“Please tell the truth about why I died. We need to open up the conversation.” Strong words, for sure. Imagine, though, you wrote them just three days short of 19 years of life, that the pain was so unbearable that ending your life seemed the best option available and yet, somehow, your thoughts turn to ensuring others don’t suffer the same pain. Can you imagine? I can’t. I’m not that strong.
Society is evolving. Talking is not seen as weakness. A stiff upper lip is not the preferred attitude anymore. While the openness to hear is welcome, it doesn’t mean those who need to talk can always do it. Guilt continues to press a strip of tape over their lips. It’s fraying, fragments of speech might slip out but there’s no geyser of detail. There’s guilt over feelings that seem disconnected to having a good upbringing. There’s despair that you continue to fail those you care for, repeatedly. Weighted down, the best direction seems to be to fall further and prove the unworthiness you feel.
How do I know? Been there. As an 18-year-old angel-armed in a snowbank in southwestern Ontario and calling on God to bring me home; instead a Samaritan was sent and the journey continued. As a thirtysomething who moved every two years to avoid connections and caring and being able to ‘reinvent’ while really just repeating. And as fiftysomething, who reached a point where caring was just too much work.
Did I have friends? Yes. Was I moderately successful at my job? Yes. Could I battle the ennui and despair on my own? No.
The first small step, sadly, came after the death of Georgia McAlpine, who penned the words that start this confession. She was the daughter of my friend Cam. My weaknesses and excuses prevented me from providing the support I wanted, fear acted as a greater motivator than love. It’s important to remember that telling folks it doesn’t matter won’t alter what resides in their gut. They expect you to be kind and loving, which then makes the inaction all the more devastating.
I decided to pen a letter to Cam, yes, a letter. Old newspaper guys, with ink flowing in the veins, can communicate with words. Largely forgotten are the exact phrases, but not the sentiment: you’re a good man, I’m sorry and the next year I promise to try and be a better man in honour of you and Georgia.
Did it work? Sketchy results. Ultimately, about two years later in 2019, crossing the threshold of Cedars at Cobble Hill would provide the jolt to push away some of those fears and, more importantly, how to cope with them.
It’s about being honest, figuring out why there’s pain and then addressing it. One skill those who are suffering develop is a knack for storytelling, for giving the illusion of improvement while revealing very little. I’m a very good storyteller. My first days at Cedars, even knowing and accepting the need to dig deep, were highlighted by stories. I’d write out for my counsellor, sharing experiences and feelings heretofore not mined. But when sharing, storyteller mode took over – enough detail to elicit some sympathy, enough babble to show I was dealing with it. Then someone looked at me: “I didn’t like it. I didn’t connect with it.”
That was a lightbulb moment for me.
Connection is the hardest thing to do. It takes time. If someone is reaching out to connect, they’re not necessarily looking for answers. They want you to listen. Do I share more? Yes, to the chagrin of my golf buddies. But don’t fear I’m unlikely to bend your ear and share my story if we’re ever side-by-side on an airplane.
It’s important to share. To make voices heard. To let people know they can share their stories. For those hurting to see that with help life can seem a little easier. But it requires people standing up. It challenges all of us to do better. Saying I’m FINE might not mean that. It could mean Fucked Up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. So, take the time and really listen. That’s what you can do.
And there’s one more thing you can do. You can support Georgia’s Wish.
Here’s the link so you can support Georgia.
On the Right Side 
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