These past several months I spend every moment trying to make sense of Ian’s suicide.  I say the word suicide over and over out loud as if I am scrubbing the noun with soapy water, washing it of the shame and sting that burn my tongue.

I am left searching the cracks and crevasses of Ian’s life for a reason why he chose to end it.  With each new friend of his that reaches out to me, my first thought is, did they know?  Did he talk to anyone?  Why didn’t he tell someone?  He must have felt so alone, and while that crushes my mother heart, it does not bring him back.

I remember being 14.  I remember it sucked ass.

I don’t think it really got any better until I was 17.  The whole thing…when I was 12 up until I was 16 was bananas.  As bad as it was though, that was over 30 years ago.  Life should have been relatively easy because I never had the tech and social media pressures that kids have today.  I was not okay, and I never told anyone that I wasn’t.

Here’s the big scary fucking truth:

I was probably about 14 or 15 years old when suicidal thoughts became a part of my teenage life.  I never really felt like I fit in anywhere, with anyone. At school I had a few bullies that would make me their target from time to time.  And even though I was a part of a large family, I often wished that I was the product of adoption because that would give reason or cause for why I just couldn’t relate.

One afternoon, in the middle of taking a razor blade to my wrists, I stopped suddenly, and violently shook my head in disbelief at what I had attempted.  I didn’t want to finish what I had started.  I had already cut through a few layers of skin, and I still have the scars to remind me that I once felt like Ian did.  While I don’t understand how he went all the way and ended his life and forced his last breath,  I do get that I was broken.  I also knew that I wanted to live.

I can remember bandaging up my own wrists with stark white gauze.  I could have healed these flesh wounds with just a simple bandaid.  I think I dreamed about someone, anyone noticing.  I knew logically that the bandages would cause someone to ask me “Are you okay?” There was just silence.  And the silence was proof, that my plea was not to die, but to be heard, and understood, and loved in a way that I needed, hoped and dreamed of.

I held on.

So kids, please, I am begging you to do the same.  And if you feel like you can’t hold on please stand on your rooftop and scream until someone hears you. Knock on my front door, call me, text me, dm me. I will hear you, I promise, 30 plus years may separate us, but I will hear you.

We are in the process of building a Live Hard Army full of Ambassadors that will be there for you and gently guide you to safety.  If you are someone that needs help, or wants to help.  Sign up and Reach out.


We are just getting started.

Back to blog