SUICIDE

SUICIDE. That word conjures up images of darkness. Isolation. Unknown. The stigma is like a cloud, keeping the truth from coming to light. Truth is that we don't know about suicide because no one is willing to talk about it. The word suicide is taboo. But it shouldn't be. Suicide should be talked about as much as diabetes, cancer, and heart disease. Suicide is among the three leading causes of death in people 15-44 years old, WORLD WIDE. Suicide is the tenth leading cause of death in the United States.

A number of high schools talk about "every fifteen minutes" as it relates to alcohol/vehicle related fatalities. More people die by suicide each year than are killed by drunk drivers. More people die by suicide each year than AIDS.  In 2011, 39,518 people died by Suicide. That is one person every  13.3 minutes. That's 108 people every day. Here's another startling fact: 90% of those people, who die by suicide, have a diagnosable and treatable mental illness! That means there is HELP. There can be  HOPE.

Not everyone who has a suicidal thought is "crazy" or "5150" or "mental". Everyone at one point or another has the fleeting thought of what the world would be like without them. I'm not talking about the momentary wandering mind. I'm talking about the people who are mentally unable to rationalize their thoughts because they have an illness.  Suicide is often NOT an impulsive decision. Suicide is the result of numerous factors, causing a sort-of perfect storm, in which an individual perceives the only way to end the pain is to die. The people who have survived their attempt at suicide often express the desire for hope, not the desire for death itself.

What can we do? As a collective global community, we can talk about it. We can be educated on the warning signs, the options, and the language we use. We can get real. Each and every one of us can refuse to keep suicide wrapped in stigma, by talking about it. By turning a blind eye, and using negative language, we are saying to thousands of people  - THOUSANDS of suicide attempt survivors and the loved ones left behind in the wake of a suicide - that we don't care. Would you say that to someone suffering from cancer?

I issue this challenge: take charge over the stigma surrounding mental illnesses and suicide. Refuse to be intolerant and indifferent. Listen when people speak. Be courageous. Understand that there is help and there is hope. There is NO SHAME in suicide. The only shame is ignorance.

--Julie--

For more info visit www.TheRyanFund.com or www.AFSP.org or www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

If you are in crisis please call 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

NAMIwalk 2014

This year, I am participating in the NAMI.Walk because I know the value of the service they provide to the community. I believe that the MORE people know about mental illnesses, the LESS the stigma associated with mental illness is perpetuated.
I walk for my brother, Ryan Lauchland, who died by suicide in April 2013. Ryan suffered from Bipolar Disorder.

I walk for my children, who are (almost) 6 and 8, who can grow up in a community free from the stigma of mental illness, if we all band together and get educated.

I walk for myself - I have a personal vendetta against mental illness and I am hopeful I can see more treatments accepted by people who suffer.

Please support me in my efforts to raise money and awareness for NAMI, as well as the Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund.

Please walk with me in my efforts to see a world free from stigma.
For every walker that joins the Ryan Lauchland Memorial Fund team to walk o May 3, I will personally donate $10 to NAMI.

To help my efforts or join me on May 3 in Sacramento, please visit my fundraising page at http://namiwalks.nami.org/ 5milebikeride.

If you would prefer to donate directly to the Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund, please click the "donate" button to your right -->

I also wanted to tell you that the Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund will be hosting a community-wide Mental Health outreach event on May 10, featuring a presentation by NAMI as well as information from San Joaquin Behavioral Health, and Hospice's support groups.

If you would like to continue to receive information, or would like to be involved, please email me or "like" the Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund page on Facebook.

Thank you in advance for your help, love, support, and prayers,

Julie

The Hard Question

Last night, my 7 year-old daughter came to me, and asked about the "cause" of Bipolar Disorder.

She wanted to know (in the 2nd grade vernacular) if Bubbo (Ryan) had Bipolar because one of my parents gave it to him, like a cold, or if he just "catched it" on his own.

Wow.

I don't think I was giving my girl enough credit. She is obviously way more perceptive than I thought.

So I promptly called the only person I could think of to help me navigate this egg-shell laden path: my mom. She insisted on Face-timing with the inquisitive mind, and tearfully explained that neither she nor Poppy was responsible for Ryan's mental illness.

This made my heart happy, to hear the answer to a question that burned deep down in my own mind.

I have silently wondered for years if they blamed themselves.

The next biggest question I have, now that that one is answered, is if I blame myself.

Now, I know that it is genetically impossible for ME to have "caused" Ryan's BPD.

But the lingering guilt is from the nagging feeling that I didn't do enough to help. And if I didn't do enough to help, did I hinder progress in treatment?

 

I don't know a single person who gets along with their sibling 100% of the time. I surely didn't.

But over the passed two and a half years, Ryan and I had more laughs than fights.

Before Ryan was diagnosed, there was a brief period where we were constantly bickering. Not the "I'm never going to speak to you again" type, but the "you are wrong and I am right" variety.

Looking back, I feel that I wasn't as mature as I should have or could have been. I didn't have to argue or prove my points. I didn't have to.

Did my restless desire to be right 100% of the time push Ryan into the psychotic meltdown that led to his BPD diagnosis? Did I somehow "help" the spiral in it's downward decline? Am I to blame?

 

Who's to say?

All I can do now in Monday-Morning-Quarterback the situation and try to move forward, navigating the pieces of my broken heart with transparency and humility.

And do my best to answer the difficult questions in my heart, and the hearts of my two innocent children.

And hope that I can figure out how to glorify God through it all.

 

Thanks for reading,

 

--Julie--

Validation

A million times over, I have wished my brother to return. To magically appear in front of me, flesh and blood... REAL...

And a million and one times I am disappointed to open my eyes and grapple with the fact that he is not now nor will he ever return to this earth with a heartbeat.

Today is one of those days that I am struggling silently with grief and hope. I miss my brother so bad, that I am sure the tears that are falling are tears of blood- having exhausted all of it's water, my body is pouring my life from my very eyes.

Of course it's not, but this is how it feels. 

 Like a slowly sinking Titanic, I am drowning in my own life.

Ryan was the biggest source of validation in my life. The only one to ever tell me "good job" without the "but" on the end.

Ryan, in his own crazy way, was a life raft sent straight from Heaven to keep me afloat. Ryan "got" me. He understood our parents. He knew just what to say to me, when no one else in the world who ever thought that they knew me, could. He knew how I worked, and how I interpreted things. He humored me when I was emotional. In a very real sense, he was a part of me.

Without him, there seems to be a hallow and uncertain void. A bleakness to life.

It feels like I am walking through the wilderness.

In my own head, this bleak despair is compounded by isolation.

No one "gets" me, now.

No one understands the grief, or knows what to say.

But One.

 

As God watched from the Throne, His very Own Son was nailed by my sin to the cross.

And to comfort me, He rose His Son from the emptiness.

From the abyss, to give me hope in a future with Him.

 

Hope.

That word sounds so small compared to the tragedy of mental illness and suicide.

Hope.

The word speaks volumes to every situation, every trial, and every loss.

Hope.

The single syllable is etched forever in the hearts of the Believer, a foundation for a faith in God.

Without hope, there is no future, faith, or freedom from the consequences of sin.

I am a prisoner to hope, refusing to believe it is not there. Clinging to every letter, to keep even just the top of my head from sinking.

 

So when you see me cry, don't turn away and shun my sadness.

Let me spill these tears of hope, tears of grief, and tears of unwavering faith in a God who loves even the most broken in all the world.

And if you are brave, tell me that you have this hope too.

 

--Julie--

The Little Things

So far I have managed to maneuver some big, messy, emotional events without my brother. 

But the little things that pop up, and remind me of what he is missing- and what I am missing without him- devastate me emotionally. 

One example is this year's football season. Kevin and I have hosted a fantasy football league for years. And Ryan played in our league a few times. Ryan had an uncanny knack for sports facts, and football was no exception. Everyone admired Ryan's 'useless knowledge'- which was useful during fantasy football. Ryan knew so much about players, teams, and schedules. He was a fantastic asset to me, because unlike the rivalry between friends, Ryan would help me make a good, solid decision on who to play, but then his team would beat mine anyways that weekend. He never cheated me and he always helped me out. Always. 

This year we aren't hosting a league and it is heartbreaking. I miss it. But I think I would miss his presence more, making it difficult to play, diminishing my desire to win. 

I can't really put into words just how sad I am. It's a bunch if things all at once- September 1 was the opening of dove season. Ryan always hunted the opener and last year he made me promise to hunt this year with him.

I didn't, he didn't, we didn't, and the world seems more messed up because of it. 

Time seems to be flying by, and I feel like too soon the holidays will be upon us.

I don't even want to imagine how 'wrong' Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years will feel without my brother's goofy smile and antics. 

Soon we will pass through this stage, and time for the plans we made with Ryan will pass, and we won't be as sad. Or maybe we will. 

This is uncharted territory, and we each experience this loss so differently.

All I know is that with each passing day, the hole in my life becomes more obvious and I cry more. This is not a nightmare, this is real life, and I have to keep transitioning and growing.

Time waits for no man, as they say. 

I look forward to our reunion in Heaven, and I am committed to this process of character development that God is refining me through.

Romans 8:28 says "all things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose." 

So, God, I love You. I am called. And I'm willing to work to see the good. 

--Julie--

Conflict

I've been dragging my feet with this post, because my last one seemed to be a little more offensive than intended. But to be really, brutally honest, I'm sure this one will be worse.

 

Because there is a fine line between total honesty and being offensive. A line I skirt way too often than completely necessary. Or maybe it is necessary.

 

Everyone should be free to grieve in their own way, as long as they don't physically hurt themselves or others. Sometimes the realist in me wants to scream at all of the fake grief floating around out there for my brother. From those people who claim they knew him. Those people who sport the ribbon as if they suffer. Those people who post pictures minutes after I do, who mock my utter devastation by crying out for attention and exploiting the memory of my dead brother.

Nothing NOTHING pierces my heart deeper than seeing the photos and posts with the tag lines like "you were like a brother to me, Ryan."

SHUT UP!!!

 

Ryan IS my brother! MY brother. There were only TWO of us, me and him.

 

Trust me, this cross I bear is not glamorous. There isn't some fantastic support system in place, where people call me regularly to check on me. On the contrary, this road is lonely. Most of the attention is negative- people telling me to 'get over' it and 'move on'...

(not all - there are a select few who show me tenderness and love)

I don't want the calls anyways- I can't really talk about how I feel with people who cannot begin to understand where I've been and what I've seen- but that's a whole 'nother can of worms.

 

 But the compassionate heart inside me wants to cut my tongue off when I try to choke these words out.

If that is what you need to do to feel attention, pretend to cry over someone who isn't around anymore to set the record straight, go ahead - but don't cry to me.

If what you need is to cry to the people who hurt the worst, then maybe you really are suffering.

But I will not bend over backwards to accommodate your tears.

I can barely see through my own blurred vision, enough to function at a minimum-output level.

I do my best to cover the sleepless nights with caffeine, and the permanent heartache with a smile.

I don't have the strength in my soul to lift you from the fog you claim is grief.

I am in the muck, praying my own way out.

 

So grieve, fake grievers.

Just leave me any my family out of it.

 

--Julie--

 

 

Thanks, but no thanks..

I want Ryan back. That much is pretty plain to see. But what you don't see is this little piece of me that dies every time someone tells me, by their own determination, that Ryan would be proud of me, what I have accomplished, or what I will do in the future.

The fact is that you don't know.

I don't know.

No one this side of Heaven knows if he would be proud of me.

No one knows if he would get that twinkle in his eyes and give me the thumbs-up. I can surmise, based on our relationship, if he would or not. But you can't. You aren't Him or him or me.

If I was a good sister, maybe I would have done more. I know this, because I COULD have done more.

If I was a good sister, maybe things would have turned out differently.

Maybe.

But no one can know.

 

So, please, if you care to tell me that you think Ryan would be proud - skip it.

Tell me that you think that I am doing good, or don't.

But don't fool me by thinking that you know Ryan's thoughts. Maybe he would have hated all of this... Maybe not...

I'll find out when I get to Heaven.

 

--Julie--