Free Bird (and Mouse, and Snakes...)

My family has always been into animals. If you've read my posts before you know I have dogs and cats. My family has had, over the years, dogs, cats, parrots, bunnies, geckos, rats, mice, hamsters, fish, horses, chickens, ducks, goats, a tarantula (not the cuddliest of creatures, but whatever), raccoon, snakes, and the list goes on. As long as I can remember, I have loved and been fascinated by animals. As I have gotten older I am more content to see them from afar, but when I was young, I wanted everything for a pet.

When I was little, I spent lots of weekend days at my grandparents while my Mom worked. At times I would play in my grandmother's button drawer or "help" my grandfather in his shop, but mostly I was left to my own devices. One day, after watching the busy and very vocal blue jays going about their daily duties I decided I wanted to catch one. These birds were not tame but they were used to us as my grandparents often left bird seed and peanuts about for the locals. And blue jays, it always seemed to me growing up, were bold, brave, and "in your face" kind of birds, to each other, cats, other birds, etc.

I asked my grandfather for a cardboard box and some string (bear in mind, I was young-maybe six or seven). He asked, "What for?" and I told him I was out to capture a Blue Jay. He chuckled and provided me with my requested materials. I found a stick in the  yard that would hold up the box and also be the mechanism for capture when I yanked the string. I then asked Gramma for some peanuts, and she too asked me what I was doing with them, She feigned enthusiasm for my hunt but asked what I was going to do with the bird once I caught it. "Let it go, I guess." She gave me a handful of peanuts with which I could bait my trap.

My grandparents, at that time, lived in a large house in South Pasadena, California. It sat across the field from the Junior High School and had an amazing yard for kids. Lots of large trees in which to play hide and seek and a good-sized front lawn. The property ran up against an alley that had once been railroad tracks but that were long gone. The back yard was smaller, but had plenty of trees (the first figs I ate where from that yard) and plants and flowers growing all year as only southern California could inspire. The first floor of the back of the house was mostly glass; floor-to-ceiling windows and a sliding glass door. It was from the kitchen table or the rocking chair we would often watch the birds. On this day, the back yard would be my stalking grounds.

I set the box up just outside the sliding back door. I trailed a few peanuts from the table, down to the ground and leading to the box. I then put the peanuts just in from the stick at the entrance to the box, and let the string out as I backed up. I hid behind a slight corner that demarcated where the kitchen ended and the small back porch entrance started. Then I waited. My grandfather came by once and asked how it was going. I lectured him that it would be impossible to catch a bird with him just walking up and talking to me like that! He chuckled again, asked if I needed anything and went back to whatever he was doing. I am not sure how long I sat there. The Jays were not so easily tempted it seemed. Then one decided to grab the peanuts from the trail I left. And still I waited...

If you think this is a story about a child learning that, just because she saw such a trap on Wonderful World of Disney, doesn't mean she could spring such a trap in real life...

You'd be wrong. A few minutes later, the Jay entered the box and I yanked the string! I got him. Let me tell you, he was PISSED. He was flopping against the box determined to get the hell out of there. Meanwhile I called to my grandfather and for the first time all day, he was not around. I then called to my grandmother who was, for the moment, out of earshot. So, I walked casually up to the box....and sat on it. By now the bird had calmed down and was only making a few pecking noises. A couple of minutes later (it seems to me now), my grandmother came out and asked what I was doing. "Remember, I was going to catch the Blue Jay?" "Oh yes, well honey, they are very fast and smart, it wasn't likely that you would catch one." (She thought I was sitting their in despair! Ha!). I wish I

From the National Geographic book,
Complete Birds of North America, 2006

could say that I said something sassy like, "Well this one must be dumber and slower than the others because I caught him." But my smart-ass sensibilities didn't develop until later. With huge pride and excitement I said that I had caught one. My grandmother leaned in and heard the slight noises emanating from teh box and stood suddenly and said (in her, I-can't-believe-you-did-this-voice), "Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayy, come here please! Hehehe. Grampa showed up and Gramma told him what I "had done." "Did you really catch one?!" My grandfather was trying to hide his proud surprise. "You MUST let him go!" Frankly, I didn't get why my grandmother was so upset, after all, she TOLD me I could and she GAVE me the bait! So I stood from the box and lifted it on one side. The bird stood there a second, squawked loudly (at me, I thought) and took off. Interestingly, the rest of the peanuts were gone from inside the box. Clearly he wasn't THAT traumatized. For some reason, my grandparents would not let me use the box trap anymore after that...

Norway Rat

When we were young, my cousins went through a rodent phase in their pets.  They had mice and they had RATS. Napoleon was the rat I adored. He was a big Norwegian Brown rat, the kind you see as extras in movies where the hero is walking in abandoned houses, or by dumpsters in an alley, or, more famously when Indiana Jones was navigating the catacombs that intersected the sewers of pre-World War II Venice. Napoleon should have been a movie star, he was big and smart, but with his brindled brown coat, thick grey tail, and alert eyes he could freak people out if they weren't expecting him. I remember one day my cousins and I were sitting in the TV room at their house. We were watching ON cable or maybe we were playing Pong (yes, it was that long ago). I had Napoleon on my shoulder, behind my hair where he was snuggled up against my neck, behind my ear. He was usually there on one of us if he wasn't wandering around the room. Anyway, one of my Uncle's tennis-playing friends (who didn't know this rat) came over and there was conversation back and forth between my Uncle and his visitor. Stealthily, because he was a rat, Napoleon peeked his head out from behind my ear and the visitor suddenly saw him and I swear he jumped two feet into the air while letting out a yelp. Napoleon was so startled that he went back behind my ear. The three of us just looked at the guy like he was a moron. "But it's a rrrrrat!" Yes, he was, and he was clean and sweet and a great pet. A couple years later, I went to that house to feed Napoleon and his mate, Desiree. Poor Napoleon had died in his sleep. Not knowing what else to do, I left a note that said,    
                              "Anybody, Napoleon is as DEAD as a door nail,
                               please take care of him. PS -he is stiff as cardboard"

My Aunt still has the note :)

Common garter snakes - photo by http://wdfw.wa.gov/

In 1974 my aunt, cousins and I took the train to Oregon to see my other aunt, uncle and younger cousins. They lived in Rainier and what I remember most about the place was that it rained alot, the grass was tall and it was teeming with garter snakes. I was nine, my older cousin was ten and my younger was seven. The little ones we were visiting were really young and didn't scour the yard for snakes with us. One day, I remember the three of us caught so many that our hands were full and we weren't quite sure what to do with them. So, in order to make room for more in our hands, we stuck bunches of the little snakes in our raincoat pockets. Then we tried to go in the house to show everyone what we found. We didn't make it far. My uncle intercepted us before we hit the back door and we had to let the little wrigglers go. Looking back I have no idea what we thought we would do with them, but the excitement of catching so many just completely overwhelmed whatever good judgment we might have otherwise shown. Funny, I don't remember much else about that visit.

By the time I was a teenager my love of animals had made me a zealous rescuer of all things deemed "in distress." During my short career, I found injured and stranded birds, bunnies and domestic animals of all types. During EMT school, I even ran over a squirrel with my truck (no tires, just the wind from the truck knocked his wind out) and I was so upset that I gave him a head-to-toe exam. When he awoke, he shook it off and scurried into the woods. The oddest part of that moment was when a guy stopped to see if I was OK (on the side of the road) and he was met with a rather upset ME, cradling what he assumed to be a dead squirrel. But it seemed that no matter how good my intentions, my poor grandmother got the brunt of my single-mindedness. One day her cat brought in a mouse she caught in the field across the river. The feline was doing what felines do; playing with her prey before she ate the hapless little thing. Not on my watch. I shooed Alice away and grabbed the mouse. I took it in the house and asked Gramma for an eye-dropper and some water because I found an injured animal. Now, to her credit, my grandmother had been more than patient when we brought kittens, dogs and even birds into the house to be treated. So when she asked what I had, I offered to show her. I opened my hand... There was a lot of yelling after that. Something about getting vermin out of her house, what could I have been thinking, making sure to wash my hands, and did I touch anything, etc. It was all a blur as I ran outside. Later, my grandfather had to give me the requisite lecture as to just why field mice, injured or otherwise, do not make appropriate pets.

I suppose, reading some of this context, it helps to understand why I take in so many dogs who need help, why I let the mouse we caught in our (humane) trap go at the park, and why I ask my husband to take spiders outside. My eight year-old daughter has the same leanings and today she asked me for a cardboard box and some string...

A Tattooed Lady

When I was a teenager my aunt came home with a tattoo. It is a small shamrock (her boyfriend at the time was Irish). It was her first and only tattoo and she had the good sense to put it in a place that is easily hidden. When she got hers, the stereotypes around women and tattoos were still of the "biker babe" and "women in prison" variety, so she kept her ink to herself. She did, however, show it to me and I was immediately smitten with the idea of someday getting a tattoo.

That infatuation never left me and when I turned 18 I dragged a couple of friends down to the red light district (because that is where such things were to be had...) in Honolulu and got my first "tat." It was on my hip (again, a place easily concealed) and was a simply drawn, small butterfly. I think it cost me $20 in 1982. The woman who did the work was a little startled when I walked in to the shop (NOT parlor). She said I wasn't the clientele she was used to seeing (wasn't even sure how to address that statement). Thirty-plus years ago my tattoo garnered lots of attention. Not that I showed it to many, although there was one night at Moose McGillycuddy's in Honolulu, after a particularly festive Happy Hour, when I showed the New Zealand National Rugby Team (at least, that was their story) my butterfly...but I digress.

Simply admitting that I HAD a tattoo back then elicited questions such as "Are you a biker chick?" ("Yup, Schwinn Beach Cruiser is my ride.") or "Are you in a GANG?" ("Yeah, don't mess with us, we drink Crystal Light and Vodka and ride the bus to the beach!"). Tattoos at the time were not about straight-arrow middle class people, they were about rebels, and margins and bucking whatever system. But I had always been fascinated by how humans had decorated themselves across time and cultures. I had no idea that the little butterfly would start something...well...bigger. It took four years before I would get my second piece.

I now have seven.

Tattoos have enjoyed quite an explosion of popularity since I got my first. No longer the purview of sailors, rough men and fallen women ;) ink is widely considered an art form that continues to expand itself in terms of what is possible. Old School is a style that represents clean lines, bold colors and iconic designs, but there are gorgeous pieces that look like watercolor; photo-realism pieces of people, animals and places; a resurgence of tribal-inspired tattoos; and every hybrid imaginable. Tattoo artists pride themselves in the fact that they are artists. Many specialize in certain styles and colors, or black and grey. My artist of choice, Prakash Spex, the man I have gone to for my most recent tattoos, is amazing with color and interpreting ideas into design. I have very fair skin with no yellow or olive cast to it, unlike my husband who is olive-skinned,  so color is "my thing" and the pieces can show amazing detail and bright hues. But none of that would be possible without the talent of the man holding the tattoo machine.

Spex Tattoo

The thing about tattoos; people tend to either love them or hate them. There is not much middle ground. Oh sure, there are those individuals who got one when they were young (often in the military) but now don't mention them and are almost loathe to show their old ink to anyone. There are also some expected questions/arguments against tattoos I heard over the last three decades that are pretty generic in nature:

1. But would you show your grandmother? I have, as well as the rest of my family. When I was young they remained wisely quiet thinking, perhaps correctly, that if they railed against them I might get more-I was young, you know?

2. What does your Mom think? She was cool but never wanted one until she got cancer and HAD to have these little dot tattoos to identify the borders of her radiation. Then she asked if each dot could be a flower or a diamond or a butterfly...The party-poopers (her words) said no.

3. How will you get a good job? Well, I was not going to apply for a job that required me to show my hip, or ankles or shoulder, so I was sure it wasn't a problem. Now I work at a National Laboratory and half the people I see have tattoos (Which tells me more of them have them, but they can't be seeeeen). Now, I am not a fool so that is why each of mine can be hidden if I wish. It's not like I have a Tweety bird holding a N.O.W flag permanently inked onto my forehead...

4. What about as you age? Listen, I spent most of my life in the sun without sunscreen (or worse, with UV-encouraging oils slathered on my body), I have bigger concerns than how my tattoos will age.

5. People who don't like tattoos (on themselves or other people) tend to think that people who get tattoos are doing it as some form of "look at me" expression. That may be true for some, but I am more of the belief that people who tend to love tattoos (to the point of getting several), love them as intensely personal artifacts.

Finally, if the tattoos have any kind of size and detail, they represent what might end up being a significant investment of time (each section done must heal before the next is completed), energy and money. I would hope that anyone getting something so significant would be doing it only for themselves (or their gang leader--oh, just kidding!).  

My tattoos are for nobody but me. I can hide them when I don't want to deal with whatever vestiges of the stigma I may run into and if I show them I am showing what I think are beautiful pieces of art that happen to adorn my body. Recently I finished (well, you know what I mean, my artist finished) a large piece on my lower leg. It sits on my outer calf and runs from my ankle to just below my knee. It is bright and detailed and stunning, but it was done for me. When my husband said I needed to start wearing skirts more to show it, I said, "No I don't, I got it for me, nobody else." This is not to say that I am not immensely proud of the work and I do have every intention of showing it, but that wasn't my purpose in getting the work done.

I would submit that for every tattoo done, there is a different reason for getting it put on the body.

By the time I was 33, I had four small pieces. Each tattoo represented something to me; whether it was a special event, good friends I shared time with, or a personal value. When I was 35 I covered my first tattoo with a larger piece. The change was mostly because I wanted something more intricate and something fun to represent what felt like a newness in my attitude at the time. So, the simple first butterfly was gone, covered by a Cheshire Cat not quite the size of my hand. That was it for a long (11 years)  time.

People used to ask me if getting a tattoo hurt and I would blithely say that they aren't bad, that it reminded me of  a pin scratching against the skin for a few minutes. Well, duh. When the tattoo is tiny and has maybe three colors, max, in its design, the tattoo doesn't really hurt. Then I started getting bigger tattoos. My fifth piece resides on the (tender) inside of my forearm and is about the size of a standard playing card. Between the placement, the size, the detail and the array of colors, that piece was downright uncomfortable. My unpleasant surprise, however, was how much discomfort I experienced after the piece was done. It was sore for a couple of days. Two years later I decided on a design that incorporated a tribal manta ray with additional elements drawn into the piece. Including some color, the effect was that of a very subtle mosaic and this piece is about ten inches across and eight inches tall at its furthest points. This ray lives on the back of my left shoulder and took about three and a half hours to complete. It hurt. It hurt during and it hurt after. I was tired and sore when we were done. I am fastidious about after-care so it was also somewhat of a pain in the ass to ensure it stayed clean and moist while it healed. I wondered if I would ever get another piece that big.

Spex Tattoo

I didn't; I got a bigger one.

The decision to get the piece on my calf was a serious one. I wanted a certain look and feel for the design and my artist demonstrated that to get what I wanted, I needed to go big. Additionally, unlike the ray on my back, this tattoo included many colors, lots of detail, and loads of shading that created even more depth and detail to the final effect.Now, it should be admitted here that I realize that my tattoo is not big by any means compared to some. A friend has her entire back done and my brother has a half-sleeve. That being said, my calf took four sessions of over three hours each.  I have heard people say "Oh wow, don't you love it when the endorphins kick in and it doesn't even hurt; like its numb?!" ........Uhhh, NO, because that has never happened for me. On the contrary, from the moment it started to several days later, I felt EVERYTHING. First, for the three-plus hours it took to get the session done, and then for a few days when it felt initially like my leg was 2nd degree sunburned to finally just being irritated. And god forbid I let something like my pants touch it too soon because then I would need to peel it off and hope some of the newly inked skin didn't go with the material, in which case I would end up looking like some hack-job home tattooist had done the work (and risk the ire of Prakash). I learned a brutal lesson after the second calf session when I had the work done on a Wednesday evening and had to go to work the next day. After a day of my pants (flowy as they were) rubbing against the "wound," I had irritated the piece directly into Scabville. From then on, I only had sessions on Friday evenings so I could keep all fabric off the ink for a couple of days.What is interesting is that during my last session (thank the Fates I made it that far), I said to Prakash, "You know what the worst part of getting the tattoo is?" He responded, "The wiping?" YES, the damn wiping! I understand the need for wiping the piece while working it; to remove the excess ink, to keep it lubricated with ointment, etc. But, in order to keep little fibers from sticking to the new tattoo, less-than-soft paper towels are used and let me just say...OMG. Three hours of wiping is almost enough to send me off the table.

Now when people see my ink and ask if it hurt, I say "Of course it hurt, it's a f***ing tattoo." I mean really, single and multiple needles puncturing your skin (and with them dragging ink into the dermis-contrary to myth, the ink isn't inside the needles, it is not a syringe-like effect) at high speed? Yes, it hurts.

Prakash calls the process (especially for larger, detailed pieces) sort of a right of passage. Sitting still (and I am a stoic rock during this process, if I do say so myself) for several hours uses energy. While I do relax somewhat during the process, I strive to remain alert so when the needle hits an unexpectedly sensitive area, I don't jump and ruin whatever is being worked at the time. I spend a lot of time telling myself to "be still." You would be surprised at the strange array of nerve responses across what one would assume is the same area of the leg.

Three large-ish tattoos in three years. I think I am done for a while, but when I stated that out loud, Prakash simply said, "Suuure." He has a point, people who like tattoos tend to keep getting them. Then again, I suppose you are never too old. He told me he had recently given a small tattoo to an 81 year-old woman. I have no idea why, but she did it and was obviously not worried about one of the aforementioned main arguments against tattoos: that when the skin ages, the tattoo will be unrecognizable. I have already assumed that in another 40 or so years, I will spend lots of time reassuring my doctors that I don't have a giant hematoma on my calf.

A Shared Epidemic Can Spur a Selfish Choice

This year we lost an American treasure. Robin Williams, actor, comedian, philanthropist and, if the press around him is to be believed, all around good guy, took his own life at the relatively young age of 63. It was sad news for those of us who grew up watching "Mork and Mindy" and listening to his comedy albums. I enjoyed his work for decades, be it comedy philanthropy for Comic Relief, comic and dramatic turns in films and TV and even his talk show appearances and interviews. He was brilliant and more importantly he seemed kind. His audience also knew that he battled substance abuse occasionally throughout his career and he even spoke about depression. Perhaps it was that candor that made the news of his untimely death so shocking. We thought (hoped!) he had it all in hand; that this funny, smart and charismatic charmer would tame those demons and come out once and forever in charge of his own psyche. When he didn't, we found ourselves devastated, disappointed and in some cases, angry.

How could he be so selfish? How could he put his family through such pain? What was he thinking!? How could he be such a COWARD?

So, this is where I take a little stand and say something that may piss people off: I am not talking in this post about suicide that is committed by criminals who are caught dead to rights brutalizing children or women or anyone and then commit suicide in their cells. I know how ugly this is to read, but I think that is cowardice; "escaping" before they face their accusers, not having to pay for their crimes (although, if you are religious you will say they will pay elsewhere; fair enough). There is evil in the world and this post is not about that.

Robin Williams photo from Collider.com

Robin Williams was no coward. 

I know that people who grieve (even for others they may not even personally know) sometimes lash out, and when death involves the object of a para-social relationship (we all thought we knew him, didn't we?) such grief can feel even more acute. The bottom line, however, and this will irk many, is that we never really know what is going on inside someone's mind/soul. And maybe that shock and disappointment is really what makes people angry. Also, people tend to judge (often harshly) what they do not understand.

Taking one's own life seems like such a drastic, final and hopeless act (and it is all of those, really), that people who have never seriously considered it can't possibly see it as a way out or a solution. For those who have been in the throes of deep and unbearable depression or other mental illness; fighting the battles over and over, without seeing permanent or acceptable victories, suicide may be the last ditch resort to finally achieve some sort of peace.

In my own experience with mental illness, my depression was like a heavy darkness. Yes, there seemed to be physical weight to it. Like my sun had been totally eclipsed by a giant, thick and immovable tarp, only the shadow just stayed weighted there, not moving incrementally so I could know that the sun would return. Humans don't tend to do well in prolonged darkness. Darkness reminds us of what we fear. Fear becomes exacerbated and our sense of self-determination and efficacy erodes. Not to mention all the physiological effects to our brain chemistry if we are in the dark too long (and some people are more affected than others). The longer we are in the dark, if not reassured (and by that I mean at a core, intrinsic level) that the light will return, the greater the pain and fear we must face. Add to that a scenario of feeling alone (let's face it, some of our loneliest moments happen within earshot of others), then the demons get exponentially larger and impossible to vanquish. If we get help, whether in the form of psychological, medical, religious or spiritual support we may find our way out of the darkness. The thing is, the darkness is always just a horizon away. I am lucky, I am able (so far) to recognize depression when it rears its insidious head and I can get help. There was a time in my life, though, that ending my life seemed like a perfectly reasonable outcome to  perfectly unreasonable circumstances in my soul.

I once read an article that said that women tend to commit suicide in relatively "clean" ways so as not to cause a mess for those they leave behind. Rubbish, says I. There are a million reasons people commit suicide and an equal number of reasons they choose a certain method. Suicide is personal and selfish. After all, it is our brains rebelling against us! By all accounts, Robin Williams was a kind and generous soul, but the darkness and pain in our souls can make us behave against type.

Anytime I hear of a suicide I feel pain for the victim's family and friends. I can't imagine how it must feel to be left with what must be infinite unanswered questions and the inevitable wonderings about what real or imagined role they might have played. Did they miss the signs; did they say the wrong thing? I have heard people say not to feel bad for the person who is dead because their pain is done, but I always feel sadness for them too. I am sad because they could not see the light or even imagine what it would look like when it came back again (or that it could). Their pain was so great that it muted the sound of their children's laughter, it blinded them to beauty around them, it erased the memories of their impact on this life. But that is what mental illness does, it invades our innermost realm, the part of us that is most individual and, perhaps, sacred; the source of our intellect, communication, and personality.

According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, 39,518 suicides were reported (imagine how many aren't given the stigma suicide has in many cultural and religious contexts) in 2011. That number put suicide as the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S for that year. Well, no wonder people aren't doing anything about mental health issues! We have heart disease and cancer to worry about! Umm, no. Suicide as a cause of death is greater in its societal implications than its relatively small number of victims. The idea that someone is choosing to take their life; deciding that ending their life is the only way to end their pain, is SIGNIFICANT. In the small town where I reside, a friend noted that she knew of four teenagers who committed suicide within an 18 month period (anecdotal - I couldn't find current data). If accurate, that number represents a huge chunk of potential; of kids who were so hopeless that they couldn't see beyond ending their lives. THIS IS A TRAGEDY.

Losing Robin Williams was so very sad, but the truth is we lose people every single day to mental illness and it doesn't necessarily mean suicide. I don't care of they are iconic celebrities or the kid down the street, the loss of human potential; whether because someone disappears in their mind or because they feel ultimately disposable, is tragic and heartbreaking. As a country, we should be more concerned about our people battling such demons and feeling like they are losing. Unfortunately we, as a society, seem to only prick our ears up when such difficulties surround someone famous. Additionally, while there was suddenly more talk about mental health issues shortly after Mr. Williams' death, our short attention span was quickly distracted by something else hitting the top-ten of whatever media circus of the week was playing.

Mental health is a difficult subject, partly because it is so damn complicated. Our brains are complex, mysterious and fragile (although sometimes remarkably resilient) mechanisms. Chemical imbalances, drugs, genetics, stress, trauma, disease and goodness knows what else can all wreak havoc on the computers inside our skulls. There are so many "types" (for lack of a better word) of mental illness; simply getting an accurate diagnosis can take months or years of effort and resources. Sometimes diagnoses remain elusive and even if properly diagnosed, finding the right treatment can be an equally mysterious crap-shoot.

Another variable that makes mental health "difficult" is the level of social discomfort it presents, especially to those who think they are completely healthy (ha!). Mental illness has always scared people. From before we understood anatomy and physiology and we blamed mental illness on demons and spirits, to now, when we see the behaviors of a schizophrenic and it feels too close to home, the idea of mental illness in whatever form, scares us as a society. In less enlightened times we simply locked mentally ill people up and hoped they never got out. In frighteningly recent times, mentally ill patients were basically tortured and forgotten. So-called "hospitals" decided they were perfect subjects for experiments (after all, who was going to miss them?). Relatives of the mentally ill would hide them away out of fear; of what they might do or how they might end up. Even now we likely see a disproportionate number of mentally ill people living on the streets. It is easier to walk by, maybe spare some change, than to attack the many roots of this particularly devilish tree.

With more people on the planet comes more chances (statistically) that someone we know (like, umm, us) will be affected by mental health issues. I admit I get a little paranoid when I feel "down" that maybe my depression is creeping back up on me. But at least I am aware of it, I own it, I admit that it is a possibility, and I am more than willing to work to mitigate it if necessary. As a society we must accept these issues as real, medical complexities that need research and attention. It took decades for alcoholism to be socially accepted as a disease, we need to be willing to accept these illnesses with the objectivity and practicality that we do other diseases.

Suicide is a result, a consequence, a symptom of a larger epidemic and as such it is often perceived as a selfish choice. Is it not more selfish, however, that we, as a supposedly enlightened society, allow the epidemic that is one of the root causes of this choice to go unchecked, potentially destroying countless brilliant, funny, intelligent, and kind souls in its wake?

Old Man in Sorrow - V. Van Gogh