A little story (albeit copy and pasted from something I wrote a while ago) - In 2011 I worked with a young boy (lets call him Adam) who had been sexually, mentally and physically abused from the age of 5 (sadly, one of many). He was passed around from foster home to foster home, his birth family were all drug adicts; in short, much of his early life consisted of neglect beyond what most people will have ever experienced, witnessed or read about. Despite this, Adam was a lovely child. Whilst happy and playful for the most part, a detectable sadness hung over him. Occasionally, he would sit alone in the classroom, day-dreaming whilst looking at pictures of travel destinations on the computer, perhaps dreaming of a life in the future when he could explore the world; he'd never been away before. As is occasionally the case in my (previous) line of work, abused children tend to "zone in" on one particular person as a source of comfort; in the case of Adam, he chose me. For a child from such a tumultuous background, he was suprisingly articulate and we'd chat often. He'd tell me about his desire to become a doctor and how he loved Christmas because of all the toys that he'd receive.
One day he came into class with significant bruising running down much of the side of his body. As we were trained to do so, my team and I tried to determine how his injuries had occured. Rather than tell us, he launched into a violent attack against the staff; after which, his behaviour deteriorated significantly over the course of the next couple of years. Whereas once I was a target for his affection, now I was a target for his rage. I used to love my job, but that changed when every day was met with a violent attack by Adam. As the months rolled on, Adams behaviour deteriorated further. I remember one day in particular. He came into class with his head shaved; his curly blonde hair gone. The staff and I could smell that he'd been drinking. "We've lost him", my collegue said tearfully. I'll admit, I came close to leaving the job. But I didn't, because unlike every other person Adam had known, I wasn't going to give up on him.
In the summer of 2013 we arranged a camping trip for several of the most deprived children. Adam being one of them. It was a huge risk. All of them were extremely troubled and none of them had ever travelled beyond the confines of the region they lived, let alone camped out. Anxiety was high, but, as we set up our camp for the night, the children, possibly for the first time in their lives became, well, children. They laughed and played and even had a swim in the lake we were camped next to. Their problems a distant memory, replaced instead by just pure enjoyment. It was great to see. On the first night of the trip I was sat alone at the end of the jetty, looking off over the lake, relaxed and thankful that everything had gone well, when I heard footsteps approaching from behind. It was Adam. He sat down next to me. I don't want to lay this on too thick, but what he said to me will stay with me for the rest of my life. "Thanks", he said. "For what, dude?" I replied. "Because I'm happy."
As time went by, I moved on to a different job in a different sector. As much as I loved my time in support work, I felt as though I'd taken it as far as I could. On my last day, the children gave me a framed photograph of us all together on our camping trip. I heard recently that Adam had just completed his A-levels and is on track to studying medicine.
So, what point am I trying to make? I have nothing but the uttermost sympathy and respect for anyone who has had to endure any form of abuse. Despite my years working closely with children born into some of the darkest and most horrific levels of abuse, I still cannot fathom what they must be going through. But still, I simply cannot and will not accept that suicide is the only viable option for those with mental trauma; be it PTSD or otherwise. And yes, I'm aware of the notion of free choice and that it was her decision. Adam eventually told me how he got his bruises. His step-dad threw him down some stairs. That same day, he attempted suicide. I'm thankful he didn't succeed, and I know for a fact that he is to. To use an analogy, life is like a book made up of many chapters. The act of suicide is like slamming that book closed before discovering what might happen next.
Make of that what you will. I'm not here to debate this issue, just share a point of view.
