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Once a month, we sit in a church basement and talk about suicide. The purpose of the HOPE Coalition of Boulder County is to prevent suicides in our community, but that work waits until after each has shared. Many of us are recovering from the suicide of a family member. Stigma shrouds any conversation about suicide and we push aside that veil.

"He had a wild laugh that even he couldn't contain and a heart so big that he couldn't keep it from bursting out of his chest."

This is how Baeli Wein, a high school junior, remembers her brother, who died of a heroin overdose in July. When her mother told her that Mason ("Bug", "Best") was gone, Baeli grieved, unable to eat or sleep. She knew she was loved and that her entire family was held with tenderness by their community, but she was numb. At his funeral, Mason was remembered for honesty, art, music, and helping anyone he knew in any way he could. Baeli began to formulate her response to his death.

When we watch our loved ones go to war, it's often with the awareness that they will be at risk. At that moment, your politics are immaterial. Maybe there are tears in your eyes, or maybe a lump in your throat, as you watch a person that matters to you a great deal step into the plane. At that moment, all of life's fragility seems to come rushing into your awareness. You imagine the worst and pray for the best, hoping that they will escape all danger and return home safe to you.

Mental illness runs in my family. Those are hard words to write, for many reasons, but this statement begs the question of who I'm talking about. This column is about the enduring stigma of mental illness, but even writing those words may invite a level of scrutiny and judgment.

Not long ago, a very short article in the Daily Camera reported that the Boulder County Coroner's Office had declared Lara Diesh's death a suicide. Lara, a New Vista High School student, was by all accounts a smart, talented, beautiful young woman. You don't have to have a very vivid imagination to imagine the sadness and loss that her family is experiencing.

The rock I am sitting on is cold, my children's faces are confused. The counselor said to leave the house when he gets angry but it's 7:30 a.m. and we left without our coats. The children ask why we can't go home where it is warm but I can't forget the fear that flashed in my daughter's eyes as he loomed closer to me, shouting. I can't stop thinking about every time my father trapped me in a corner as a child, screaming angry, unintelligible words, and other words that were all too clear. I guess my father was right; I am stupid to have chosen this man.