Dear Suicidal Teens (And How Dear You Are, Indeed)

Dear Suicidal Aspie Teen (Or Autistic Teen, Or Teen With PDD-NOS, Or ADHD Teen, Or OCD Teen, Or Bipolar Teen, or Depressed Teen, or Gay Teen, or Trans Teen, or Bullied Teen, or Abused Teen, or Whoever You May Be):

I can’t promise that you’ll wake up one morning and your world will be filled with endless sunshine (or moonlight, if that’s more your style) and happiness and prosperity and that you’ll never have another self-loathing or suicidal thought ever again. I can’t promise that you’ll ever be the most well-liked person in your school or workplace or that you’ll never be bullied or loathed or put-down ever again. I can’t promise that your world will be any less overwhelming, any less dizzying, or any less difficult to live in than it is now. I can’t promise that you’ll become the next Nobel Prize winner, the next Pulitzer-winning author, the next Grammy-winning musical artist, the next Oscar-winning actor or actress, the next gold-medal Olympian, or what-have-you. I wish all of these things for you, of course, but I’m no psychic; I haven’t a clue what your future holds.

But having dealt with suicidal urges since the age of twelve, I do know this: staying alive is worth it.
Now, some of you may be thinking, “Yeah, well, staying alive may be worth it for you, but you don’t know me, and you don’t know the hell I live in.” And, indeed, I do not. I don’t know if you having a loving family or supportive friends; I don’t know if you have family or friends at all. I don’t know what it’s like to have your exact sensory issues, your exact deficits, your exact anxieties and fears, your exact tics and stims, your exact pain, your exact loneliness, or your exact regrets. I don’t know if you’ll ever graduate high school or college, and I don’t know if you’ll ever get a job (fun fact: I turn 20 years old in a month, I’m a straight-A student who supposedly has “decent social skills,” and I have never been employed a day in my life. It’s not just you, I promise). I know what it’s like to have my PDD-NOS, to have my weakness and inadequacies and painful memories and regrets, but I don’t know what it’s like to have yourstruggles, and I’m not going to pretend that I do.

 But I know what you do have: you have yourself, and that “you” deserves a chance—a chance to try, a chance to experience, and a chance to find beauty in this world. See, there’ll be moments that you’ll be glad that you stuck around to experience. I can’t promise that the moments will be particularly abundant, but I can promise you that they’re there. There’ll be a song that you never heard before that sends chills from the tip of your head to the core of your being. There’ll be a time when you help a stranger, perhaps even an act so small, so inconsequential to you that you have no idea it was an act of kindness at all, and that stranger will tell you that you made their day, and your heart will beat a little lighter for a little while. There’ll be that hobby that you get into, a hobby that you may or may not ever be “good” at, that will fill you with awe and, well, fun! There’ll be a way that the sunset scatters across the clouds, a way that the leaves tumble from the trees or that the wind sweeps across a field of tall grass, a way that the rain will dance along the rooftops, that will take your breath away, even if for only a second. There’ll be a contest that you enter that you swear that there’s no way you will win or place in…but you do, because you’re more incredible than the self-loathing thoughts in your head will ever let you believe. There’ll be battles that you win, discoveries that you make, and joys that you have that bring you happiness just when you thought that happiness could no longer exist.

And maybe it’s presumptuous of me to assume that the little moments of happiness are worth dealing with whatever pain you are dealing with. But consider this: maybe you’re somebody else’s small miracle, somebody else’s stranger, smile, random occurrence that makes their day or even their life, and maybe your dark thoughts are being conniving little jerks that aren’t letting you see this.

Sometimes, you mean a lot more to a person than you’ll ever be able to believe.

Throughout most of my adolescence, I swore that my father merely tolerated me because he had to and that his life would be indefinitely better without me in it. It wasn’t his choice for his wife to give birth to his child when he was 48 years old, when his other children were already grown up and getting on with their own lives and when retirement was just over the horizon. It wasn’t his choice for that child to be “developmentally delayed” and for that child to need speech therapy and special education. It wasn’t his choice for my mother, through no fault of her own, to be forcefully removed from our family picture when I was six. It wasn’t his choice to have a daughter who threw deafening tantrums in the middle of crowded supermarkets and for strangers to judge his parenting skills. It wasn’t his choice to have a teenager that bit and scratched herself, that would almost get them both killed with her inability to distinguish “No!” from “Go!” from the driver’s seat of her small car,  that made him stay up late at night sobbing with worry. It wasn’t his choice to have a kid like me.  I thought that there was no possible way that he could have trulyloved me—all I ever seemed to do was drain and irritate him, and he didn’t deserve the trouble I put him through.

And I told him this in a therapy session one day; I told him how sorry I was for ruining his life and how I wish that I could be a better daughter, one that didn’t make things so worrysome for him. He was absolutely flabbergasted; he swore that I was the best thing that ever happened to him. Many days, I highly doubt that this is at all true, but the way his eyes almost glistened with tears (note: this is a man who passes large kidney stones and attends family members’ funerals without even hinting at a tear) that day tells me that I must mean something to the guy. He said that I keep him young, that his later years would have been so much less colorful without me in it. Now, I’m sure that I age him much more than I refresh him, but maybe the goofy poetry that I write inside of hand-made cards serves as a Fountain of Youth running behind those wrinkled eyes. Also, I’m his personal tech support; I’m the one that taught him how to use an iPhone and how to set up a Facebook account. That has to count for something, right?

See, we humans aren’t too good at telling our fellow humans how much they mean to us. It may well be that where you look in the mirror and see a burden, an aggravation, a chronic screw-up, others see a joy, a blessing, a person worth having around and a person that makes their lives better simply by you being in it. When you see yourself as unlikable, you may wonder how anyone else could possibly like you, either—I,  personally, tend to expect that everyone sees me as bothersome or annoying and am often very taken aback when someone admits any sort of fondness towards me. But you are likeable, and chances are that there’s at least somebody out there who has a fondness towards you and who would be sad if they could no longer experience your presence. 

And I know that you can know and believe all of this and that it still won’t take the thoughts and feelings away. I still feel absolutely worthless and useless many days, and I still don’t particularly like myself as a person sometimes.  Knowing all of this about the beauty of living and about how loved I really am doesn’t do much to keep the images of a knife cutting through my throat or my body dangling from a tree by a rope from popping up from time to time. It’s an on-going battle, one that you may have to fight every single day or even every single hours. It’s not at all a fair battle, it’s not at all an easy battle, and it surely isn’t a fun battle, but it’s a battle worth fighting, and it’s a battle that you’re more equipped to fight that you may ever feel that you are. And the good news is that there are so many people fighting this battle alongside you and that would be more than happy to help you recharge your ammo. There’s the National and Regional suicidal hotlines for your area (United States: 1-800-784-2433 ; U.K: 08457 90 90 90 ; here’s a pretty comprehensive list: http://www.reddit.com/r/SuicideWatch/wiki/hotlines), as well as several online chatrooms, such as https://www.imalive.org/. There’s the members of this Aspie Life group. There’s me, if that’s anything. There are so many people who want you to win this battle, who want you to live, who want you to experience happiness and success and all that life has to offer. There are reasons to keep fighting. I promise. 

Because I know that I can’t promise that you’ll ever win a Nobel, a Pulitzer, a Grammy, an Oscar, or an Olympic gold medal, that you’ll ever have an abundance of friends or your dream career or a lover or even a degree, but, you know, you just might, and the only way to find out is to stick around and see. 

Submitted January 4th, 2015 

Author: Paula Gomez

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Asperger Syndrome Suicide

You wake on a typical weekend morning. Your children are sleeping as you prepare breakfast. At 8:30am you head upstairs to check in on your 14 year old son. A child with a huge heart and beautiful smile, your heart breaks for him often. He has Asperger Syndrome and struggles with the feelings that come from not being accepted by your peers. He is very intelligent, which only seems to fuel the problem. Even adults look at him, and due to his intelligence, expect more from him then he is capable of. How do you explain to a child that only things logically, that the reason people shun him, or get frustrated with him, is simply because he is different? There is no logic in that, yet it is the simple truth, unfair that it may be.

These thoughts bombard you as you slowly walk up the stairs, wondering what today might be and how you will be able to help your son. You open the door as you call softly to him to wake up. With a start you realize that he isn't in bed. You step back into the hallway, figuring he was in the bathroom, or maybe downstairs somewhere. You call for him several times, with no answer.

You aren't really worried. It's not uncommon for your son to get up and go walking. It helps to soothe him, comfort him. You hope he grabbed something for breakfast before he left. He's struggled so much lately, he doesn't understand why people treat him the way they do. He doesn't understand why the world is so different then what he can understand or relate to. As you head back into the kitchen, you pray again the prayer you've said so many times, “Please God, help me find a way to help my son”.

Your laptop is sitting on the table. You slide it over to you and post a quick comment on Facebook, asking anyone that may know where your son is to get in touch with you as soon as possible.

The hours tick away and you still haven't heard anything. Your son doesn't typically stay gone for this long, and you are starting to worry. You've had this nagging feeling that something isn't quite right ever since you discovered that he wasn't in bed this morning. You've been shoving it aside, but now your starting to wonder if you should pay more attention to it.

An associate from work calls you. It's doubtful she's heard that you posted on Facebook asking for info on your son's whereabouts, and you don't really want to get into it on the phone with her. You answer the phone, and in a style true to her, she starts babbling about traffic being backed up on the interstate. She is talking over excitedly and very fast. To fast for your ever growing stressed emotions to keep up with. You vaguely hear her tell you how traffic was stopped because of a body found on the side of the road, and how it'd been there for hours before anyone bothered to call 911. You finally tell her that it's been a very bad morning for you, and that you have to get off the phone.

No sooner have you hung up your phone then panic seizes you. Didn't your friend from work just say that the body found had red hair? Surely she'd have said it was a teenager or a child if it was your son. But, she said it had been there for hours....hours! Oh no, she also said it was near where you live! That can't be your son. Oh please Dear God, don't let that be your son.

You quickly snatch the phone back up and call the local police department. You explain that your son, your son that has red hair, is missing. Your transferred to an officer, who asks you a ton of questions and then quietly tells you that two officers are already in route to your home to get a statement.

There is a knock at the door. You didn't hear the car pull up over the phone conversation. You quickly run to the door and yank it open. As your mind registers that it is two police officers, you stand on your tip toes to look over their shoulder, praying that your son is standing behind them.

The tallest of the two officers look at you with pity and an emotion that can only be sadness as he asks you to step inside and find a seat. This can't be happening! Something is wrong! Where is your son? That body on the side of the interstate can not be your son!

You listen to the officers' words, as if you are detached and standing a few feet away from yourself. It seems that your son is the “body” that your friend told you about. The police haven't pieced it all together yet, but it appears that your son jumped from the bridge that goes across the interstate at around 3:30am. He was hit by a tractor trailer. Through the next several hours, until sometime in the afternoon, traffic went on as usual. People noticed what appeared to be a “large animal in a pile of clothes” but didn't have time to report it. Others thought it was a body, but again were to busy to pick up their cell phones and call 911, much less turn around to check. It wasn't until afternoon that someone stopped and called 911 to let them know that a body was on the side of the interstate, where it had lain since 3:30am.....alone and hit by several vehicles. The clothing matches up to your son's clothing. There isn't any reason to do an identification, the police will use medical means to finalize that it really is your son. The police are certain it is suicide.

The next day, our best friend stops by to let you know that the story was in the newspaper again. This time the article states that the body that held up traffic for hours was a 14 year old that committed suicide. At the very bottom of the article, almost as an afterthought, it reads, “the teen was taking regular medication for Asperger's Syndrome and autism”. You look at her incredulously. Your son committed suicide due to the challenges, and lack of treatment, he faced having Asperger Syndrome, and it was only mentioned at the very bottom of the article as an afterthought? A Sargent said that your son was taking medication for Asperger Syndrome when there are no medications available to treat it, as if it's something that requires a magic cure? Why wasn't it mentioned that your son being treated like an outcast and different, not just from his peers but from adults, impacted him daily? Why didn't the article talk about how tons of parents around the country are finding themselves without the resources or tools necessary to help their children? Why didn't the article list the few available resources for this area? Why didn't it reach out to other families going through something similar, other families that every day fear their teen with Asperger Syndrome might also commit suicide?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I wish I could say that I just made up this story. However, I am saddened beyond words to say that I didn't. This happened here over the last few days. As a mother frantically searched for her beloved 14 year old son, motorist to busy to call 911 were driving by his battered and tattered body.

A newspaper quoted Sgt. G.A. Barger of the North Carolina State Patrol as stating that the child was taking medication for his “Asperger Syndrome and Autism”. To date, there are no medications available to treat Asperger Syndrome. There is no cure for Autism, and many parents advocate that a cure isn't needed, merely the perception of “typical” people to change.

People have already started to judge. A mother states that she has a child with Asperger's and she doesn't understand why the article mentions it at all as her son is “bright and a joy to be around”. She wonders what Asperger Syndrome has to do with his suicide, or any other news article that has mentioned it recently. Another mentions medications and how they only “make things worse”. Another poster states that anyone with Asperger Syndrome wouldn't want that for the rest of their lives. Yet another newspaper article states that the child “suffered with Asperger Syndrome”.

There are so many things I want to say. I want to scream that children with Asperger Syndrome wouldn't suffer if it weren't for the judgements, criticizing, and mistreatment from “typical” people. I want to scream that there is not a medication for Asperger Syndrome. I want to scream that Dan Akroyd, Bill Gates, Daryl Hannah, Satoshi Tajiri, James Durbin, Paula Hamilton, Peter Howson, Clay Marzo, Les Murray and others all have Asperger Syndrome. There are so many more, Al Gore, James Taylor, Bob Dylan, Robin Williams, Andy Kaufman, Hans Asperger, isaac Asimove and more. Do they seem to “suffer”, need “medication”, or need a cure? I want to scream that popular belief feel that Abraham Lincoln, Bobby Fischer, Benjamin Franklin, Marilyn Monroe, Henry Ford, Isaac Newton, Jane Austen, Vincent Van Gogh, and Virginia Woolf all had Asperger Syndrome. How can all these people be broken and need a “cure”? How can all these people not want to live simply because of their diagnosis?

I want to scream at the world that I am the mother of the sweetest, kindest, most caring teenage son. I want to scream how his intelligence level is through the roof, but how he lacks an understanding of social concepts. I want to scream out how he tries to engage his peers in conversation, but the “typical” teens shun him simply because he is different and different isn't “cool”. I want to scream at the world that different is not bad or wrong.

Yet, instead I will stand here and speak for the family that is to grief stricken to speak for themselves. I will stand and say that my son has Asperger Syndrome and that his life has been difficult. I will stand and speak out and let others know that my son's life, and the life of other teens with Asperger Syndrome, is difficult because others refuse to accept different as being acceptable. I will stand and tell others that you can not say you are scared of someone with Asperger Syndrome because of what one child with Asperger Syndrome did months ago, but instead you should stand up and help find a way for these children to have available the resources they need to help them succeed.

I am the mother of a child with Asperger Syndrome.

I am proud to be the mother of a child with Asperger Syndrome.

I support ALL parents of children with special needs.

I won't ever quit speaking up for my children's needs.

Always remember, if you've met one child with Autism, then you've met ONE child with Autism. No two children on the Autistic spectrum are alike, no two children with Asperger Syndrome are alike. One thing they all share though, resources are not available to help them reach their full potential. Nor do they experience the acceptance in society that they should.

Please, don't be one of the passive people that sit by and judge and criticize. Stand up today and speak out.

For resources regarding Autism Spectrum Disorder, you can follow the links below:

Autism Speaks Resource Library which has many books, websites, blogs and videos for families to use.



Autism Speaks Social Network for on-line chats with other parents in similar situations. Some use it to pose a specific question and get feedback, while others utilize it as a support group.
Autism Speaks Tool Kits http://www.autismspeaks.org/family-services/tool-kits
Autism Speaks Family Services web link - http://www.autismspeaks.org/family-services



Other Resources:



http://www.yourlittleprofessor.com/friendship.html
http://www.yourlittleprofessor.com/teen.html
http://teenautism.com/category/puberty/
http://www.aspires-relationships.com/. It seems to have a wide variety of resources that may be helpful.
There is an excellent online support group called GRASP – The Global & Regional Asperger’s Syndrome Partnership. http://grasp.org/page/grasp-support-groups.



You can contact me at any time for questions, support, or information at pathsfrommysoul@gmail.com