On Being Part of the Solution

She wasn’t a woman yet, but she wasn’t a little girl either. And I’ll call her Summer, because really, her name wasn’t, but she was.

It’s not important why I met her (through a mutual friend), or when (too shortly before we said goodbye for the last time), or how (buying Slurpees from 7-11). What matters is that she was this inconceivable force in my life, while she was in it – magnetic, inspiring, maternal and devoted. She was someone you could fall in love with. And I did, I think sometimes.

She called me the night before that day. She didn’t leave me a voicemail, and I had her phone number on my call display, but I don’t remember why I missed her call – I was probably in class or working. Or drunk – I drank every day, then.

We’d been talking less the past few weeks, she’d been going her own direction, hermiting herself as those of us with depression are wont to do. I was giving her space, I thought – she was dealing with the realities of being diagnosed and medicated, and then differently medicated, and then given a cocktail.

She’d kind of been through the ringer, doing what her parents thought was best (because no child of theirs should have been that moody, that sad, that self-destructive). She was taking it all, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, mood-stabilizers, sedatives, sleeping aides. For them. Really, for her mother. And it was tough going, and instead of talking to me, she pulled away.

And I let her. It’s taken me a long time to be okay with that, to not feel guilt, but finally it seems I am okay. But she’s not.

She’d been a cutter. She was bipolar. She was…sensitive. She had all of these things wrong with her and she just wanted to be okay, you know? But something got lost in the chemical barrage that December.

Four people were familiar enough to use the back door to come in. Three of them lived there and I was the other one. Her father worked late nights, often coming in after her mother was in bed and Summer was pretending to be, scribbling in journal after journal, sitting in chat rooms, on pro-ana websites. Her mother, like clockwork, every work day would come home from her job at the office, slip off her shoes, pour a glass of wine (but only one) and ask Summer what she’d accomplished that day.

Not how her day was. What she’d accomplished. (It’s easy for me to paint her as a cold-hearted bitch. She was.) So, it was obvious who was supposed to find her.

But she had called me the night before, see, and I had called and there’d been no answer, so I had dropped by. I had some Vitamin e capsules for her – something I’d had kicking around for a while and hadn’t been using – a gigantic bottle of them that she could use on the slashes of scars that raced from her thighs to waist. I’d seen them, those little human herringbone designs she’d created. If I’m going to be thoroughly graphic, I’d kissed them when she tried to hide them from me in shame (maybe it was just me she was hiding from, not them, I don’t know). But she was ashamed of them, anyway and so was going to use this Vitamin E oil to try to heal them.

And she was there in the backyard when I came walking around, dodging garbage cans and the bush where we tended to throw our cigarette butts. She wasn’t in the cherry tree, but she wasn’t on the ground below it, either. And there was a leather belt around her neck and blood had soaked through the white broomstick skirt she was wearing, which by that point, the winter rain had made fairly transparent. Her eyes were open, but it was too late for her to see me and too late for me to stop her.

And if the blood and the belt weren’t enough of an indication of her seriousness about being done, the empty medication bottles that her mother found later, were.

So, this is why December is a momentous month, why it’s not just about me, or family, or Christmas, or Seasonal fucking Affective Disorder. Summer was one of two people I’ve known that have died during this month by their own hand – both not yet 20, both…phenomenal.

This is why December’s charity, to which I will pledge all of this month’s advertising revenue to, is To Write Love on Her Arms. Go check them out, what they do and how and why.

If you’d like to, share your own story in the comments, or by emailing me [mommy is moody at gmail dot com].

Use the button on the sidebar to donate directly, and then steal it for your own sidebar – you can even let me know how much you dropped, if you like. Get on board by pledging a portion or all of this month revenue, if you like – let me know because I’ll let everyone else know, as well. Stumble this post, Digg it, whatever you can do.

I want…every person who can, who has a reason to, who doesn’t have a reason to and wants to keep it that way, to be involved. I want you to help raise money, and even if you’re not in the position to use your own income, I want you to send more people here, because impressions raise pennies and pennies add up. Every single penny I earn in December will be donated at the beginning of January.

And there’s further incentive, in case my story or someone else’s isn’t enough…I’m running a contest. I know, creepy and inappropriate, right? Maybe not. Here’s the deal:

  • Every impression yields $0.XX, for the impression-based advertising I do here, so the total at the end of December is based on click throughs from links, search engines, feed readers, etc.
  • I want you to send people here. Do it in a link-loving post, add the button to your sidebar or posts linking back here, do whatever you want to get people to click in for the month of December. They don’t even have to stay around for the depression-fest that is Mommy is Moody.
  • The leader, with the most referrals? Will win a choice of three prizes in January. Don’t worry, they’re good prizes, you will like them and I will even make sure they make it to you.

The contest runs from 12:01am on December 1st, to 11:59pm on December 31st (all times are PST), and I will report weekly who is leading (via Google Analytics’ reporting), as well as the total donations to date.

It’s up to you, do you wanna donate or right-click-save-upload and be part of the solution, or do you want to read this post and walk away?

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  • oh my goodness. what you wrote has left me speechless. I don't even want to ruin it by telling you how good it was. because it was. thank you for doing this.

    <abbr>Visit Maya Stein to read...immersion</abbr>
  • I hadn't heard of TWLOHA, but I'm glad that they are there doing what they do and that you are doing something too.

    <abbr>Visit Maggie's Mind to read...Weekly Winners 11/30/08</abbr>
  • pam
    My mother killed herself when I was 12 years old. She hung herself in the basement. My sister went downstairs to get school clothes out of the dryer and found her. And in her wisdom came rushing upstairs to me!?! So I went downstairs and cut her down. What kind of fucked up do you think I am?

    <abbr>Visit pam to read...This just in ... I am not a puppy</abbr>
  • When I was in the 8th grade I had a boyfriend named Andrew, I know, I know 8th grade must have been serious. Anywho in the summer between 8th and 9th grade Andrews older brother hung himself in their basement. Finding him destroyed Andrew, I can't imagine what that could be like.
  • I'm thankful for you doing this. I still have a hard time with my brother trying to kill himself, and he is well and fine. I'm sorry about your friend. I am sorry for anyone that has ever been this dark and did not think the light would ever shine again.

    <abbr>Visit conversemomma to read...Glee</abbr>
  • Hugs to you...
    Will DEFINITELY mention this.

    <abbr>Visit Colleen - Mommy Always Wins to read...Weekly Winners - November 23 - 29, 2008</abbr>
  • Unbelievably moving post. I have added the badge to my blog and will write a post tonight. *HUG*
  • My chest hurts from holding in the pain while reading this & the comments. I will donate something.

    <abbr>Visit Eve Grey to read...The snow is falling gently</abbr>
  • I will not walk away - from you or from this - even though you've given me some of the hardest stuff to contemplate I've had since the day I flew away from Viet Nam. I will find a way to help.

    <abbr>Visit lceel to read...You can go home again</abbr>
  • You are amazing for sharing this. For doing this...

    <abbr>Visit Miss to read...So long, Farewell</abbr>
  • Amy
    So. Incredibly. Sad.

    <abbr>Visit Amy to read...forever and a day</abbr>
  • Oh man, I am so sorry that anyone has to deal w/so much darkness. Im sorry for your friend and see what I can do.

    <abbr>Visit OHmommy to read...Mother of a goose egg...</abbr>
  • it's too simple to say, but this is just very sad and tragic...for both of you...

    <abbr>Visit deezee to read...Life vs. the Living</abbr>
  • When my hubs was a teenager his favorite uncle killed himself. No one talks about it, even he doesn't know the whole story. It's as if he never existed, that is incredibly sad. This is a good thing you are doing. I am so sorry about your friend.

    <abbr>Visit Tara R. to read...It’s beginning to look a lot like…</abbr>
  • My heart breaks reading this. I can certainly see why this cause means so much to you. I could never away from this.

    Please send over the code and I would be glad to put it up on my sidebar.

    <abbr>Visit Momisodes to read...I Survived</abbr>
  • Joyce-Anne
    I'm sorry about your friend. Thank you for putting your story "out there". Maybe, just maybe it will help one person.
  • Tomorrow morning I will post links to here on all the places I loiter. Im sorry for your loss.

    <abbr>Visit .Ophelia Mourne. to read...</abbr>
  • Wow. It is inconceivable that anybody could endure the trauma and heartbreak of finding a loved one like that. And your commenters who have endured the same? My heart is broken for all involved.

    Having battled depression and anxiety most of my life, it terrifies me that my children could have the same battles I've had. It terrifies me that their ending could be similar to your story.

    I'm here from lceel's site....I'll be back when I can wrap my head around it all.

    <abbr>Visit Hyphen Mama to read...How to make your own White Trash Tree Topper in 5 6 simple steps</abbr>
  • I don't have no words sufficient enough.
  • Not a pretty button, but my support button is up.
    If someone comes up with a better one, can you email me, please?
    :)

    <abbr>Visit Nicole to read...Thoughts of a traveler</abbr>
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