Suicide

The news of Robin Williams’s death spread like a wild fire across Facebook and within five minutes my newsfeed was filled with both disbelief and honor directed toward a man who brought so much joy over the four decades of his career.  I too am deeply saddened that the felt darkness overwhelmed him and extinguished the light of one who brought so many insightful performances and gave us bouts of laughter born out of mutual identification.  I suppose this is why we gasp in shock and think ‘NO, it can’t be true!  If the catalyst for so much happiness can take his life what hope do we have?  Is life really that futile?’ 

Tributes, commentaries and speculation are now filling the Internet.  The issue of suicide fuels the airways.  Those of us who are mental health care professionals continue to be concerned over the way in which mental illnesses are reported on and portrayed by a media culture whose five-minute sound bites speak more like Morse code rather than complex narratives expressing the intricate density that make up the individual life.  I have spent a significant portion of the day reading some of these articles and one thing is evident, hindsight is twenty-twenty…at least some believe so.  

Mental health is defined as a state of well being in which every individual realizes his or her own potential, can cope with the normal stresses of life and can work productively and fruitfully; and is able to make a contribution to her/his community.  Nobody experiences 100% mental health 100 % of the time leaving each of us to struggle at one point or another with some kind of mental pathology.  In simpler terms, all will be considered mentally ill at one point or another during their lifetime.  In much the same way we are occasionally sick with a cold or flu, people struggle with emotional problems brought on by biopsychosocial influences that impact their relationships and their lives. 

People fall on the paradigm from severe mental illness to the other pole defined as mental health.  This is what makes the process of diagnosis troubling to many in the mental health care field.  Diagnosis seems to solidify a set of symptoms without acknowledging the fluid nature of people’s lives, its shifting circumstances and their potential/process for healing and change.  It provides a label that can feel defining as well as limiting if not placed into the proper context; and can lead people to feel like they are inadequate, judged and/or stigmatized when classified with a mental disorder.  This becomes one of the various reasons’ why some avoid seeking out therapy, but as is evidenced by our precious comedian’s outcome, there are times when we need additional assistance with the struggles that overwhelm in the same way, as we need antibiotics when fighting an infection or chemo when fighting cancer.      

I wrestled with the idea of writing this particular blog.  Prudence about what one shares in cyberspace is wise.  At the same time a deeper concern over the perceived stigmatization of mental illness compels me to want to speak out.  I have made myself vulnerable on multiple occasions by sharing my recovery journey from complex trauma and my struggle with PTSD.  Yet some subjects seem too sensitive to share.  Does this speak to my own moral compass or does it speak to the power of fear and shame? I think it’s probably the latter. The truth is I have experienced negative repercussions and at times felt stigmatized because I have PTSD; but I have also learned that this is often more about the other’s resources than it is about me.  I am an incredibly strong individual, highly insightful and deeply capable as evidenced by my life’s journey.  Nevertheless, strength has its limits and I found mine one night. 

I can’t share all that led up to this particular date…that would take another lifetime; but I had run out of internal resources to combat the darkness that felt like it was overwhelming me.  There had been one other time when the thought of ending it all passed across my mind and it left as swiftly as it had arrived.  This night was different.  There was something reasonable to the conclusion and I didn’t want to live anymore. I was exhausted, brokenhearted and hopeless.  After spending more than two decades struggling to overcome the traumas that had been inflicted upon me; I was finished and the realization that this is where my journey of recovery had led me solidified the rational nature of the conclusion.  I felt like I had tried everything to heal and I was still in such astronomical pain.  All I knew in that moment was I wanted out of the emotional agony whose physicality felt like it was gutting me from the inside out.  It was the sheer lucidness of the decision that actually surprised me and for the first time I knew what it meant to feel suicidal.  I am writing about this experience so obviously I got through that period; but had my best friend not intervened by calling and checking in on me that night I honestly don’t know if the outcome would have been different.   

I can’t share exactly when my hope returned either.  What I can reveal is that the calmness and resolve of that decision scared me to my core.  I had experienced what many had previously reported about; the wrestling was over and prior to their loved one’s suicide the individual seemed resigned, almost happy.  Why didn’t I go through with it?  I got lucky.  My friend’s intuition and intervention kept me on the phone for over two hours that night and after the conversation I was too weary to do anything but fall asleep.  When I woke up the next morning hope had not returned, but what I had gained was the knowledge that someone in this world deeply loved me and if I was to go through with it, I would create the same pain in their life I was trying to escape from myself.  I couldn’t do it; I loved this person too much so I resigned myself to go on.

As time went by I discovered certain beliefs I held were erroneous and the goal to rid myself of pain unrealistic.  To divorce myself from the hurt of my experience would be to minimize the gravity of what I have been through.  I think the struggle for most of us is in the carrying of these dark feelings.  We think we need to rid ourselves of them in order to be content rather than acknowledge, honor and integrate them.  It’s not either you are happy or you are not (although when one is in pain it feels that way).  It is both and that is what makes this life the beautiful struggle that it is.  This is small consolation in those times when the hurt the individual is carrying is disproportionate to their positive experiences and/or their resources.  This remains a reality for far too many.  This life is deeply painful in ways that will suck the very breath from your lungs; it will sucker punch you when you are not looking and it will bring with it experiences that one cannot out maneuver.  Yet it also has moments of unexpected and profound joy and magnificence as well.

What astounds me is the incessant need to figure out why Robin did it.  Was he mentally ill?  Was it his addiction?  Was it the depression that caused it?  The goal behind this pursuit is to control the outcome…yet the outcome has already occurred.  Its over.  We are never going to know what ‘element’ broke his resolve to move forward. It is and isn’t all of those components.  To say that if one is mentally ill they are destined to be suicidal does a disservice to millions that live a long and productive life to spite their mental illnesses.  

What we can know is that Williams’s brilliance was born out of the deep pain he carried and if his capacity to produce joy is any indicator of the depth of his pain…he carried more than his fair share.  He was loved, deeply loved and to say that those surrounding him missed the cue lays a burden on their shoulders they must not carry.  Robin had a bad day where the darkness overwhelmed his resources and it ended lethally.  It is tragic, but it is not the entirety of his life’s story. 

As a therapist-in-training what concerns me is the disconnected nature of our society and how its increasing fragmentation is going to lead more and more to struggle with alienation, isolation and depression driving them to self-medicate and sometimes to suicide.  Even those whose lives are surrounded by many people can feel deep loneliness because we have largely forgotten how to enter into deeply intimate connection; friendships are too often friendships of convenience.  How does the saying go?  When the going gets tough, the tough get going.  This is not to imply that intimates are to carry the responsibility of their loved one’s suicide – they should not.  What this speaks to is ways in which we can improve our communal context so that people in pain don’t feel so alone. 

What have I learned from my own experience?  My wellbeing is intimately connected to the wellbeing of those around me.  I have dual responsibilities - an ongoing obligation to pursue personal healing and to be a catalyst for the healing of others. Sharing my story comes with a hope that something in it may resonate when hope is eclipsed.  If you find yourself in a place of despair please remember back to the outpouring of love following the loss of one of our nation’s most beloved entertainers and the ways in which we all wish we could have intervened – we would feel that way about you too.  Forgive us, we are fragile and we err.  

Since Robin’s passing I have been watching clips of his work on YouTube.  The Fisher King is one of my favorites because of the profound message of grace, friendship, healing and forgiveness that it portrays.  In one scene Williams and Bridges are lying next to each other naked in the park – a metaphor of the vulnerability within their friendship. Williams character goes on to tell Bridges character the story of the Fisher King: 

May we all become more like the fool.... Need help? In the U.S., call 1-800-273-8255

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

PTSD

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) – upon hearing the term thoughts of military personal returning from combat with psychological wounds springs to mind.  Although this is true, PTSD effects are much more pervasive and touch a much broader base than many imagine.  It can include individuals who have faced or witnessed life-threatening events, sexual assault victims as well as members of oppressed cultures.  June has been designated the month to draw awareness to this area so I thought what better time to share than now.

I have PTSD born out of complex and multiple traumas experienced at an early age.  Without going into all the sordid details I have spent much of my adult life in recovery from emotional, sexual and physical abuse which led me into a religious system whose theological perspectives created a context where spiritual abuse was sometimes operating…..more on that later.   What I want to focus on initially is educating; and then sharing a small piece of my story of what it is like living with the repercussions and navigating what I call ‘my two realities’. 

The science behind PTSD is comprehensive and much too complicated for a blog post.  I will try to provide just enough information to shed a light on my personal experience, but if you have a loved one who suffers or an interest I would recommend several books; A Body Remembers: The Psychophysiology of Trauma and Trauma Treatment by Babette Rothschild, Spiritual Crisis Surviving Trauma to the Soul by J. LeBron McBride and my current read, Trauma and the Body: A Sensorimotor Approach to Psychotherapy by Pat Ogden, Kekuni Minton, Clare Pain and Daniel J. Siegel. 

Trauma wounds the very core of a person’s soul.  The following is paraphrased from McBride’s book Spiritual Crisis: Upon seeing innocent children burned alive, Elie Wiesel wrote of his traumatic experience; ‘flames consumed my faith forever, murdered my God and my soul.’  Others said the experience is when ‘the spirit went numb and soul development stopped’; it has also been defined as a ‘disorder of hope, a spiritual night and a loss of faith that there is order and continuity in life’. 

PTSD is a biological response brought on by life threatening events that trap the trauma within the autonomic system; in other words, it freezes the trauma allowing for an echo of the original trauma to reactivate the initial response making the person feel like they have traveled back in time and are re-experiencing the primary threat.  It is not a form of amnesia, but an experiencing of two realities in the same moment.  Sometimes the sufferer is aware they are in the midst of an episode; most often they aren’t until it subsides.  To put it in other words, the person’s system is reacting to a past event within the context of a current situation that has little or nothing to do with it.  Needless to say, it is disorienting for both the sufferer and those who are their intimates, specifically for those who have gone undiagnosed. 

Ogden writes, “The function of the ‘mind’ – that extraordinary human capacity to observe, know, and predict – is to inhibit, organize, and modulate those automatic responses, thereby helping us manage and preserve our relationships with our fellow human beings, on whom we so desperately depend for meaning, company, affirmation, protection and connection.” 

What PTSD ends up doing is inhibiting the brains ability to function in this manner; rather it activates the response that fuels chaotic emotions reinforcing the devastation of trauma’s prior event.  Hormonal secretions (a subcortical response) explain why responses to certain triggers can seem irrational or irrelevant and even harmful in the context of the present moment.  Episodes lead to blow ups in response to minor provocations, freezing when frustrated; and helplessness in the face of trivial challenges.  Without a historical context to understand the somatic and motoric inheritance, their emotions seem out of place causing significant shame and embarrassment to those who experience them. 

Neuroimaging of traumatized people under stress reveal that the sensory trigger of past trauma activates the emotional brain to engage protectively changing the sympathetic and parasympathetic system that ultimately interferes with effective executive functioning.  This leaves their brain with less control over behavior and causing behavioral regression.  With well-functioning rational compromised; the individual reverts to ‘fixed action patterns’ as well as reactivating the physical response of terror, abandonment and helplessness in excruciating detail. 

In an effort to simplify, McBride defines PTSD as leaving the sufferer without hope and disconnected from self, others and even God by destroying the ability to integrate their experience into their personhood.  The outcome is a loss of having a safe place to retreat to within or outside of oneself in order to deal with frightening emotions and experiences; and leaving them to relive the impact of trauma repeatedly; therefore compounding and reinforcing trauma’s affects.

Yes, I have PTSD.

It brings sorrow and tears as I reflect on how its operation in my life has hindered and aborted the very forces needed to heal; the unending consequence I pay for wrongs done to me, the time it has robbed and ultimately for the pain it inflicts on my most intimate relationships.  My journey has been much more problematic because I went undiagnosed long after the original injuries leaving me to blindly navigate it’s symptoms for many years.  Even when I was finally diagnosed in 2000 I was so embedded in a religious system that spiritualized every ill under the sun that the realities of what I was dealing with never fully landed.  In its wake I was left feeling incompetent, defective and hiding under shame’s shroud. 

In the early years I was barely functional suffering from anxiety and fear levels so high I was borderline agoraphobic.  Any event in public pulled deeply on internal resources that would lead me to shut down for hours, even days following in order to regain my internal equilibrium.  I would never travel too far or into unfamiliar places; and when I did I wouldn’t go alone needing to know the minute details of where, when and how in order to keep my anxiety in check.  Walking through a garage or entering into an elevator was an act of heroic proportions.  With my system in a permanent state of alert; the process of getting myself up, out and to work while navigating the eight hours at the task I was hired for left me with very little reserves pushing me deeper into isolation and into trauma’s prison.

It was that same confinement whose constraining nature pushed me deep into depression; yet eventually the sheer monotony of life stirred a deeper need than the anxieties I was dealing with drawing me slowly back into life.  Over the years my boundaries have expanded and passing time taught my system that daily events are not dangerous reducing the ever present anxiety to low grade hum until unforeseen triggers send me back into a full blown episode.  The saddest part of this narrative is the realization of its full implications and the way in which it has colored the actions of my life didn’t land until a decade after the original diagnosis.  But, this understanding has also helped me move away from survival mode and into a thriving life. 

The metaphor I use to paint the picture of this journey is I have gone from a place in my internal world that was pitch black, darker than night as I blindly bumped into the walls of my 2 x 2 x 2 PTSD cell.  In time light started to shine making all that I saw shades of grey and revealing that my cell was expanding.  Hours rolled into days and days into years when splashes of color would accent my black and white world.  Now the key has been turned in the padlock, the bars of my cell have swung open and I have walked into a world alive in all its Technicolor glory.  With that there is so much beauty, but at the same time it overwhelms my senses as I learn to navigate brand new challenges.  Entering into intimate relationship is drawing out the deepest trauma injuries triggering me in unexpected moments and in unexpected ways.  

I wish I could end this blog with a testimony that says full recovery is possible; but that is not the current statistic.  PTSD is a chronic condition whose effect on the system can improve, but will never completely leave.  Yet, with new studies in neuroscience and the infant field of brain imaging is providing hope to those who suffer.  EMDR and other somatic therapies are showing strong promise and my feeling is that at some time in the near future I can say I am no longer triggered allowing for my system to fully heal.

Until then, the journey of recovery continues……………..    

Hope

I recently had a conversation with a friend who responded following our dialogue, “I need to hear hope”.   Yes, it’s true I have been navigating a faith crisis, what some would call a Dark Night of the Soul.  My seminary experience challenged me to my core; relationally, theologically and emotionally exposing the buried shame, pain and questions of a traumatized past and defended by a religious system that promises what it was never intended to deliver.  As if this was not enough stress, my mom’s health failed and as some of you know she died less than two months ago.  Nevertheless, my friend’s statement had me seriously contemplating the definition of hope. 

I did what I initially do when I begin to ruminate; I pulled out my thesaurus.  Words like confident, expectant and optimistic jumped off the page…. secure, cheerful, content, undisturbed and upbeat challenged my current sensibilities.  So I moved on to the antonym section.  Discouraged, disheartened, dreary, gloomy and pessimistic are not terms that I would use to define my present attitude either.  I am grieving.  I am in pain over multiple losses which include my mom’s suffering and foreseeable death; the reality of deception both self and other driven; dreams deferred and deceased; time robbed that should have been spent building a career and family; and the sheer weariness of navigating a life long journey to restore health and hope.  Yes it’s true, I have spent the larger portion of my graduate career weeping, wailing and lamenting….. does that indicate that I am or have been without hope?

My answer is a passionate and emphatic no!  Hope is not solely an emotive expression or affirmative sound bite that offers shallow responses to wells of agony.  Hope is the human drive to survive… an instinct; a survival mechanism and an internal motivation to move forward when everybody and everything screams, ‘give up’.  Hope is intrinsic to being human – it is engraved on each individual’s heart and is primeval.  Hope is the motivation to continue to exist or function in spite of adversity.   It is something that propels me forward even when I can’t clearly see – it causes me to persist, ride out, carry on, endure and weather the storm.  At my lowest point, when hope’s vision was eclipsed, I had the word “Hope” tattooed onto my wrist.  The very act of doing the opposite of what my internal life screamed speaks to hope. 

Theologically I ask the question - was Jesus propelled by hope to endure the cross?  I am pretty sure that his countenance was not cheerful or upbeat.  I can confidently surmise that grief accompanied Christ’s journey to his crucifixion, yet it did not obscure the joy that was set before him.  I would say that my life has been and continues to be a testimony of hope.  I have had to fight against and endure obstacles that most, gratefully, will never have to.  I have had to persevere, to rise above conditions that would and has bankrupted others.   Yes, I may be experiencing a season of sorrow, but I can say with all confidence I do have hope......and so do you.   

Solidarity

I should be sitting here finishing up my Matthew outline, but I can no longer in good conscience keep silent.  A good friend of mine and Christian brother has been navigating an extremely painful journey of healing; along with facing an astronomical crisis of faith while attending seminary.  He has been particularly transparent in the process; blogging for a wide variety of reasons.  Mainly to come to terms with questions that erupt from a place of such deep agony that only one who has been to hell and back can understand.  At the same time he has had the brave tenacity to often move against the tide of popular opinion; while at the same time holding onto a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe; he will find a place of peace and encounter the God we as Christians are all so quick to protect.

I have respectfully watched him knowing that he has the resolve to do what most find difficult – to be publically vulnerable and transparent in the midst of internal torment.  Those who have not traveled a similar road cannot begin to comprehend the weight of shame carried by those who have suffered abuse in all its varying forms; and how that keeps so very many silent and hidden in plain sight.  For this friend to put himself in the firing line in the midst of this type of struggle is admirable to say the least and heroic in terms of his Christian faith.  It is his example that gave me the courage to open up to my own soul’s deepest darkest dwelling places; which had been encased in steel, in order to let the poisonous demons (for lack of a better metaphor) out into the light. 

Many of you are not aware of the traumatic past I have experienced and the journey of restoration I have been navigating since becoming a Christian.  Even now - especially now, I am choosing not to write about these experiences due to my own level of vulnerability, quest for healing and unanswered questions.  It is not that I have not shared my story with some – I have.  However there is a huge difference in reporting incidents and the gut wrenching experience of sharing the deepest emotions of what has been done to you.  The fragility and exposure is excruciating to say the very least.  I have spent the greater portion of the past school year in hours of torturous prayer, writing and sharing some of the most deeply held pain with the people I finally found safe enough to open myself up to; a blog subject in and of itself.

Those who have not faced crisis of epic proportions or lived with unbearable pain are blessed and have been spared….for now.  With that comes a naïve view of the world – one that platitudes and pat answers often satisfy.  No matter how hard one tries to step out of that place of innocence; through education and/or heartfelt sincere desire, one can never fully understand the solitary journey it is until they face their own dark crossroad.  This has me ask the question of why we talk at one another about experiences we know nothing about.  Why we are so quick to talk at all rather than listen and hear the cry of the broken heart?  At a particularly dark point in my journey I was railing at God, railing at the church and especially railing at the trite answers people had continually given me in response to my pain.  A friend of mine who had the fortitude to sit with me in that deeply black place validated my feelings by saying; ‘platitudes are words that don’t give room for brokenness’.  How healing those nine little words were.  What they said was, I hear you.  

I have watched some push back against my friend with what I perceive to be an agenda of furthering their own theological position/worldview rather than listening to his heart.  I know as one who has traveled the tumultuous road of restoration, being heard is much more healing than finding answers.  No one has a right to dictate the acceptable avenue one should take in order to process their personal pain, nor does anyone have a right to stand in judgment of decisions made in order to obtain healing.  Those who have not lived with intolerable burdens do not fully understand how isolating an experience it is.  The only two that have experienced this journey; know its unique obstacles are the sufferer and God - they should be the ones to determine what is in the best interest for deliverance.  I stand in solidarity with you brother as you make choices that bring healing to your soul.