Mental
Health Association in New York State, Inc. |
Community Connections, Winter 2002/2003
Samaritans Suicide Prevention Center Offers Help My name is Mary Jean Coleman. I am the Executive Director of the Albany, NY branch of the Samaritans Suicide Prevention Center and Confidential Crisis Hotline. I am wife, mother, sister, friend, colleague, and I am “survivor”. On November 20, 1979, my seventeen year old brother, Eddie, took a very heavy heart and our Dad’s hunting rifle out into the woods behind our grandmother’s house. With a single gunshot to his head he ended his life. I’ve learned that grief is not something that you get over; it is something that you walk through. My own shoes are worn and my feet hurt from this walk, but I can't lead anyone else further than I’ve gone myself. Know that I have been there. Sometimes I wish I were a little kid again, with my brother by my side. I’ve learned that skinned knees are easier to fix than broken hearts. The years have crept on – Eddie never saw his 20th birthday, his 30th, his 40th. He never became a father. My children never knew him as an uncle. Where he used to be, there is a hole in the world. Silence, shame, sorrow, stigma, survivor; I didn’t choose it, it chose me. That was the legacy my brother left. Oftentimes the roles that we don’t choose for ourselves are the ones that end up being the most monumental in our lives. Eddie blasted me into the role of one of some 4.64 million United States survivor’s of a loved ones suicide. What is “survivor”? I stumble on the words that will convey to you what the title means. First, you can’t breathe. You wonder how you’ll go on living in the dark void of sorrow. Then, bit by bit –gradually, you lift your head and try to make sense of the senseless – you look around for hope. For me, the agonizing journey brought me to the doorsteps of the Samaritans Suicide Prevention Center and Crisis Hotline. There I met the Angels in life. While they didn't arrive with a blast of trumpets or a rustle of wings, I've met and known them just the same. They perform their acts in human guise, sometimes borrowing the faces of family and friends, sometimes posing as well-meaning strangers. You have known them too, when just the right word was needed, when a tiny act of kindness made a great difference.... or perhaps you heard a voice whispering in the night of sorrow, the words not quite clear but the meaning unmistakable......"There is hope...... There is hope." This is what the volunteers who staff the Samaritan suicide/crisis hotline are all about. Tenderly they offer themselves, as gentle listeners when the world isn’t “right” and the future uncertain. There are not many organizations that can claim to have the privilege of being the difference between life and death. Certainly the paramedics, firefighters, police. But, ordinary people, volunteers? I’ve been the Executive Director of this agency since 1996. The journey here was a long one. I’ve many, many tasks and responsibilities as I strive to lead this agency. I’ve answered thousands of calls to our anonymous, confidential hotline. On solid ground I share with you that (more than any other role I fill) answering hotline calls is where I find my greatest sense of hope…. What’s it like to answer a hotline call? Do I get anxious? Am I fearful that when I pick up the line that I may encounter someone who’s reached a cornerstone in their lives where they’re standing alone? Does the hotline phone startle me when it rings? Does my heart rise in my chest as I pray that I will say the right thing, be a good listener, understand the despair? Most certainly, but now after all these years the answers to all the questions seem more obvious. Despair can’t be measured by a panel of judges. An incident which one person shrugs off as a nuisance might well grind another’s life to a halt. Is that what happened with my Eddie? Was no one listening? I’m there for that….to listen. I acknowledge the sound of hopelessness. I accept it. I can’t judge a caller’s story – good, bad, right, wrong. I’m only given a brief glimpse into the sorrow – for only as long as the caller allows. But, I believe that to acknowledge is to reach into another’s world; human being - to- human being when it seems for them that no one else is there. To acknowledge the beast of a caller’s pain – to not dismiss this beast as trivial – may well be the first steps to regaining hope. Who calls a hotline? We’re often asked that question. Why does someone call a hotline and not another community resource such as a hospital emergency room, personal doctor, psychiatric center, the police, a warm line, a psychologist or social worker from the telephone book? Certainly many calls do go to one of these and there is no question that they serve a valuable role in the prevention of suicide. So who calls us? People like you. People like me. Look around in your every day world. Close your eyes. Have you ever felt unhappiness, regret, disappointment, or fear? Have you ever experienced a loss? Ever been worried about someone you love? Ever wish you had done something differently in life? Ever lost a job, worried about finances? Worried about the future of our country? Ever been lonely? Been self-conscious, ill at ease, insecure? Ever woken up in the middle of the night- scared, worried, not wanted to bother anybody? Ever been embarrassed to talk about something you’ve done with someone who knows you? Ever wanted to share pain, troubles, difficulties with a friend but get that weary feeling that you just can’t (because you didn’t want a lecture)? Was there ever a time when the weights that you carried on your shoulders just seemed too heavy? That’s who calls us. Sometimes the people who call us are those who have been turned off by the protocols of the professional practitioner. Maybe it’s someone who has no insurance. Perhaps there’s a fear of having their call traced; of being arrested; of being hospitalized; of being perceived as part of “the system”. Maybe it’s a professional concerned with being recognized by peer professionals. Oftentimes there is a concern about confidentiality – perhaps a teen needs a place to “dump” but doesn’t want anyone else to know. Close your eyes. Who calls us? All sorts of people; from all sorts of places in their lives. What do they have in common? Burdened, they picked up the phone. There is a need to have another person listen – really listen – to all of that moment’s despair. There is never a promise that life will be better. As a hotline volunteer I can’t promise that for someone. But I can promise that things will change. Most certainly, as the hands of time move us through the journey of life, things change. Undoubtedly they did for me. For Eddie, the
journey stopped too soon with the choice that he made. He had other choices,
other options - calling the Samaritans was one of them. I wished he’d
known…. posted 1/28/03 |