#WhyIWalk: Out of the Darkness Walks 2018

Why I Walk: AFSP Out of the Darkness Walks

This year I am walking and sharing my two at two Out of the Darkness Community Walks in Virginia. I participated in my first walk in 2017. These walks by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention give people the courage to up about their own personal struggle or loss due to suicide. As speaker and volunteer I can tell you these walks are powerful. They also raise money to help AFSP mission to reduce suicide.

And, personally these walks mean a lot to me here is why.

Why I Walk: Because I know what it feels like to live in darkness. Four years ago I was a promising television journalist. On the outside I looked like I had everything; good looks, an amazing job, a nice condo, and adoring parents. In reality, I lived in constant depression and anxiety. I attempted suicide in 2014, and my life fell apart afterwards. I was homeless, alone, unemployed, and emotionally broken. I’ve found my pathways to recovery: a mixture of spirituality, therapy, and medication management. I’ve been in mental health recovery for two years. When I look back on those darks year there is so much I wish I could say to myself. It’s the things I say now in any talk I give about mental health or suicide prevention. I would say to myself, “Lauren your life is worth fighting for! You are worth fighting for. You are not alone. There is help out there, let me show you. It is ok you are not ok. You are not crazy, abnormal, or unlovable. You just need help.”

I want people to know there is light after dark days. There is help out there. I am living proof. I am a survivor who found help in so many places, and with that help I am rebuilding my life. Some would say a life more meaningful and rich than anything I did as a television reporter. I walk for me, but I also walk for so many of you; the suicide loss survivors, attempt survivors, people who care enough to do this work. I walk to how there is a way out of the darkness.

I now have the distinct honor of being on the Virginia Chapter Board for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. My hope is to bring more suicide prevention presentations like TALK SAVES LIVES, and MORE THAN SAD to more cities in Hampton Roads. I want to educate more people about the Suicide Prevention Lifeline, and create meaningful content and projects so support mental health nonprofits.

Learn more about AFSP at www.afsp.org. You can join my walk team here - https://afsp.donordrive.com/participant/Lauren-Hope

#BETHEVOICE

The Hard Road to Finding My Boo

LOLO AND BOO: I’m Boo’d Up

I promised to write one mental health blog a week for the month of September, but all I can think about is the new love of my life adequately named Boo. I didn’t know if my heart could open up to a new love or if I mentally I could handle one. But, Boo is different. He is less than 10 pounds, has four legs, and has had his fair share of trauma too.

Before I tell you how I came to adopt Boo it’s important to know I have a complicated past with dogs. My earliest memory of dogs were pretty gruesome. In the back roads of Mississippi dogs aren’t handled like they are in the suburbs. I recall bonding with so many dogs who got ran over by cars, or shot for chewing up furniture that was left out to dry. Once my mother brought my great mother an award winning Cocker Spaniel named Elvis. Every summer I came to visit Mississippi Elvis grew more and more miserable looking. First he came down with a scab like skin disease known as mange. It ruined his once beautiful, golden coat. Then he could hardly see through his eyes. Then one summer I didn’t see Elvis anymore. Someone said he died, and was buried by the railroad tracks. That was the the life cycle of country dogs in the back roads of Mississippi.

In my teens, my family and I moved to the suburbs of Virginia Beach. We had so many dogs then. A poodle mix that my mother gave away to the carpet man. A mixed breed from the dog pound that got so aggressive that we had to take him back. A black Cocker Spaniel puppy that mysteriously disappeared when I came home from school one day. So, so many dogs.

When I was about 16 we finally got a Chihuahua mixed from a Virginia Beach farm. When I first saw Cookie she was lying by a dog food bowl. She was too fat to run after the other skinnier dogs so she just laid by the bowl and waited to eat. My mother tried to encourage me to pick one of the more energetic dogs. But, I wanted Cookie, the discarded dog no one wanted.  Cookie would stay with me when my parents got divorced, moved to different houses, and then somehow found themselves remarried again. 

By my twenties, two different boyfriends had given me dogs. Harland, a Yorkie mix I got from a man I thought I would marry. Goliath is a Yorkie and Chihuahua mix from a man I knew I wouldn’t marry. They both still live at home with my parents, and due to our family strain I haven’t seen either in almost two years. A family strain so bad my parents fought to keep my dog away from me in court. Actual court. The whole situation hurt. The fact that my parents would rather have a dog in their house than me, and I knew I would never see my dogs again. I was told through Facebook that my Cookie, my first four legged love passed away last summer. I hope she’s found herself a dog bowl to lie beside on the rainbow road.

Needless to say I have a lot of heartache when it comes to dogs. Last year I mentioned to my psychiatrist that I wanted an emotional support animal, something to come home to, to make the depressed nights alone not hurt so bad. She wrote me a Emotional Support Animal recommendation letter in December of 2017. I was too anxious to actually look for a dog. I figured I’d mess my up life again, somehow end up on the street, and have to give the dog up anyway. I worried the dog wouldn’t bond with me. I worried I wasn’t enough.

For a lot of the spring I was fighting to keep my depression and mental illness at bay. My job was causing all kind of havoc on my mind. I fought bouts of insomnia, the sting of bullying at work, and the depression I felt for not being able to endure the hostility I often felt from my superiors. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to look for an emotional support animal, maybe just the looking would be exciting enough. The end of July I saw a little black dog curled up in a ball at the Norfolk SPCA. His name was Jaden.

I motioned for a volunteer. “Hey what’s wrong with him?”

“His owner just died. We think he has PTSD,” the volunteer said. I walked closer to his cage as she continued to talk. “The owner had him since he was six weeks old and Jaden was in the house with the deceased owner for days before they were found.”

I peered into the cage and whistled. “Hey come here sweet boy. You’re ok.” My heart ached for him. This little dog who didn’t understand why his world was up ended. I imagined him curled up to his owner wondering why he couldn’t respond. And, I decided I was enough. I would love that little dog back to life.

“I see he’s foster only,” I said.

“We’d like to make sure he bonds well with people first.”

“I’d like to apply today.”

The first few days Jaden was nervous and scared. He did not eat. He tensed up when I touched him, and seemed so sad. Each night I prayed over him, thanking God for this little dog, this little being that was helping me feel not so alone. Every morning I took him on walks and said out loud, “You are such a good boy.” So much of him reminded me of one of dog Goliath who I nicknamed Boo. I decided that Jaden was my new Boo. I started saying, “You’re my Boo aren’t? You’re my Boo?” And within a week a two his little ears started to perk up when I said Boo.

So it’s him and I now. Lolo and Boo. This past 60 days have been so hard. August I left a job I loved due to mental health strain. For days I had to fight to get out of bed, to put on makeup, to care for myself. I could feel myself falling back into a depressive episode. My friends pleaded with me to get up if only it were for Boo. A lot of August, Boo was the only reason I got out of bed. And, the more I felt him open up and love on me the stronger I felt. He’s already traveled with me to Lynchburg, and Richmond. And, now he has made his way into my heart.

Last night, before I went to sleep I broke down in tears. Crying for the life I once lived. I tried to cry quietly so I wouldn’t disturb Boo from his sleep. But, he heard me. He came from under the covers and licked the tears from my face. Then he put his head on my stomach. I put my hand on his back and focused on the goodness of that moment. How nice it felt that this once scared little dog trusted and loved me. The tears stopped and I was able to sleep.

I am truly a believer in emotional support animals. In the coming months, Boo and I will go through training so he can be certified as an emotional support animal. There are many pathways to recovery. Finding the ones that work for you are key. For me my recovery is a combination of faith, therapy, medication management, and now a four legged love I call Boo.

I found Boo at the Norfolk SPCA so be sure to support your local humane society. There are amazing animals there waiting to be loved and to love you.

#WomenWhoSlayWednesday: A Conqueror Named Destiny

I spent a lot of time of social media. I use it to connect to people, share my blogs, and promote good mental health. Somehow I stumbled upon the profile of Destiny Thomas, a mother, author, motivational speaker, and prayer warrior. She does live prayers requests weekly. I was drawn to her positive posts, and her tremendous faith. I was happy to feature her on a #WomenWhoSlayWednesday blog, but I had no idea the battle she has fought in journey to motherhood. Below is a snippet for Destiny Thomas' book called, 'A War I Couldn't Win Alone.'

A War I Couldn't Win Alone

Have you ever been at a place in life where you have asked yourself “Why Me?” About 4 years ago now, that is exactly what I asked myself every day for 3 and ½ years. Continue reading to find out why. A snippet from “A war I couldn’t win alone”

…"Well, Mrs. Thomas, I’ve found what’s been holding up the baby-making process. These marble-like balls in your ovaries right here are cysts."

Immediately my heart sunk. At this time, the only cysts I was familiar with were the ones that people prayed would come back benign after a biopsy.

"Cancerous cysts?" I asked.

"Oh, no. Cysts in your ovaries as in a condition known as PCOS for short, or Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. Here you are. I went ahead and printed out some information about the condition for you," he stated. "Now, Destiny, whatever you do, don’t, I repeat, don’t go searching on Google and stressing yourself out. All you need to do to make your chances of conceiving greater is lose weight."

Piece of cake, right? Sounded easy right?

"You have already been doing so well with your home cooking and exercising, so just keep it up."

This sounded so easy, and it gave me so much confidence and relief that nothing was wrong with me. I just had a little boo-boo that needed to be cared for. I went home with a newfound purpose. For the next month, I continued making home-cooked meals, watching my eating, and exercising regularly. I was confident there would be progress by my appointment next month. If not on my ultrasound, it would at least be noticeable on the scale.  

That month flew by, and the time had come for me to check on my progress with Dr. L. The very first thing we did was assess my weight. Giddy and excited because my scale at home showed I had lost at least eight lbs., I took a deep breath and went for it. Not only did their scale not match mine at home, but it said I gained five lbs. from the last time I was there.  

Devastated would be an understatement for how I felt in that moment. I felt like all my hard work was for ABSOLUTELY nothing. Noticing the look of defeat on my face, the nurse tried to coddle me and remind me that it was common with PCOS and doctor scales and I shouldn't get discouraged. After a moment to get myself together, it was time to get my ultrasound and meet with the doctor.  

"Well, Destiny, we have great news! You did have a cycle this month and are ovulating, so don’t get down. Just keep going and stop worrying about it. It will happen when it is meant to happen."

Still down about what I had seen on the scale, all of that went in one ear and out the other. I honestly didn't know at the time that having a cycle and ovulating with PCOS was a very big deal and something I should have been overjoyed about—so I completely ignored it. We discussed continuing to do what I was doing and concluded the appointment. Because I just knew this appointment was going to be a good one, I informed my supervisor I would be returning to work once it was over.

Why? Why did I do that? My emotions were all over the place and, honestly, I just wanted to go home, ball up in my covers, and cry for hours. Not only that but to make matters worse, because of my green personality and curiosity getting the best of me, I did what Dr. L continued telling me not to do. I was tired of feeling like I didn’t have all the information I needed to battle this war head-on. So, I pulled out my handy dandy phone and phoned a friend, “Mr. Google.” I sat in that parking lot for over thirty minutes clicking from one page to the next, taking screenshots, taking notes, and reading horror stories.  

I was trying to find everything I possibly could about this fertility thief known as PCOS. Already a wreck, I began to break down, reading the stories of people who had been trying to get pregnant for over fifteen years and still nothing, marriages that had led to divorce because of infertility and everything that comes along with it, and the numerous stories of miscarriage after miscarriage. There was a financial strain from the cost of treatments and medications, imbalanced hormones which lead to low self-esteem, depression, and uncontrollable weight gain.  

Finally noticing the time, I began trying to get myself together to prepare to drive to work. I had recently accepted a new position at work and was in training where 100% attendance was mandatory. Calling out wasn’t an option unless they were informed beforehand, so I was forced to put my big girl panties on and get through the rest of my work day with a smile. I had fifteen minutes to turn on some gospel music and get my mind right before I would pull up in the parking lot. Then I would have to face my twelve peers, four coaches, and trainer acting as if everything was A ok. With a smile, I opened the door and greeted everyone as I normally did.  

I found my way to my seat and sat facing my computer. I held back the tears, acting as if I was patiently waiting for it to boot up.  

"Destiny you came just in time," my coach stated. "We are doing role practices and if you are up to it, we can do you next."

Not turning my head from my computer, I responded, "Sure. Let me just get my computer booted up."

"No problem, we were just finishing up with Tom and then I will be ready for you."

After about five minutes, it was my turn. To avoid breaking down, I kept swallowing and reciting, you are strong; nothing is too big for God in my head.

Unfortunately, that didn’t help or last as long as it did in my head. I just remember the tears beginning to flow down my face and I couldn’t stop them. "May I have a moment?" I whispered to my coach and sprinted for the door faster than Hussain Bolt in the Olympics. Making it to the bathroom in record time, now looking myself face to face in the mirror, I broke down. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer and begin to ask, Why God? What did I do? I’ve served you my entire life and you give me this battle. I stood there looking like someone who clearly had lost her mind talking to herself.  

One of the ladies from my training class that played the role of my class mother entered the bathroom and ran to me with her arms open, ready for me to just fill them with my tears and pain. She hugged me like only a mother knew how with her petite stature, short Nia Long in Love Jones haircut, brown skin tone, a couple of moles or beauty marks as my grandmother likes to call them across the face, and just the cutest little gap in between her two front teeth. She said in her Virginia-born southern accent,  

"What is it my dear, and is it too big for God?"

Hardly able to breathe at this point, with snot all over my face, I shook my head no.

I took a couple of breaths and was able to compose myself enough to tell her the horrible news from my appointment. She continued to remind me that it was not too hard for God, that God’s timing is perfect so relax and let him do what he is good at, which is controlling situations that are out of our control. I got myself together, and we stood there in the middle of the bathroom locking hands as she prayed over me. Boy was she right about God’s timing being perfect, because only God knew what was about to happen next.  

Only he knew how shaken up my life, marriage, and household would get and how that wasn’t any environment to bring a baby in. But, hey, we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t pray and ask for things prematurely? Right? We think that is just what we need to get right, instead of getting right to get what we want. But that is a whole nother story for a whole nother book.  

    So, in that moment and even in those 3+ years I just couldn’t understand why this was happening to me. However, you know what is so comical about those moments? When the storm passes, and the blessing comes it is so much sweeter than if it had come when you wanted it to. Read on to see exactly how I felt…

Two Years Later

I laid back in the bed, just taking in the moment, and began bawling. I was overwhelmed with gratitude and thanksgiving. I couldn’t believe that two years ago on this very day, I was broken. I felt defeated, as if my time would never come, and now it was here. I had a super-fast slideshow memory moment. I recalled those moments of depression, moments standing in front of the mirror feeling disgusted, moments of taking hormone shots through my butt, the numerous amounts of blood draws, nights of crying myself to sleep, and was immediately engulfed in God’s love.

I was amazed about how good God was, that he even was kind enough to give me the date my baby would be born, though my mom and I still didn’t believe him. Over and over again, he shows me that his Word is true and that he wants to not only give me my needs and wants but also my heart's desires. If only I had put as much trust in him as I did those doctors, I could have been here so long ago. My mom looked up and saw me crying and immediately ran over. 

"What’s wrong, Des?"

I was so full of happiness I couldn’t even speak.

"It just hit you that this is really happening, huh?" she asked.

"Yes," I said in between cries and head nods.

"All of it was worth it, baby, for this moment right here."

You can read more of Destiny's story in her book: https://www.realizingdestiny.com/new-products/qrn823wja5adeie9zlzh8lczn7j31w

You can connect with her on social media:  www.instagram.com/realizing_destiny www.facebook.com/dlilpooh30 or email Email: desthomas89@gmail.com

Don’t Be Talking Shit About My Facebook

I am very much a goody two shoes. Most days you will hear me say “sugar” when I am frustrated, or I’ve misplaced something. But, sometimes if you catch me the wrong day I’ll drop the real ‘S’ word. Under what circumstances do I drop the ‘S’ bomb? When people talk SHIT about Facebook.

Of all the social media platforms, Facebook is my shit. I maybe have about 6,000 followers on all platforms but I spend the most time with Facebook. I love scrolling through my news feed. Whoever thought in the 90’s we’d have our own personal news feed. That kind of thing was left to the news guys. Now regular humans like you and me have news feed, head shots, content, and a following. And, now we can even advertise. Wow that sounds kind of like a news room eh? We’re all just mini journalists hustling our stories on Facebook for a like, share, comment. And if you’re a business owner like me you’re hope someone will donate or subscribe to your mission.

I had the opportunity to go a Facebook Community Boost event in Hampton, Virginia. This was one of the coolest, free social media training I’ve ever been to. All types of business owners, artists, writers, and even retirees looking for a new venture were there. Facebook puts on an amazing show. The venue was incredible. Interactive booths, note cards on the best photo apps, and a spot to do an Instagram boomerang. And, if that didn’t do it , Facebook offered free lunch and head shots.

That was the shit. Sorry. I let it slip again. This time from excitement. I was even more stoked that Facebook picked the city of Hampton. The Mayor there said Hampton was one of 30 cities selected for the Facebook event. That is freaking awesome in book. No I won’t cross the ‘F’ word territory. That is just too much.

So stop talking shit about Facebook. Facebook has allowed us to stay in touch with old friends whether we like it or not. It’s a place where we Chronicles our kids lives, and then go back in time and remember when they were young with a Timehop. It’s where we do business. It’s were we investigate our ex-boyfriends new girlfriend with the veal of a hunger news reporter. Don’t lie you’ve done it.

On Facebook we’re all stars, but its a competitive market out there. I challenge you to post something beautiful, funny, inspiring, impactful. We have enough FAKE news out there. Own your truth.

Almost Home, Holding Onto Hope : Lessons from Homelessness

What I Learned Being Home: Almost Home, Holding Onto Hope

This blog is a continuation of a blog series I did last year on my homelessness.

For months I had managed to find someone’s couch to sleep on, or get enough GoFundme donations for a few nights in a hotel. Those times I could forget that I was homeless. I could shower, eat a free continental breakfast, or watch tv all day. Most of all I had a safe place to sleep at night.

But January 2017 I had run out of all those options. I broke down crying in the Community Service office where I was to do garden work to pay off a traffic violation.The community service office told me about an emergency shelter program called CAST, Chesapeake Area Shelter that I could go to that evening for place to sleep. From late October to mid April several areas church in Chesapeake open their doors for the homeless. In the evening they provide dinner, a space to sleep in the church sanctuary. In the morning they offer breakfast, and bagged lunch. All I needed to do was show up at the bus pick up location at police precinct parking lot in South Norfolk, show an ID card, and pass a breathalyzer. After a particularly cold night sleeping in the backseat of my Volkswagen Beetle in the Wal-Mart parking lot. I decided I would give the shelter a try.

I pulled up to the parking lot to see a line of about 30 people waiting to get on a school bus. For minutes I sat almost paralyzed in my car, thinking of how the bottom had fallen out from my once perfect life.

How is this your life? These people once watched you on television reporting the news, and now look at you.

Then panic hit me.

What if they recognize you? Will they say mean things? Will they think I have money and steal from me? Will they think I’m undercover doing an expose?

The last thought was ridiculous. I had not been on television in 2 years. It’s not likely any of them would have thought I was doing some special report. Maybe I was hoping, reaching for some resemblance of my old life.

I was no television news reporter, or hot twenty something girl. I was a homeless woman in her early thirties with no money, job, or friend to call.

I got as much as I could carry out of my car;  my suitcase of clothes, makeup bag, medicine, and purse. I reached the back of the line, and felt a ball form in my throat. I wanted to cry, scream, plead to God. I wanted to die to disappear from the weight of my situation.

Then I heard a voice from the front of the line, “Alright, women will go first. Have your identification card out when you come forward. You will blow into the breathalyzer then we will let you on the bus.”

A man who saw me standing towards the back of the bus line motioned for me to go up front. When I reached the person checking people in, I handed him my ID. He glanced down at my identification card and beamed a flashlight at it.

“Could you please call me Hope? I know what my ID says but I go by Hope,” I said softly.

“That’s a lovely name. I can do that. Now breathe into this little machine until it beeps,” he replied.

As I blew onto the black box, I thought of all the movie scenes I had seen about homeless shelters. I imagined a big room with dozens of cots, and me lying awake until they called for lights out.

“Alright, Hope you can get on the bus,” he said.

I climbed up the bus steps and spotted a seat in the middle. As I passed, my eyes met the faces of a few women, a skinny white woman with a military duffel bag taking up half her seat, a black woman with what seemed to be pitch black, dead eyes. When I reached my seat I tried to imagine what lead these women to this bus, to this homeless shelter program.

Over the next few minutes the bus attendant allowed men to get on the bus. I turned to look out the window.

Lord, why? What did I do to deserve this? I am a college graduate. I once owned a home this should not be my life right now.

Then I felt a surge of hurt wash over me, remembering how my mother changed the locks on the home I was sharing with her and my family. I thought of how warm they were in their five bedroom house. I imagined them sitting by their over-sized television, eating yet another take out dinner. And, I wondered, “Do they care where I am right now?” Of all the times my parents reached out to me, it was to pursue legal action or tell me what an ungrateful daughter I had become. It was never to ask if I was ok, if I was fed, if I was safe.

Warm tears started to stream down my face.

You are homeless, Lauren. This is real. You’re not couchsurfing, or in between places. You’re homeless.

And the scary thing I didn't know how long I’d be that way, what would happen to me physically, spiritually, or emotionally.

The male bus attendant walked down the aisle counting the number of people on the bus, and he stopped at my seat.

“Hey no crying. You’re ok. We’ve got you now,” he said. I nodded in agreement, and tried to suck back up my tears.

I can’t remember the name of the church they took us to, but I do remember the volunteers seemed excited to be serving.

Each guest as they called us had to show proof of ID again once at the church. The volunteers checked to see if you were a repeat visitor to CAST. If you were new you filled out a short questionnaire accessing your needs.

When I reached the registration line, and handed the volunteers my ID, the volunteer read my first and last name out loud. I felt myself tense up, fearing someone would recognize my television name.

“I have a favor to ask, can you call me Hope? I know what my ID says but my middle name is Hope, and I go by Hope,” I said.

“Hope, that’s beautiful. Certainly. I’ll just write that on your name tag. Be sure to wear this all night.”

From there we were directed to the rooms we’d be sleeping in. Women were slept in a small activity room. While the large number of men in the program slept in the main sanctuary. Each people was given a gym mat, a blanket, and some toiletries. When I reached the room for women I saw how everyone else had placed their items on top of their gym mats to mark their space. I did the same.

My Mat

“Come on honey, dinner will be ready soon,” a church volunteer said.

I followed her to the dining area, and sat at the table to wait for dinner. By that that time I felt no need to cry or scream. I just wanted to eat, and sleep. Church members then came around the table with soup, salad, and dessert. I remember eating the food and being pleasantly surprised at home good it was.

The man across from me, ate his meal slow, but kept staring at me.

“You look too pretty to be here ma’m,” he said. “This your first night?”

2017 Throwback, Covering Pain in Makeup

“Yes, it is,” I replied. I hoped if I didn’t talk no one would notice me. Looking back I can see how ridiculous that was. I was one of few women who came to the shelter wearing dresses, makeup, putting headbands in my hair. And my first night at the shelter I was wearing a floral dress, with pink eye shadow and lip gloss. I always felt in that season of my life. Dressing up and putting on makeup was an escape from the reality of my homelessness. It helped me to not feel as broken.

“Yes, it is my first night. My parents put me out,”I replied.

“Oh, I see. Well a lot of people’s folks done put them out. You are in good company,” he said with a laugh.

In coming weeks at the shelter program I would come to realize so many people didn’t expect to homelessness, and what brought them to the program varied from addiction, mental illness, divorces, and evictions.

I have learned that homelessness has no face, no look, no stereotype. So many people are living one paycheck away from being on the street. Some of the best lessons I learned being homeless are grace, compassion, and loving people exactly where they are at.

The volunteers in CAST showed me a level of love and respect I couldn’t even get from people I shared blood with. They sat up late at night with me and explained scripture. I watched them bandage blistered feet, listen to broken hearts, and even help find people furniture who finally found a place to stay. I determined early on during my time with CAST when I was back on feet I’d do more to give back to hurting people. I vowed to be less judgemental of people’s plight, and more willing to listen. I also felt and experienced the strength of God in a way I never knew. Many nights, I would cry myself to sleep on floor of a church sanctuary. Crying for my family, crying for my past life, crying for comfort. I would put on my headphones and listen to this Mariah Carey song called’ Almost Home’

The lyrics go:

I've held hope in my two hands
That there would be another chance
To find the kingdom, I'm believing in my heart
Cause underneath the good there's something greater than you know
When you're almost there
And you're almost home
Just open up your eyes and go, go
When you're almost there, almost home
Know you're not alone
You're almost home

It was as if God was speaking to me through that song. “I am preparing a place for you. You’re almost there just don’t give up Lauren.”

I can’t tell you how many times I replayed that song on my restless nights. It took great strength to get up every morning, put on a smile, do my makeup, and try to keep looking for jobs.

I also learned that hope, a little spark of hope is powerful.

To be continued…….

#SuicidePreventionMonth: How Hosting A Film About Suicide Inspired Me

September is Suicide Prevention Month. It is very important to me because I am a suicide attempt survivor. This month I will post a blog each week about Suicide Prevention or mental health. This week I’d like to talk about how hosting the screening of Kevin Hine’s film ‘Suicide: The Ripple Effect’ changed my business dreams, and taught me something about faith.

Last year at a suicide prevention conference a vendor asked me if I had ever heard of Kevin Hines, a man who attempted suicide off the Golden Gate Bridge and somehow survived. I had only been sharing my story of surviving suicide for a few months so I didn’t know of a lot of famous speakers or mental health advocates.

The vendor had a few copies of Kevin Hines’ memoir ‘Cracked Not, Broken’ on her table. I remember picking it and promising I’d put it on my list of books to read.

“You know what take it,” the vendor said. “I have a feeling you need to read it.”

When I finally read Kevin’s book, I could not put it down. I was captivated at the raw, real look of living
 with Bipolar Disorder (which is Kevin’s diagnosis) with auditory hallucinations. I was also drawn into the effect Kevin’s suicide attempt had on his family, particularly his father and the uncle he was named after. It made me consider for a moment the other people affected by my mental health crisis; the friends I pushed away, my helpless parents, my siblings, tv viewers who saw me disappear. Reading how Kevin used his story to start encouraging young people to choose life, and get help inspired me. It motivated me to keep sharing my story and showed me once again the power of speaking your truth. It has the ability to save lives.

When I heard Kevin had created a movie about his journey called ‘Suicide: The Ripple Effect’ I immediately wanted to see it. Kevin’s movie is being shown through a company called Gathr and people have to host a screening for it to come to a certain city. The host captains must market the movie, and sell a minimum number of tickets in order for the screening to come to the area. I had just missed a recent screening in Norfolk. Something crazy crossed my mind, maybe I could host a screening. I thought to myself, I have a small business Facebook page with like 300 followers I’ll use that to promote it.

Then I got scared.

My business Good Girl Chronicles started in 2016, and I’ve failed a lot since then. I’ve held many events where only two people came. Once I bought $150 dollars worth of pastries and coffee for an event  then had nothing to show for it but cute pictures. How could I host a movie screening, get 67 people to RSVP in advance, and then then pay $10 for it?

And, so I prayed. As God often does He answered by reminding me of a certain scripture. I remembered Joshua 1:9 “Have I not commanded you to be bold, and courageous….” God commands Joshua to step out on felt. Then I felt God say, “I can not bless what you do not step out on.” This was God urging me to be bold and courageous. You’re right God, I’ll never know if I can bring Kevin’s movie to Hampton Roads if I don’t ever try. This is where the boldness and courage come in.

So I went for it. I posted on social media, I created flyers, I sent press releases. And, like God said He blessed what I stepped out on. I was called in for an interview on a local lifestyle show called Coast Live, my flyers were shared dozens of times on social media, and by the night of the screening over 90 bought tickets to see the movie. The movie was powerful, sad, real, and relevant. So many people took an interest in suicide prevention training afterwards and shared heartbreaking experiences of suicide loss.

My interview with April Woodard from Coast Live

I hosted a second screening of Kevin’s movie in Lynchburg, Virginia 3 months later. This showing was even more important for me. Many of the attendants had seen me on television as a reporter, years before my suicide attempt. Before the movie showed I shared with them my personal struggle with mental illness, the suicide attempts, and what hosting Kevin’s movie meant to me. It felt incredible to share my truth with my former television viewers. It bonded us in a way my television career never had. Many of the people in the audience had lost someone to suicide or had survived an attempt themselves.

And, something unexpected happened The Ripple Effect film breathed new life to my once fledging storytelling business Good Girl Chronicles LLC. Since the screening I’ve dove into my business again. The success of the screenings has given me the confidence to start pursuing motivational speaking and consulting as a full time gig. I am working on going to graduate school in the spring for Strategic Communications and I’m hosting my own events.

Mentally Kevin’s movie reminded me again that suicide is never the answer to someone’s pain, everyone’s life is worth fighting for, and recovery is possible.

Thank you Kevin for boldly sharing your story and inspiring me to keep sharing mine. I hope I can meet you personally one day and thank you for your amazing work as a mental health advocate. We are the healthiest social media family in the game. Mental health recovery is a choice I make daily, because my happiness and health is worth it.

To learn more about Kevin Hines, his story, and advocacy go to www.kevinhinesstory.com or www.suicidetherippleeffect.com to host a screening in your area.

If you need someone to talk to or are struggling please reach out for help. The Suicide Prevention Lifeline is open 24/7