"Nothing you say is ever going to scare me"

I think about those words a lot lately, particularly in light of the recent tragedy in Sandy Hook, Connecticut.

I think a lot about Sandy Hook, Connecticut because it is only a short drive from where I grew up.

On any and all social media, as well as in personal interactions, I declare myself to be from Philadelphia. And, in most ways, this is true. I moved to Philadelphia when I was 17. And I found my soul in Philadelphia, even though I am technically from Connecticut. But when I was 17 and all screwed up from a short life, at that point, of dealing with a family plagued by severe mental illness and, what would come to be, the horrific suicide of my father, I decided to erase my past. I decided to start life at the age of 17 instead of the age of…well, birth. 

When those shootings happened on December 14, my 38^th birthday, I found myself thinking of Connecticut. 

And of where I am from, really.

Those murders shocked everyone, of course. Killing children---or anyone, really---is completely abhorrent to most of us, myself included.  But my mind reeled even more because those murders happened in Connecticut. Clean, wealthy, democratic, and tolerant Connecticut. Even though I had divorced it for the far grittier and harder-edged Philadelphia, I had to admit that there are few states more “calm” than Connecticut. 

Yes, of course, it has its crap parts and its dangerous parts, but it is generally just a small state that, depending on your geographical location, is either a suburb of New York City or Boston.  

My mother, also from Connecticut, and I whispered to each other over email and Skype the past few nights (I had been out of the country in Eurasia for three weeks), “Connecticut?!” “This happened in Connecticut?”

The more I thought about it, though, the more I came to realize that even though that tiny state is relatively calm, tolerant, and clean---mental illness happens everywhere.

That made me think back to the time when my own mental black hole threatened to take me over the line from stable to “definitely not stable at all.” No, I have never harbored murderous tendencies, thank God.  

I do harbor very self-destructive ones.

My ability to hate and blame myself is almost bottomless at times. It is irrational.

It is destructive. It is isolating and wickedly painful. I am not a violent person but my own self-loathing often spills out of me at times in an oily black pool that laps at people’s feet. Splatters them.

When I think about what happened in Newton, CT, I actually do not think about the children as much. 

Horrible admission to make, I realize, but true.

I think about him. I think about Adam Lanza.

The killer.

And I think about his mother.

Mostly, though, I think about him.

I KNOW Newtown, Connecticut. I never knew Columbine, Colorado or Blacksburg, Virginia. But this place, Newtown, I know.

And while part of my soul wants to vilify Adam Lanza and his mother for what happened there, another part of me has been crying silently for both of them for the past week.

My own mother, when I was on the very cliff of a black hole that threatened to swallow me when I was in my late teenage years and early twenties, said this: “Nothing you say is ever going to scare me.”

I tested her on that one. Time and time again.

I also tested and vetted friends and lovers using that very same standard. I made that my own standard. I made it my religion.

What if Adam Lanza’s mother had said that to him?

I think about that almost non-stop these days.

What if his mother, or someone, anyone, had just told him that all of the horrible and wicked things he had running through his mind were not going to scare them? What if someone had given him the chance of daylight for his soul?

What if someone, anyone, had just said, “I too have horrible thoughts and horrible things running through my head.”

And then hugged him. Held him tight. Maybe gave him something else to think about.

Because it all began with self-hatred.

I know this. Although my self-hatred never materialized into violence, I do know self-hatred. I know mental instability. I know how it can creep in and smother someone.

For me, this tragedy is less about violence and more about being human.

As I watch the arguments spin up about gun control and mental illness and all of these things, I also think about how easy it might have been to prevent all of these very arguments by just being human.  By just “noticing” when someone is in trouble and needs help.

By not judging. I think that may be the biggest thing.

As I slowly---very slowly---watch all of the media coverage of this tragedy, I still wish Adam Lanza had my mother. Or my friends.

Someone who would have said to him that he could have all of the self-hatred and black thoughts that he wanted. But he could air them to the light. That he could say what was going through his head and would not be judged.

THAT might have made all of the difference.

I don’t know that for sure, of course, but I suspect it might be true.

I have never been a parent to a human. I never have trusted myself that much.

But I have been a parent, thankfully and blessedly, to many animals. And if someone, anyone, hurt my beloved animals, I might be insane with rage and guilt. So I get all of this stuff that is happening on the perimeters of this tragedy.

But still, my thoughts and my heart always go back to one simple thing: Why did no one, anyone, care enough to ask Adam Lanza what was hurting him?

Why did no one, anyone, step up and help him cope? THAT is our burden as humans. We must recognize when someone is hurting, angry or violent.

No gun laws or legislation will ever substitute that.  

That is what I think about almost constantly these days.  Or, as Oprah says, this is what I know to be true.