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The AP’s Suicide Rule Is Inadequate

The AP Stylebook, which I lived by as a journalist, recently added a new rule for reporters and editors dealing with the topic of suicide. It’s not a bad set of guidelines, but it’s inadequate.

Mood music:

The AP now advises the following:

Generally, AP does not cover suicides or suicide attempts, unless the person involved is a well-known figure or the circumstances are particularly unusual or publicly disruptive. Suicide stories, when written, should not go into detail on methods used. Avoid using committed suicide except in direct quotations from authorities. Alternate phrases include killed himself, took her own life or died by suicide.

The verb commit with suicide can imply a criminal act. Laws against suicide have been repealed in the United States and many other places.

Do not refer to an unsuccessful suicide attempt. Refer instead to an attempted suicide.

Medically assisted suicide is permitted in some states and countries. Advocacy groups call it death with dignity, but AP doesn’t use that phrase on its own. When referring to legislation whose name includes death with dignity or similar terms, just say the law allows the terminally ill to end their own lives unless the name itself of the legislation is at issue.

The language is all well and good, but it’s all about how to avoid libel and protect reputations of those affected. Important, for sure, but I believe we need to write about suicide in a way that captures what it truly is: the potentially fatal result of a ferocious disease. That disease is depression.

When someone dies of cancer and it’s deemed newsworthy, we say the person died of cancer. When writing about suicide, we should say they succumbed to depression.

That’s my personal opinion. I think saying it that way would further kill the stigma around suicide and raise public awareness of depression as a potentially deadly medical condition.

natural remedies for depression

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Just Because It’s Satire Doesn’t Make It OK

I recently got some comments about a post I wrote in November 2013 called “To the Asshole Who Wrote ‘5 Reasons to Date a Girl with an Eating Disorder.'” Some noted the article was satire and I missed the point. Others complained that by mentioning it I was spreading the vitriol.

Mood music:

Said one woman:

It’s satire plain and simple. I’m a woman who has struggled many years with eating disorders and I can see the humor in it. We’ll cry if we don’t laugh and besides, those “reasons” have some truth, at least in my case.

Said another:

If you hate something so much, why are you sharing it and giving it more attention? You didn’t even get feedback aside from “F You.” The only thing this article does is expose more people to the information.

I respect these opinions and think they were sincere and honest. But my dislike of the satire and decision to call bullshit on it stands.

Anyone who knows me knows I enjoy satire and that I have a dark sense of humor. I enjoy a lot of shows people find offensive, like South Park because of its biting satire on religion and fame.

I also identify with the statement that we need to laugh at our disorders to stay sane. But as a compulsive binge eater, I also know the helpless feeling that comes with being out of control: the feeling that nothing will ever get better, the feeling of doom. For people in that mindset, articles like this are like stab wounds.

I also understand the sentiments of those who believe I’m spreading the negativity I dislike so much. But sometimes, you gotta take a stand. Staying quiet about something objectionable doesn’t make it go away. And those who will be hurt by the article need someone in their corner, speaking up for them.

That how I choose to roll, and I’ll never apologize for it.

This is gonna hurt by unfullfilled d5kabrx
“This is Gonna Hurt” by Unfullfilled

 

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Don’t Listen to the Critics: Keep Walking

Last week I was in Fort Lauderdale on business. Not a bad place to be after the winter we’ve had in Boston. My hotel was right on the beach, and I walked it every day.

Before that, it had been a long time since I’d taken an hour-long power walk and at least a couple decades since I’d done so on a beach.

Mood music:

I made a point to get the walks in because I’m way out of shape, and I have an all-night walk coming up in June to raise money for suicide prevention programs.

As a kid and young adult, I walked Revere Beach every single day, rain or shine, day or dark. Those walks kept me sane in a world that was insane. The last time I walked Revere Beach like that was with my friend Sean, days before he ended his life.

It makes sense that I resume power walking in preparation for the big walk in June. I’m quickly remembering the calming effect the exercise had on my mind and how I was in much better shape when I was doing it.

That I restarted the daily regimen on a beach was simply icing on the cake. The sound of waves lapping the sand brings me a peace of mind few other things in this world can.

Back home, where I live now, there is no beach. But there’s a river. A mighty one at that. There are also tons of walking trails and plenty of hilly terrain.

I won’t let the French Peas get me down. Let the training commence.

Fort Lauderdale Beach at Sunrise

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What a Weird Dream Says About My Real Life

I’m in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., as I write this. I’m in a hotel by the beach and it’s pretty relaxed. I’m sleeping more deeply than I have in a while. I’m also having some fucked-up dreams. Since I rarely remember my dreams the next morning, I’ve decided to capture this one.

Mood music:

https://youtu.be/6aNNIyxbG5g

Sequence 1

I’m with my father, aunt and younger son in front of the old family business. Everyone’s gathered to go to a wedding or some other special event. Duncan and I aren’t going, so I’m not sure why we’re there.

My father, who can’t walk or sit up much, has the ability to do both in the dream, and to prove it, he stands up on the roof of the car. My aunt, who rarely leaves her condo these days, is there, too. She’s going to the big event, whatever it is.

Sequence 2

Everyone leaves, and I take my son home — to the house I grew up in on the Lynnway in Revere. The house is bigger than it was in reality, with exposed beams at the roof.

We enter the kitchen and I freak because the place is a disaster. The rest of the family had had a big breakfast before they left and didn’t clean up after themselves.

Sequence 3

We’re still in my old house, but suddenly my church pastor and a bunch of parishioners are there, rehearsing for either a play or special ceremony.

I’m not wearing any pants, so I run from the room to go put something on. Suddenly, I’m in the warehouse of the family business, which is filled with boxes. An interesting detail, because in reality the building is pretty empty now.

I hide behind boxes and put the pants on, as a bunch of kids from church parade by. I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around. It’s my pastor.

He asks if I want to go to lunch. I say sure. He pauses, then tells me the other parishioners are talking about me. They’ve noted that I’m very quiet and sullen of late, which is unusual. People are worried about me. I admit that I’m not feeling like myself, and then the dream fades out as I wake up.

What’s It All About?

The best I can make of it is this:

  • I’m worried about my father and feel guilty that I’m not able to visit him more often.
  • I’m worried about my aunt because she’s become a recluse.
  • I’m kind of sad about the family business being over, even though I was never in love with it to begin with.
  • The mess my younger boy makes around the house is driving me insane.
  • Though I’m getting better, I spent the fall and winter in a depressed funk.

As for the lack of pants, all I can think of is that a little bit of reality had traveled with me into the dream, because I was sleeping sans pants.

Dream of Sacrifice by EddieTheYeti
“Dream of Sacrifice” by EddieTheYeti
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You Are Bigger Than Your Thoughts

A reader once sent me a question about destructive, overpowered thinking — a hallmark of all OCD cases. She described a recurring thought about jumping out a window.

Mood music:

“I tend to get pure OCD (thoughts),” she wrote. “At the moment it is about jumping out a high window. I try to sort out in my head mentally why I am having this thought. Is it my true desire? Can I stop it from happening? But there is also an OVERWHELMING URGE/THOUGHT to give into the thoughts, or NOT FIGHT THEM – LIKE MY MIND TELLS ME NOT TO HELP MYSELF. Why is this in your view? Is it because it is what I really want?”

Here’s my attempt at an answer:

Let me start with an admission: I have no idea if it’s what you really want, as I don’t really know you. But I certainly hope that’s not what you want.

I’ve watched friends end their lives because their thoughts overpowered them, and, while I never seriously considered suicide, my thoughts took me down a dark alley. I gave in fully to my addictions and deep down probably didn’t have much interest in being around for long.

Somewhere along the way, I found my way through it. This makes those suicides all the more tragic to me, because as a man who got to the other side, I know exactly what they denied themselves by choosing to end it.

As OCD cases, we lack an ability to move beyond our obsessive thinking. It spins in our brains like a scratched record (remember those?) and as the needle hits the scratch it tears at our sanity. Imagined desires and fears become the real thing. In our minds.

When that happens, I try to remember that I am bigger than my thoughts. It took a lot of hard work and ultimately some medication to get there, but I did get there.

That doesn’t mean I no longer have obsessive thoughts. Of course I do. But they are no longer little things that are blown up and distorted into a life-or-death crisis.

I go on with life, even when my thoughts suggest I do otherwise.

People like us, when we are recovering from addiction and an underlying mental disorder, rely on a set of tools to live better, more useful lives. For me, a food plan is one of them. Twelve-step meetings are another. Some people think thinking is a tool, but it’s really just another insidious bastard that robs us of sanity.

I was reminded of this once during a 12-Step meeting. During the part where everyone can get up and share, me and two others focused on this peculiarity of our condition.

One woman shared about how she thought her brother had been badly hurt all these years over an incident where she smeared blueberries across his face when they were kids. She’s worried about it all these years, and recently told him she was sorry. He chuckled and reminded her that he smeared something on her first. She didn’t remember that.

Another woman shared that on the night of her senior prom, she was so full of insecurity that she took off without even saying goodbye to her date. Surely, she thought all these years, the incident must have devastated the poor guy. She recently contacted him to apologize, and he didn’t remember being hurt. All he remembered was that the senior prom was one of the best nights of his life.

We have a very exaggerated perception of how people look at us. But, as this woman noted, “We’re just another bozo on the bus.”

In the final analysis, we are bigger than our thoughts.

Your thoughts tell you to jump out a high window, but the voices in your head are not real. They can suggest you do things. But you always have choices.

I hope you find the way past this. I did, so you can.

Lettin___It_Out___Ink_by_EddieTheYeti

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The Star Trek Lie

Back when I was a binge-eating, 280-pound pile of waste, I’d hide in my room for hours, sometimes days, watching Star Trek. Since my life was such a mess, hiding in the world of science fiction was only natural.

Now, when I’m in the same space as someone wearing the plastic pointy ears and Klingon forehead (go to the premier of any Star Trek movie and you’ll understand), I feel more like the punk on the bus in “Star Trek 4.”

I used to channel my OCD on movies and TV shows with larger-than-life heroes and villains. Star Wars. Superman. Star Trek. It beat the hell out of real life.

I guess it started when I was around 8 and first starting to get really sick from Crohn’s Disease. I had just gotten out of the hospital in December 1978 when “Superman: The Movie” first came out. It was the best possible escape from reality I could have found at the time.

I saw it repeatedly — first in the theaters and then whenever it was on TV. One afternoon, when it was set to premier on HBO, a coastal storm knocked out the power and deprived me of the movie. I flipped out.

It was the same thing with the Star Wars movies. Pretending I was a Jedi or crackerjack X-wing pilot was much more satisfying than being the fat, sick child whose home life was high tension as my parents’ marriage disintegrated.

Even as a young adult it was better to live in the world of make-believe than to accept life as it truly was. A lightsaber really would have come in handy. So would the power to choke people and control their actions just by telling The Force it’s what you wanted.

Which brings me back to Star Trek.

This was the obsession of my 20s, particularly the Next Generation. As a young pup working my way up the newsroom ladder under intense deadlines that in hindsight really weren’t all that intense, I would act like a young lieutenant on the bridge of the Enterprise, saving the day while Romulans were trying to blow up the ship.

Remember the Star Trek juror, the woman who insisted on appearing for jury duty in a Starfleet uniform? When a colleague jokingly called me the Star Trek juror, I was genuinely insulted.

Fast-forward a decade or so. If Star Trek is on I’ll watch it. But unlike the old days, I usually have better things to do.

My whole perception of film has changed, in fact. Instead of daydreaming about the hero of the film for days after seeing it and wishing to God I was something a little more than what I was, I watch a movie and simply enjoy it.

You’ve heard the so-called Trekkies before: Star Trek is all about a future that could be, where money is no longer important, everyone has enough to eat and you can trade your blow-up doll for something a lot more realistic in the holodeck.

Ever since bringing my OCD under control and emerging from my wannabe fantasy land, I’ve noticed more than a few kinks in the Star Trek armor:

–There are a lot of aliens with mental baggage who like to blow up planets and kill off entire civilizations. When I struggled with my own mental baggage, I hurt myself all the time. But I never once considered blowing up some poor bastard’s planet. Does that make me oddly heroic?

–People get drunk off of beverages with “synthahol” instead of alcohol. Apparently you avoid hangovers by getting drunk this way. The problem with that is you gotta feel some pain to realize you’re a little too reliant on the sauce.

–Those food replicators would be disastrous for a compulsive binge eater like me. I’ve mentioned how I used to lie about what I was doing and cover my tracks. These contraptions would make it a lot easier for me to do that. I don’t want it to be easier.

–Those holodecks are like my old movie fascination in a nutshell: A fake world you could get lost in. When you can recreate all the things that give you pleasure, why would you ever leave? And if you stayed in there all the time, think of the much cooler — and real — stuff you’d be missing.

The real world as I know it is far from perfect. The demons are still in my head and there’s still a lot of pain that gets forced on us. A transporter would certainly be better for travel than sitting on Interstate 93 for two hours.

But the real world has been a lot nicer to me since I learned to accept it for who it is.

Image by EddieTheYeti:

B-_IKfEVAAACr61

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Walk All Night Against Suicide

Update: I’ve set up my donations page. To donate, click here.

Though this blog is about dealing with the challenges we face, I started it to raise awareness and bust down stigmas around depression and suicide.

It’s time for me to take that fight to the next level.

Mood music:

I’ve been inspired to do more by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, which will hold an overnight walk in Boston June 27-28. My legs work almost as well as my typing fingers, so why not? Words can only do so much.

You can register or donate money to the cause through the organization’s website. I’ll be asking you for donations and walking in honor of my best friend and brother, Sean Marley, who died by suicide on November 15, 1996.

I’ve written a lot about Sean and the effect his death had on me. Having had my own battles with depression, I know how thin a line it is between hope and hopelessness. Though Sean couldn’t be saved, losing him forced me to confront many of the demons at the heart of my own infirmity. That made me stronger.

This event is bigger than me, bigger even than Sean. Every minute of every day, countless people suffer from depression. Once they slip far enough, suicidal instincts take over.

With more awareness, research and support programs, we can save more people. Not everyone, but maybe enough to make a difference in the world.

Money raised is well spent. The organization funds research, creates educational programs, advocates for public policy, and supports survivors of suicide loss.

During this fundraiser, participants will spend the entire night walking the streets of Boston. They will share stories and offer each other comfort and prayers. Each person will be strengthened by friends, family, and colleagues who donate to their cause.

This is an incredibly appropriate way for me to do my part.

Sean and I grew up on Revere Beach, just north of Boston, and we spent much of our young years walking that beach. Sometimes we drank there. Once we got caught up in a fight there. Often we sat on the wall, listening to rock ‘n’ roll from a portable cassette player. But mostly we walked on the sand, talking over the big questions of the day, sharing our hopes, dreams and fears and pushing toward the dawn.

Back then our walking feet gave us strength. May those feet come through again, this time for all who suffer from this insidious disease.

Rememberance Candles on Suicide Walk

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My Biggest Critic Sounds Off: Two Angry Responses

I once wrote that writers like me need our critics to keep honest. This post is a tribute to my biggest critic: fellow infosec professional Dave Marcus.

Mood music:

A few things about Dave:

  • Despite everything that follows, we’re good friends with similar musical tastes.
  • He owns some of the coolest guitars on the market, but he doesn’t play. The guitars hang on a wall like Han Solo frozen in carbonite.
  • He’s an avid weight lifter.
  • His critiques have forced me to do more gut checks than anyone else’s.
  • As critical as he is, he does agree with some of what I write.

Here are two of his most colorful critiques.

Critique 1: “This post is escapism and blame.”

When I wrote a post suggesting that all parents have their flaws, Dave went nuttier than Charles Manson on a hot summer night.

Not all of us were raised by lousy parents. Not all of us ARE lousy parents. No matter how one was raised at a certain point your life becomes your own responsibility. Not your parents’. Not your genes’. Not your phobias’. This post, to me, is escapism and blame. I choose to fix the problem and not the blame.

Critique 2: “Are you trying to superimpose your issues on the rest of us?”

After I wrote that there’s a burnout problem in the infosec industry, fueling cases of depression, Dave was particularly incensed. He wasn’t the only one to disagree, but he expressed himself eloquently in a private Facebook exchange he later gave me permission to share.

The scene: I’m working when a Facebook chat box alarm sounds. 

Dave: Your last few OCD articles seem to really try to pigeonhole the whole community as obsessed and mentally ill. Are you trying to superimpose your issues on the rest of us? Your last article really annoys me. Do you feel that depression runs deep in the community? My issue is that you and the greater InfoSec Burnout movement sounds more and more like its an InfoSec problem or job/workplace-centric problem rather than a mental health problem that the individual brings with them originally. Granted, you may be getting lost in their greater noise. You are more balanced usually.

Me, trying to be diplomatic: I agree with your last statement and have written a gazillion posts making the point that it starts with the individual. But because we are trying to address burnout in our industry as one of many byproducts/triggers, some see it as us painting everyone with the same brush. There are aspects of this we are simply never going to agree on. It is also my observation — and I do not mean this as an insult — that if you are personally not affected by something, you don’t see is as legitimate. My experience is that there is no one-size-fits-all path.

Dave: Without research and study all you are left with is opinion.

So you see, Dave is one tough critic. He makes powerful points, and sometimes he goes off his rocker. But I love the guy.

Dave Marcus and the words Doesn't even attribute
Meme courtesy of Michael Schearer
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A Generation of Do-Nothing Kids

An article in The Huffington Post asks an important question: Are we raising a generation of helpless kids? It would be wrong to paint every parent with one broad brushstroke, but we can’t deny there’s a problem.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/VrZ4sMRYimw

The HuffPo article begins with the story of a college freshman who dissolves into a puddle of mush after getting a C- on her first exam:

Sobbing, she texted her mother who called back, demanding to talk to the professor immediately (he, of course, declined). Another mother accompanied her child on a job interview, then wondered why he didn’t get the job.

Tim Elmore, founder and president of the nonprofit Growing Leaders and author of the Habitudes series of books, explained the roots of the problem to the writer:

Gen Y (and iY) kids born between 1984 and 2002 have grown up in an age of instant gratification. iPhones, iPads, instant messaging and immediate access to data is at their fingertips. … Their grades in school are often negotiated by parents rather than earned and they are praised for accomplishing little. They have hundreds of Facebook and Twitter “friends,” but often few real connections.

Parents of my generation and older will tell you how we grew up playing in the street unsupervised and learned self-reliance. That’s certainly true for me. I spent my teen years hanging out with friends under a neighborhood bridge and on Revere Beach. My father worked all the time, and I spent many days at home on my own.

Yet it’s our generation that’s hovering over our kids, trying desperately to never let anything bad happen to them. We fill their days with scheduled activities, and yes, some of us fight with teachers over grades.

Elmore suggests this kind of parenting is rooted in the fall of 1982, when seven people died after taking extra-strength Tylenol laced with poison after it left the factory. Halloween was just around the corner, and parents began checking every item in the trick-or-treat bags. From there, an obsession with child security grew.

Fast-forward to Easter 2012, when organizers of an annual Easter egg hunt attended by hundreds of children canceled that year’s event because aggressive parents swarmed into the tiny park the year before, determined that their kids get an egg.

It’s an example of how the concept of keeping kids safe expanded to include shielding them from hurt feelings.

I’m not immune to this stuff. As a parent, I feel horrific when Erin and I have to punish the kids. I hate seeing them cry. I’d be lying if I denied being overprotective at times.

But we’re also determined not to raise helpless kids.

Our kids have responsibilities. They earn allowance for chores, just as we did as kids. If they mouth off, they lose privileges, such as screen time. They fold laundry and scrub the bathrooms. Being in Boy Scouts has helped them. Boy Scouts is all about learning self-reliance.

Does that mean as parents we’ve bucked the modern trend? I don’t know. I only know that we’re trying to.

Crying Toddler

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First Heavy Metal Church of Christ: It Exists!

From the no-joke file: There’s a church that uses heavy metal to preach Christ’s teachings. I was skeptical when reading about it on Vice.com, because that site runs a lot of bullshit. But I looked around and sure enough, The First Heavy Metal Church of Christ is for real.

Mood music:

As a devout but rebellious Catholic and heavy metal fan, this was a thrilling find.

The church uses some awesome slogans:

A Church Where Every Saint Has A Past And Every Hellion Has A Future!!!

A Holy Spirit Freak of Nature

That first line resonates with me for many of the reasons my Catholic faith does: I’m a guy who has done bad things in the past but believes Christ offers me unlimited chances to get it right. St. Peter is probably the ultimate example. He made some bad decisions in life, not the least of which was denying his discipleship three times when the going got tough. But he went on to be the rock of the church, the first pope.

The First Heavy Metal Church of Christ presents itself as a nondenominational alternative for those who love Christ but have had bad experiences going to more traditional churches. That it reaches out to the metal crowd isn’t surprising, because metal fans have been accused of devil worship from the beginning.

What does surprise me is how they built an entire church around a metal theme.

Sermons are often built around classic metal song titles like “To Hell With the Devil,” “Slave to the Grind” and “Peace Sells But Who’s Buying?”

From the website:

To put it in a nutshell, we are a non-denomination, Bible-based Church in a comfortable atmosphere with great music! Our congregation consists of people from all walks of life and age groups. We don’t care what you wear because we just want you there! Our Church has no racial, ethnic or gender barriers and we could care less about your past or present life. We only care about your FUTURE life in Christ!

Now, some of you are probably wondering if I’m ready to drop out of the Catholic Church to go embrace this. The answer is no.

Frankly, I love and need the rituals that encompass the Catholic way of life. I believe in the sacraments and believe I need them, especially those of reconciliation, baptism and matrimony. I am also acutely aware of the failures and evils that have become attached to the church in recent decades and I prefer to be part of the fix instead of abandoning it. And despite my love for heavy metal and the fact that I find a spiritual need fulfilled through the music, I like to keep that part of my life out of the same blender my faith spins around in.

But I’m glad this church exists. There are outcasts out there who yearn for Christ. Traditional denominations have alienated them over time. It’s better that they have a place to go. If it keeps just a few people true to Christ, it’s worth it.

Rock on.

Motorcycle rider with halo on head