Blame Game

Life is filled with questions.  One of the most pressing questions is why do bad things happen to good people?  Why is it that seemingly good people at times cannot catch a break?  Why do hurricanes, flooding and wild fires cause so much damage?  Why do children die?  Why do car wrecks, cancer, murder, famine and a million other unexplainable and horrific things happen?

Humans have a deep desire to want to blame unfortunate situations on someone or something.    I think in part, because if something can be explained in some way there is hope it can be prevented from happening to them. Blame often gives a false sense of control over situations.

People, both religious and not, tend to throw a lot of blame at God.  God caused this to happen.  God allowed this to happen.  God could have stopped this from happening.  God could fix this if He just would.  God this.  God that.  Truthfully, from time to time I have found myself searching for answers in difficult times and yes at times, I have tried throwing God under the bus.

My family and I have had more than our share of bumpy roads and curve balls over the past six years.  We have had 2 cancer diagnosis; 16 surgeries, with number 17 right around the corner; radiation; chemotherapy; 4 family members die; 3 friends die; 2 pets die; 1 pet killed; 1 chronically ill pet; we have been significantly betrayed on two different occasions by people we deeply trusted; totaled a vehicle; moved twice; been unemployed; experienced family estrangement, had two different family members move in and live with us; had a vehicle broken into; had $8,000 stolen; been falsely accused and had our character attacked; and battled suicide.  During this time period, we have had some people come right out and ask, and I am sure even more think, what my family is doing wrong that would put us in a place to experience all these stressors and losses.

I think consideration should be given to re-writing the narrative of the question.  As humans we often ask “why me” … when difficult, heartbreaking things happen in our lives.  When the question should be what is so extraordinary about me that I should be exempt from these things?  Or in essence, “why not me”.

The truth is bad things, sad things, hurtful things, happen to people because life is messy, life is hard and life is often unfair.  Generally speaking, bad things do not befall people because they are doing something wrong.  Nor is God sitting in heaven zapping people with tragedy because He is disappointed in them or trying to get their attention.

It has been my experience, tragedies rarely have any explanation, much less a reasonable one.   Why does one person survive cancer while another does not; why does one child die while another thrives; why does one marriage survive while another couple divorces; why can one couple readily get pregnant and another struggles with infertility; why are some families estranged and others are not?  The questions are infinite and the answers are elusive.

One of the hardest things in life is desperately wanting answers when there are none.  Sometimes, I believe the best we can do is try to find meaning in or lessons through the heartache.

 

 

 

Living Through Suicide

A 1978 study by Dr. Richard Seiden from the University of California, Berkeley showed that people who were stopped from jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge rarely went on to die by suicide.  He studied what happened to 515 people who went to the Golden Gate Bridge to die, but who were stopped by California Highway Patrol Officers.  Of the 515 people whose attempt was interrupted, only 35 later died by suicide in future years.

A year after my brush with suicide, which you can read about here, I have found Dr. Seiden’s evidence suggesting a suicidal crisis is very often temporary, is spot on.  As I look back over the last 12-months, I cannot say life has always worked out as I hoped.  But I can say I have worked hard and am still working to develop healthy coping skills.

Living through suicide looks different for everyone.  For me, looking back over the past year I am grateful for life, even the bad days.  In retrospect, it is sobering to me what I would have missed had I died this time last year.  Small things like beautiful sunsets, delicious cups of coffee, watching my favorite teams win sporting events, feeling a cool breeze on my skin, hearing a baby laugh, experiencing my dogs being sweet, hugs from loved ones, long walks, bike rides, Sunday afternoon naps, garden fresh vegetables, and rainbows after a thunderstorm.

I would have missed laughing with friends, conversations with my wife, connections with other humans, music, movies, art, theater, Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, butterflies, birds, flowers blooming, the smell of cut grass, ice cream, Mexican food, soaking in a tub, candles, puppies, sunshine on my face, Spring rains, and good books.

I would have given up the chance to give and receive love, comfort grieving family and friends, encourage those whom are struggling, pray for those in need, or support those being challenged.  I would have lost the ability to be a loving wife, friend, or family member.

Most significant to me, I would have not been here to walk with my wife through her rectal cancer diagnosis and treatment.  I would not have been here to go with her to doctor appointments, radiation, surgery and all the other million things that go with cancer.  I would not have been here to try to make her laugh when she is afraid, sad or in pain or assure her she will make it through this battle and come out the other side.  I would have not been here to tell her how proud I am of her, how much I believe in her, or how much I love her.  I would have missed the chance to support her, love her and to make this arduous journey less grueling.  In essence, I would have missed the greatest honor of my life.

At this time last year, suicide seemed like not only a rational option, but the only option, for ending a period of tremendous pain.  With dozens of small acts, important people in my life helped me make it through that pain and directed me to resources to aid me in learning new, more effective, life-giving coping skills.  I am so grateful to every one of them.

It does get better and life now in some ways is sweeter than it has ever been.

 

 

Origins

I was born in Mississippi to biological parents who cared for me materially, but were not warm or loving.  I am an only child.  Sad, yet true story, when I was 12, while on vacation, my parents left me at a gas station in Arizona.  I had gone to the bathroom and they did not notice I was not in the backseat when they pulled out.  Did I mention I am an ONLY child?   Who knew supervising a single child at a gas station bathroom in the middle of the desert was so difficult?

I share this, not to paint them in a negative light, but frequent episodes of oversights like this affected me as I was maturing.  My parents are not “bad” people, just self-absorbed people who felt a child was an accessory and not a gift from God.  Their love was always performance based.  By that, I mean as long as I acted the way they wanted or expected me to act they showed love to me.  Any deviation caused shunning, loud yelling and all in all a crappy day.  We are estranged and have been for years.  I do not see that changing.  Oddly, we are not estranged for the reason most people suspect … we are estranged because “I am the most disappointing and ungrateful daughter ever born.”  Ironically the elephant in the room was never discussed … but more on that later.

You might wonder why I refer to them as my biological parents.  Well, first it is accurate.  Secondly, it is because God sent AMAZING loving families into my life who adopted me through compassion into their families.  They were love when no one else would show up and stepped up to the plate and did incredible things for my heart, my mind and my soul.  During those periods, every family became my chosen family and I treasure each of them to this day.  What a difference a willing heart can make.

In the late 1960’s when time came for me to enter school, my parents enrolled me in a Catholic elementary school.  I stayed in Catholic school through the fourth grade.  During these four years I would attend school Monday through Friday and on Sunday I would be dropped off to attend Catechism, then attend the Sunday service at the local Methodist church with my mother.  Needless to say my religious training was multifaceted and often confusing.

After four years of dissention, my mother finally insisted, if my father was not going to a practicing Catholic, she was not going to allow me to continue going to Catholic school.  My father decided he did not wish to regularly attend Catholic mass; subsequently, in the fifth grade I transferred to a local private school.  I wanted to go to the public school with my neighborhood friends, but my parents gave a resounding “NO”.  I did not understand their decision and was sad I was not allowed to attend school with my friends.  To this day my mother will say she supported the decision because the private school was safer during a time of civil unrest and racial tension and my father will say it is because the education was better in a private school.  Both, in their own vernacular, were speaking “code” for a school with only Caucasian students was superior.

I accepted Jesus Christ into my heart and life when I was 14 in 1977 at a Billy Graham crusade.  I remember getting out of my seat and walking down those stadium steps to the football field.  As a 14-year-old it seemed like a long walk to take alone.  But I was decided.  I have had many struggles in that relationship for many reasons, but finally have found an incredible peace in knowing and accepting I am loved just as I am.

I knew from the beginning, I was different.  I knew I thought differently. I reacted differently.  I saw the world through a dissimilar lens than most of the kids I knew.  My perspective was unique as early as kindergarten.  As time passed, I realized I had unusual heroes.  My dreams and goals were atypical of those of my classmates.  I came to realize I was a misfit in Mississippi, as if being from Mississippi was not liability enough.

As I entered junior high school, it became painfully, and I do mean painfully, aware to me that I was not in the least romantically attracted to boys.  I had no desire to go to dances, or date, or be a cheerleader, or anything else the rest of the girls wanted to do.  Consequently, I immersed myself in sports and found a world I loved and in which I excelled.

In high school I discovered I was romantically attracted to females. Yes, I am a lesbian (the elephant in the room).   I was a pudgy female who was attracted to girls.  I had zero fashion sense and was attending a Baptist high school.   Not exactly the environment to blossom or question thoughts or feelings.  Consequently, I did not … blossom or ask questions.  During my high school years I was very fragmented.  I made good grades, always making the honor roll … but I was not valedictorian material by a long shot.  I was the classmate the cool kids wanted to sit next to on test days.  Fortunately, my athletic ability provided a small arena of acceptance.

As each year passed, I learned to navigate and hide my fragmentation more effectively.  I made myself fit into the norm.  While I never had a boyfriend, beginning my sophomore year I had a date to each high school event, homecoming, prom, athletic banquets, etc.   By my senior year I had camouflaged myself into a role I became comfortable playing.  I was student body chaplain, most likely to succeed, class favorite, and most spiritual.  I suspect the Baptists would have stripped me of the most spiritual label had they known I was a lesbian.  Not an “active” lesbian, but a lesbian nonetheless.

I never consumed drugs. I rarely drank and never abused alcohol.  I smoked cigarettes, from time to time but never became addicted.  I stored my cigarettes in the freezer so they would not go stale.  The last pack of cigarettes I purchased cost .55 cents and lasted over a month.

I graduated with honors and enrolled in a local junior college, where I obtained an Associate Degree.  While in junior college, my life began to spin out of control.    I was very active in a charismatic church, where in the height of the AIDS epidemic, often taught that gay and lesbian people were an abomination and irredeemable.  I carried a full-time class load and worked part-time.  I met myself coming and going.  I was deeply conflicted about my sexuality, but strangely never doubted God loved me.  Even in the midst of my confusion, it seemed inconsistent with the character of Jesus to damn me to hell for something over which I had no control.  But I had become convinced, from the teaching I had heard, that being a gay or lesbian was a “thorn in the flesh”.   An affliction to be endured and I was just thankful my thorn in the flesh was “invisible” as long as I kept it a secret.

With my life feeling like it was out of control, I desperately searched for something I could control.  I was still slightly pudgy and thought I could stand to lose a few pounds.  I could control what I put in my mouth, so I put all my energy into losing weight.   I was exceedingly successful in this endeavor, so much so that I became anorexic.  I was 5’7” and eventually weighted less than 100 pounds.  I wore a size 5 pants, tucked my sweaters in and wore belts to keep my pants up.  At my lowest point I would break out in hives when walking through a kitchen or smelling food cooking.  My hair thinned, I stopped menstruating and my skin was dry and cracking.  I remember laying out by a pool and pulling the top of the leg hole of my swimsuit and hooking it over my hip bones so I could get more sun.

I remember one year in the midst of this period, my parents gave me a digital scale and weight loss drink mix for Christmas.  I named the scale the “magic machine” and was able to forego the grocery store for months.  My parents never asked if I was sick.  They never mentioned I might need to go to the doctor.  The only conversation I remember about my significant weight loss was my biological father telling me he was proud of me for losing “all that fat”.

As I think back on this now, it was clearly insanity.  But curiously and sadly at that time my life was less chaotic than it had ever been.  This self-destructive behavior continued for several years.

After graduation from junior college I enrolled in a Presbyterian college.  I majored in psychology and Christian education.  I graduated on time, with honors.  During my junior year I entered into my first relationship.  It was a 10-year relationship with a straight woman.  I remember her saying she was not a lesbian, but she was in love with me.  We had a good relationship.  In fact, if I were honest it was the healthiest relationship I had experienced up until that time.  I liked having someone to love, to take care of, to dote on.  It felt very normal to me.  Very comforting.

When that relationship fell apart; I spent 5 years alone, praying and seeking God about being a lesbian.  I wanted His thoughts on what a lesbian should do or be.  Was I really an abomination?  Did I really have a thorn in my flesh to be endured?  I never prayed for God to make me straight, but I did pray “God help me be what YOU created me to be.”  This period ended when I felt God say, “You are as I created you.  You are not broken and you do not need to be fixed”.

So I began counseling with the hopes of finding fun in life again and putting the dysfunction behind me.  Twenty-five years later I am finally able to stand up for myself, love myself and love others.  I have also done a great deal of studying the Bible and discovered it says absolutely nothing about loving, same-sex relationships.  It says plenty about incestuous relationships, sexual relationships with minors or sexual relationships based on societal or economic standings.  But it says not one word about loving, same-sex relationships between consenting adults.  The word homosexual did not appear in the Bible until 1946, and then as it is now, was sloppily interpretated.  Further, homosexuality did not become a topic of debate in the church until the very late 70’s or early 80’s when the AIDS epidemic made it politically advantageous.  Homosexuality, if viewed honestly, is a secondary theological issue.  It is in the same boat as dancing, drinking, smoking, tattoos, divorce and remarriage, etc.  Issues that separate denominations, but in no way separates a soul from God.

Between then and now I dated some wonderful women … and I dated some not so wonderful women.  I dated some women because I did not want to be alone and I dated others because I genuinely cared for them.   I dated a few men, testing the waters to see if I could make it work and I dated a few men to appear straight.  I even dated a gay man and wondered if we could make some type of relationship work.  As you can imagine, the answer to that was a definitive NO.

For the most part, I was searching for a mate whose demons played well with mine.  Not that I was looking for a broken or flawed person.  I was looking for a person who was not totally comfortable in their own skin and had processes to work through, because I had processes to work through.  When all along I should have looked for someone who had the confidence in themselves and love for me to assist me in silencing my demons.

As time passed, a light bulb went off and I finally understood it was far better to be alone than to be with the wrong person.  Within a year of making that decision, the perfect person for me walked into my life.  She did not regularly need me … but she always wanted me.  She found me to be sufficient within myself.  She believed and still does believe in self-improvement, always becoming a better version of yourself.  But she loved and accepted the current version of me without conditions.  She was not demanding in any shape, form or fashion, except in her expectation for transparent and honest communication.  She was careful and patient with my insecurities because she could see my tender heart.  She helped me understand I deserved to be treated in a kind, humane and descent way and proceeded to treat me as such.

We dated for a year, then moved in together.  At the time we moved in together it was illegal for us to get married.  Within a year of same-sex couples being given legal marital rights, we got married.  Two years later our marriage became legal in our home state.  We have a really good life.  It is not perfect, but our marriage is rock solid, we are committed and encourage each other to become better humans.  Equally as important, we give each other room to stumble in the process of self-improvement.  My family is the most important, sacred and cherished human relationship in the world to me.  Somehow, I think that is finally as it should be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Thinnest Thread

Humans have told stories since the beginning of time.  History, family and culture, have been passed down from generation to generation through storytelling.  Stories affirm who we are, and allow us to experience the similarities and differences between ourselves and others.  Stories help us find meaning in our lives.  Stories help us learn from the experiences of others and if we are wise we will learn from both the mistakes and the triumphs of others.

In that vein, I want to share part of a very personal and intimate story.  It is a topic few are comfortable discussing, which is why I am sharing it.  It is a story of my struggle with suicidal ideation and hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

The first question most people will ask is “what happened”?  The strange but true answer is, it does not matter what happened.  The circumstances surrounding this 10 months of emotional hell is nothing but window dressing.  It matters not who betrayed me or why.  Who lied to me or about me and why. Or the numbers of friendships that have been damaged beyond repair.  None of that matters.  What matters is how I arrived at such a dark place and how I climbed out of that pit and began wanting to live this adventure called life again.

While I have struggled with depression my entire life, when the darkness descended I was happily married, gainfully employed, a member of a wonderful community of faith, was financially sound and had a small group of intimate and loyal friends.  I was coming off a period of 5 or so years of unimaginable stress, filled with a personal cancer diagnosis, eleven surgeries, several deaths of family and friends, moving twice, building a home, planning a wedding, getting married, totaling a vehicle, a pet being killed, two other pets dying, having my niece move in with us, then my mother-in-law moving in with us, etc.  But by August 2017, life had finally started to settle down and was looking brighter.   Then the phone rang.

The information I received during that phone call was unbelievable and an extreme distortion of facts.  I was shocked.  My character was being assassinated.  The professional reputation I had spent 31 years building without a single complaint, and dozens of commendations, was being drug through the mud.  I sobbed as I have rarely sobbed before.

This transpired on a Friday.  By Monday I had convinced myself it would blow over and those whom personally knew me would see through the untruths and half-truths.  But by the following Monday, after no movement had been made in my situation, I determined I could not take the pain, the sting of betrayal and could not possibly be strong enough to defend myself against the evil lies and exaggerations.  Subsequently, I made phone calls to confirm the death payout of my life insurance policy.  I wanted to confirm how much my wife would receive upon my death.  Sadly, with a brand new home, the death benefit was not enough to leave my wife financially secure.

Let me be clear, before I go any further … I never wanted to die. I wanted … no I needed … the pain to stop.  Suicide is rarely about wanting to die, rather it is about a deep commitment to stopping pain by any possible means.

One morning the following week, I found myself in our bedroom closet with a 9mm gun in my hand, inserting the magazine.  As I stood there, it was as if I was watching myself in slow motion from outside of my body.  My thoughts were interrupted when I heard the garage door open and realized my wife who had previously left for work, was returning to the house for some unknown reason.  I quickly returned the gun and the magazine to the case and sat down on a stool in the closet.  That was the first time I realized I loved my wife more than I hated myself.  The next morning I told my wife she should remove the gun from the house.  Which she did … and the first knot was tied in the thinnest of threads to which I was clinging.

Early the following week, I had the thought it might be easier for my wife if I died on a day the housekeeper was coming, so she would not find me or have to deal with the EMT’s, police, etc.  The housekeeper was scheduled for Tuesday of the following week.  I decided that would be the day.  I would have my wife take our dogs to day care and once she left I would close the master bedroom door, take a cocktail of sedatives and go back to bed.  I had the pills ready and set aside in old prescription bottle and I had purchased juice at the grocery store to hopefully help the pills not upset my stomach.  However, as I have often heard, the devil is in the details.  Monday before the “day” the housekeeper texted and cancelled saying she was going out-of-town to help a family member and did not know exactly when she would return.

As one day turned into another, then into another week, I found myself riding around town searching for places to die.  I located a park that seemed private.  I could park in the back, be found by a stranger and the police would be called.  This would be the easiest for my wife.

Looking back it is insane how much my suicidal ideation was seen through the lens of how it would affect my wife.  I was attempting to be protective of her, even as I was planning to carry out an act that would devastate her.  Which supports the fact it is impossible to make rational sense out of something irrational.

One day, as I was riding around town, I stopped at a local grocery store to buy a few items.  From the parking lot of the store I called a friend.  I am not sure why I made that call, but I did.  I began to tell her how I was feeling and that I could not take the pain any longer, but I was struggling with leaving my wife with a new mortgage debt.  She stopped what she was doing.  She talked to me about an hour and then prayed for me.  It was one of the sweetest prayers I ever heard.  That one small act on her part, took the edge off and I got through another day … and another knot was tied.

One morning shortly afterwards, a neighbor called and asked me to join her on her morning walk.   I did not want to go on a walk, but for some reason I said sure.  We walked an hour, talked a little, but mostly just walked.  For that one hour I was convinced I mattered to her, which gave me a glimmer of hope. At the end of the walk, she asked if I wanted to walk the next morning.  I said I did.  We have walked every morning, weather and schedule permitting, since that first walk.  That one small act of kindness, started many dark days on a brighter note.  There were, and still are, many days that morning walk makes a huge difference and sets the tone for my entire day … and another knot was tied.

After roughly two weeks of walking, I called and made an appointment with my pastor.  I am not sure what I looked like when I walked into her office that day, but I do remember asking her if it was a safe place.  She affirmed it was and gave me her undivided attention.  During the course of our meeting she offered to go with me to the hospital if I needed/wanted in-patient help.  That one small act of kindness made a huge difference.  We met routinely after that first meeting.  To know she would walk beside me in the valley, without condemning me, profoundly moved me.  In the days to come, she treated me in the same loving way as always, without any condemnation.  She did not treat me as a broken person who needed fixing, but rather a wounded person who needed healing.  She helped me feel worthy of love … and subsequently worthy of life … and another knot was tied.

My pastor gave me the name of two therapists.  One name was the same therapist my friend with whom I walk gave me.  I called and made an appointment with her.  The compassion and empathy of the therapist touched my heart deeply and made me feel safe.  I began seeing her multiple times a week.  As time progressed I moved to seeing her weekly. Now, some 10-months later, I am still seeing her monthly and participating in group therapy … and another knot was tied.

As time went by and the suicidal ideation began to subside, I no longer fixated on ways to kill myself, but on a bad day I would purposely do something risky, hoping I would get “lucky” and accidentally die.    Most of this revolved around taking increasing amounts of medication before bed and hoping I would not wake up the next morning.  Other days I contemplated stopping my cancer treatment and let nature take its course.

On one of my more clear thinking days, I created a safety plan.  This plan consisted of what I could do if suicidal ideation began to creep back into my mind.  The plan listed things to do and people to call until the ideation passed.  I shared this plan with my intimate, inner circle and it served me well.  It was helpful to me to have a plan of what to do before it was needed, so I did not have to rely on clear thinking in the midst of pain.  This was also an extra step in me taking personal responsibility for my mental health … and another knot was tied.

As far as that distant incident goes, looking back 10 months later, it was one of the top 5 best things that has ever happened to me.  It helped cleanse the palet of my life, unlike anything else could.  Now my life is much more free and peaceful.

I learned several lessons from this experience.  First, there is no shame in suicidal ideation.  There is no shame in depression or any mental health condition.  There is no shame in taking medication for mental health conditions.  The only way the stigma surrounding mental health issues can be overcome is through honest communication, transparency and vulnerability.  Most people are not comfortable talking about suicide.  It is my hope that by sharing part of my story, I will encourage someone else to feel safe telling his/her story.  To reach out, to stop the downward spiral by shining light on the darkness.

Secondly, I did not become suicidal because of one incident.  Generally, no one becomes suicidal after one event.  I now know it was a lifetime of holding things in and stuffing emotions.  It was a lifetime of refusing to be vulnerable with others.  It was a lifetime of trying to control my emotions and wanting to seem to be ok, when in fact there were (and are) times I am not okay.  It was a lifetime of not comprehending it is okay to not be okay.  It was a lifetime of consistently putting the needs of others before my own.  I now understand completely why we are told on airplanes to put our oxygen masks on first, before helping others.  Without proper care, we are unable to help ourselves or others.

Because of my neglect of my emotional and mental health, my tool box of emotional resources and coping skills was completely empty when this incident happened.  When this straw, fell on the back of the camel, the only resources remaining were instinctual and primitive.  With emotional pain building at an increasing rate, and with my resources depleted, the only option to stop the pain was to stop breathing, stop waking up, and stop participating in life.

Thirdly, I am a giver by nature and unfortunately never cultivated the skill of comfortably receiving from others.  That combined with having developed a pattern of surrounding myself with acquaintances whom are takers, set up the perfect storm of emotional collapse. I am now learning, through therapy, how to receive things from other people.  How to allow people to love me, support me, and care for me.  I am also learning how to stop running to the rescue of others, but rather help them help themselves.

Fourthly, it was necessary for me to cut dead weight from my life.  It is impossible to champion every cause.  It is impossible to meet every need I encounter.  It is impossible to live a life as a giver and never receive.  It is impossible to be all things to all people.  I must decide what are my priorities and values and live a life which reflects those.  I must learn to say no when appropriate.  I must learn to be motivated from within, and not pressured from without.

Lastly, I am learning it is of the utmost importance to stay in-tune with my feelings and to insist on authentic, transparent conversation with those whom are in my inner, intimate circle.  I have to be honest with myself to be honest with those around me.  While I was responsible for doing the work of getting to a better place; small, consistent acts of kindness by others made all the difference.  With every knot that was tied in my thin thread, the thread became stronger.

Mental health conditions and emotional pain should not be taboo subjects.  By keeping them in the dark, we give them a sinister power over our lives.  It is time to be open and honest, speaking truth to the fear of vulnerability.

If someone you love is suffering from a mental health condition and/or is in emotional pain, know you do not need to “fix” anything.  You simply need to do consistent acts of kindness to let them know they are not alone.  In essence, unless you are a mental health professional, all you need to do is be a genuine friend.  Please do not be afraid to reach out to them.  Love them well through human contact, but remember they must do the work to change or manage their situation.

If you are suffering from a mental health condition and/or are in emotional pain, reach out for help.  Reach out with the same confidence you would if you were in physical pain.  Please do not let the darkness overtake you.  Your pain matters.  It does get better.  You are loved.  You are enough.  You story is of infinite importance.

If you find yourself alone and in need of someone to talk with, the information below can be helpful:

National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

Suicide Text: Text HOME to 741741

Suicide Support for Hearing Impaired:  1-800-799-4889

Learn to love yourself well … you are worth it