155 Days
“semi-colon” contains a discussion of mental health struggles. It may not be appropriate for younger readers or those sensitive to candid descriptions of suicidal ideation or other depressive symptoms.
My friend John Lowe died five years ago this month. John’s wife, Cathy, made the brave decision to address the difficult topic of suicide directly at his funeral. Lisa Saunder’s beautiful eulogy stuck with me. I think for many in our generation, it was an important step in de-stigmatizing discussions about mental health and suicidal ideation.
Some of us limp on the outside — our challenge noticeable to all. And some of us limp on the inside, and the struggle is invisible. Mental illness can cripple. It can be a malignancy that erodes hope and distorts reality.
For those trapped in depression the thinking frequently goes like this: “I am hurting people. I’m unhappy and making others unhappy. I can’t fix my life. It would be better for everyone if I were gone; if no one had to worry about me anymore.” That’s the backward logic that is at work.
– Reverend Lisa Saunders, Eulogy for John Lowe, May 2017
One Hundred Fifty-Five Days
A desperate, heartfelt embrace and a casual, triumphant fist bump. One hundred fifty-five days apart.
December 11, 2021. You know that date. You know about slippers. You have seen the picture, captured in the small hours of that morning, of William and I embracing on the front porch before driving to the hospital. After limping on the inside for months, the extent of his struggles with depression hidden from most of the world, William asked for help.
As we left the house that night, William put his arms out and reached for me. We hugged by the light of the inflatable Christmas decorations. I wish I could tell you I whispered something profound that changed his life at that moment, but I just hugged him tight and said “Let’s go get you some help.”
May 15, 2022. The Head of School gives out six awards at the Charlotte Latin School “senior supper.” Each award reflects one of CLS’s six core values – leadership, honor, and so forth. The winners are selected by their peers in a vote of the senior class.
The Moral Courage Award was the last of the evening. When William was introduced as the winner, he initiated contact with me once again. Not a desperate embrace this time, but a subdued fist bump instead. One hundred fifty-five days between the depth of suicidal despair and a standing ovation from his 138 classmates and their parents.
I am biased, but I think it’s a remarkable journey.
I do not fool myself into thinking that William is “fixed” or “healed” in less than six months. He will need to remain focused on his journey of mental health recovery for the rest of his life. As he might say, what I find remarkable is “the resilience of the human spirit.”
William’s story is a testament to how quickly life can improve if we ask for help; of how hope and reality can return if we embrace that help when it arrives. It seems the first of those steps is the hardest to take.
Since beginning semi-colon in January, William has published about 40,000 words. There are many passages I find beautiful and meaningful. But none I find more insightful than this simple sentence from the 10th installment, Doors:
“We live in a world that stigmatizes mental health but mourns suicide.”
That stigma makes the first step on the journey difficult. It’s why we hide the limp and the malignancy grows unchecked. William is alive today because he had the courage and environment to ask for help.
We are all influenced by both nature and nurture, and no doubt a portion of William’s bravery is simply innate. But a sizeable portion of it was cultivated and nurtured by his mother, Amy, who has made our home a place where it is okay to acknowledge you are hurting and to ask for help for an unseen ailment.
I get a lot of good press in William’s writing – just driving him to the hospital bought me a lot of screen time. But Amy’s years-long focus on talking openly with our children about mental health allowed William to take this hero’s journey. We may live in a world that stigmatizes mental health issues, but William grew up in a home expressly designed by his mother to do the opposite.
I was honored when William asked me to write something for semi-colon while he is gone on senior beach week. I enjoy writing and have penned letters to limited partners in my investment funds for years. Not that I thought that writing for semi-colon would be easy, but I didn’t consider it a daunting task.
In the last few days, I learned that what William does each week is difficult. I started, stopped, deleted, and stared at a blank screen more than I care to admit this week. He enjoys the positive feedback he gets from readers and I believe the writing itself is therapeutic for him. But what truly drives him is genuine care for the semi-colon community and a deeply held belief that sharing his story can help others.
One of my favorite memories of the last few months came when Amy and I were encouraging William to keep up with his math homework.
“Guys,” he said without a trace of conceit or irony, “I’m trying to write something that can save a life this week. No offense, but I really don’t care about cosines right now.”
Now that the high school diploma is finally in hand, I can finally admit it: I don’t care about cosines, either, William.
One hundred fifty-five days from now the Halloween decorations will be up and William will be halfway thru his first semester at Wofford College. Amy and I can not wait to see what the future holds for him. We are proud of him for approaching the journey with optimism and a healthy gait, both inside and out.
On his one day home between Davidson Behavioral and HopeWay, William and I sat on our back porch in the cold December evening listening to songs and discussing their lyrics. We were less than five days removed from the Emergency Room and twelve hours from checking William into a residential mental health treatment center for a month. The music was a welcome distraction for both of us.
We listened to Bon Iver, Bruce Springsteen, The Mountain Goats, and Bob Dylan. The last song of the evening was one I’ve loved since high school. The percussion and melodies are amazing, but I’ve never totally understood the meaning of the song’s haunting lyrics. Even the title is a bit of a mystery.
We re-played the song several times and discussed its quirky, rapid-fire lyrics until it was time for bed. By the end of the evening, the title of Paul Simon’s The Obvious Child was more significant to me than ever.
There isn’t much analysis of the lyrics on the internet. In an interview, Simon stated that the oft-repeated phrase “the cross is in the ballpark” is a mixture of two idioms: “The crosses that we bear, they’re in the ballpark, they’re doable.”
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For those struggling with their mental health, please talk to a friend, parent, teacher, coach, family member, or anyone you know who cares about you. If you are in immediate crisis, please use the buttons below to text the Crisis Text Line or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.
And all along, the cross was in the ballpark!
Thank you so much for your post, Baker. Also, thank you Amy for raising your children in an atmosphere of open feelings. I can’t tell you how happy I am for William and the whole family. He certainly deserved his award! I hope he has a great time at Wofford and continues on his journey of making a difference. Love.