Tag: sexual abuse

Wait One Day

TRIGGER WARNING: This post describes attempted suicide and discusses suicidal ideation. If this topic distresses or otherwise triggers you, please don’t read further. Thank you. ED. NOTE.

When I was eleven years old, my mother made a serious and life-altering suicide attempt. She slit her wrists, was somehow rescued from the brink of death (I never knew the exact details), and landed in a mental hospital an hour’s drive away. For months. That was memorable.

My mother tried to escape the misery of her life and mostly her marriage, and by so doing, she altered the course of her children’s lives. Well, this child at any rate.

My mother’s way of handling her suicide attempt when she and we got older was to ignore it. She had a whole quiver of dismissive sayings to lessen the gravity of her failed attempt at self-annihilation. She referred to it only as “the bad thing.” The strong, unspoken proviso was that this was not something we should ever talk about.

That event, much of what led up to it and most of what followed shortly afterwards was a blur. No details. No one to ask. A mere blip and black hole in the narrative of our family’s life. By my mom’s account, it was nothing. Inconsequential. The addled addict is nothing if not cunning.

I grew up in the shadows of domestic violence, alcoholism, addiction and sexual abuse. But to hear my mother describe our childhood, it was a happy, sparkly place of constant love and adventures and fun and parties.

Which doesn’t exactly ring right considering the dark activities going on under our roof. I remember the first time I tried to engage my mother in an adult discussion about my childhood. After I brought up one or two uncomfortable memories, her facial expression aghast, she stopped me: “But Margot… don’t you remember all the parties?”

She emphatically didn’t like my refusal to go along with the sunny, cheery, “We’re all right, Jack” narrative she so carefully cultivated. If there was a poster child for positivity and “survival- at-all costs”, it would have been my mother.

When a former neighbor brought up their mutually unfortunate marital choices many years after the fact (“Didn’t we pick ourselves a couple of dandies?” she is said to have said), my mother demurred and coquettishly replied: “I only remember the bright years.”

Clancy Martin is the author of a new book, How Not to Kill Yourself: A Portrait of a Suicidal Mind. He has solid credentials as someone who attempted suicide ten times. His book strives to educate the reader about suicidal ideation and how an individual can be pushed to such an extreme.

Martin takes pains to assure survivors that there was likely little they could have done. Suicide is primarily about the individual and their very personal inner struggles – often chronic. When you live in unrelenting internal pain for so long, suicide can look like your only escape.

I’ve been there. I was flailing badly as a young adult. First year of university was proving to be a challenge. It offended my ego that I did not effortlessly master the academic format and content.

I was madly in love with a boy I had no idea how to be a partner to. I could feel us falling apart and I was panicking. I was drinking excessively. I could not see any way out.

My mother and I had never became confidantes. There was no one I could trust to talk to. Actually, there was simply no one. One night along with the booze, I managed to ingest an unreasonable quantity of sleeping pills. In the hospital, all I wanted was my parents to rescue me and tell me what to do.

My father called from several provinces away and talked to me long enough to ensure my care was in somebody else’s hands. My sister ran into my room beseeching me on behalf of my mother. “She feels so bad and needs to see you.” By then, I knew my mother well enough to know she likely only felt bad because what I did made her look bad. I eventually saw her and I was right.

I was surprised at how little follow up there was on me after I was discharged. I guess I’m still surprised at how unsophisticated and ignorant the mental health system is. The mind is mysterious enough that most people don’t much care to look closely at its darker, deeper aspects, except in the guise of TV crime shows. And most especially in themselves.

Martin’s book seeks to address some of those issues: people’s inadequacy in dealing with such a sensitive and big a topic as suicide; the general mess/clusterfuck that is the mental health system. His most important message is, if you are considering or have ever considered suicide, wait one day before you act. A lot can change in twenty-four hours.

Martin is forthcoming when asked why he writes as honestly as he does about his own suicide attempts. He explains that coming from a background of addiction and abuse promotes secrecy and lies as adults. Secrecy and lies kill people, he asserts. He said people need to hear and share their truth without judgment and rejection if we ever expect suicide rates go down.

Suicide, they say, is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

When you lay all your cards on the table and say, look what a mess my life is, look how much pain I’m in, look how much self-loathing I’m dealing with—but if you feel like I do, trust me, you can wait another day. 

https://hippocampusmagazine.com/2023/11/interview-clancy-martin-author-of-how-not-to-kill-yourself-a-portrait-of-a-suicidal-mind/

I concur. My own “suicide attempt” (basically very poor judgment after a night of heavy college drinking) was the proverbial “call for help.” In truth, no help was forthcoming. But I got lucky. I made my own luck.

Oprah and the self-help movement were taking off about the time I was trying to heal and move on. My childhood experiences eventually triggered a lifelong healing journey.

Today, life is good. I am at peace. I am grateful.

There are so many other places I could be other than I presently am.

Thanks to some extraordinarily gifted and insightful counselors, self-help authors, dumb luck, children and sobriety, dead isn’t one of them.

NATIONAL SUICIDE HOTLINE:
988
(the new national mental health crisis number: call if you need to)

Heaven on Earth

I have no traditional beliefs or hopes about going to an “afterlife” once I die. I do believe I have a spirit incarnated in this body at this time in the history of this world.

I also believe that my spirit might be reincarnated when this body I currently inhabit gives out. Shy of any solid, indisputable evidence, the jury is actually still out on that.

I do believe heaven and hell are here on earth. It makes sense to me that if your present living circumstances are such that belief in an eventual heaven helps you get through your days, go for it. Whatever gets you by.

That belief that so many people hold makes me a little sad though. It has allowed powerful and not-so-well-meaning people to suppress and keep people subjugated for centuries. Not naming names, but religious leaders are particularly culpable in this regard.

Advertising that you are in possession of an exclusive hotline to, and relationship with, the creator-god almighty is a pretty powerful cudgel. Combine that with limited access to education and even the ability to read and write, religious leaders have had a pretty easy row to hoe keeping people in line.

I once went to Rome and witnessed a papal audience. I worked in marketing at the time. My overriding thought at that event was that with the leverage of that storied history and artifacts shrouded in mystery and money, I could sell the Catholic party line to just about anyone. Over the ages, the Catholic Church has done just that.

It is fair to say that the Catholic “brand” has been undermined and tarnished in recent years. Widespread sexual abuse of children and a hierarchy devoted to preserving the mythology of “godliness” meant that internal corruption and coverups were almost preordained.

As priest after priest fell under the knife of justice for their unholy transgressions, I watched many lifelong Catholics go through the now-well-known stages of grieving. First, shock, then denial. Then anger when the denial defrosted.

I believe many Catholics were and are still stuck in the stage of depression without acceptance of their spiritual leaders horrific crimes. A belief system inculcated in you from infancy and supported by your culture is hard to throw off.

So there were justifications and diminishment of the grievous transgressions galore floating about in Catholic circles and out to the wider society as “the sins of the fathers” started coming to light.

“Think about all the good he did for the community,” I heard about one particularly unctuous Father. That priest had preyed on altar boys for years. He was convicted and died in prison. Devout Catholics from his parish shook their heads in disbelief and devastation for years after.

The appeal of an afterlife is understandable. In the face of individuals feeling powerlessness, having something better to look forward to after you depart this mortal coil is likely comforting.

It is also true that creating your own heaven on earth can be a daunting exercise. Life throws so many variables at all of us. Choosing the right path or pushing the right buttons often feels like an insurmountable challenge.

It is why I appreciate time alone. When I occasionally sink under the covers of my own busy external environment, that is where I have resolved some of life’s thorniest and most painful issues. I lived alone for many years.

Self-imposed isolation helped me gain my own clarity about many things in favor of other people’s dictates about what heaven and hell or a good life or bad life was. It also shaped my perception of what success is and isn’t.

With time and a little luck, we eventually grab the pebble out of the master’s hand. I was helped to articulate this position in a post I saw today. “When we are young we blame our parents for our troubles. When we are adults, we learn they are also just human beings and learn to forgive them. When we finally learn to forgive ourselves, we have become wise.” – Alden Nowlan

The goal of living is to tip the scales in favor of goodness and right. Bad things and injustice will fling themselves at you throughout your life with astonishing regularity. Your job is to hold fast to the mast of your own core beliefs. To become certain of your own values and to live by them.

I can’t say emphatically that heaven – if there is such a place – is here on earth or awaiting us after death. But I believe that if you stick to your guns and live what is true for you, you’ve got a much better shot at living a version of heaven here on earth than those who don’t.

As for an afterlife, I’ll get back to let you know if there is one when I get there.

Enough

I remember the first time I had Zabaglione with work colleagues in Toronto. This delectable custard-like Italian dessert made with egg yolks and sweet wine was the epitome of sophistication to my naive young eyes. In the afterglow of a delicious, multi-course chef-prepared dinner with my brilliant radio producer colleagues, I luxuriated in my excitement and place. I had arrived.

Fast forward forty years. Mid-career, I remember how rare the sort of night I had last night was. No dinner plans or evening events to attend. Nowhere to go or make an appearance “for career reasons.” No early morning meeting to prep for. No waste of the precious hours before bedtime consumed with worry about the work week ahead.

We ordered a half-and-half pizza. All meat for him. Hawaiian for me. And yet again, the debate about whether or not pineapple belonged on a “real” pizza pie. Whatever. I want what I want. Given the explosion of take-out gastronomical choices these days, a heated discussion about the pros and cons of pineapple on pizza was pretty tame. Imagine. Having pizza and beer and it wasn’t even the weekend.

As we get older, we get to have more of these “nights in.” Presumably, we have enough coin to splurge on a pizza and beer occasionally during the week. More importantly, we now have enough time. We also have the perspective to look back and realize how good we’ve got it.

I sometimes laugh with chagrin at how taken-for-granted simple pleasures were when we were young. I also laugh because we thought bigger and better things were perpetually in store for us. Pizza and beer were “just” pizza and beer. Important business dinners ahead, perhaps. Plans to go to a new and trendy restaurant where all the “In” people hung out. I no longer take simple pleasures for granted.

At one time, we absorbed the reported goings-on at Studio 54 in New York City like thirsty camels. The cachet of stories about “beautiful people” and the “in-crowd” and everyone there being “on trend.” Those who mattered had “access.” Those without “access” didn’t matter at all. These are among the oldest rules of sales and marketing. Make things you wish to sell both alluring and inaccessible. Desire is key.

All of this comes to mind as we repeatedly see people caught up in and falling for the same old razzle-dazzle about chasing “the good life” and what that means. Can fake eyelashes and fingernails get any longer? Can bling get any blingier? Not to mention, the cars, the clothes, and the Grey Goose.

I’ve finally figured out that the good life is what we decide we want it to be. We seem to inevitably fall back on the old standards for happiness eventually. Good friends and good company. A warm and supportive family (whether of blood or of friends). People we like and trust. And the usual menu of adequate financial resources to stave off worry and want, good health, little pain (emotional or physical), and something to look forward to each day.

As I watch the ceaselessly striving today, it saddens me. The brass ring they are chasing is more ill-defined and elusive than it ever has been. The ultimate question becomes, when is enough? I have seen many and even been one of those people who got what they wanted only to regret what they had wished for. Or wondered if getting what I thought I wanted was worth what it actually cost.

It calls on us to regularly check in on our lives for our level of happiness and self-satisfaction. A form of emotional maintenance. Are we doing what we love and feeling well most of the time? Are those we love and look out for doing and feeling well, too? If not, why not?

It is a call to keep an eye on what is fundamentally important to us. We then need to protect what that is. For me, the end-state I sought was inner peace and contentment. Enough challenges and projects to keep life interesting, of course, but to steer well away from that which threatened to upend or derail my state of calm. I wanted people in my life whom I could love and who would love me. I was once not at all sure that could happen.

Fingers crossed that my apple cart is not upset without warning, If it is, I rest easy in that conviction that if the unthinkable happens, I am better prepared to weather those storms than I once was. I just need to hold fast to the mast.

The question I often asked when I was younger was what is enough? I am grateful to have landed in a place in my life where I can look around me and say with gratitude: this. More important is being able to appreciate the good in the life I am living while I am living it. That’s progress in my little world.