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Read full guest commentary at ThePhiladelphiaCitizen.org
Recent data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention shows that suicide is the second leading cause of death for Americans aged 25 to 34, and the third leading cause overall. The rate among men was four times higher than for women. In Pennsylvania, suicide rates have risen 32.7 percent over the past 20 years.
These numbers are horrifying — but for me, they’re also heartbreakingly personal.
Ten months ago, my heart was irreparably broken when my oldest child and only son Michael became one of those statistics.
He was supposed to visit for a belated birthday dinner with me, his dad Mark, and his sister Gina. He turned 27 just three days prior. When he didn’t respond to our texts or calls, we were concerned — but at first, not alarmed. Delayed replies weren’t unusual. But as the day wore on, our worries grew.
Mark and I drove to his apartment in Philadelphia. I contacted his roommate, who gave us the code to a lockbox with a spare key. We kept calling and texting Michael but got no reply. When we arrived and entered his room, we found our son’s body. A note nearby began, “Dear Mom and Dad, I’m sorry …”
Michael was 6-foot-4 with beautiful blue eyes and a dynamite smile. As a toddler, he was constantly in motion — jumping from his crib, escaping the stroller, emptying kitchen cabinets. He loved music, toy cars, and driving his Power Wheels Silverado. He adored his grandparents and the boardwalk rides in Ocean City, New Jersey.
He was sociable and funny, participated in choir and musical theater, and even sang solos with poise and confidence. But underneath that smile, Michael often felt out of place.
Read full guest commentary at ThePhiladelphiaCitizen.org