Black ink swirled on my arm as the tattoo gun engraved “Warr;or” into my skin. I’m weird like that. I get tattoos to commemorate moments. Ink is my thing because it marks me for life. Later, I posted a photo of my daughter and I soaking in the sun with my new tattoo on display. What I didn’t expect was the dozens of private messages from friends about the tattoo. Their comments weren’t about the word I word tattooed but more about the meaning of the semicolon within it.
As a writer I am in love with the meaning of the semicolon. A semicolon is what a writer uses to connect two different thoughts or ideas. It means the writer could’ve ended the moment with a period but didn’t. It means to continue. It’s well known among the mental health community too. In 2013, Amy Bleuel started the faith-based nonprofit movement that is dedicated to “presenting hope and love to those who are struggling with depression, suicide, addiction and self-injury,” according to its website. Bleuel lost her father to suicide.
My family nearly lost me to suicide in 2004. Had it not been for the emergency staff the night that worked tirelessly to save me, I would not be here. It’s been more than a decade since that day and the darkness of depression still sometimes overshadows my life.
I am blessed and lucky. I conquered the black hole of a suicide attempt thanks to the support of friends, family and a counselor. I fought to get healthy, but I kept silent because of the stigma. I kept it hidden, because of the ignorance, criticism and rejection from those who didn’t understand or because their sudden loss was too fresh to bear. When I talk about it, people act as if I have a case of the chickenpox or that a straight jacket with leggings should be a staple in my wardrobe.
For me, the black ink is a reminder of the dusty roads my feet traveled down. It’s a reminder that I was able to get through those starless nights; that I hung on long enough to see the sunrise. It’s a reminder to ensure I am doing self-care. It’s a reminder to make sure I take my medication every evening. It’s a reminder to talk to my kids.
Our community is still reeling from three student suicides during the 2016-2017 school year. I’ll never forget the moment when I was at work at the newspaper when the chatter on the radios was about another student who had committed suicide. I fell to the floor when I learned it was one of my daughter’s friends. Hands shaking, I couldn’t get her on the phone fast enough.
“Mom did you know? Did you know Jacob* died in his truck last night? We can’t find Steven. We’re scared he’s gonna do something.” That moment solidified the ripple effect my attempt would’ve cause our family and community. I was beyond heartbroken for my daughter, our community and his family.
That moment broke my silence when I first began to speak out about mental health and suicide.
In 2016, the most recent data available, Nebraska had 251 suicides; according to the American Foundation of Suicide Prevention. That’s 251 too many. Our rate should be zero. It is the first leading cause of death for ages 10 to 14. Nationally, it was the 10th leading cause of death for all ages.
