A New Face of Georgia – a population projections report for the Georgia Governor’s Office of Planning and Budget, detailing future demographics through 2050 across the state.
(All copy and graphics by Erica Hensley, from the Carl Vinson Institute of Government)
Three years ago today, my father took his own life. I struggled with whether or not to ease readers into that: “Three years ago, my dad died,” or “I lost my father and best friend three years ago today.” All true, while simultaneously hiding behind the truth.
I’ve spent the last three years easing friends, family and myself into it, and it hasn’t done us any good. As a result, I end up worrying more about other people’s feelings than my own—not wanting to upset them or open their eyes to the ubiquitous grief that is my daily reality. I’m vowing to stop that cycle today and be more honest about Dad, my reality and suicide in general.
I remember that day like it was yesterday. I was at work and my mom called wanting to stop by, which was strange because I hadn’t seen her in some time. The second she walked in the door, I knew something was wrong. She walked toward me hesitantly, yet determined—like someone who’s afraid of bugs trying to kill an elusive spider. Her facial expression and awkward gate alerted all of my internal instincts. Warning! Warning! This is not good.
A middle schooler named Chloe volunteered with me in the bookstore every Tuesday. We were organizing the science section as Mom approached. Knowing something was wrong, I led us away from Chloe, not wanting to worry her. It was a small bookstore, and Chloe and I were the lone inhabiters.
Ten seconds later I was collapsed sobbing on the floor, flanked by civil war and ancient history texts. For whatever reason, I didn’t ask how it happened and robotically picked myself up, told Chloe she should leave, and scribbled a note explaining the store was closing early and hastily taped it to the door. I never saw Chloe after that and still wonder what she must have thought about this grownup she looked up to thrashing about on the floor in a fit of panic.
It was on the car ride home that my mom told me she thought Dad had killed himself. Was she not sure? Was there ambiguity surrounding his death? No and no—she just didn’t know how to tell me, just like I don’t know how to tell you.
From what I pieced together that week, from first-hand accounts from Dad’s fiancé whom he lived with at the time (Mom and Dad had been divorced about two years at this point), after days of not being able to get out of bed due to chronic back pain and what seemed like acute anxiety and paranoia, he drove himself to his childhood home in Roswell that he owned and had lived in after the divorce, walked down into a corner room of the basement where his younger brother used to live, and shot himself in the head.
I didn’t know he had been hurting so—he lived with severe back pain most of my life and had recently entered into more intensive treatment for it. He was over three years sober and had recently quit smoking. He was getting married that Saturday and I was to be the best man. My speech, never given, still sits waiting in my journal. He was 55.
I used to obsess myself with the type and caliber of the gun. I don’t know why—I guess imagining I’d have more control over the situation if I knew which he had used out of the many he’d owned since childhood. A few weeks after his death as I was immersing myself in estate paperwork, the Fulton County medical examiner called. I could hear the anxiety in her voice as she asked my intentions for his belongings. I was his only child and as he was in-between spouses, my name was on all the forms.
Dad and me, on the last Christmas we spent together—it was always both of our favorite holidays. His smile coveys his approach to life that he relearned through his sobriety.
“The gun, you mean?” I asked more candidly than I had broached the subject prior, as I had already been given his wallet, keys and phone. I could hear her choke back tears but I let mine flow, grateful to finally be able to talk to someone about it. She explained that I could come get it or she could burn it with other unwanted belongings of the recently deceased. I elected to burn it. I remember getting a piece of paper detailing the incinerated “evidence,” and as strict as my filing system is, I have no idea where the letter went. I think it was a .45 pistol, but I’m not sure and I’m ready to let that obsession go.
I’ve never written about this publicly. Some have suggested I do so, and others that I’m not ready. I’m not certain that I’m ready, but I’m certain that I’m ready to stop treading water. I’ve neglected publishing about it not because I’m ashamed or worried about the effect. But because I’ve held onto the grief as tightly as possible, fearing that if I shared his story, I would start to lose it one piece at a time, and subsequently lose him. Grief and memories are all I have remaining.
I’ve never been in denial about the finite nature of death, nor the violence of his death.
But it is that sudden, decisive violence that makes it harder to talk about—and that which makes it so uncomfortable for people to hear. Death is already hard enough to cope with, but purposeful self-inflicted death scares the hell out of people. Fear and insecurity then drive the choice to remain uninformed about suicide. And the jokes.
Thus, my most pressing desire—for you to stop using suicide in jest. Don’t say, “I’d rather kill myself than …,” or “just shoot me now.” Every time a survivor of suicide hears those phrases or some passing remark about death being a better option than whatever someone has on their plate, which is usually daily, our world crashes down around us. Sometimes you’ll notice or sometimes we are so used to it that we don’t even visibly react. But inside, we’re reliving the instant that our world changed forever.
Avoid cliches about jumping off a bridge or in front of a bus. Say what you mean instead. Try giving your reality the accuracy it deserves without tossing around accosting hyperbole that most certainly is a friend, coworker or family member’s reality.
I don’t say this to shame anyone or have you walk on semantic eggshells. That’s the last thing I want. But I want—I need, rather—you to understand that the words you choose to use matter. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been offended, and then after awhile not so offended, by people’s carelessness with words. I’ve developed sensory calluses.
But it took me three years to get here—and the first year was rough. Really rough. Every time someone, even friends who knew what I was going through, mimicked shooting themselves with the pointer-finger-and-thumb-to-temple motion, I’d literally almost faint or throw up.
I’d often excuse myself to sit in a quiet space and try to release or escape the anxiety that the simple thoughtless joke (because it is a joke, only in this scenario, I’m the butt of it) causes. Sometimes they’d catch on and apologize, most times not. It’s not an apology I’m looking for, but for you to realize the impact that your words and actions have on survivors of a loved ones’ suicide.
One thing nobody tells you about grief, is that it comes in waves and often ebbs and flows completely unexpectedly. In the beginning, good days meant I thought of him once an hour; bad days, constantly. Now, not a day passes that I don’t think of him, but it’s mostly in positive ways and the bad days are less frequent. But the good days still come crashing down when you joke about suicide. When a once beloved TV show character makes a passing, meant to be sarcastic, remark about taking her own life. When you ask me how my dad died, rather than who he was or what he was like. Those turn the good days bad and the bad days worse. We all have triggers. I’ve got a bunch now.
My mom worked long and erratic hours, so from an early age it was Dad and me against the world. I was raised on a golf course that he maintained and spent countless hours in-tow across the greens.
It’s an inconvenience to be held accountable—especially to one’s words, actions, and even friends’ situations. It’s hard to chose empathy and acknowledge unknowing over easy words and jokes. But when we use untrue words, whether in jest or for hyperbolic effect, we are stealing someone else’s words, lives and worst fears turned reality.
Just think twice next time, and remember that the words we use matter, more so than we often realize.
Clarke County High School senior Desmond Sorrells doesn’t play football anymore. The eighteen-year-old former wide receiver and defensive back suffered his fourth concussion in October and shortly after decided to retire early from the game.
While media attention has exponentially increased in the last few years, concussion coverage varies from cursory to sensational, often lacking thorough investigation. Experts agree that concussions pose a serious public health risk, particularly to young athletes who play contact sports. It is also clear however, if they happen infrequently, are taken seriously and healed properly, concussions are a manageable aspect of play .
The looming threat lies in organizations’ ability and willingness to aid athletes in self-reporting invisible symptoms, and to institute rigorous protocol that properly manage and minimize the causality of potential brain injuries.
Sorrells sustained his career-ending concussion in a game against Winder-Barrow. It was a damp and chilly Friday night just like any other this season and Sorrells was on defense. Early in the second quarter, he prepared for a reverse play that he knew by heart. He lunged for the tackle and then, darkness. He doesn’t remember anything until waking up in an ambulance.
After Sorrells didn’t get up from the play, Clarke Central’s certified athletic trainer, Ryan Johnson, assessed him on the field. He stood up shortly after, but still disoriented, was directly transported to Athens Regional hospital where he was diagnosed with a concussion.
The game tape shows Sorrells sustaining a blow to the head from an opponent’s knee, but the details aren’t important to him anymore.
“Before the concussion this year, I was hoping to play football in college,” Sorrells said. But after sustaining his fourth concussion in the last five years, he decided to leave the game for good.
“It hurt to leave football,” especially in the middle of the season, he said. But with the support of his family and teammates, Sorrells decided to prevent further brain damage while he still could.
Clarke Central recently created a robust concussion reporting system and recovery protocol. According to varsity football and soccer coach Chris Hulse, any symptom indicative of potential injury leads to removal from play. Then the athletic trainer assesses symptoms and decides if the athlete is cleared to return to play. If not, the student is sent to a physician and if diagnosed, enters the recovery protocol that involves at least a week off from play, potentially school, and must pass a previously set baseline test before returning to activity.
The high school’s athletic department works with the University of Georgia, which sits less than a mile down the road, to coordinate facilities. UGA lends its thorough baseline test equipment to Clarke Central each August to test the high school athletes’ “return to play” standards. The equipment, which runs over $65,000, tests cognitive, balance and visual functions and records individual responses. The same test is then applied a day after concussion diagnosis, and at intermittent timeframes until the athlete meets his or her pre-concussed standard.
“We are fortunate that we have a certified athletic trainer here on campus,” Hulse said of Johnson, who is at every football practice and game, watching for symptomatic behavior. According to Hulse, even if the student doesn’t vocalize symptoms, Johnson prepares for what students might not recognize as a potential brain injury.
Clarke Central’s infrastructure relies heavily on athlete education first, and extensive staff training second. The protocol depends on students self-reporting their symptoms, but institutes a backup plan that requires constant staff vigilance to remove a potentially concussed athlete from play.
Not all high schools have the resources to pay an onsite athletic trainer and often rely on county-wide staff who are expected to serve several schools simultaneously, Hulse explained. His most frustrating moment as a coach came during an away soccer match, when one of his athletes suffered a severe concussion and the opposing school’s administration told him that their athletic trainer was across the county.
Constantly educating students is vital, said Hulse, but for universal concussion management and prevention, there needs to be a culture of concussion communication and in-place protocol at every level of play. Planning cannot prevent every dangerous play or concussion, but constantly teaching proper technique and being prepared will help, he said.
UGA’s Senior Associate Athletic Director and Sports Medicine program director Ron Courson agrees, and said every high school needs to coordinate a robust healthcare infrastructure for contact sports to secure a safe future for young athletes.
But education alone is not enough, said Courson, who is the first to admit that football is facing a concussion crisis and that prevention is the only way to tackle the problem.
Prevention requires research and financial resources, which UGA secured last year through a Department of Defense and NCAA concussion education grant. The grant funds equipment that connects to athletes’ helmets and tracks types of plays and hits that most frequently cause concussions, said Courson.
Courson’s department administers baseline tests for every NCAA Division I student athlete at UGA, and mandates strict return-to-play procedures.
The NCAA dictates specific mandates as well, but according to Courson, also gives universities leeway to dictate their own institutional medical policy. The autonomy is nice for universities that already have concussion protocol in place, but can be detrimental for student athletes at schools without as progressive of an approach.
“They want you to have a written concussion policy and a physician to clear students,” said Courson. In addition, the NCAA also mandates annual student-athlete education.
Other than the few required mandates, the NCAA provides more forgiving return-to-play guidelines that allow universities that lack UGA’s vast resources to administer less comprehensive baseline tests.
According to Courson, concussion rates at UGA have gone up in the past few years. He attributes this not to more concussed athletes, but to more students reporting symptoms, and to a more detailed diagnosis process.
Club and intramural sports constitute the largest chunk of athletic activity on a Division I-size university, and according to Courson, see an inordinate amount of the injuries, but tend to not have the same access to resources as the varsity student athletes do.
Kristy Carter, 21, plays midfield attack wing for the Kennesaw State University women’s club lacrosse team. After a concussion that left her unconscious on the field, KSU club athletics trainers advised she sit out from physical activity and academics for a few weeks, which quickly turned into over a month.
After Carter’s concussion, she used a baseline test from 2013 as her standard for returning to play. KSU mandates every club athlete take a baseline test to join a team, but yearly assessments are not required.
Carter exemplifies how athletic departments train athletes to treat concussions – seriously. But even so, her road to recovery was rocky at best. Her status as a club athlete was not as obvious as that of a varsity athlete, and some professors didn’t readily accept the athletic trainer’s note excusing her from class.
“He told me that I didn’t look like I had a concussion,” and that she wasn’t excused from a test, Carter said of a professor. After attempting to go to class during her specified recovery period, Carter said her symptoms returned, and she felt like she had been concussed all over again.
She took more time off at the trainer’s behest and was finally cleared to return to class after Thanksgiving break, six weeks after her initial injury. Carter said the KSU campus would benefit from a concussion awareness campaign, which would hopefully prevent miscommunications like hers that prolong the healing process.
Carter is not alone in her alienation and frustration.
To heal from a concussion, the brain needs rest. But according to Courson, that doesn’t always come naturally to athletes who are used to being in motion. There is naturally a bit of cognitive dissonance at play when an athlete who has trained since youth to utilize their body at its highest potential is told to sit down and turn off.
Courson explained the colossal nature of advising an institution about concussion awareness. Mandated mental and physical rest, in addition to the invisible nature of the injury, create a perfect storm for students, faculty and staff who aren’t taught proper concussion protocol.
“We need to communicate with academics,” said Courson, who advocates to his student athletes that “returning to learn” requires the same healing process as return-to-play.
Laura Bierema, PhD and associate academic dean of UGA’s College of Education, specializes in organizational and cultural change and recently began applying that to learned concussion reporting behavior.
Instigating behavioral change in sports culture so heavily ingrained in a touch image can be difficult, she said, but not impossible.
UGA and Clarke Central set the bar high for stringent concussion reporting standards and recovery norms. Leagues and schools would do well to utilize their methods and follow suit. According to Bierema, institutional and cultural initiatives catch on best when grassroots leadership in the field excels.
It took the NFL multiple former player deaths and lawsuits to begin to get in front of the issue, and while recent media coverage has begun to praise players who protect their head rather than punish it, it is unclear rather the trend will stick and prevent future injuries.
Even with the NFL’s admittedly more adequate approach to concussion regulation, confusion surrounding on-field management is still pervasive. The inconsistency inevitably trickles down to young athletes’ perception of their own injuries, Bierema said.
Last month St. Louis Rams quarterback Case Keenum sustained a concussion when his head hit the turf during a violent tackle. Video shows him grasping his helmet in pain and unable to balance well enough to stand up. Play didn’t stop and Keenum stayed in the game.
The media severely criticized the Rams handling of the situation, but ultimately the NFL didn’t hand down a punishment and everyone carried on. Except for Keenum, who spent two weeks recovering, and offensive coordinator Frank Cignetti, who lost his job over the incident.
Physicians specializing in concussion treatment agree that healing time varies depending on severity of the injury, but that immediate assessment and removal from play is the only way to kickstart the process.
For organizations to foster real change, consequences must be in place that punish failure to act, Bierema said. Accordingly, The NFL and the NCAA will have to institute a robust system of positive reinforcement for teams following concussion protocol, and negative consequences, whether financial or otherwise, that punish those who fail to act quickly and adequately.
Sorrells still hopes to attend college through either an athletic or academic scholarship. After being cleared to return to athletics, he is back to basketball and track practice, and his AP classes.
Disoriented and en route to the hospital after his last concussion, he told his mom that he was tired of injuring himself and ready to leave football for good. When he regained full consciousness, his mom asked with bated breath if he meant what he said earlier.
“There’s more to life than football,” he responded. Both Sorrells and his mom are happy with the decision to hang up his helmet, and look forward to an injury-free future. Hopefully.
© Erica Hensley, 2015
ericahensley 