Suicide prevention

Warning signs, etc

Like cloud joining cloud.

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Loss Too Deep for Words

When all that seems real is lost,
where words blur and fail,
where intention cannot reach the depth,
where heart hungers
and soul starves.

Only the warmth in the heart of another
finds the pulse,
like cloud joining cloud,
a delicate meeting
before language.

Seeing and seen,
no grandeur, no pretence.

Not words.
Not healing.
Not intention.

Not reviving.
Not demanding.
Not offering.
Not outside, just there, stepped inside.
Rare.

Once isolated, unreachable,
now golden sun emerging, real.

Only that which is real
can touch that which is real.

Nothing survives
that is not love.

  • By Tony Bisson

(Tony is a bereaved father. He wrote this poem expressing what being in the Circle of Rememberance means to him.)

Hope?

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The old ones have not finished and today we have a new one. Yes. The world really needed another war. We, ordinary people needed to be shown the mirror again, as if we didn’t already bemoan our powerlessness. Impotent bystanders. Burning, yet totally ineffective. Quietly sitting, gazing at our phones, pretending to be immune to the bombs, the aggression, the assault on the Earth and its children.

This is not the first time, but it may be the last. History is revisiting, ringing the death knell, foreshadowing another erasure, another devastation. The imbalance of power in our world is showing us its ugly face again.

Vietnam. Cuba. Nicaragua. Libya. Syria. Panama. Iraq. Afghanistan. Venezuela. Now Iran.

I wonder which country starved, besieged and damaged generations across the world. The one that is quick to label others as a ‘Rogue state’.

Three years ago, Al Jazeera reported that 9 out of 10 Syrians were living under the poverty line. In a country that was once stable, diverse and culturally rich, many breadwinners were and still are unable to provide for their families. Young suicides are on the rise.

Abdul Hayy, a psychotherapist in Idlib says, “People in Northern Syria face conditions such as displacement, losing their homes, living in camps where they lose their privacy, as well as unemployment, poverty and an inability to adapt to the difficult conditions. This then leads to people losing hope and fearing the future, which appears as if it were getting worse.”

Humans are responsible for the extinction of many species. We might be next.

“Two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity. I’m not sure about the universe.”

– Albert Einstein.

Why do love and crying go together?

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(From The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo)

At a recent wedding, halfway through his speech, the bride’s father was overcome with tears. He was so happy for his daughter that he couldn’t help but cry. It was a sparkling moment of a mixture of affection, achievement and perhaps relief. Even though it took him by surprise, it was perfectly normal and rather sweet.

At the hospital, I watched men and women cry with joy at the first sight of their newborn baby. It was joy to behold their love and terror of having this amazing miracle happen to them. I have taken many photos of those moist eyes brimming with love.

Babies cry to express their hunger or discomfort or pain. Adults also cry to express themselves but somehow, they don’t seem to have as much permission as kids. When we’re happy, we laugh and that’s okay. When we’re sad, we cry and that’s often not okay.

Jesus wept. (John 11:35)

When he visited the tomb of his friend, Lazarus, Jesus was moved to tears seeing the sorrow of those mourning his death. The verse comforts believers by showing them that Jesus had empathy for the grief, loss, and pain that humans endure. Despite knowing he was about to raise Lazarus, he felt for them in that moment. He had solidarity with the human heart.

The protective mechanisms built into our bodies are very subtle. The eyelids blink to ensure that the cornea remains moist, so we can continue to see clearly. It happens without us noticing. As soon as we put something in our mouths, our saliva starts to counter potential troublemakers in our food. When we change our position from sitting to standing, the biomechanics in the body readjust to ensure that we don’t fall over. A sense of balance in innate to us while standing and walking.

Crying also protects. It works as a pressure-release valve. When our emotions are intense and difficult to contain, crying helps to reestablish emotional equilibrium. It is a cue for connection with others as it is founded in our vulnerability as humans.

To stay with each other until the flood subsides.

To hold each other. Talk. Listen. Be present

That’s how we hold space for feelings, allowing them to be fully expressed.

That is how we experience divine love.

Resource:

CORe: Circle of Remembrance. A free online peer support group for bereaved parents, where crying is honoured.

New things.

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They opened her sister’s tummy and took out a thing that looked like a red chili. Their mother was very worried, but the doctor said ‘all went well’. She was so relieved, she brought her a blue silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins. She had managed to buy a nearly new one for pennies at the village market from a heap of random goods piled up on the roadside.

New things never happened to Amita. She was the fifth of six kids. One girl. 3 boys. Her. One more boy. Most of her childhood was spent in boy’s clothes. When she was seven, she could finally wear her sister’s tattered old frocks. All she wanted was something new.

Amita started complaining of tummy aches that were so strong she had to miss school. She hardly ate anything and became scrawnier every week. She looked sallow. Her parents took her from one doctor to the next. They were exasperated. Finally, the fifth doctor said they would have to open her tummy and look inside. Amita’s dream was coming true. She smiled inwardly. Her operation was scheduled for Monday.

On Sunday night, in her hospital bed she remembered when her aunt had come to visit from Bangalore, she had brought one plastic doll for the girls to share. Its golden hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her head was round with two very round brown eyes. When you lay her on her back, her eyelids closed over. Thick long black lashes touched her pink cheeks. On standing her up, the lids mechanically snapped open. Her elder sister claimed the doll all for herself. When no one was looking, Amita would hold the doll like a baby, rock it from side to side and stroke its cheeks.

On Monday morning, she was super-excited. As she was going off to sleep, the blue silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins danced in front of her eyes.

When she woke up, Amita had a huge red gash right down the middle of her tummy. It was so painful that she could hardly breathe but Amita didn’t care. She waited for her mum. When the visiting hour arrived, her mum brought her a gift – a red silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins. It was even more beautiful than the blue one. Amita felt victorious. She had a new thing, all for herself.  She could hardly wait to show it to the smiley nurse who routinely looked after her.

That night, Amita slept peacefully in her hospital bed, clutching on to her silk purse.

The next morning, the smiley nurse came in with a thermometer and placed the tip of it under Amita’s tongue with a smile. She then started writing her notes. Just then, Amita pulled out the purse from under her pillow and held it up for her to see, her eyes popping out but unable to speak.

“Oh! For me? How kind! Thank you.” said the nurse and received the purse with both her lovely hands.

                                                ****    ****    ****

Resource: This story is inspired by an anecdote from the book “Nonviolent Communication. A language of Life.‘ by Marshall B. Rosenberg. PhD. In Chapter 4, he addresses the heavy cost of unexpressed feelings about unmet needs.

An Irish Legend

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Most of his stories are based in small towns and villages of 1950s Ireland. He writes about the underdog: small men and hard-done-by women. He has a deep concern for sexual exiles. His writing is true to that time in history because he normalizes silence, evasion and ambiguity. His fiction reads like truth. It reminds me of the time we lived in Northern Ireland. Almost every day I was flummoxed by the response I got on asking a colleague, how they were.

“Not too bad.”

I was never sure what that meant. Were they well? Or not as well as before? Or not as unwell as before? Not as well as they could be? Bad, but not too bad? I soon came to accept that as normal. In time I came to understand it as a safe answer – not giving away too much. It was historical.

William Trevor was a genius at talking about the unknown known, of knowing and not knowing at the same time. A cognitive disjunction. A common social ailment.

Yes. Mary Louise is in a loveless marriage to an older man and everyone in their small town knows but they pretend like they don’t.

Yes. Everyone knows that Elmer is becoming an alcoholic, but they act like they don’t.

I lately read ‘Two Lives: Reading Turgenev & My House in Umbria’ – a book with two artful novellas by Trevor. Reading Turgenev was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in its time. My House in Umbria was made into a film in 2003, available on YouTube. I haven’t watched it but apparently Maggie Smith is brilliant and the end has been changed for Hollywood.

For me, the protagonists of both these stories exemplify how hidden and unacknowledged grief can escort one to the thin red line between sanity and insanity. Both women are poorly understood even by people who claim to love them, their coping labelled as unacceptable, erratic and bonkers. Judged, condemned and outcast for simply managing their losses. Punished for somehow managing their loss. And finally, put away.