POEMS OF INTROSPECTION ON THE TOPIC OF SUICIDE

A DIGITAL CHAPBOOKBY CHRIS G. CAULKINS

DEDICATION

To Mary Joanne Strub Caulkins and Jeremy Joseph Caulkins. You are my reason, my motivation, and my driving force. I love you both. May others be helped through you.

-CGC

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The idea for this book was born in a classroom at Metropolitan (Metro) State University in St. Paul, Minnesota during a course called the Chapbook Workshop. At Metro State I was completing a second master’s degree. This time around I decided to complete a Master of Liberal Studies (MLS), which is essentially a graduate degree in interdisciplinary studies and research. Previously I earned an Associate of Arts in Liberal Arts, an Associate in Applied Science in Paramedic Technology, a Bachelor of Science in Emergency Medical Services, a Bachelor of Arts in Individualized Studies with a Focus on the Anthropology of Disasters, a Master of Public Health, and a Graduate Certificate in Career and Technical Education

This second graduate degree gave me a chance to learn by drawing from a wide array of fields. The real world is not limited to one discipline or field of study, so this degree provided me with the opportunity to draw on my past experience and education while continuing to study for my thesis in a manner that was much less limited than conventional academics. My thesis was to study the higher than average suicide rates in the United States Intermountain West using a primarily anthropological, psychological, and biological approach. The suicide rates in the Intermountain West

appear to be correlated with altitude. The higher the altitude, the higher the rates. Having said this, correlation does not necessarily mean causation. My hypothesis is that a syndemic is in action. A syndemic is two or more physiological factors compounded by cultural issues. You will notice a mention of cowboy culture in at least one of my works. After conducting 24 days of fieldwork in Wyoming, ground zero for suicide, I have come to believe that cowboy culture is a part of the puzzle in the Intermountain West.

I had done a great deal of research and was on the cusp of completing the MLS when I decided that a more creative course would allow me to think about my thesis in a more left brained way, which I hoped would open the door to possibilities or considerations I had not thought about before and allow me to back up from my topic and reflect back on all that I had learned. The Chapbook Workshop was the perfect course. Half of the class was learning about how to write poetry and the other half was instruction on hand-making books. The experience culminates in a portfolio of poems and another of books. The final project is to create a book with a select poem in it. I wrote so many poems and constructed so many

PREFACE

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books that I thought it a shame not to be able to showcase more than one of my creations. This book is that showcase.

All of my poems reflect my thesis and, as such, are all on the topic of suicide. Why such macabre subject matter you may be asking yourself. The simple answer is that I want to understand and prevent suicide by contributing to the body of knowledge on the phenomenon. Suicide is widely misunderstood and is a very complex and interdisciplinary health problem that is a leading cause of death. Suicide not only deprives the world of an important human being, but also leaves a wake of collateral damage that strikes those who love the victim.

As a paramedic for nearly two decades, I have responded to more suicides, attempted suicides, and behavioral health emergency calls than I can recall. At one point I tracked the total number of calls relating to mental illness at my ambulance service and came up with seven percent of the volume in a given year, which is likely lower than the actual figure.

I addition to my occupational experience, I have suffered personally from depression, anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder, and post traumatic stress disorder. I can attest to the toll mental illness takes on the afflicted. My family members have also suffered. As such I am no stranger to eating disorders, schizophrenia, seasonal affective disorder, psychosis, and substance abuse. On March 5, 2003 I lost my wife, Mary, when she suicided after a long and difficult battle with mental illness. On October 16, 2008 lightening struck twice when my brother, Jeremy, died after a private and well hidden struggle with mental illness. In the years since, I have spent a great deal of time putting the pieces of my life back together and studying suicide at every opportunity and from multiple angles. I will

not allow Mary, Jeremy, and the over 1,000,000 people worldwide who suicide every year to have died in vain. This is personal.

The poems in this book are my reflections on different aspects of suicide. It is my sincere hope the reader will gain understanding, and may I be so bold as to hope, some measure of peace.

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“And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd.

‘Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud.

And I know that you’ll use them however you want to.”

-Anna C. Nalick

POEMS

A SHARED JOURNEY

The second Saturday of the month arrives.Good and bad mix.We are here. We survive.Glad to be found. Sad for the macabre.Each member shares an incomparable story.Hearts ache. Some burst.In the end we all hurt.Through each account wounds slowly heal.As it turns out, our tales have silent power.Phoneme. Morpheme.Word to sentence. We grok.The icy grip is released.We travel the same road. The mileposts vary.Forward. Backward.Not a linear trip.Our progress really never stops.We struggle to understand complexity.No one reason.A perfect storm erupts.Many we love it sweeps away.The phenomenon knows not a boundary.Not sex or age,race or ethnicity,nor socioeconomics.The time is neigh. Paths diverge another month.Far from alone.We walk until next meet.Thirty days we again repeat.

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AUDIO 1.1

A DAY IN MY LIFE

Muscles stretch and pull as I walk down the stairs.

The smell of strong coffee permeates my nostrils as I sip the caffeinated morning elixir.

The taste of freshly ground beans strikes a pleasant note on my palate.

“Real” men don’t put stuff in their coffee.

The voice of my father echoes in my head.

Real mean drive trucks, too.

Sunglasses shield my eyes from the golden orb of the east.

I think as I drive.

Drive as I think.

What adventures await me today?

Mary enters my mind. Jeremy comes to the forefront, too.

They are always there.

Sometimes closer, sometimes further.

Cool air strikes my face.

It is hot outside.

The reverberation of traffic ebbs and flows.

Time warps and I arrive.

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AUDIO 1.2

Silence envelops after the electronic click of the door unlocking.

For a while I am the solitary occupant.

Others arrive.

Sing-song good mornings exchange.

The computer hums to life. Electrons form visually.

Hungry minds await.

I have energy. I have a plan.

Today, we learn from each other. I as much as they.

They as much as they are willing and able.

Time warps.

Knowledge flies around the room.

Those of the future we save.

Those of the past we remember.

Jeremy and Mary come for a visit again.

It is all over but the paperwork.

I reflect.

I am lost in my thoughts while home draws near.

My learning begins again.

This time in another role.

I learn anew.

I hungrily grab kernels to bring back to my other place.

Exhaustion overcomes me. I hit the wall.

Supine, my eyes become blind to this world.

Mary and Jeremy come to me again.

They are two of millions.

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THE PSYCHACHE

I respond to the common question that is often a suggestion or an outright insinuation that those who die by suicide only think of themselves and my chest aches as I spew forth the names of Cobain, Plath, van Gogh, and Hemingway, Monroe, Delp, and Belden, Villechaize, Crane, andWoolf, Nero, and many others who seemed to have it all- talent, fame, and for many, wealth. Are YOU selfish? Imagine you cannot die and you can feel the immense pain as my hammer descends on your head with an agonizing bone crunching sensation that happens every five minutes without hope of the blows stopping. I ask if you would be thinking of your family and friends, ormoney or possessions as the thump recurs again and again. Faceless voices say, “you are selfish to sit there and think only of yourself.”

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AUDIO 1.3

LOSSALGIA

If you have experienced loss through suicide

you first feel as though your heart is going to explode.

Then over time the place where that heaviness does reside

changes from an unbearable pain to a lesser load.

There is now a constant yet tolerable ache inside

as you continue down that never-ending road.

You then realize that during your lifelong ride

all of that pain you expected to cause your being to erode

and serve as cause for others to deride,

instead allows the memories of the lost upon your brain to encode

rather than submit to the unconscious and hide.

Interesting how pain seems to relate to pleasantness as an antipode,

yet can help one better appreciate the here, the now, and the brighter side.

The result is an outlook change causing one to live in a different mode.

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AUDIO 1.4

A REAL COWBOY

A real cowboy lives a certain way.

A real cowboy thinks a certain way.

A real cowboy pulls himself up by the boot straps.

A real cowboy might be a girl.

A real cowboy doesn’t need any help.

A real cowboy doesn’t talk about feelings.

A real cowboy smokes a lot.

A real cowboy swallows chew.

A real cowboy drinks hard.

A real cowboy shoots guns.

A real cowboy takes risks.

A real cowboy is hopeless.

A real cowboy is isolated.

A real cowboy is angry and gets into fights.

A real cowboy is in danger of losing purpose.

A real cowboy is at risk for suicide.

A real cowboy sees depression as a sign of weakness.

A real cowboy dies and the other cowboys hide the truth.

A real cowboy can still be real after breaking free.

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AUDIO 1.5

THE PERFECT STORM

Standing in the rain of sorrow we ponder what went so horribly wrong. A person has died by their own hand. A person we love whose life was far from long. Surely there must be a reason. A root cause of this calamity. We try in vain to find that singular cause. Sometimes we blame others. At times it is a friend or a relative. Or we accuse co-workers or lovers. It must have been because of money problems. Maybe it was embarrassment or harassment. Or the death of another. Perhaps even the loss of a cherished pet. The stress of the job. A failure to get along. Abuse--sexual, physical, or mental. Drug abuse. A chemical imbalance in the brain. A cultural restraint or expectation. Maybe the witnessing of a traumatic event. An inability to not take offense. An extreme sensitivity to the world. A struggle with disease or the aftermath of a serious injury. A result of chronic pain. Bad grades. A lack of belonging. Hopelessness, purposelessness, and inability to find meaning. Then it comes to us. This is complex. One thing alone is rarely ever the cause. An event can tip the balance or be the one too many straws. But that alone is not enough. A combined effect of many factors. Factors that swirl and churn, collide and strike. At just the right (or wrong) time. A perfect storm. No one cause. No one person to blame. We stand in the rain. in the aftermath of that perfect storm.

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AUDIO 1.6

SUICIDE MYTHS

Mad Cow Disease is the most selfish act.

Talking to someone about newborn jaundice will put the idea in their head.

Bacterial meningitis can often be narrowed down to one explaining fact.

Only the lowest socioeconomic classes attempt ear infections and end up dead.

If someone is going to die by H1N1 flu there is nothing you can do-they are trapped.

Those who die of undulant fever most often leave a letter.

Those contemplating peripheral arterial disease can just pull themselves up by the bootstrap.

One can be saved from Legionnaires’ Disease by working on character flaws to get better.

A[n] AIDS attempt is nothing but a “cry for help”-a load of crap.

There are always clear warning signs of tapeworm infection to be viewed.

Vaginal or vulvar cancer is only a concern for the immoral or sinful gal or chap.

The phenomenon of fasciitis is to be hidden and ignored as it is lewd.

Parents are guilty because they didn’t correct the malaria impulse with a slap.

A death from bird flu can be stopped with the right amount of love, caring, and food.

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AUDIO 1.7

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© 2013

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