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Here's a video of my first therapy dog, Bella. She was recused from Dead Dog Beach in Puerto Rico and we adopted her when she was four months old. She was super active and my vet suggested that she needed a job. We tried agility but it wasn't the right fit. But when she became a therapy dog at age five, we were all set. Bella was intuitive and curious and knew just what to do whether working with students or visiting patients in the hospital. This volunteer work provided the perfect balance to writing, and I'm still at it, now with my second therapy dog, Rudy. My book about Bella is titled "Joy Unleashed: The Story of Bella, the Unlikely Therapy Dog." It's done really well and is in its third printing. Enjoy!

A few months after Mabel's 16th birthday, her parents died in a tragic accident and now a blind Mabel was a ward of Aunty Kay. In her absence, Mabel would fall prey to her cousins' incessant bullying and tricks. One day, they had put peanut butter in Mabel's favourite sneakers. A fuming Mabel rushed into Troy's room and delivered a stinging slap with the one sneaker in hand to his face. I told you she was a blind psychopath Troy shouted. Sensing Mabel's distress, the guy introduced himself as Leo but an embarrassed Mabel scurried away. For the next few months, whenever Troy had his friends over, Leo and Mabel would secretly meet in the kitchen. He was 18, fascinated with cars and her first crush. Reality rudely intruded on their secret meeting spot by Troy whose shouts brought his sisters rushing in. An angry Adele, who was liked Leo viciously slapped Mabel d as she let loose angry words and barbs at Mabel's ploys. Mabel, immensely hurt rushed to the safety of her small room. After what seemed like hours, the door creaked open and Leo called out. Mabel flung her pillow at him and told him to go. Leo persisted and pressed a soft kiss to her lips telling her that she was a breath of fresh air in this hell-hole. He continued to caress her neck and shoulders. Kisses turned heated, caresses became more frantic and clothes discarded as Mabel's heart and innocence were offered up and consumed in the lusty atmosphere. In the dawn, after kissing a clinging Mabel, Leo left. Mabel blurted out her love when her cousins barged into her room unannounced. Troy and Adele laughed as they boasted of the bet Leo was a part of or else he would never look at a blind nerd. In the coming weeks, Leo was MIA! One Saturday after dinner, Mabel overheard Aunty Kay on the phone talking about the Johns moving to another state. This hurt Mabel to the quick who vouched to never fall for such a ploy! In the 5 years since that fateful day, Mabel blossomed into an intelligent, caring and capable young woman. Despite her disability, she successfully pursued her passion of cooking with the upcoming release of her first cookbook. That heart wrenching summer with Leo was pivotal for Mabel. Lost in her happy thoughts, she nearly missed her beeping phone signalling that her publicist and best friend, Maria had arrived to give her a lift to the venue but then encountered a slowly deflating tire. Luckily, the service guy Zack, was nearby to pick up the call. With both ladies safely ensconced in the truck, and their vehicle in tow, they made their way to the garage. Mabel smiled as she overheard Maria flirting with Zack. Before long, they arrived at the garage. The door creaked open signalling someone's entrance. After a shuffling of papers, a masculine voice called out Maria's name. Mabel froze in disbelief as her friend went about her business. She could never forget that husky baritone. It was LEO! As Maria concluded her paperwork and payments she hollered to Mabel which grabbed Leo's eagle gaze. The air was tight with tension as Leo stumbled over Mabel's name. As Mabel hurriedly nudged her friend to go ahead, a strong, calloused hand grabbed Mabel's wrist. Mabel was having not of that and delivered a stinging slap to an unshaven but hewn jaw. She was overwhelmed by repressed hurt. Maria tried to calm the situation down with the ladies hurriedly escaping after a few attempts. Zack met a stunned Leo standing in the same position, weary lines on his face. After some consideration, he held up a business card with a naughty smirk. Mabel refused to talk on her way back to the hotel but lying in bed that night, her memories came to the forefront. After a sleepless night she called Maria to confirm her schedule. A barrage of questions of Mabel's well-being were fired by Maria, which Mabel answered quietly. Seven o' clock sharp, the doorbell rang with a sombre trip to the restaurant. When the meals arrived, a frizzle of awareness ran up Mabel's spine. A voice which haunted her dreams announced Leo's presence. Crossing her hands across her chest, Mabel sat back without a word. As soon as Leo broached the topic of the first time they had made love, Mabel lost it and flung her plate of spaghetti at him. He made light of the attack and pleaded that he was threatened by Adele the morning after their sweet night. She had maliciously filmed them entwined asleep and would share a copy with the entire school. He had stayed away to protect Mabel's reputation. Troy had lied to the Coach which got him kicked off the team. His dad had gotten a job transfer out of state which was a clean break. Leo continuously professed his love whilst raining kisses along Mabel's face, hands and wrists. She softly returned her love enveloped in those strong arms that were imprinted in her memory forever and a day.

“Mother, I know you can't hear me, but I must talk to you. “I need to talk to someone. Anyone. About things I would never say if you were alive. About things I didn't want you to know because they would hurt you. This way I will say them, and you won't hear them. This way it will be much easier for me to pour my heart out to you . . .” My cross-genre YA novel Cruel Summer is for the first time in a Kindle discount promo week! Sunday, May 9, 2021, 8:00 AM PDT through Sunday, May 16, 2021, 12:00 AM PDT This gripping, unexpected, strong, and emotional story about an abused teenage boy who only wants to skate and the loyalty of friendship that stands as the shield between those who have other plans for him and his freedom will be only $0.99 for a whole week on Amazon or free with Kindle Unlimited. Do you like books that cross genres and mix them in a surprising read you cannot put down? Cruel Summer has all that and more for you: family and social issues, extreme sports, conspiracy, murder, mystery, teen romance as a subplot, and sci-fi and dystopia as a touch of alternative history with a powerful message of friendship. Sounds impossible? But it's not! “Crossing genres is always difficult, and thankfully, this one works well. It offers many angles for every type of reader. Even for those who aren't fans of dystopia / sci-fi or who've never been on a skateboard in their lives . . . you'll be pulled in for all the other reasons.”—James J. Cudney, author of Watching Glass Shatter, Hiding Cracked Glass, Father Figure, Braxton Campus Mysteries series and Weathering Old Souls Don't wait any longer! Please spread the word and download your eBook at a 67% discounted price. Thank you! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08X6JZKRM BJ Original post: https://www.bernardjan.com/post/from-skateboarding-to-dystopia-for-only-0-99

TW: The following piece documents true events of sexual assault. Please refrain from reading if personally triggering. Disclaimer: The following events have been disclosed with adults and mental health professionals, and the author is not a danger to herself currently. The record does not need to be reported to a guidance counselor, and no concern for the author is necessary. Thank you. :) I washed my sheets by myself for the first time that night. My blood and his cum splattered the center in horrific modern art. Mama never taught me how to get that out of fabric. It was two weeks after my 15th birthday. I'd say I lost my innocence that afternoon, but the bruises had stained my body for months. Every week he wanted more. And the day I'd been dreading had arrived. His ribs pressed against mine. Our sticky skin stuck together. His hands on me. In me. The right on my mouth. The left clutching my throat. He took my muffled screams as moans. Signs to go faster, signs to go harder. As my thighs stained red, he smiled. I used to love his smile. My cries awoke the city that night until his message lit up my phone. “I'm sorry about today. I love you.” followed by a heart a brighter red than the lines grasping my wrists. I weakly smiled. He loves me. He said he was sorry the first time he choked me too. Sorry the first time he recorded my body. Sorry the first time he kissed another girl. Words of forgiveness had tumbled out of my mouth a million times until they were all I knew. I thought monsters were invisible strangers that sneak into your house when you least expect it. He was my best friend. And, as he often reminded me, it had been almost 3 years since the day he asked me to the movies during 7th grade recess. At the very least, I owed him my body. Besides, he was sorry. Right? It took months of purple legs and ringing ears to break me. Sleepless nights and empty bottles holding the bear he bought me for valentines day when we were 12. I've always wondered why I can't scream in my nightmares. Why my voice slips away when the darkness falls. I finally understood that day as the word “no” danced out of my mouth as gently as the tears on my cheeks. I've showered a thousand times since, but I can't seem to get clean. He touched me in the shower too. Touched me in the kitchen. Touched me in our childhood park. On the roof of our high school. But nothing beat the day he touched me in my bed. He left me for his blonde best friend 26 days later. Said I cried too much. It was the day before our 3 year anniversary, and my room was littered with gifts for him. The next day my broken body lay on the cold bathroom tile. My hands turned white, clutching my orange bottles of antidepressants and sleep medication. As 42 pills slid down my throat, I closed my eyes and, for the first time in weeks, his smile didn't appear in the darkness. I awoke in the cold hospital bed to the IV's piercing my veins. By the time I escaped the psych ward another month later, I was more broken than before. I whispered the story for the first time one night. Mama sat silent for a moment before asking what I was wearing. Said she warned me this was gonna happen if my shoulders saw the world. Dad said maybe if I had paid more attention to Jesus and less to boys, I wouldn't be blubbering. I told my friend that weekend. By the arrival of Monday, the whole school knew. Whispers paved my paths down the halls. One boy claimed he heard I had hit my head and had amnesia. Said that's why I was making up crazy stories. Another girl said I lied for attention. “She probably liked it.” Even those who believed me could never understand. Until I met the curly haired girl who whispered “he touched me too” in the bathroom. I always thought monsters hunted from under the bed. Not on it.

As we know, this covid pandemic has shaken our entire life. It causes my salary cut & this virus has taken away my dad. I live with my mom who divorced from my dad since 18 years ago, but my relation with my dad was fine until mid of 2018 when a problem suddenly emerged that has crashed my relationship with him, after we've gone through a fierce argumentation back and forth via WhatsApp chat. Thereafter I didn't want to contact him anymore like used to be. I felt deeply hurt & very disappointed. I don't understand why he easily relinquished his responsibility as a father towards me as his only child. Actually since the divorce my mom and my close family already told their opinion about my dad's relinquishment towards me and I was the only one who never want to believe that. But his reaction performed towards me by mid 2018 has proven that my belief about him was wrong. He only concerned about himself rather than his responsibility to my crucial needs. I felt so hurt till every time I prayed I could only cry and hoped that my heartache could heal. January 11th, 2020, my mom suddenly informed me that my dad had a cancer, as what he told her. He was hospitalized in North Jakarta which is 48 KM from our home. Before the pandemic arisen, my mom & I could only visit him twice due to its very far distance. When we were about to end our second visit & I said goodbye to him, I couldn't take off my eyes from him like had a sort of hunch as I felt somewhat a whisper in my heart saying “this is your last meeting with him”. After the pandemic started we couldn't even visited him at all. Since end January to March 2020 my dad underwent chemotherapy and most of time he was hospitalized. April 4th 2020 at around 3;00 PM suddenly I got a bad news from my dad's close friend saying that he was critical. I was shocked & immediately checked with his younger sister who accompanied him at the hospital. She confirmed about his critical condition & was about to be moved to isolated ICU since his doctor just found out that somehow he got infected by covid virus. His lung X-rays shown white & his kidneys got suddenly failed. I felt so shocked, deeply confused, hard to believe that covid could attack him while he had been hospitalized. His covid status prevented me from seeing him. Fortunately I got a chance to talk to him despite shortly through my aunt's cellphone & expressed my feeling by saying : "I love you dad" while crying & also said : “actually I've already forgiven you”. He could still hear me & replied me : “I love you too” In the evening around 8;00 PM my aunt intensively communicated with me & my mother, updating about dad's declining condition. At 9;35 PM my aunt told us about his weakening breath. At 9;45 PM she told us that he has gone. I got hysterical, couldn't accept the fact that he died so fast, when my big problem with him had not been resolved yet. His death due to covid prevented me & all of our close family from seeing his body nor attending his cremation process. His ashes was kept in one ashes storage house in West Jakarta. I tried to accept the fact that my dad was no longer around. Remember his kindness, miss the times of confiding in him as he was the one to whom I could express my complaints about anything related to anybody & soothed my heart when I faced problems. But when I remember how he reacted that has crashed my relation with him, I felt again a deep disappointment. My feelings were messed up between longing, annoyance, disappointment, sadness, love, good memories. A week later I followed a big online mass of spirits and submitted his name to be prayed for. I also held a private online mass via zoom to commemorating 100 days of his death and asked our parish priest to lead the mass, joined by close family, friends and Catholic communities in our neighborhood to pray for his eternal peace and happiness. Those all I can do for him. 2 weeks thereafter my mom had an accident fell from a ladder around 1.2 m height, she fell straight on her buttocks and back. Luckily no bone cracks nor fractures happened, so she didn't need to be hospitalized. I took few days leave to take care of her to certain extent. However she needed 3 months to recover 90%, during which she couldn't drive nor accompany me to visit my dad's ashes while I'm not able to drive far distance myself. Only by November 2020 my mom was able to accompany me visiting his ashes. I cried a lot & “talked” to him, let all my feelings out towards him. I prayed for him. Felt rather released for finally I was able to visit him despite only in form of his ashes that was stored in a marble jar. I still need time to accept that he has truly gone moreover as a victim of Covid too. Until now I sometimes cry when remembering his kindnesses but I have to continue my life. He'll be always in my heart. May God forgive all his sins & grant him a heavenly happiness. I love my dad but I believe God loves him much more.

Dear Corona, I don't think you know this corona but in some ways you have helped me. You show me people who liked me for me. You helped me weed out all of my fake friends and people who didn't care about me. Best of all though you helped me get closer to my family. Yes, You did give me work over this break, made me stay home from school, and made most of my days boring and repeated, you also made me realise to enjoy this time with my family. You taught me how to try new things and get more hobbies. Because of you I am learning how to write short stories, how to draw better, how to dance and much more. Because of you I decided to plant sunflower seeds. So corona, thank you for doing this for me and I hope others can find the good that you are bringing us. Sincerely, Jomi

“THE THINGS I LEARNED DURING QUARANTINE LIFE” When you think back to your first day in lockdown, what were your fears, worries, and hopes? Are you the same person now than you were at the beginning of all this? What has changed about who you are and how you view the world? Before the lockdown was implemented! I was living a ROBOTIC life like most of us; I knew I had to make CHANGES; I knew I had to inculcate certain habits to make those changes, I knew I had to START… but I just kept living almost as if somebody had put a socket and a battery in me and I switched it ON every morning, did the routine stuff, and then switched it OFF at night to go off to sleep. But, the lockdown changed things for ME, or maybe it was just ME, who pushed myself to changed and take change. This lockdown gave all us a great opportunity to grow, at least; I will always Thankful for this lockdown. This lockdown taught me some important lesson of life, which are as follow: The thing I learned is that, Everybody is a treasure in them. They do not need to keep finding that treasure in a loved one, job, money, fame. Don't get me wrong here. I don't mean that relationships are not important and that other humans who we bond with to form relationships should be discarded to discover yourself; or that all jobs are worthless. What I intend to says that Humans, we forget to validate ourselves, in a world when people feel validated only when OTHERS COMPLIMENTS THEM or OTHERS TELL THEM ABOUT THEIR STRENGTHS, They will very quickly feel invalidated when those some OTHERS WILL CALL THEM OUT ON THEIR WEAKNESS, BELITTLE THEM, CRITICIZE THEM, that is why it is important to find the treasure within YOU. I'm still in the process of doing that but it has been a wonderful and empowering Journey. One more thing that I learned is that whatever you wished for maybe some years ago. You can bring it to action today. We will witness so many writers, actors, singers, musicians, chefs, designers, programmers, painters, and the list is long, showcasing their talents. Also, large friction was of people who discovered their new talents. Many gained new skills through practice and hard work, talking about my self. I like to write because it allows me to focus on something and help me relieve stress. I enjoy writing because you can write anything based on how I feel at that moment SAD, HAPPY, ANALYTICAL; anything can become good writing, I like to write because it is a way for me to express my thoughts. During this lockdown I got time for myself to polish my writing skill, as I'm a stay at home parent .so, I couldn't be able to find time for me. So, I just wanted to use this lockdown period productivity, and want to do something different for my career. So I have completed online courses on a different topic, I have started my career as a creative writer. I have also started my blog, where I can post my thoughts and my experience. I would love to write about POSITIVITY, HEALTH, MOTIVATION, and RELATIONSHIP. I have also worked as a guest blogger for different platforms. I believe that bringing a child into the world and focusing on his or her needs through infancy is a worthwhile goal. But as your child gets older and begins preschool or kindergarten, you may find that you are interested in returning to a career or getting an education. So this lockdown is a golden opportunity for all of us especially for the stay at home parent to grow and develop your career. This is my suggestion that you could also write about your quarantine life and things you learned during this COVID-19 pandemic. Good luck.

Yes it's so nice when you're trying to get a new life together and you've got a million things running through your mind like; how to market yourself in a diverse market and how to fund myself for this new change in career focus that I'm embarking on, when the flu hit me and sent me straight to the toilet. It's never fun! lol So here we are now a few days later and I still feel crummy. I didn't get a wink of sleep and all I can do is sit and write which is a good thing right now. For 15 years it has taken me to strengthen my back and get myself to where I can sit up and write for awhile without too much pain providing I sit up a straight as possible. That gets hurt some too at times and then I take a good break. Good thing I get up frequently to stretch my limbs! But in all honestly the flu has me writing. I'd love to be helping someone right now. I wish I could offer my services in support work. I loved my PSW position with Paramed Oakville. But that was 18.5 years ago now. Wonderful people to work for and my job was fulfilling and my patients delightful. Last night, I laid in bed and thought about many things and the one question came to mind was, "How many people have a version of the flu right now?" I guesstimated that probably in my city at least 300 people. Thank goodness I'm not in need of the ER. I feel for the people who do. Well, I just needed to say Good Morning to you and I hope you're feeling well! LOL Thanks for the chat! :)

The sidewalk is stained and uneven. Presumably, the unevenness came first and tumbled the alcohol-filled bellies of the night folk, which in turn caused the stains. The people who surround me right now remind me of those night folk. They yell and stomp to the melody of their own voices. They bump into one another and pour their hearts out to the sky. Their energy is truly intoxicating, it envelops me and soon enough I am doing the same. We sing and we scream, and we cry. But it is not night time. All the bars and the clubs are closed. In fact, the sun shines so bright behind us that I can feel a puddle of sweat gathering on my lower back. We do not sing to music, we do not scream because we are free, and we do not cry for our own selfish reasons. We do it because we no longer have the choice not to. The strings of morality attach themselves to the crowd and move us forward like a winding snake, waiting to strike. Signs painted with pleas are pushed out of the crowd and then pulled back in. Their corners sharper than the ingrown toenail digging through my flesh. It's painful, but it's the kind of pain that is truly nothing. The kind of first world melodrama that manifests itself in different forms at the end of every week. What I am doing is supposed to be bigger than that, bigger than everything. A matter of death or even faster death. These are the words the wind speaks to us on a sweltering day in September. They begin their journey far north where melting glaciers screech profanity as they drown in the ocean below. Their cries are slowly moulded by time and space until they become digestible enough that they can be fed to our fragile egos. A man spits them out onto the sidewalk in front of our conservative representative. The crowd falls silent as this cartoon fool contorts and cusses until his face can no longer support a darker shade of red. In the distance, you can hear our glaciers moan as they accept defeat in this global game of telephone. Congratulations, you have succeeded in looking like an idiot in front of the man who just tried to tell us that solar energy works better in Europe because they are closer to the sun. Behind them, a window reflects a scene back to me. In the middle, two little boys point fingers at one another. Behind them, 600 people stand and watch. Reality TV has gotten quite predictable these days. The crowd seems to agree and slowly people die off until there are only a few of us left. We stand in a circle and listen. I don't know why I stayed, to be honest, I don't completely understand why I walked here in the first place. All I know is that what we did today feels important. We did not walk to get to a destination, we walked so that 50 years from now our kids can walk too. But their bellies will be full, and the moon will be shining and the only thing they will have to worry about is the uneven sidewalks.

RHYTHM OF ANCIENT SONGS AND BEAT OF AFRICAN PRAISE POETRY My birth is a metaphor of bullet-traces and the ironic verse of Leninist style-songs for black liberation that reverberated the grey-mist clad red-mountains of home – Zimbabwe. My birthing was a stitch between the thud of war-time guns and a heave of pungwe jives. Young women of my mother's age were volunteer maids during the traumatic but zeal-oiled Chimurenga times, cooking and washing for the cadres of liberation. Chimurenga songs sung by these war-ironed peasant mothers and bullet-toughened collaborators in the red-hills of Wedza. These Mother-guerrillas endured the hard throbs of grenades and the thrash of midnight-rains in those village hills alongside bushy male combatants. They learnt the soprano of the gun and the tenor of death.These were heaven-echoing struggle hymns. On the day of my birth, heavy rains rattled the winter-crusted red-earth. Rivers sobbed with heaven's tears and sorrows of war. That grueling night, swarms of collaborators were moved from one base to another, my earthly goddess was among those pilgrims of war. …her heartbeat thrilled my tender ears and her blood-ripples lulled my faint soul to sleep. And somy foetus spirit rode along with waves of echo and beat of verse. Ingenuity. I am the blessing of the trip, the child of war song and rain. A mystery. I am a child of song. I was birthed during the exodus. That rebel's war was characterized by death, wailing, stampede, bravery, shallow-graves, song and continuous walking. A trailblazing Africa reality show. My earthly goddess was a dedicated collaborator, volunteer and songstress. She carried freedom in the sacred cave of her womb. After their strange overnight long walk to freedom base of Mbirashava – rains ceased fire, war-drums paused and their echoes got trapped into the blankets of early day mist. Then came my birth cry they say like an exclamation engraved on the yellow-disc of the smoke-bruised African sun. Claws of dawn caressed the sorrow-soaked red-hills. My goddess wriggled in a thick volcano of red-clay mud, ochre-red blood and dead grass. Her womb groaned from labor pangs and suddenly the wind was cold. June dared the earth and everything in it. Cold-winds whined ferociously to disobedient flora and delinquent vultures. Winter, fast clicking a pause button to the jungle's daily festivals. I was born. Cadres and collaborators dribbled a liberation jive for my homecoming. They called me Gandanga. I was initiated into this earth by the alto of howling winter-winds, baritones of barking-baboons and the ease soprano of hooting-owls. A child of song. I was introduced to the festival of sounds, loud and low, good and bad, discordant and beautiful. Upon arriving at the village homestead, the earth trembled, the air got electric with ululations. My paternal grandmother fervently recited a traditional totemic praise poem. “Chirasha, Chikandamina, Weshanu uri pauta, Mavsingo a Govere, Vari Zimuto, Mukwasha waMambo, Vakafura bwe rikabuda ropa” A lone drum thrilled them into the audience into another dancing routine. The echo of the tinkling drum resonated with the beat of my grandmother's recitations. They said that my eyes winked in response to their merriment. Even up to this day, I beat my chest with pride to that ceremonial reception performed by an elder qualified to be my ancestor. My old singer-grandmother usually bundled me behind her old but steely back. Lullabies caressed me into dreamland until my goddess returned from her daily errands. I was raised by extraordinary songs, sweet and mellow to every infant's senses. I enjoyed the ear-tickling ancient poetry. They say I slept to the rhythm of that beautiful lullaby. My grandmother was Gogo in African – she would fall asleep too. Mother returned from the red-clay fields to find us under the watch of spirits and snores. After some weeks my umbilical cord wilted and fell. They buried it under the hearth near the main fireplace. Thus how we are bonded by our departed clan spirits. And so I grew up in a highly strict African traditional clan. My father and fellow clansmen brewed ceremonial beer for traditional rites. They supplicated to ancestral gods to end life-tormenting ailments, ravaging hunger, abject poverty and bad omen. Their usual incarnations, totemic praise's performances cultivated the griot in me. Praise and protest poetry became my official language. After my umbilical cord rites, my father gave me a name. He named me after the most powerful battalion of Tshaka Zulu, a battalion that never lost even a single battle – Imbizo.

Suicide. What just crossed your mind? One single word sends countless thoughts through countless heads. Just seven letters, and thousands of thoughts... Sad. Scary. Bad. Tragedy. Fear. Don't say that. You can't do that. Painfully blunt. Too much. Quiet down! Suicide is a rising epidemic worldwide. There are over 550 deaths by suicide every single year in my home state alone. Every single year this monster takes almost 600 of my people. But this monster is not suicide. "Suicide" is simply a word that means a life was taken by hands of it's own. The monster is something very different. The monster is the cause of suicide. There are many monsters, but there is one that we ignore. One we shove to the back corner, so we can pretend it doesn't exist. One monster that may be more lethal than any other. And that monster is stigma. Suicide means someone's life was taken by their own hands; but it doesn't mean that someone killed themself. I know what you're thinking. Slow down! That is literally what it means! Before you flee to the dictionary for a denotative definition, hear me out. Yes, the person died by their very own actions. But, in the majority of cases, it is my belief that they didn't kill themself. The monsters killed them. Humankind is making mounds of progress in the knowledge that people who died by suicide are rarely the cause of their own death. Through education, many are learning that mental illness is a real issue, and a very big one. Mental illness is one of the monsters that plays a large part in the majority of suicide cases. Through dedicated research, humankind has discovered ways to help people who suffer from mental illnesses, including varying forms of treatment and raising awareness. We have done a lot to lower the reach of mental illness, now it is time to put our efforts toward lowering the reach and effects of another very quiet but horribly significant monster: stigma. Stigma. Noun. A mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance, quality, or person. Mental illness kills. And so does the stigma surrounding it. Why is it that there is such a large and negative stigma surrounding mental illness and suicidal ideation? This stigma stops people with serious illnesses from reaching out for help. Somehow being mentally ill is wrong. Being suicidal is shameful. One brings it upon themself. Or, this is what the world should have us think. The stigma surrounding mental illness tells people who simply have sick brains that these horrible thoughts and feelings they deal with are their own fault, and nobody can know because it is shameful. There is an enormous pressure to hide it, and to fix it by yourself. This is not reasonable! One can expect mentally ill people to fix themselves as much as one can expect people with broken bones or physical impairments to fix themselves. Pressure builds, the issue is not helped, and the illness gets worse. Because of stigma, mental illness goes from treatable to lethal. Though it isn't ideal and nobody would wish it, mental illness is a reality that many individuals face. And still, though we have the knowledge needed to understand and accept mental illness as it is, the stigma surrounding it kills; more than the illness itself. Humankind has come so far over the years! We have learned how to treat mental illness in many cases, saving many lives! Now it is time to treat the stigma surrounding mental illness. Stigma has been killing people. It is time for people to kill stigma.