Preventing Suicide: Out of Darkness Community Walk 2012

Preventing Suicide: Out of Darkness Community Walk 2012

Winston-Salem, NC — This Saturday, friends, families, and neighbors will walk to honor loved ones and increase awareness, education, and prevention of suicide through the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention Out of Darkness Community Walk.

Remembering Lindsay

One of my best friends from childhood, Lindsay K. Apple, took her own life on October 25th, 2010. Nearly one year after her death, I wrote the following blog post in honor her legacy. This Saturday, Lindsay’s family and friends will gather to remember her and walk to save lives through the Out of Darkness Community Walk at Tanglewood Park in Winston-Salem, NC.

How You Can Help

Read Lindsay’s story below and join me in supporting Mary Simpson and Mara Apple O’Neil from Team Loving Lindsay this Saturday. Your gift could save a life. Thank you for your generosity.

Suicide: A Story Ends Too Soon
(Original Blog Post Published on September 16th, 2011)
Lindsay, our best friend Kate, and I at our induction to the National Honor Society (circa 1997)

In Memory of Lindsay K. Apple (1981-2010)

Logically, you know people will die. But you hope they will take their own sweet time. You imagine they will live well and vibrantly into their 90s so that you, selfishly, can have all the years you want to share tender moments and precious goodbyes.

On October 25, 2010, my dear childhood friend Lindsay Apple took her own life.

Like a fast-moving book of prose, Lindsay lived 29 years of a fascinating, successful life that led everyone around her to believe the best was yet to come. She was a well-educated professional with a wonderfully supportive family. She was engaged to be married. She had held several prestigious university positions and had devoted her time to volunteerism, travel, and missions. But her story—the one with us—ends there.

Lindsay was one of the first friends I made as an awkward 6th grader new to the town of Reidsville, North Carolina. Lindsay, a generous and much-less awkward middle schooler, was a brilliant student, artist, writer, and all-around funny lady. We became fast friends and, along with a tight circle of confidants, shared the 1990s. In the journey from 6th to 12th grade, Lindsay kept us all laughing as we ditched our over-sized t-shirts and alternative rock to become more sophisticated young women (or so we thought).

We shared growth, birthday parties, sleepovers, nicknames (Loula Biscuit Knee!), teenage crises, high school jobs, and boy troubles. Lindsay’s sense of humor and gift of encouragement kept us all sane. Her favorite way to cope with teenage drama: dragging her (very proper and Southern) mother’s red leather jacket (reminiscent of “Thriller”) from the closet to prance around in it while we’d roll on the carpet laughing. Lindsay knew subjecting us to a pale skinny girl dancing in a too-big-for-her Michael Jackson get-up while shouting, “I’m Mary Florence!” would get us every time.

After high school, Lindsay attended UNC with our best friend Kate, while I went my own way to Salem College. At the time, it was difficult to comprehend how distant friendships can become when you don’t see one another each day at school. I made frequent visits to Carolina, where Lindsay and Kate introduced me to their new friends. I was jealous of their exciting university life–which stood in stark contrast to my small, isolated women’s college.

During the summers, we’d reunite for outings to Greensboro, the closest city to our rural town. In rare moments, Lindsay would share her struggles: her parents’ divorce and subsequent move out of her childhood home, boy troubles, and finding the balance of her dreams with the realities of job searching and being a grown-up. As years went by, she shared less and less, perhaps not wanting the rest of us to see how messy life had become—though our own lives were equally chaotic with the growth edges of our 20s.

Lindsay would have been 30-years-old on September 11, 2011.  I always imagined that she would have been one of those people who would have taken her own sweet time to leave this Earth. I imagined us having old-lady tea parties with fine china, still laughing over Mary Florence’s red leather jacket. I had imagined Lindsay would have lived well and vibrantly into her 90s so that I, selfishly, could have had all the years I wanted to share tender moments and precious goodbyes.

Suicide is a devastating event.

Lindsay’s sister, Mara Apple O’Neil, served as a team captain last Saturday in the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP)  “Out of Darkness Community Walk” in Winston-Salem. Mara, along with team “Loving Lindsay” met and exceeded their $5,000 goal. Proceeds from the walk help the AFSP conduct research and provide education and prevention initiatives “designed to reduce loss of life from suicide.”

Mara describes the struggles of suicide survivors:

“… let me tell you that amid the sadness, guilt, and regret surrounding the suicide of a loved one, there is also anger. Anger towards the person who has forcibly removed himself or herself from our lives without first consulting us. Anger that he or she has altered the rest of our lives, and the rest of our spouses’ lives, and our childrens’ lives, and our parents’ lives, and didn’t give any of us a say-so in the matter. Resentment of the loved one’s unilateral decision-making for all his or her friends and family is all part of the pain that complicates the healing for suicide survivors … Forgiveness is what we must strive for if we are to move forward and keep living.”

There’s so much I want to say to Lindsay. I want to ask her “Why?”, and I want to know what we, the friends who knew her so well so long ago, could have done. I want to tell her, too, how much I admired and loved her.

If she were here today, I know she’d encourage my dreams as we’d joke about how superior her writing is to mine. I imagine, too, we’d still be laughing about awkward school moments, boys, 1990s fashion, Ecto-Coolers,  listening to Blind Melon’s “No Rain” on repeat, and of course, Mary Florence’s jacket.

If you or someone you know has been affected by suicide, please consider donating to the AFSP. Your time and contribution may very well save a life.

Editor’s Note: I just realized that Lindsay’s last blog post (October 23rd, 2010) featured a link to a person performing Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” dance with finger puppets, complete with the red leather jacket. Chills. Thanks, Lin.

The perfect chalk image for Lindsay drawn by her cousin, Mary Margaret West, at the 2011 “Out of Darkness” community walk.

5 thoughts on “Preventing Suicide: Out of Darkness Community Walk 2012”

  • Dana, I just enjoyed reading this — again. In the wake of Sandy Hook Elementary, and as the mother of a Kindergartner and a preschooler: I am so grateful that we had Lindsay for 29 years rather than for 6 or 7. Suicide and the loss of my sweet sister are devastating, but there are horrors yet even more unimaginable. Hopefully this most recent American disaster will help to bring the importance of adequate and accessible mental health care back to the forefront, where it belongs. Congratulations on your many accomplishments and I hope you and yours have a very joyful holiday season! xo, Mara

  • P.S. I can only imagine Lindsay greeting every one of those sweet Sandy Hook babies in Heaven, after Jesus and their own family members of course, and giving them wonderful Aunt Lindsay hugs and reassurances with stuffed animals and other very soft things! She was so good at that and would want all of those children to feel safe, warm, and comforted.

    • Mara:

      Thank you for reading and posting these precious words. You are so wise to see gratitude for Lindsay’s life in the midst of tragedy. You’ve helped us remember how important it is to appreciate the moments we have with our loved ones.

      It is a relief to picture Lindsay in Heaven, greeting the tiny ones, offering hugs and reassurances (and laughter, too!)–just as she did with us here. I like that image; I will hold it in my heart this holiday season. Thank you.

      Thinking of you all this Christmas, and every day, as you continue to navigate the journey of grief.

      All my love,

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