Wayne started beating me five months into our marriage. Initially, it was simply an unexpected slap or a punch to the kidney. It was so unpredictable and out of character that I deemed it my fault. I reasoned that I must have brought it on myself, and that I deserved it. That naïve perspective changed when the abuse became far more regular and intense. After two further months of humiliating, soul-wrecking beatings, I finally walked out. I left with only the clothes on my back and firm resolve burning in my heart. I moved in with a friend, but I knew I needed help. “Speak to Mr. Eden,” Sinead advised me. “You know he's always been kind-hearted to us and helps everybody without hesitation,” she added persuasively. And that's how I ended up outside his office the next morning, clutching my college bag and courage firmly to my breast. Mr. Eden was the College Counselor, and one of the most unselfish men I had ever met. Not a single student had ever been turned away by this gentle, unassuming man. And I was about to ask him to not just go the extra mile, but to also go out on a limb for me. How classically clichéd. “Marina, come inside,” Mr. Eden invited me the minute he saw me. “Have a seat. How's life been treating you?” he asked innocently, but his tone and the innocuous question triggered a flood of sobs. I was embarrassed; I chastised myself for making such a spectacle of myself. Mr. Eden instantly took charge, soothing me with encouraging words and a soft tone. He offered me a bottle of water, which I gratefully accepted. I confided completely in him. I was surprised by the first words he said, but I shouldn't have been. “We need to get you into a women's shelter today. I know a place near the college. I will take you there after I've called them to give them a heads up, all right?” As if that wasn't enough, this amazing man then spread the word – with my permission – on the college WhatsApp group that a student needed donations of clothes, toiletries, food; the works. The response was overwhelming! Mr. Eden took me to the Saartje Baartman Women's Shelter, and they agreed to house me as well as try to resolve the problems Wayne and I were having by giving us marriage counselling. All absolutely free of charge! I received so many donations of barely-worn clothes, brand new underwear, toiletries and even money that I could give some of the things to Sinead to thank her for having granted me a safe haven when I had needed it. And the best thing of all? Wayne is a changed man. The couples therapy had opened his eyes, even bringing him to the point where he apologized tearfully to me for ever having lifted a hand to me. “You are a treasure, Marina,” Wayne said to me on the first night I returned home. He was holding me gently in his arms while he spoke in a voice shaking with emotion. “I nearly lost the most precious gift I had ever received, but I will never again be this careless.” “If not for Mr. Eden, both of us would have lost each other,” I said and smiled, feeling the heavy burdens lift off my shoulders like fog burned off by the warmth of a rising sun.

Be kind to yourself. What you may see as a flaw is what others admire as your strength.

https://www.mycoronachronicle.com/post/pressured-time-during-the-coronavirus March 25, 2020 Today I watched the news while I drank my morning coffee. Watching news is now usually a most-of-the-day thing and “morning coffee” no longer a very meaningful phrase since I don't notice anymore when I cross the line between morning and afternoon. That's because the days — now weeks! — have started to stretch like chewed gum. Yes, it's been weeks. Who knows what day it is today? At the very least, admit it, we've started to squint and ask each other, “Thursday? No … Friday?” It doesn't matter anyway. It's officially day 14 of the COVID-19 pandemic and we're starting to see how little almost everything matters. I'm talking about things that mattered hugely up till now, or even just in February. I don't need to make a list because anyone reading this already knows every item on it (bus schedules, tax deductions, if your sports bra has 3-way stretch, who won “The Voice” — let's just say everything that isn't how much food you have in the house and whether that tickle in your throat means anything). An interesting thought: how many of the small things, which we were so consumed by until so recently, have stopped mattering because we now have truly big things to worry about … and how many never did matter? Already we're embarrassed by how we used to fret over them, though it's only been weeks, if not days. I want to do this because I see myself and everyone I know changing. I see my country changing, and I want to set it down while it's happening instead of afterward, when so many of the details will be lost. So let's start with my second revelation, which is that not only are we changing, and no matter how much we may resist, this pandemic will change us deeply and permanently. Even if some of us will avoid getting the virus, none of us can avoid being changed by it. I know dark times lie ahead but I hope some of the changes will be positive. Inevitably we'll look back on the arrival of the coronavirus with sorrow, probably anger, and maybe even rage, because every one of us is going to lose someone or something. And there will always be questions about how many of those losses were avoidable. But will we also look back and say, overall we're the better now for it? Will we say, we wouldn't have wished it on ourselves but it improved us —- as Americans? As humans, even? It's possible. But, of course, we can't know yet. As with all catastrophes, some individuals and groups are rising fast to the challenge, already growing from it, becoming heroes: we can see this in our health care workers, in some of our leaders, the people who deliver groceries to us, collect our garbage and recycling, the neighbors who call to ask if we need anything. Who among us will grow through this particular disaster? This crisis is occurring everywhere, so although it isn't everywhere at once, in a real sense there's also no running away. Because it too is on the move. When I think now about what I could have done to prepare. Me personally. I could've stocked my house better, gotten a separate freezer. I could have made sure all my outside business was taken care of, my work caught up. We all could've done those things. We could have asked our leaders, “what is our level of preparedness if this virus comes and is as bad as it is elsewhere, or worse? What can we do now to prepare, just in case?” Some people did do that. But most of us didn't. Today is March 25. I live in New Jersey where there are 4,402 confirmed cases of corona virus. The U.S. now has 54,453 cases but no one takes that number as fact because there's been so little testing, and it started so late. Whatever the real number is has to be higher. It's easier to count how many people have died of it: 737 nationwide, 62 of them in New Jersey. The storm has hit and we are getting wet and we can't escape. So we huddle in our houses and a lot of us try to look at the upside. We're warm and fed, today anyway. Spring is here, and it's great not to have to go to work. Except the street outside is empty and no planes fly overhead and streams of people keep walking by with dogs and strollers like they're headed to a fair. Something is off. This week, and it's only Wednesday, I've gotten so many things done: read three books, written two short fiction pieces, started this blog today. I've been on social media, cooking up a storm, watching movies. I've been cleaning the whole house, reorganizing closets, painting my bathroom vanity … all things I don't do enough of normally, or have been meaning to get to. But underneath, we know this is no vacation and we can't seem to really set that aside, no matter how we distract ourselves. We're all sad and scared and full of dread. Alone in our houses, we have never been so connected.

When asked what one's ideal life looks like, many often wish for eternal happiness, or life without any affliction. However, suffering may be even more of a necessity than it is inevitable, for often times, it is only in periods of adversity where we can learn more about ourselves and the world, and undergo character growth. Upon reading an excerpt from Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's, The Gulag Archipelago, my belief in the latter was solidified as I read of the conclusions he drew from both his personal experiences and the tales of others during his time in the forced labour camp. In the beginning, Solzhenitsyn discusses the personal growth one can achieve through suffering and the inexplicable ripening of the soul that occurs when one's freedom is taken away. He discovers that in times of extreme suffering, one is able to understand that in life, it is not the result that counts, but the spirit with which the individual arms himself with. When you are able to reorient what reward and punishment mean to you, there is nothing that can be done to harm or scare you so long that your soul is still intact — that you are still endowed with humanity and goodness. Solzhenitsyn also remarks that through suffering, you learn of your own weakness and become more empathetic in understanding others' struggles, and appreciate another's strength. Though his ideas have developed in the context of a forced labour camp, his discoveries act as an important lesson to us in our daily lives that suffering gives way to growth, regardless of what kind of struggles we face. When we experience hardships, we will realize that it is not what but how that is of significance. When we are deprived of our freedoms and faced with our own weaknesses, we come to understand the weaknesses of others and appreciate their strengths. And perhaps most important of all, when we are imprisoned with an innocent conscience, we must remember to reorient our view as to what punishment truly is. If we see reward as upward development of the soul, then, like Solzhenitsyn says, “from that point of view our torturers have been punished most horribly of all: they are turning into swine, they are departing downward from humanity.” If the soul remains free, then imprisonment of the body is insignificant. Perhaps even more important is that Solzhenitsyn's time at the camp leads to his discovery that “the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either — but right through every human through all human hearts.” Good and evil exists in all of us — it is not separated by distinctions between classes of people. Rather, “this line shifts; inside us, it oscillates with the years: and even within hearts overwhelmed by evil, one small bridgehead of good is retained, and even in best of all hearts, there remains… an up-rooted small corner of evil.” Through his suffering, Solzhenitsyn realizes that though in different periods of our lives the ratio of good and evil may vary, the nature of human provides that both will always exist simultaneously. For this reason, I always seek to understand instead of criticize, as it has always been my personal belief that there is a tiny seed of goodness in those who may seem far beyond it, and alternately, a shard of evil or temptation to do wrong even in those with the purest of hearts. Upon reading this section of the excerpt, I was also reminded of the Harry Potter series. One of the major themes in the novels is to remember that nothing is black and white, and to have compassion for others as we are all capable of both good and bad. One line that this excerpt specifically reminded me of was when Dumbledore states that “it [is] important... to fight, and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then [can] evil be kept at bay, though never quite eradicated...” Though this can refer specifically to the context of war, it can also refer to a deeper and more personal battle that each of us have to fight not just once, but throughout our lifetime. Much like what Theodore Dalrymple says in “How — and How Not — to Love Mankind” about the victory over cruelty requiring eternal vigilance, man's capacity for humanity is something that must be constantly exercised, as man's capacity for inhumanity can never truly be eradicated. Overall, Solzhenitsyn's, The Gulag Archipelago, provided me with deeper insights and discoveries concerning the true usefulness of suffering in the “ascent” of one's soul that I feel I must share with all. The findings that Solzhenitsyn unearthed both about himself and the world are remarkable and provide the key insight that perhaps we should not hope for a life with no pain or hardships, but instead, seek the ability and freedom to govern our own souls in times of suffering and imprisonment.

“Wake up. Come on wake up,” the voice pleaded, sounding desperate and afraid, as if something was terribly wrong but what? I peeled my eyes open and blinked a few times, only to realize I was staring at the sterile, white walls of Children's Hospital, and no one was calling me at all. It was only a dream, one I have become quite familiar with since I fainted on the softball field, and my life was transformed forever. “Come on Mariah, get up” insisted my mom. “Let's go see what activities are happening downstairs.” At that moment, I needed to tell her everything, yet with one glance into her hopeful eyes, everything I longed to admit refused to spill out from my tightly pursed lips. How was I supposed to reveal to my mother, the one person capable of overlooking my many flaws, that my only desire was to stare at my reflection and ask myself “why?” Why was my skin subject to being used as a pin cushion, and why was I poked and prodded like a lab rat? Why did no one know why my once thick locks were becoming thinner by the day, or why my clothes were beginning to hang off of my skeleton like frame? Why were the lights once present in my eyes now overshadowed by dark circles, leaving me blind- blind to life before I was given a colonoscopy at the age of just fourteen and forced to accept what my diagnosis of Crohn's Disease might mean. Possibilities of future surgeries and a colostomy bag plagued my dreams. I knew these circumstances did not make me inadequate or unworthy; however, when I thought of myself, happiness no longer seemed to be in the realm of possibility. I looked up at my mom as her eyes scanned my face, her facial features softened into a small smile. “Come on, you can use a distraction.” As defeat set in, I sighed, slid from beneath the pristine, white sheets, and followed my mom to the elevator and into the conference room, where I lifted my gaze from the floor. My eyes began to glisten with tears as my heart broke in two at the sight of children barely four feet tall with amputated limbs and oxygen masks over their faces. I.V posts were stationed by their sides, needles protruding from their delicate arms and hands. Their bodies appeared to be crying for help, yet their laughter rang out as a beacon of hope I had yet to discover within myself. Amazed, I sat next to a little girl who I assumed to be as young as six years old. Her pale, fragile frame was being consumed by a wheelchair, and her bandaged head hung to the side weakly, while her smile radiated the light of a hundred suns. I was told her name was Laney, and she had cancer. More importantly, however, I was told she loved to sing and draw. She loved animals and playing with Barbie dolls. I was told that she had a family who adored her, and although she may have had cancer, cancer did not define her. Due to this, I learned that a person's happiness is not dictated by his/her circumstances or surroundings; it is dictated by one's perception of life as well as how he/she views him/herself. A person's happiness is dictated by whether he/she has the strength to accept the circumstances he/she has been given. Laney, as well as every other miracle in that room, gave me the strength to recognize I am me; I am not a disease but a person with the right to be happy. With that knowledge, I had to smile. I soon realized, however, that this was only the beginning of an alliance of strength formed from a line of individuals prospering off of the courage of those before them. My grandmother, who has always been a strong, vibrant, and independent person, slowly began to waste away. Her physique became more fragile every passing day, and the pain she was in became more evident upon her face. We should not have been surprised when the results came back, diagnosing her with stage four rectal cancer. For a while the monster appeared to be winning the fight, so I held my grandmother in my arms, and for the first time in ages, I prayed. She held me even tighter then, and with tears streaming down her face, she said “give me some of your strength sweetheart. Because of you, I know what strength looks like, and that is the kind of strength I want to continue to fight with.” Needless to say, I was stunned by her admission. I never imagined I could have this sort of impact on anyone, especially on someone as strong-willed as my grandmother. This, I believe, is no coincidence. Coincidences only reside in the minds of those who believe their life is out of their control. My struggles in the dark placed me in the midst of those who forced me to see the light, allowing me to become a source of strength to those who have temporarily lost their way. There are an endless amount of people in which I can impact; although this thought is overwhelming, I realize my life is no longer solely my own. Now, my life belongs to those who influence me and those I wish to someday influence as well.

As a senior in high school, introspection has become increasingly prominent, and a specific period of time that I have not deigned to think about in detail since its occurrence has been brought to mind. Thus, for the purpose of not only sharing my experience with the reader, I will do so to bring closure to myself. Like many others, my entrance into high school was marked by the formation of opinions of my own and the realization that certain things that I had been taught to believe were perhaps, not so at all. This alone caused a series of conflicts that were both internal and external, and brought about a slew of upsetting personal and family matters. However, it was in the tenth grade when things really started to go downhill. Perhaps my memory eludes me now, but I cannot pinpoint how or when exactly my mental health began to decline: not even an in-depth review of my past journal entries can give me an exact date or play-by-play of how exactly I fell into the grasp of an illness that trapped me for almost two years. What I can recall, however, are flashes of specific memories. For example, if I close my eyes, I can still remember the cold yet vague feeling of the unfriendly bathroom floor digging into my back, increasingly familiar when it shouldn't be. I can still recall that nauseating feeling of loneliness, sinking into me even when I was around others… I can still remember the overwhelming hollowness that was too much nothing and still not enough substance to fill that ever-growing lump of nothingness... I can still taste the bitter aftertaste of frustration and disgust on my tongue…the sharp tang of metallic anger, a lingering ghost of a memory. There would be stretches of time when it seemed that I was numb to everything including myself. There would be times when I was sensitive to the point that one snarky little comment would tip me over the edge and everything would collapse unto itself. There would be times when I could give a little smile and convince myself that I was doing alright, and then suddenly, I would have a sort of emotional collapse and find myself taking refuge in a bathroom stall, overwhelmed with shame. This cycle occurred again and again, and to be honest, it didn't seem to make any sense at all. I was fortunate in my circumstances and extremely privileged. I had never once been deprived of my basic needs or individual rights. I had everything, recognized this indisputable fact, genuinely was grateful for it, but the rest of me could not seem to follow my rational mind. I was still completely and utterly desolate, only now, I was only more disgusted at myself for feeling so. How could I claim to be suffering when there were those who were suffering with much less? These questions attacked me everyday, and those who have not experienced this feeling cannot truly understand the terribleness of this personal dilemma where one is suffering, knows that it is irrational to suffer, but still suffers. Now, of course, I know that depression itself is somewhat arbitrary in the selection of its hosts, quite similar to a virus. It's surprising how many overlook the obvious; that it really is an illness in the sense that it grips you often without much reason and changes you. Like a fever, it leaves you incapable of doing and feeling and enjoying, and the recovery is slow, and often uncontrollable and unpredictable. For me, this was certainly the case. Months crawled by with ups and downs, and often rock-bottoms but slowly, almost unnoticeably so, I improved. This might not be what you expect or want to hear, but I found it significant to accept that I was alone, not necessarily because others were unwilling to help, but because ultimately, they simply did not have the ability to. Though this might seem incredibly counter-productive, and for a while it was extremely debilitating, the realization that no one could truly help me except for myself became strangely empowering over time. In the end, I learned to not only love myself, but to also like myself. I turned my pain into wisdom, directed my focus outwards and focused on helping others, which gave me a greater sense of purpose. My own experience has opened my eyes to the importance of seeking to understand instead of to criticize, and I want to communicate that you must not undermine, or let others undermine your suffering. Be warned; I don't mean that you should barrel ahead in an oblivious state — you must recognize and have gratitude for what you have, and have deep empathy for those who have less, but suffering is suffering, and through it, we can learn more about the world and ourselves. Yes, my greatest enemy is myself, but in being so, I am also my own greatest weapon.

She has been sitting in this chair for hours. Her back is bothering her. She has bags under eyes and her hair is an absolute mess. The fluorescent lights of this waiting room aren't doing her skin any favors. She looks awful. He son has been laying in a sterile ICU for days. She has lost count of how long it's been. Four days? Seven? Ten? Who knows. Who cares. Her son needs her. She will sit here for as long as it takes. They only let her see him every few hours. The next visit time is in.. she checks her watch. Two hours. She turns her attention to her husband. He sleeps next to her in blue waiting room chair, snoring lightly. His neck is bent back and his mouth hangs open just slightly. It doesn't look comfortable. She and her husband both haven't slept in a real bed in days. He has been her rock and battle buddy in this and for the past forty-three years. She is grateful for his support. Lord only knows what she would do without him. It is in times of turmoil like this that he catches the brunt of her emotions. She doesn't know how he deals with her but she knows that love is the reason why. She checks her watch again. One hour, fifty-eight minutes. Time is moving too slowly. The mother in her needs to check on her son. She knows he is in pain and only wants to comfort him. When the accident happened, she had seen him scream and writhe in agony for hours. It had shattered something inside her. No mother should ever have to see her child go through something so horrific. No child should have to endure such suffering. The burns on his body would take months to heal. There would be more painful surgeries, more painful physical therapy, more painful moments of waiting. It is the waiting she hates the most. It makes her feel useless. She turns as she hears a familiar voice. Her daughter. She rises from her chair. The mother thinks she is hiding her pain but her daughter can tell that the stress is starting to affect her mother's body. The getting up is slow and choppy instead of one fast movement. The daughter pretends not to notice. Pretends it doesn't kill her soul a bit to see her mother in such a state. The daughter notices her father still sleeping in the blue chair. She decides not to wake him. She hugs her mother in greeting and plasters a smile on her face before pulling away. Her mother will not know how worried she is, how she has cried herself to sleep in worry over her brother. She refuses to let any emotion other than love and support flow through her. Her mother needs her. And here the daughter will stay. The mother looks at her daughter as they begin to converse. Her daughter looks good. She is amazed but not fooled. Her daughter has always been good at making a bad situation better. And this situation is no different. But the mother can see the wrinkles of worry around her daughters eyes. While the clock on the wall ticks on, her daughter brings several smiles and even a few laughs from the tired mother. The mother checks her watch again. 57 minutes. Her daughter places her hand in her mother's in comfort, in understanding. The daughter begins to pray aloud. A few people look at the women strangely. The women don't care. The mother listens to her daughter as words of thanksgiving flow from her mouth to their God's ear. Thanks for sparing her brother's life. Thanks for the knowledge of the doctors and the miracle of medical science. Thanks for every small blessing she can think of. The mother tries to hold back the tears of anger. Anger that her God has left her family in this living Hell. Anger that her son even needs these doctors. Anger that medical science has not relieved all of his suffering. The dam breaks and the water flows from her eyes unhindered. It is several minutes before the mother realizes her daughter is no longer praying for her brother but for her. For her strength, for her sanity, for her endurance. The daughter ends the prayer and holds her mother tightly. The mother feels better somehow. Her faith and strength renewed just a bit and she knows her God has not left her. The mother checks her watch again just as a nurse walks up to the women. Time is up and she will be able to see her son. She hugs her daughter in goodbye and follows the nurse to the sterilization room. She scrubs her hands and arms. She covers her self in an ugly green gown and puts the cloth boots over her shoes. She dons the clothing as if putting on armor, calling on her God to give her a warriors strength. The mother takes a deep breath and steadies herself. She steps into her son's room ready for battle.

I woke up one morning feeling sick. This was unusual because though I don't profess to be a superhero, I very rarely get sick. Some of my friends used to tease me that I was only piling up my minor illnesses and that the day I get sick, it would be an avalanche. I am relieved to report however that their grim prophecy has never seen the light of day. This particular morning, however, I was having a fever and my body ached all over. I decided to step out and was immediately welcomed by the loving embrace of the gentle morning sun. Suddenly when the rays kissed my skin, a current of exhilaration run through my whole body and I shuddered out of pure ecstasy. What a feeling I had! The pain and discomfort still lingered somewhere in there, but this new found feeling seemed to shut them out completely. I got a chair and stayed in the sun for the rest of the day until much later when the now hot rays reminded me it was noon already. The next morning, I woke up as fit as fiddle; no headache and no fever. I decided to step out into the sun keeping my fingers crossed that I would have the same feeling as the previous morning. To my greatest disappointment, I had no such feeling. I figured that the exhilarating feeling was linked to the mild sickness I had the previous day and as ridiculous as it may sound, I wished I was still sick that morning so that I could have the same feeling over and over again. Years later, it occurred to me that what happened that day was life's practical way of teaching me the truism in the saying that ‘'there is a silver lining in every dark cloud''. Sickness is not a thing anyone would ever desire, in fact, it is and should be abhorred. People would want to talk about any other thing but pain and suffering. It is too macabre a subject to discuss and yet in the greatest dark clouds, we have silver linings. There I was, wishing I would be sick, so I could enjoy the ‘'silver lining'' that accompanied the sickness. Pain is a universal human experience that we all feel. Think about it, the first cry of a newly born infant due to pain is what douses the fear of mothers that their babies are alright. Though man has gone to lengths to provide remedies for pain, it has proved over the years too elusive to conquer. Think about the pain of a breakup, the pain of losing a dear one; there is no prophylaxis whatsoever against these. Perhaps, this is to remind us that pain has come to stay and may mean more than we have ever cared to think about. No matter the kind of pain we experience, we must never become so fixated on it not to see the wonderful silver lining that may accompany it. We have not given pain a fair hearing in the courts of our minds. It has been typecast as not only undesirable but even evil. But if not for pain, you would step on a sharp object and feel nothing and that will only injure you more. Pain sets off an alarm system to ensure that our bodies are preserved. Have you ever thought about people living with leprosy? Their sickness is simply that, they are not able to feel any pain. Perhaps someone who is in deep pain at the moment is reading this and saying to me that I am oversimplifying matters. I must admit, that might be true. It is often a different matter when we are actually the ones having to go through a certain experience. I still believe though that, having the right perspective of the purpose of pain and suffering will not only help us smile through the pain but also engender an air of perpetual happiness around us. No one should ever wish for misfortune in their lives, but when it does happen, know that you are not defined by the pain that you go through. Know that perhaps it was purposed for you to go through that experience to identify a particular silver lining in that dark cloud. The world is replete with examples of people who at their lowest moments made their most outstanding breakthroughs in life. Always be reminded to take advantage of the silver lining in your dark cloud, even as you go through a particular challenge in life. Photo Credit: Zig Ziglar

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.

Helping my little brother getting ready for school on a Monday morning, you wouldn't think anything was wrong. He chatters about something on telly, whilst we look for gloves and then we have a lively debate about when his spelling test is. We look through the mounds of paper in his bookbag, it's in two days. My brother isn't too fussed and goes back to watching his YouTube show. Typical school day morning, right? This morning, as the little guy woke up, bushy hair and bleary eyed, he notices his mum rushing around grabbing bags and toys. ‘Are you going?' he asks, his voice cracking. ‘Yes, sweetie.' Immediately, his face crumples and a cry build up, tears already brimming. She grabs him in for a hug, tells him she loves him and that he must brave just like his brother. This is the routine, this is our normal. I hope to God it is not yours. Our youngest brother has cancer, lymphoblastic leukaemia, this is the second time he's gotten it. This time round, the treatment is more aggressive, requiring more lethal drugs and a stem cell transplant. We just found out last week that the little dude is a perfect stem cell match for him. This filled us with both relief and dread. Relief – a stem cell transplant is the best way to treat him and should be most effective, it means there is less chemo and probably no radiotherapy for him and it could've taken us months to find a match from a stranger. On the other hand, the little dude, who is 5 years old, will have to be put under for surgery – which is not without risks – to help his little (3yo) brother. That's a lot of pressure to put on someone who's main concern now is learning the phonic: ‘i_e.' Can you imagine the guilt? Taking your perfectly healthy little boy and intentionally cause him harm to help the other. He wants to help his brother, but it was still his parent's choice in the end to say yes. No parent should have to go make that decision. But then, they've had to face a lot of decisions a parent should never have to. My dad and my step-mum are good parents, they try their best and they fail sometimes too. They take it in turns to stay with J at the hospital when he's going through chemo. Living half your life in a hospital is not ideal. For obvious reasons. You are surrounded by sick and dying children for one, plus the WIFI is crap. J had been home for the past week, to rest up since the last bout of chemo had given him severe illness – he stopped eating and had to be transferred to the high dependency unit for a few days as his nutrient levels dropped dangerously low, there were lots of problems with his guts and there was a suspected infection. Once he's home, he's a little happier, but it can be an edgy time for my parents, especially my step-mum. In hospital you're surrounded by nurses who can help if things go wrong and can tell IF something is wrong, at home, it's your own judgment. Despite this, home makes a nice change, we can all be together like a family should. The little dude, P, can be picked up by a parent from school, instead of a sister or nan or a friend's mum, so it's more stable for him. We can all sit together and talk or play, most importantly, the two brothers can play together, not always nicely, but together at least. Whilst J was home, he still had to go in one day this week, so the Doctor and nurses can check his observations (weight, heart rate etc), to give my parents some home supplies – feed for his NG (nasal-gastric) tube and some various drugs to be given at home (a lot of anti-sickness/laxatives) and finally a big dose of steroids. Have you ever heard of ‘roid-rage? Try working with a chubby three-year-old with a Smeagol-hairdo shouting at you, whilst you're making him macaroni cheese, about his EXACT specifications (which change constantly). Gordon Ramsey eat your heart out. However, that was the middle of the week, I come home at the weekend, and within half an hour upon my entrance, a cheeky chappy emerges from the grizzle. I like to think its my cheery disposition that's perked him up, but I can smell for the fact he's just removed a load of concentrated anger. For the whole weekend he's like a dream, yes occasionally his bottom hurts as he feels the chemo-poo brewing (there is nothing like it, I can never eat korma again!), but he's laughing, making jokes, (why did the banana cross the road? To get squished!). On Sunday we all make biscuits, blue and sprinkle flavoured, we've visited Nanny in our very special blue car and played with their puppy, sweet eh? Sunday night, his mummy explains that they are going to hospital together tomorrow. J says he doesn't want to, he doesn't want any ouchies. Mummy promises no ouchies, but they have to go in to hospital. J thinks for a second or two, then says: ‘I want cuddles all night long and forever.' Wow. Heart wrenching huh? They hug and continue a jigsaw puzzle with some accompanied inane toddler chatter about Blaze and the Monster Machines….

I look in the mirror every day, and I look more and more like my mother. What's sad about that is my mother doesn't even look like herself anymore. I am a reflection of the person my mother should have been. Instead of choosing her life she chose her addictions, she chose alcohol and repeatedly chose drugs. It feels like the worst thing in the world, mourning a loss of someone who is still alive. No matter how hard you try, you can not change the person they have become, and ultimately find yourself giving up. You finally give up because while they're flying over you with their delusional happiness, you're drowning of sadness and regret of the things you could've tried, or the things you may have been able to change. The fact I've realized is that there's nothing you could've done, and there's nothing you can do. These people have chosen this life, they've chosen to be selfish, and they don't care if you drown because they are not the same people who you once knew. So don't. You don't need to follow the same path as your parents, so many people I know like to use that as an excuse. " My parents were drug users, my parents were alcoholics, it runs in the family, I'm not to blame here, it runs in the family", they are choosing to be weak, and take no responsibility for their actions. You do not have to be weak, you have the strength to be someone different you just have to choose that for yourself. Choose every morning to get out of bed. Choose every morning to go to work, to make something of yourself, to explore the life that was given to you. Don't blame someone else for putting you on the path to addiction if you're not even going to try and do anything to fight everyone that's pushing you to fall in the wrong direction. It is not easy, but it is worth it. Whenever you're feeling like you can't fight your roots, think of everyone in your life that you're bringing down with you. Your kids, your siblings, your aunt and uncle. Be better, try harder. You deserve a future that hasn't been designed by the people who created you. You don't deserve to drown anymore. Things I remind myself every time I look in the mirror.