Milkshakes for Theo’s adoption anniversary! No one should have to adopt their own kids, but I’m finding ways to make difficult memories fun. It’s part of our family story, and an important part of the cultural context of what it means to be a queer family in the U.S. and the expensive hoops (not to mention exclusionary, privileged, etc.) we have to jump through to protect our parental rights.

To read more about my adventures in queer parenting (specifically conception), read my column for Romper’s Trying series.

This piece was originally published by xoJane (RIP) on January 9, 2015 with the title “IT HAPPENED TO ME: My Dad Died in Prison Years Ago, but He Keeps Breaking My Heart.”

My father died at Jacksonville Memorial Hospital on March 1, 2008 at 12:08 p.m. It was a Saturday. I opted to stay home and watch TV all day because I was in the midst of a months-long depression.

The phone rang the first time at 9:56 p.m. It was my mom. I knew to sit down even before I picked up and heard her sobbing on the other end. She never calls at night — unless there’s something wrong. I don’t really remember what she said, just that my dad was dead and she wanted to be the first to tell me.

The phone rang again at 9:59 p.m. I don’t know if my mom had already hung up and left me to wait for the call, or if they beeped through. The caller was a woman from one of the many correctional institutions my father had been transferred back and forth to over the two months prior, unbeknownst to me.

She told me that Marc A. Stage, inmate DC # 407861, had “expired.” In the next beat, she asked me if I’d like to “claim the body.”

CIRCUMSTANCES OF DEATH (per the autopsy report, received August 2008): Florida Department of Corrections inmate with known cirrhosis, hepatitis C, and end-stage liver failure. Admitted 2/26/08 to a Jacksonville hospital for altered mental status. Hospital diagnoses of end-stage liver disease with hepatic encephalopathy, ascites, coagulopathy, failed Denver shunt/TIPS placement attempts, and recent umbilical hernia surgery with wound dehiscence. Suffered cardiopulmonary arrest on 3/1/08 which did not respond to CPR/ACLS efforts.

His nickname was Bear. He was barrel-chested, rotund, with strong forearms. He wore his long, thin hair braided into a ponytail, and his hairline had receded enough that he always wore a baseball cap. He had a lion tattooed on his right arm (he was a Leo) and a skull with a Confederate flag and a banner that declared him “Southern born and bred” (no comment) on his left. His voice was deep and gruff, and he always called me “little girl,” no matter how I’d grown.

He had a good sense of humor, but he was an angry drunk, and drunk was how he stayed. Then, he was distrustful, prone to bar brawls. Smart, but not smart enough to stay out of trouble. An entrepreneur with little to show for his efforts. A womanizer. A rebel.

His moral compass, in general, was decidedly broken.

One of my first memories is of my dad throwing an alarm clock at my mom’s head. They broke up when I was two or so. They moved on, built new lives, and managed to, somehow, stay friends. She didn’t divorce him because she knew he’d be gone if forced to pay child support. He didn’t divorce her because it was an excuse not to marry any of his girlfriends.

He wasn’t around much, but I always knew to expect him for birthday parties and Christmas.

He’d occasionally show up on a Saturday morning and take me to the skating rink down the street. He taught me crossovers, scissors, how to skate backwards and turn around again, how to skate fast. He bought me my first pair of quads (a white pair of Carreras — I immediately regretted not asking for black ones) and I’d race around the rink like I was flying.

He moved to the Keys. I remember visiting him only once. We fed the deer on Big Pine Key. He had a pet raccoon that stood on its head in a dinner bowl.

By the time I was a teenager, he’d been in and out of jail regularly: possession of various substances, indecent exposure (this got him discharged from the military), grave robbery, assault, stalking, and a handful of DUIs.

He tried to touch my breasts once when I was 16. He said I was starting to look like my mother.

It was around this time that he stopped being my daddy and, instead, became a man I didn’t want to be left alone with.

When I was a senior in high school (I had two jobs and was in a high school/college dual enrollment program), I asked him for money to help pay for my prom dress. He told me to get another job. I paid for it myself, and instead of inviting him to my graduation, I wrote him a letter cutting all ties.

My mom is a firm believer in the psychic power of dreams (not to mention the magic of a mother’s intuition, which has, grudgingly, resulted in a “Mom was right” tattoo on my left ankle).

When I was about 20 years old, she called me one day to tell me that she’d had a dream: If I started speaking to my dad again, he’d finally agree to a divorce.

I called him, lying on the low-pile beige carpet in my barely furnished apartment, wrapping the long phone cord around my fingers, unwrapping, wrapping. Highlights sans long, awkward pauses: I told him I was gay. He told me he’d been diagnosed with hepatitis C (he’d been put on the transplant list for a new liver at the VA) and bipolar disorder (this became a key piece of information in the puzzle of my struggles with my mental health).

I made a trip back home to Miami just after my 21st birthday. Since I was newly minted to drink legally, my mom, dad, and godmother (the latter two of which I hadn’t seen in several years) took me dancing at a biker dive in Homestead. It had an exceptional jukebox. My mom threw out her hip teaching my girlfriend how to dance (“the roll”). My dad offered to help me buy a car. That never happened. He gave her the divorce, though.

I saw him again a year later, just after I’d graduated from college. It was Christmastime. He handed me a folded sheet of lined paper with a scrawled note telling me how proud he was and $200 tucked inside. He had a black eye. Another bar brawl. I took a photo (it’s the last one in existence, if you don’t count the mugshots).

A month later, he was arrested for a DUI and possession of a firearm. When I heard the news, I remember thinking, good riddance.

He was taken off the VA’s transplant list.

I found out that his health was in a state of rapid decline in September of 2007. We hadn’t spoken in two years. It took me weeks, but I wrote him a letter — out of guilt or fear or some other mix of emotions I still haven’t properly processed.

He was more sympathetic on paper, coloring himself to be more than just a drunk with a history of [mostly] petty crimes under his belt. We found common ground in our mutual interests in religion and philosophy, our tendencies toward introspection, our resentment of U.S. political policies (albeit his views were far more radical than mine).

He talked about moving to an island when he got out, about anarchy, about how he’d been studying the law.

I visited him at FCI Miami, a minimum-security federal prison most famous for housing Manuel Noriega, on Christmas Day.

I was paralyzed with anxiety about what I might say to him, so I arrived later in the afternoon. I’d visited various prisons before, but always as a kid, and I didn’t realize how long the initial wait would be, or how long it would take to go through security (metal detector, extensive pat down). I was advised to leave everything but my ID and keys in the car. I followed those instructions to the letter.

By the time I finally sat down in the grungy, fluorescent-lit cafeteria and my dad came through the door from the holding area, we had less than an hour to talk.

It was then that I knew, without a doubt, that it was coming. The man I sat across from was not the man I’d known all my life. He was gaunt and subdued. His hair was short, eyes sunken in. The cords stood out on his neck. His liver was failing and his belly was distended, pregnant with fluid that was building up much more quickly than it could be drained with the shoddy care he was receiving.

I remember two things about our conversation: he was simultaneously impressed that I had tattoos and confused about my aesthetic choices in them (valid: I had a gaggle of bloody stick figures on my arm at the time); and he never once acknowledged that he was dying.

An inmate circled the room with a Polaroid, tasked with taking photos of inmates with their families (in exchange for cash, of course).

My dad said, “Did you bring money?” I’d put it back in the car like I was told.

I never saw him again.

I received a letter on January 8, 2008. It was short. He said that seeing me at Christmas was the best present he could have gotten; that I’d grown into a beautiful young woman with questionable taste in tattoo art; and he expressed curiosity at whether he’d ever become a grandfather.

When I didn’t hear from him by the end of February, I started to worry. I went to the Florida Department of Corrections Inmate Population Search and typed in his name.

The only change to his profile was a new mugshot that reflected the man I met on Christmas Day. I figured that, if something was seriously wrong, someone would surely call me.

My father died alone, handcuffed to his hospital bed. There was no one to comfort him; no goodbyes, no closure, just a million questions left unanswered. He was 45 years old.

I was his next of kin. The Department of Corrections never once called to inform me of his status — not until 10 hours after his death, anyway, when he was reduced to a six digit number and a “body” to claim, should I so choose.

I negotiated the bureaucracy of his death via the indifferent vehicle of the Florida correctional system: I authorized his autopsy. I signed his body away to be cremated (the other option was to leave him with the state, where they’d bury him in an unmarked grave). I arranged to have his few possessions sent to me.

I wrote his obituary.

A month later, my mom and I flew down to Miami. We picked up my paternal grandmother and one of my father’s ex-loves and drove his ashes through the Keys to the old Seven Mile Bridge (only after, of course, my mom missed the turnoff and we had to drive over the new Seven Mile Bridge — which I am terrified of — not once, but twice, in order to get back), where we threw them into the ocean. In one of the more surreal moments of my life, the ashes lingered around the flowers we’d thrown in with them, just long enough for me to take a photo, before dissipating.

I want to be clear that my father was not a parent to me. He didn’t raise me. He didn’t feed, clothe, or discipline me. He didn’t help with my homework or come to my various band concerts. And he certainly didn’t contribute to my belief system or principles.

When I refer to my parents, I’m talking about the power trio of my mom and maternal grandparents.

He was 50 percent of my genetics — little more — and yet, I was (and occasionally still am) struck with grief at his loss. It’s a complicated grief, as they all are, but confused by years of anger, intermittent silence, and, near the end, a softness I never expected could be possible.

Three weeks after my father’s death, I was out drinking at a bar on the Upper East Side of New York City, then my new home. I was with a friend who knew the bartender, so I felt safe leaving my bag hanging on my chair when I went outside to smoke a cigarette (clearly a rookie move).

It was gone when I came back. I lost my camera, my ID and credit cards, and most importantly, my journal, which held every letter my dad had written me in those final few months.

I posted a Craigslist ad. “Keep everything else, but please return the journal,” it said.

That never happened.

Now, I celebrate Father’s Day every year with a small group of friends who know that same pain. We call it Dead Dad Brunch. We drink away the afternoon, and I toast over and over to a man I barely knew.

In The Miami Herald, Sunday, March 9, 2008:

MARC ANDREW STAGE, affectionately known as “Bear,” 45, of Marathon, FL, passed away March 1, 2008 at Jacksonville Memorial Hospital after a severe long-term illness. A former U.S. Air Force Airman and U.M. student, he settled into life running his successful underwater hull-cleaning business, Bear Divin’. Soon to make a triumphant return to the ocean he so loved, he is survived by his daughter, Dese’Rae Stage; his mother; his long-time friend and ex-spouse; and his siblings.

Patrick Warren, Sr., a pastor in Killeen, TX, was killed by officer Reynaldo Contreras during a welfare check on Sunday. When Warren showed signs of emotional distress, his family called 911 for assistance. Killeen is located in Bell County, which employs Mental Health Deputies—officers trained in crisis intervention whose goal is to divert folks in crisis away from hospitals and jails by providing them with alternative resources in the community. Warren’s family was told a Mental Health Deputy was unavailable and an officer was dispatched instead.

Contreras responded to Warren’s home and left when Warren told him to. Moments later, Warren exited his home waving his arms and walked toward Contreras. Contreras tased, then shot Warren. He then aimed his gun at Warren’s wife, Barbara, and told her to stand back. He turned his gun on Warren and shot him again. Warren was unarmed.

This is what I need folks to understand about calling the police on a suicidal person:Even if the person survives that encounter, prolonging someone's life is NOT the same as saving it.And if a police encounter results in significant trauma, you did not save their life.

23% of people shot and killed by police since 2015 were experiencing a mental health crisis at time of death. BIPOC and LGBTQ+ folks in crisis are at increased risk for harm when cops become involved in their mental health crises.

This is why we don’t call 911 on people in crisis. This is why we have to find better answers.

r/BlackMentalHealth

—
You can reach the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800–273–8255, Trans Lifeline at 877–565–8860 (U.S.) or 877–330–6366 (Canada), BlackLine at 800–604–5841, or The Trevor Project at 866–488–7386. If you’d like to talk to a peer, warmline.org contains links to warmlines in every state. If you’re not in the U.S., click here for a link to crisis centers around the world. If you don’t like talking on the phone, you can reach the Crisis Text Line by texting HOME to 741–741.

BlackLine 1 (800) 604-5841

NOTE: Many of these resources utilize restrictive interventions, like active rescues (wellness or welfare checks) involving law enforcement or emergency services. If this is a concern for you, you can ask if this is a possibility at any point in your conversation. Trans Lifeline does not implement restrictive interventions for suicidal people without express consent. A warmline is also less likely to do this, but you may want to double-check their policies.

One of the biggest myths about suicide is that people end their lives in larger numbers during the holidays. This is not true.

I used to make sure to discuss this myth every year on my social channels because it’s inaccurate, and I got tired of seeing media pushes and careless social sharing that just perpetuated it. I find that we—the media, the suicide prevention and suicidology fields, people in general—have a habit of discussing suicide when we can sensationalize it (e.g., during the holidays, when a celebrity ends their life) or during a month (September) arbitrarily designated as the time to RaIsE aWaReNeSs around the issue. Wouldn’t it make more sense to discuss it regularly, or at least during times of year when folks are most affected and most need support?

Suicide rates among adults tend to be highest in April and July*; suicide rates among people under 18 tend to be highest when school is in session (feel free to email me if you want the PDF for any academic articles I share), and specifically when students go back to school. Zooming in, someone attempts suicide every 26 seconds, and someone dies from suicide every 11 minutes in the U.S. Suicide is much more relevant to our day-to-day lives than we give it credit for. Until we’re able to admit that and move beyond awareness campaigns to education, nuanced discussion, and critical thinking on suicide, we’re unlikely to reduce consistently rising suicide rates.

Suicide rates in the U.S. tend to be lowest in December. Nominally. People are less isolated. Some people are kinder, more generous and others feel that. Holiday bonuses, for those who get them, might help with difficult financial situations. Parties! Time off from school! Surely, I’m missing a few things.

Even so, those lower suicide rates don’t touch the emotional suffering so many feel during the holidays: people who are grieving, LGBTQ+ folks rejected by their families, those who have no families, those people who are houseless, people who are incarcerated, poor folks. It’s a long list.

A couple of years ago, a colleague pointed out that it was insensitive of me to spend so much time trying to bust the myth around holiday suicide without also addressing a different aspect of it: those left behind.

Suicide loss survivors can struggle immensely during holidays. Grief, in general, tends to flare up around holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, or other special dates. Loss survivors are at increased risk for suicide. Many experience suicidal thoughts of their own as a result of their grief, and suicide grief tends to last longer and be more complicated than other forms of grief.

If you know a loss survivor, now is a great time to check in on them. Ask how they are, specifically in relation to their loss. Say the names of the folks they lost. Ask them to share a memory if they’re up for it. What I’m learning is that, though those we’ve lost are physically absent, they remain present in so many other ways, and that’s worth acknowledging.

While you’re at it, check in on anyone dealing with something causing them distress: suicide loss survivors; those grieving COVID deaths (especially if they weren’t able to be present for the loss or have any sort of death-related funeral or ritual); essential and frontline workers; anyone struggling with relationship issues, financial issues, job loss, potential eviction, or medical issues (these are all factors associated with suicide); and anyone struggling with being alone or missing family for the holidays this year.

Ask how they are. Ask what you can do. Validate their feelings, even if they’re difficult for you to grasp. You don’t have to understand it. Be generous with your love and care anyway. More listening, less talking. Avoid “move on” and “get over it” commentary. Start zero sentences with “at least.” Just give compassion, love, and support — kind curiosity — but respect them, too, if they don’t want to talk about it. Show that you’re safe, that you’re trustworthy, that you’re ready and willing to be a source of support. They might call on you some other time.

Look, bust the myths around holiday suicide if you want, but don’t forget that our people need us—especially right now.

* When I discuss statistics or behavioral trends, I’m only talking about the United States unless otherwise noted.

You can reach the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800–273–8255, Trans Lifeline at 877–565–8860 (U.S.) or 877–330–6366 (Canada), or The Trevor Project at 866–488–7386. If you’d like to talk to a peer, warmline.org contains links to warmlines in every state. If you’re not in the U.S., click here for a link to crisis centers around the world. If you don’t like talking on the phone, you can reach the Crisis Text Line by texting HOME to 741–741.

NOTE: Many of these resources utilize restrictive interventions, like active rescues (wellness or welfare checks) involving law enforcement or emergency services. If this is a concern for you, you can ask if this is a possibility at any point in your conversation. Trans Lifeline does not implement restrictive interventions for suicidal people without express consent. A warmline is also less likely to do this, but you may want to double-check their policies.

(This post was originally published on the Live Through This blog on September 5, 2020.)

So, let’s talk about this weird hierarchy around “serious” or “medically serious” suicide attempts versus “non-serious” ones. In short, it’s harmful to all of us with lived experience of suicidal intensity of any kind.

Based on what we know about suicide attempts, there are over 1.2 million each year — and those are the ones we’re able to count. Many folks attempt suicide and don’t seek care — because they’re afraid to tell anyone, because they’re afraid they will be hospitalized against their will (and such disruptions could end up with results like job and income loss, which could put a person already in distress in further distress), because they don’t think it was serious enough. I’d wager that “serious” or “medically serious” attempts are in the minority. This isn’t a judgment or a statement with any kind of unstated-but-implied meaning; I just assume that most folks who use “serious” methods don’t live, and get counted in a different statistic: over 48,000 Americans died by suicide in 2018 (the last year for which we have data).

I think minimizing any suicide attempt is harmful; all are valid and indicate that a person is in distress, and thus, needs help of some kind (which is not always therapy and/or meds). We often hear people say that an attempt was a cry for help, that the person was looking for attention. If someone is in so much distress that attempting suicide is the only way to get attention then, to me, that means they need attention. Further, more violent means do not equate to more serious intent. Separating people out into groups in this way runs counter to our goals for the folks we serve.

Folks with “less serious” suicide attempts are hospitalized all the time, and sent through the same processes that can help or harm folks who used methods that were potentially more lethal. It’s possible they are held for 72+ hours (and maybe more), have traumatic experiences with police (QTBIPOC folks are at high risk for this), have traumatic experiences in the emergency department and potentially traumatic experiences in behavioral health units, where physical and chemical restraints may be used on them involuntarily. The seriousness of an attempt is irrelevant throughout that process.

There is a lot of harm done by this hierarchy, wherein people who have made “less serious” attempts don’t feel their pain is validated by folks they encounter, from their support systems, to law enforcement, to medical professionals. I cannot tell you the number of people who have said to me, “I don’t know if you want to hear my story. My attempt wasn’t particularly violent/serious.” The fact that anyone feels or thinks that breaks my heart.

The pain or hopelessness or whatever-it-is that makes someone want to die isn’t any less because a person reached for whatever was around them when they wanted to die and it wasn’t a gun or a ligature. I’m not sure that folks who make more “serious“ attempts are any more likely to die by suicide than others. 90% of attempt survivors go on to die of other causes. If there is literature on this, I’m not familiar with it (but open to reading), and I’m positive folks with lived experience weren’t involved in asking those research questions — because they miss the point.

At its core, suicide is about pain. All attempt survivors can identify with that. No one is more special than anyone else, and I don’t think violence/severity of method indicates that one person “means it” more than another. In the end, the needs of attempt survivors, regardless of method used/severity of attempt, are unmet, are underserved and mis-served, and ultimately misunderstood.

(This post was originally published on the Live Through This blog on September 1, 2020.)

I always feel so pressured to participate in Suicide Prevention Month when I don’t particularly want to and don’t, at this point, see much value in it.

The reality is that all the same messaging goes out over and over and over, from every possible suicide or mental health adjacent org. A lot of our messaging is regurgitated; puts the onus of finding support on people in crisis (as if the crisis itself doesn’t already take up 100% of a person’s bandwidth); and it’s often in direct conflict with itself.

As an example: we tell people over 48k Americans die by suicide annually. It’s the 10th leading cause of death overall, and 2nd for youth aged 15–24. These stats imply that it’s deeply important and that it happens often. In the very next breath, we will tell you that it’s a “rare event” and not to normalize it. We might follow that up by telling you that every other person in the room you’re in has been affected in some way. It’s incredibly frustrating. If we follow the public health trajectory of cancer, we know that normalizing it as A Thing That Happens to People & A Word That Is Okay to Say was helpful: for coping, support, policy, funding.

But here we are. Regurgitating and contradicting ourselves over and over, and wondering why it’s difficult to get people onboard.

And everyone who does this work? We’re all so burnt out by the end of September that we need a month off (which we obviously can’t have). And we’re all sad and frustrated, because after 9/30, it’s business as usual for the rest of the year. And we’re sad and frustrated anyway! Because the funding isn’t there; because the resources aren’t there; because people are forced into treatment that traumatizes them when they need safety; because true, life-saving support is fucking hard to come by.

There are so many faults with this work and this field and the politics around it, but I’d bet lots of goldfish crackers that most of us come to it with great love and passion. I know I do, which makes it hard for me to watch this cycle over and over and not say anything. I try to change messaging and perspectives about suicide every day of my life, so I don’t feel compelled to run on this particular hamster wheel. But I sure do feel pressured, given that some folks view me as a leader in the field.

So: talk about suicide this month (and all months), but find some new way to add your voice to the same ol’ mess.

Tell your story if you can (esp if you’re a mental health professional/academic/researcher — let’s clear out all the gross prejudice in the field). Tell it to a stranger, to your boss, to your journal, to your friends, to Twitter, to Facebook, to your pillow. Get it out of you however best suits you. There’s power in the telling.

Donate to people with lived experience: do they do work you love (hi, a plug: livethroughthis.org)? Are they struggling with bills? Maybe thank them for being in your life with dinner or a nice gift. Mentor them. Do their dishes.

LISTEN to people with lived experience when we talk. Put yourselves in our shoes. What would it take to make you want to end your life? Work on your empathy. Make yourself safe to come to in crisis. Learn about what happens when someone pushes the panic button and the cops get called or someone goes to the ER.

Learn about mental health and involuntary commitment laws. Learn about how all of the above affect civil liberties. Learn about how you can advocate for someone who has been involuntarily committed and who has few supports. Understand that all of this affects Black, Brown, Indigenous, people of color, and LGBTQ+ folks differently than it would a person who presents as straight and white.

Consider how YOU might support Black, Brown, Indigenous, people of color, LGBTQ+ folks, and disabled folks, and how that might look different from how you might support someone who presents as straight and white.

Do you know any trans* folks? Use their preferred names and pronouns. Donate to their legal name change/gender marker change funds. Donate to surgery funds. Throw them parties for these big life events. Celebrate them. Love them.

I’m just spitballing here, which is what I’m hoping to inspire y’all to do. Like I said, Suicide Prevention Month leaves me like 🤬🤬🤬.

Do you know someone looking for a therapist? Trying to navigate an insurance system, TANF/SNAP, or trying to establish disability? Are you good at navigating these systems? Offer your time and expertise.

Do you know someone in the middle of a breakup? Support them. Listen, even if you’re over it. Grab them dinner and drop it off. Validate that pain, no matter how old they are (yes, I’m talking about how we invalidate these teenage experience). And oh god! Be a safe adult for these kids. I had so few safe adults in my life when I was a teenager. Kids deserve our love and care and guidance, even if they’re not our own.

Look, suicide prevention is ALL of these things. It’s both subtle and explicit. Suicide and mental health diagnoses often intersect, but they are not one and the same.

Suicide prevention is so much more. It’s supporting people who need help — with food, money, therapy, legal fees, bail. It’s validating their feelings, letting it be about them, using their pronouns, ACCEPTING THEM. Suicide prevention is having food, housing, a living wage (and hey, maybe even some extra cash for fun things), healthcare. Suicide prevention is acknowledging structural oppression and white supremacy, and it’s DOING SOMETHING ABOUT CHANGING THAT. Suicide prevention is fighting for disability rights, for civil rights, for reproductive rights, for voting rights.

Suicide prevention is literally taking care of one another. It’s community, it’s collective care, it’s mutual support. I believe that, if we all had the support we needed, suicide wouldn’t be a problem.

As with Kate Spade, Anthony Bourdain’s suicide death is hitting a lot of us pretty hard. First, know that it’s okay to step away from social for a little while to practice some self-care — whatever that may look like for you. Second, please be informed regarding how to share this news with your networks. Many media outlets are doing a great job with their reporting; others are focused on sensationalism instead of productive, informative discussion about this important public health issue.

Here are a few pointers for sharing on the topic and the conversations to follow:

1. Learn and use appropriate language around suicide. We’re moving away from “committed suicide” because it’s pathologizing, and it implies sin or crime. Instead, here are some other, more objective phrases you can use: “died by/from suicide,” “took their life,” or “ended their life.” This isn’t about being politically correct. It’s about changing attitudes around suicide so that it’s a little bit easier to talk about.

2. Avoid judgment. If you’ve never been suicidal or lost someone to suicide, you sound like an asshole when you say things like, “Suicide is the coward’s way out,” or that it’s selfish or weak. Because Anthony Bourdain was a “man’s man,” we’ll see a lot of this rhetoric in coming days. Put yourself in the shoes of the suicidal person. Suicide is a result of isolation and despair, catalyzed by life events that feel insurmountable. If you can’t (or don’t want to) empathize with that, it might be best to just shut your mouth.

3. We’re all rubberneckers. Maybe you wanna know how he did it. Plenty of media outlets are sharing that information (against expert recommendations). Go look it up for yourself if you must, but try and avoid sharing details with your networks. It could potentially upset someone who has been suicidal or attempted suicide, or even lost someone to suicide in that manner. Do you want to play a part in ripping those wounds open? And again, it’s sensationalistic. Are you personally choosing to share this information to perpetuate the sensationalism? Or are you sharing because you think suicide is a problem and you’d like to change that? If your answer is the latter, share reports that focus less on the gore and more on the issue at hand.

4. Learn your local and national suicide crisis resources. Share them widely — and then save them in your phone, because there will probably come a time when someone you know personally needs them. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is at 800.273.8255. You can get Crisis Text Line by texting HOME to 741741. The Trevor Project’s hotline is at 866.488.7386 (they also have text and chat services). Trans Lifeline is at 877.565.8860. These resources are available for those in crisis as well as those who love them.

3. Both Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain left young children behind, not to mention so many others who loved them. Those surviving them have a long road of grief and healing ahead of them. Try and remember that the suicidal mind comes with a sort of tunnel vision that obscures everything one might value in their life. Don’t villainize them for leaving children behind; consider what kind of pain they must have been in to have even gotten to that point, and the desperate need they felt to escape that pain.

This quote from David Foster Wallace, who also died from suicide, sums it up nicely:

“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”

5. Remember that suicide doesn’t discriminate. Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain were rich and famous, but that doesn’t preclude them or anyone else from suffering. Suicide affects people from every possible walk of life — especially white men from middle-age on. Anthony Bourdain, in particular, was open about his history with substance use/abuse and suicidality, which are other risk factors for suicide. Learn about the risk factors and warning signs for suicide. Talk to the people around you. Stay vigilant. Ask for help when you need it.

Hopefully this helps aid in conversations and sharing about these deaths. If you’re interested in learning more about suicide safe reporting guidelines, click here.

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** If you found this information to be useful and you’d like to support my work, you can do that here(tax deductible, with the option of a one-time or monthly donation).

You’ve probably heard by now that Kate Spade died from suicide. Please be informed regarding how to share this news with your networks. So many of the media articles coming out are filled with sensationalistic garbage that misses the point, which is that she was in deep despair and, for whatever reason, couldn’t find her way out of it.

Here are a few pointers for sharing on the topic and the conversations to follow:

1. Learn and use appropriate language around suicide. We’re moving away from “committed suicide” because it’s pathologizing, and it implies sin or crime. Instead, here are some other options: “died by/from suicide,” “took their life,” “ended their life.”

2. I know we’re all rubberneckers, and maybe you wanna know how she did it. Plenty of media outlets are sharing that information (against expert recommendations). Go look it up for yourself if you must, but try and avoid sharing details with your networks. It could potentially upset someone who has been suicidal or attempted suicide, or even lost someone to suicide in that manner. Do you want to play a part in ripping those wounds open? And again, it’s sensationalistic. Are you personally choosing to share this information to perpetuate the sensationalism? Or are you sharing because you think suicide is a problem and you’d like to change that? If your answer is the latter, share reports that focus less on the gore and more on the issue at hand.

3. Learn your local and national suicide crisis resources. Share them widely — and then save them in your phone, because there will probably come a time when someone you know personally needs them. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is at 800.273.8255. You can get Crisis Text Line by texting HOME to 741741. The Trevor Project’s hotline is at 866.488.7386 (they also have text and chat services). Trans Lifeline is at 877.565.8860. These resources are available for those in crisis as well as those who love them.

4. Avoid judgment. If you’ve never been suicidal or lost someone to suicide, you kind of sound like an asshole when you say things like, “Suicide is the coward’s way out,” or that it’s selfish or weak. Put yourself in the shoes of the people affected. Suicide is a result of isolation and despair, catalyzed by life events that feel insurmountable. If you can’t empathize with that, it might be best to just shut your mouth.

5. Remember that suicide doesn’t discriminate. Kate Spade was rich and famous, but that doesn’t preclude her or anyone else from suffering. Suicide affects people from every possible walk of life, and especially middle aged folks and those later on in life.

Hopefully this helps aid in conversations and sharing about Kate Spade’s death. If you’re interested in learning more about suicide safe reporting guidelines, click here.

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If you’re hurting, afraid, or need someone to talk to, please reach out to one of the resources below. Someone will reach back. Please stay. You are so deeply valued, so incomprehensibly loved — even when you can’t feel it — and you are worth your life.

You can reach Trans Lifeline at 877–565–8860 (U.S.) or 877–330–6366 (Canada), The Trevor Project at 866–488–7386, or the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800–273–8255. If you don’t like talking on the phone, you can reach Crisis Text Line by texting HOME to 741741, or check out Lifeline Crisis Chat. If you’d like to talk to a peer, warmline.org contains links to warmlines in every state. If you’d like to read the stories of suicide attempt survivors across the United States, check out Live Through This. If you’re not in the U.S., click here for a link to crisis centers around the world.

I learned last night that Amy Bleuel, founder of Project Semicolon, died by suicide last week. In sitting with the news and trying to find clarity, I keep thinking of my colleagues. Suicide prevention work is done almost exclusively by people who have lost someone to suicide or who have experienced their own suicidality. Often, the calling to suicide prevention comes close on the heels of a near miss with an attempt, or the suicide death of someone we love, and it comes with urgency. In that way, it puts many of us in a precarious position: we so desperately want to save others from suicide that we forget to save ourselves. We dive in with our life raft before we learn to swim.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned collecting stories for Live Through This and traveling the country sharing my own story, it’s that the most important thing we’re doing when we share is giving others permission to share — and what a gift that is to bear witness to. But it’s also a burden. It can be a heavy load, and if you’re struggling with your own mental health, if you don’t have the supports, if you haven’t mastered self-care, that load can crush you.

It’s no secret that we often clashed in our opinions, but when we were first introduced, Amy shared how she still struggled with thoughts of suicide, how isolated she often felt, how adrift. I’ve been thinking a lot about vulnerability lately, and the news of Amy’s death shook a memory loose.

In session last week, my therapist asked me, “Who do you feel comfortable being vulnerable with?”

“My wife,” I said.

“That’s all?”

“I have an incredible support system that I don’t often make use of when I really need to,” I said.

“Be careful,” she said, “You don’t want to find yourself lonely in a sea of people. That can lead you straight down a path…”

I finished her sentence for her: “…to suicide.”

We lost a powerful advocate in Amy, and I know the rest of us who do this work are really feeling that loss today. If you’re one of these people, please don’t lose sight of yourself in the work. We need you — and we need you thriving, not just surviving — so that when you hold your breath and you dive deep, you pull two people ashore: yourself and the person you worked so hard to save. And then you send up a flare to let the rescue boat know where you are, and you wait and you rest and you breathe.

I’m guessing Amy didn’t know how deeply she affected so many people. I’m guessing she didn’t think there was a rescue boat for her, but I think it was just a foggy night and she couldn’t see her lighthouse.

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If you’re hurting, afraid, or need someone to talk to, please reach out. Someone will reach back. Please stay. You are so deeply valued, so incomprehensibly loved — even when you can’t feel it — and you are worth your life. You can reach the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800–273–8255, Trans Lifeline at 877–565–8860 (U.S.) or 877–330–6366 (Canada), or The Trevor Project at 866–488–7386. If you’d like to talk to a peer, warmline.org contains links to warmlines in every state. If you don’t want to talk on the phone, you can reach Crisis Text Line by texting HOME to 741741. And if you want to take action, consider donating your social media data for suicide prevention research at ourdatahelps.org.

It’s been two years since Robin Williams died, and I still can’t watch anything he’s been in without feeling a deep pang of sadness. For decades, we watched him play characters that touched different parts of us. The range of emotion he masterfully portrayed over the years — and in so many genres, though he was primarily a comedian — is no doubt why we felt so attached to him. Robin, through his work, reflected our various selves back at us — hilarious and vulnerable, a little off-kilter, addled, wild, hopeful.

Now that he’s gone, it’s plain how ubiquitous his work is, how he infiltrated our hearts. Flip through Netflix right now. The Crazy Ones. Insomnia. Good Will Hunting. World’s Greatest Dad.

He certainly weaseled his way into my heart. I named my car Euphegenia, and I often find myself yelling, “Hellooooo!” the way he did in Mrs. Doubtfire after shoving his face in a cake to fool the caseworker when he’d nearly been caught masquerading as the fictional nanny. I could watch that movie on repeat.

I doubt I’m the only one still in shock. Robin Williams had everything. He had money, fame, power, adoring fans, and access to every resource imaginable. Why’d he have to go? And where does that leave the rest of us?

That’s the thing about suicide: it doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you have. It doesn’t matter how loved you are. The pain and the feelings of isolation build and build over time, and if something or someone doesn’t set you back on your path, you get trapped in the box. The box is filled with self-loathing, self-doubt, hopelessness, futility, the thought that you and your pain are a burden to every single person around you, and that they’d be better off if you erased yourself from their lives. The box lies. And when you get trapped in that box, it can feel impossible to get out. Sometimes it is. That’s when we lose the people we love.

If losing Robin Williams — undeniably one of the most well-loved, greatest entertainers of our time — teaches us anything, it should be that none of us is immune to suicide. It should be that we are each responsible for, and have the power to bolster, the well-being of those around us. That we can form a net to catch those who might be struggling.

Mental health differences and suicide aren’t issues best delegated solely to mental health professionals. We’ve been sold a lie. Only two of our Fifty Great States have mandatory crisis intervention training for future behavioral health clinicians. Sometimes, the people we expect to be our experts are not experts, through no fault of their own. Compounding the problem is fear of liability, a dearth of resources, difficulty accessing the ones that do exist, and an overall lack of funding for mental healthcare. We’re in a dire state.

On the flip side, this leaves us with a unique opportunity and a tremendous amount of power. Every single one of us can save a life. We all possess the ability to reach out, to listen, to empathize, and to be present for those we love (and even for strangers in need), and using these skills can mean the difference between life and death. But it’s so simple as to feel counterintuitive. So, how do you do it?

Ask: If you’re worried someone is suicidal, ask directly, “Are you thinking about suicide?” It’s worth keeping in mind that asking the question won’t plant the idea in their head (a common myth), and that, “Are you thinking about hurting yourself?” is a completely different question that leaves a lot up to interpretation. Bonus: using that scary word (“suicide”) can subvert fear and lift the elephant off their chest, allowing a real conversation to happen.

Listen: If they confirm that they’re thinking about suicide, ask what’s going on. Don’t offer advice. Don’t tell them what they have to live for. Just listen, and listen hard. Validate their feelings. Tell them you love them. Tell them you’ll help them and that, if you can’t, that you’ll find someone who can.

Keep them safe: Ask what makes them feel safe, and how you can facilitate that until you can both figure out what to do next. Remove access to anything they might hurt themselves with. This is especially relevant to gun owners — offer to hold on to their gun(s) until they’re feeling better.

Be there for them: Ask them what they need. Is it a friend to watch bad TV with, help making an appointment with a therapist, a clean apartment, a week’s worth of meals, a yoga session, a friend to stay the night and keep them company?

Stay connected and follow up: Check in regularly. Send cat gifs, smoke signals, carrier pigeons, owls. Drop by. Take them out. Coordinate with other people they know so that someone is always in touch. Do your best to make sure they don’t feel alone. Research shows that keeping in contact after a crisis makes a huge difference.

Robin Williams once said, “No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can change the world.” His words, his ideas, his characters created a number of entirely new worlds for us. He was our Genie. Our Mork from Ork. The English teacher we all wish we had.

Let’s change the world he left us with the idea that every single one of us has the power to save a life. Let’s make that idea a reality.

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If you’re hurting, afraid, or need someone to talk to, please reach out to one of the resources below. Someone will reach back. Please stay. You are so deeply valued, so incomprehensibly loved — even when you can’t feel it — and you are worth your life.

You can reach the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800–273–8255 or Trans Lifeline at 877–565–8860 (U.S.) or 877–330–6366 (Canada). If you’d like to talk to a peer, warmline.org contains links to warmlines in every state. If you don’t like the phone, check out Lifeline Crisis Chat or Crisis Text Line. If you’re not in the U.S., click here for a link to crisis centers around the world. If you’re a suicide attempt survivor and would like to share your story, take a look at Live Through This.