daily journal entries—a habit that evolved into his writing hundreds of hip-hop-style rhyme schemes that offered me a window into his tortured, artistic soul after his death. It was those notebooks he left behind that helped me understand the why behind his suicide. Some of these lyrics were included in my first book, Diary of a Broken Mind: A Mother's Story, a Son's Suicide, and the Haunting Lyrics He Left Behind.
Figure P.1 Charles on Homecoming Court, escorted by his favorite teacher, Kerry Fretwell.
While there are precious memories from his school days, there were horror stories, too. Zero-tolerance policies and rigid school administrators who defaulted to punitive measures perpetuated my youngest son's feelings of worthlessness, and unnecessary suspensions caused frustrating setbacks to his fragile progress with depression. Misunderstanding shaped their authoritarian responses when what was needed was empathy and compassion.
After students leave school, they rarely remember their test scores. They remember their interaction and experiences with peers, teachers, administrators, teammates, band leaders, school counselors, principals, drama teachers, janitors, bus drivers, cafeteria staff, librarians, school nurses, and coaches. Schools have something few other environments have, and that's opportunity for genuine human connection, which has gotten lost in the digital age. This is the most valuable currency in our universe today and a foundation for emotional wellness.
After Charles died, a young woman who suffered from depression reached out and told me a story that happened in high school. On one particular day, the dark fog of depression moved in and took her motivation hostage, but she made a Herculean effort to get out of bed and go to school. Later that day, she and her friends stood chatting in the hallway between classes. She was struggling to hold onto her mask of a clown, looked up, and was stunned to see Charles staring right at her. She said she knew Charles, since everyone did. But they had never met and she didn't know he knew her. As soon as eye contact was returned, my son walked towards her, stopped about two feet away, and broke out into a rap song he created on the spot, just for her (also known as freestyling). She and her friends were shocked at first but soon burst out laughing.
When he finished his song, he bent over, hugged her, and said, “Pretty girls shouldn't look so sad,” and then made his way down the hall. She told me she had never experienced such kindness and it was a moment she tucked away in her mental library of precious memories.
While I will always miss my son's beautiful curly hair and his sense of humor, his tall, skinny hugs and the way he altered his voice when he greeted his dog, what I miss most was his capacity for love. In a world where no one has time to listen, he did. In a disconnected world where no one has time to connect, he made time. As talented and funny as he was, this was his greatest gift—letting other people know they mattered. That is the legacy I carry forward in my son's name. And that is why today, educators invite me into their classrooms and auditoriums to share our family's story, the coping strategies that helped me find emotional healing, and the workshop that helps kids become aware of what defines healthy and unhealthy coping skills.
Many people ask me how I can work with suicide prevention and loss every day after losing a child to this cause of death. My answer is that the universe pushed me towards it. And even after the most devastating loss of my life, I have hope. Because more people survive thoughts of suicide than act on them. And your help and mentorship can prevent tragedy by integrating innovative strategies and small culture shifts in your classes that facilitate connection and healthy coping strategies. You have the relationships. And the goal of this book is to nurture those relationships, empower you with the tools and education to spot students at risk, listen, and introduce them to the next level of care.
There are days when I do want to give up this cause because it's like pushing a spiked ball uphill in a driving snowstorm. But then I get letters from students after a presentation and it reinforces my resolve and rekindles my passion to keep doing what I'm doing.
KIM O'BRIEN'S STORY
My passion for helping suicidal youth runs deep. People wonder how I could do something so dark, so depressing, and often ask me why I got into this field. But I see my work differently. When working with suicidal youth, I see hope and resilience. I see that in that place of darkness that seems never ending, there is a way out other than suicide. I know this because I've been there.
My kindergarten teacher told my parents I needed to see a psychologist. She said I always looked so sad and just stared out the window instead of playing with friends. And so began my journey with depression. Mental health was a foreign concept to my parents, for no fault of their own, so I endured this constant emotional struggle alone. Growing up, I never felt understood by others and never quite understood my sadness. I had two parents and three younger siblings who loved me and I always had a safe, beautiful home to live in. So why was I always so sad?
My childhood turned into an adolescence filled with anxiety and perfectionism, and my depression evolved into a secret source of shame and self-hatred. I would lie in bed at night wishing I could die. I endured some low moments, like when my college roommate died by suicide, when I seriously questioned why I was still living. Life was becoming increasingly too much to bear and I relied on the high moments—accomplishments, excitement, love, and laughter that continued to pull me through.
Shortly after I graduated college, I hit rock bottom. I became angry and sad, closed myself off to others, and drank more alcohol. I cried daily, sometimes all day. I didn't want to wake up in the morning yet I couldn't fall asleep at night. This continued for over a year and I remember going to the doctor one day for a well visit and I couldn't stop crying. She told me I needed antidepressant medication and I agreed. I figured, why not? At that point I didn't care about living any longer but I also thought I had nothing to lose. I was already lost and it was as if my soul had died and I was just going through the motions in a lifeless body.
With the little blue pills, I found myself crying a little bit less and the days became slightly more manageable. I started picking myself up, bit by bit, and began finding more reasons to go on living. There was no magical “aha” moment for me, just continuous introspection with professional support to guide me through. And now, decades later, I can say I live a life full of purpose, love, and even happiness. I still struggle emotionally every day, but I have the skills I need and the love and support around me to get through the difficult times that are a part of every human experience.
That kindergarten teacher spotted something in me that no one else noticed, not even my family. How did she know I was so sad, so tortured inside? And as my emotional state kept getting worse as the years went on, why was no one aware of it? None of my middle or high school teachers ever noticed it. I wonder why but as I look back and ponder, I'm actually not sure I showed too many signs. I was bright, athletic, and relatively social. On the surface I had friends—people to talk to in class and teammates to joke with on the field and ice. So how would they even have known? But the fact remains that no one ever asked me how I was feeling inside. No one inquired about my emotional state or what it felt like to be me. I don't blame my teachers for this—it simply wasn't in the culture back then to address mental health in such a direct way.
But it is now. Today, we are finally beginning
