‘You can tell me anything.’

Note: The following talks of suicide

In the past few weeks, there’ve been two suicides impacting the small region where I live. One of them, a friend’s Father.

The first ever death I experienced was that of a dear friend who suicided. I was 17. She was 17. Year 12. The absolute prime of our lives.

I returned from exeat weekend (exeat is a long weekend that boarders at boarding school had in the middle of term to allow them to head home to family) and walked in the door of the boarding house. Happy as Larry.

I said goodbye to my parents and started walking to my room. I was excited to be back. I LOVED boarding school (side note: give your kids an opportunity to go to boarding school if you can! I’m a huge advocate – anyway that spiel is for another time).

My friend Laura stopped me – ‘Arnna. Sally is gone.’

I don’t remember the words that followed.

What I do remember is throwing my sunglasses and running – barefoot across the gravel and screaming.

The shocked look on other boarders’ faces as they responded to my screams a blur in my peripheral vision.

My heart pounded. Thoughts swirled: ‘But she is so happy’, ‘This can’t be true’, ‘I spoke to her before she left’, ‘We just belted out Celine’, ‘No, no, no, no, no’.

I ran to my parents. They would make it all better. But they couldn’t. No one could. Sally was gone.

The next ten days were some of the most horrific yet special memories of my time at boarding school.

Sitting vigil around candles, playing guitar, singing songs, and going to Chapel and talking with Father Ken Beer (yes that is what his name was!).

Ex-boarding students returning to grieve. Hugs. Lenny Kravitz. Dave Matthews. The Waifs. Tears. Music. Questions. No answers. Grief. Loss. Newness. Oldness. Why? How come? Where?

That was the 8th March 1999.

Her picture still hangs on my wall. A photo at our recreation Woodstock rip off ‘Brentstock’ where Sally and I had sat in a channel sharing a bottle of Passion Pop, then lay in our tent talking about the “hot boys”.

For a long time, I found reconciling Sally’s death challenging.

Even writing this now, I feel the tears well and the emotion pierce my throat. I hear Sally’s voice and feel the stones beneath my feet when I ran to make it all go away.

If only, hey?

If only I’d have thought to say – ‘Hey Sal, you know you can tell me anything, yeah?’

Maybe she would’ve opened up about what was going on for her.

Suicide was rarely spoken about when I was young. But sadly, deaths from suicide then peppered the next twenty years of my life. Young men, young women – where it all just became too much.

Maybe it’s time to change the dialogue from ‘Are you doing ok?’ to ‘You know you can talk to me about anything, yeah?’ when chatting to your mates. Making you their safe space.

What about if we took it a step further and taught our kids from day dot that they can talk about whatever they want?

Nothing is a secret.

That children are no longer just to be ‘seen and not heard’ – that their voice matters; what they say matters.

So, tell your two-year-old that they can tell you anything. And bloody well listen when they start to speak.

Put down your phones. Turn away from the TV. And if you can’t listen right then and there, acknowledge that they want to speak and organise a moment in the next hour or so to make that time.

Listen to the mundane.

Listen to the ‘Hey Mum, Bella tried to trick me and tell me she didn’t know where the taps were. Silly Bella’ stories from your two-year-old.

Listen to the ‘Mum, so today we painted, and we learnt the alphabet, and Cindy was my friend and and and and and…’.

Because one day, those stories will turn into ‘Hey Mum, Johnnie is being really nasty to my friend’, or ‘I don’t feel happy today’. And, maybe, ‘Mum, I’ve got a problem and I don’t know what to do about it.’

Kids must feel listened to. They must know that you care for them to open up to you when it matters the most.

If you don’t listen to the everyday stuff now – they’re not going to come to you with the big stuff.

So, tell them they can talk to you.

And when they hit puberty – say it to them every freaking day.

And if you’re not the one that they confide in, make sure they have an Aunty or Uncle (faux or real) who they can talk to.

It’s the secrets that are dangerous.

The ‘Ooohh, I can’t talk about that as I’ll get in trouble’, the ‘They don’t care or listen to me’ and the stigma that it’s weak to speak that’s creating a society of people that sit in pain, unable to reach for help. Paralysed by fear and stigma.

Right now, the mental health system is top-heavy and reactive.

Workers are underpaid and overworked. Conditions are poor and waitlists are huge. The system is doing the best it can, but the work needs to start earlier – much, much earlier. From birth.

Early childhood and pre-school are the golden time – the time where we shape our kids and what their lives will be.

So, start talking to your kids young.

Be honest. Be open and real.

Kids aren’t stupid – they’re so much more perceptive than what us ‘grown-ups’ (or grow-nuts as Billy calls us) give them credit for.

Call a penis a penis, a vagina a vagina. Be honest when they ask a question. Listen to their calls for attention, help, love, and support.

They’re not necessarily going to say ‘Hey – over here – I need you to pay me attention’. They’re going to ask for it in covert ways – a bit of risk taking, withdrawal, excessive gaming, overuse of social media, changes in sleep patterns, attitude, behaviour – the list goes on.

Be present.

When you are there. BE THERE.

Take an interest in your kids, their words, their unspoken communication, and their lives. Talk to their teachers, watch them play sport, sit with their friends. Get to know them. Validate their feelings.

And please contact someone if you’re finding life challenging or even if you’re not. I’m a great believer in everyone having a counsellor or someone to nut things out with – regardless of mental health status.