were doing, I told him they were working on getting the car fixed.

I changed clothes. They seemed to have something against my dress. And headed out again. I stayed in my driveway this time.

Another hour. M's father (the screamer's FIL) came out. Relief and tension warred it out within my psyche. Another half-hour of calm bullhorn coaxing. An occasional riffle twitched in the neighborhood shrubs. I began praying. (Not out loud. Do you think I'm insane?) Suddenly it occured to me that perhaps some of my friends were online and would be willing to pray. I went inside and posted a quick request on this blog and one on facebook. I went back out. Five minutes later the screamer "stood down." He came out, hands up, walking backwards. Hands on head. Hand cuffs on. The SWAT team came out of the bushes and off the roofs, and the dozen police cars began to trickle away. 

All before school got out. I confirmed with M that McDonald's was still a good idea, so she could deal with the car, the commitment papers and all that. At that I packed Little T and Baby A into the car, picked up all four of the school kids and went to the golden arches. Yet another justifiable credit card expense. We fiddled around for two hours while I blythely lied through my teeth. [Was it on purpose? I don't know. I didn't see it. Is your dad in the hospital? No. No one was hurt. Were they fighting? Hm. Where's Baby A?]

And then we went home. M took her monkeys inside and explained the whole thing to them. Poor woman. Later that night, because her day had not been quite crappy enough, Little T broke his finger while bouncing in the bounce house at the church across the street. Good times.

Oh and M's birthday is tomorrow. Right. Happy birthday.

Never a Story of More Woe

Balloons and I, we want to get along. They wish to please me. I admire and respect their uplifting potential. Alas, 'tis a star-crossed relationship. In spite of our best intentions, things always go awry.

Long ago, I decided that my man needed a huge buoyant symbol of my love. What to do, what to do? Ah! Fill his car with balloons while he was at work. I would write little things I loved about him on slips of paper. "Musical genius." "Amazing singing voice." "A melt-me reading voice." "Great with kids." "Comfy hugger." "A fine enchilada maker." Stuff 'em in balloons. And fill his car! He'd love it!

Let me tell you. I don't care how much you love someone, finding 100 ways to say "You're cool! Glad I married you. Let's smooch!" is a creative challenge. "You leave fantastic outgoing messages on the machine." "You are so gifted at Jenga." "No one reaches high places quite like you." "Wow! Can you open jars or what?!?"

So after much effort, I got the little love notes done, stuffed into balloons and began inflating the eighty-some-odd balloons the old-fashioned way: I huffed, and I puffed, and I puffed, and I huffed. Then I bagged them all up and drove to my man's parking garage while he was still working, my car filled to the brim with loving balloons. It was so fun emptying bag after bag into his little sub-compact.

OH NO! I was out of balloons and the car was nowhere near completely filled. The loving gesture wouldn't work if the car wasn't completely full! He had to pop his way in so he could see how much I admired his ability to carry out the trash with athletic grace and poise. Scrambling around, I managed to come up with some leftover balloons.

But OH NO! I had no paper, no pencils, and to be frank I was plumb out of ways to say, "Hey Baby, you light my fire!" Besides he was getting off work really soon and I needed to skedaddle. Oh well, this batch would have to be love note-free.

I puffed and I huffed and I huffed and I puffed. Thirty more balloons! Whew. In they went. On his car door, I taped a pin on a copy of Browning's "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." It was SO CUTE! I knew I'd score eternal brownie points for this one.

OK...let's stop. What happens next? Jewelry, right? Special snuggles? NO WAY. The experience involved balloons. It was doomed from the start.

My man came home a bit perplexed. Apparently, being forced to pop a hundred balloons after a hard day at work didn't strike him as romantic.

"The little love notes were sweet though...right?"

"I guess, but what was with the empty balloons? It was like you ran out of stuff to say."

"Uh...well..." Doomed.

And so it has gone. Balloons have burst, gotten caught in trees, flown away, caused fights, caused tears. Balloons were shiny sorrows on strings. I swore them off forever.

Then I was struck with Stephanie Nielson's story and the whole balloon release for NieNie. Surely for something so beautiful, surely, it would all turn out well.

E and I bought our balloons last Tuesday. As always, the sight of the balloons gladdened my heart. Eight red balloons, gloriously glistening, bouncy and new! Watching the baby's delight as she bobbed them up and down—pure joy!

The homeschooled kids were curious. My man was curious. Balloons? Mom never gets balloons! Who were they for?

"You'll see," I'd answered mysteriously. I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I had the markers ready. After the school kids got home, we'd each get a balloon, choose a wish and a goal to work on, write wishes and commitments on the ruby surfaces, then we'd release them heavenward. We would remember it for the rest of their lives.

OK...let's stop. What happens next? A sweet bonding moment for the family? Treats? A big group hug? NO WAY! The experience involved balloons. It was doomed from the start.

When L and V got home from school, they noticed the balloons in my bedroom right away and immediately began fighting about them. L grabbed the bunch and ran out the front door. V ran screaming after.

"Do not take them outside!" I warned. By the time I got to the door, L had released them to the tune of V's sobs.

I sighed as I watched them shimmer away. I should have known. Doomed.

My sister and I are morbid.

I could be wrong, but here's some strong anecdotal evidence.

One summer thirty years ago, my mother decided that she would have no summer brain atrophy among her children, so she handed us 100 Best Loved Poems and told us to pick one we liked and memorize it. We did. We can still recite both poems.

(Notice the common the common morbid theme in both poems. Pure coincidence.)

(Notice all of those stinkin' indentations and dashes. Did you know that you have to stinkin' use HTML code to make those happen? Can I get some stinkin' applause, please?)

(Go ahead read them out loud. They're kinda cool. Plus if you read them out loud, you'll feel the lovely cadence AND people will look at you funny.)

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
     In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
     By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
     Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
     In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
     I and my ANNABEL LEE;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
     Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
     In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
     My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsman came
     And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
     In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
     Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
     In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
     Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
     Of those who were older than we—
     Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
     Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
     Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
     Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
     Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
     In the sepulchre there by the sea,
     In her tomb by the sounding sea.

—Edgar Allan Poe



O Captain! My Captain!

                                            1

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
     But O heart! heart! heart!
          O the bleeding drops of red,
               Where on the deck my Captain lies,
                    Fallen cold and dead.

                                            2

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
     Here Captain! dear father!
          This arm beneath your head;
               It is some dream that on the deck,
                    You’ve fallen cold and dead.

                                            3

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
     Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
          But I, with mournful tread,
               Walk the deck my Captain lies,
                    Fallen cold and dead.

—Walt Whitman

Remind me again why we're in Hell.

My brother is going back to Hell at the end of the month. He'll be stopping by New Jersey and Kuwait on the way.

I'm thirteen years older than he is; we weren't raised together. I don't know him very well. Still I love him, and when my brother is in Hell, the war turns into THE WAR. I always feel sad when a soldier dies, but when he's in Hell, I ask: WHICH soldier died? Was he mine?

During his last tour through Hell, while driving oil from North Hell to Hell's capitol, he was hit. Bad things happened to the other guy in the truck, but my brother only suffered hearing damage and a badly tweaked back. He was lucky. Lucky to have only witnessed a really bad outcome. Lucky to only have permanent hearing loss in one of his ears. Lucky that he's got limbs attached to that tweaked back of his. Lucky to be alive to go back and do it again.

Getting out is not going to be easy, but I am beginning to think that everyone in power should have one person they love in the heat and misery, in danger, so THE WAR could never be in lowercase again. So that each time a soldier dies in the war, every leader must ask WHICH soldier, was he mine? So that each leader and each citizen of the United States of America says, "Remind me again why we're in Hell." So that someone finds a way to get us the hell out.

Continuing coverage of the gas crisis

Shocking news! Gas prices still high.

In-depth Analysis of the Gas Crisis

Today's

gas prices

at the

cheap station.

Ow.