: About Me

I am a divorced father of a family in which the only child committed suicide December 14, 2002. My wife deserted me three months after his death by moving away and assuming an alternative life style. I am better known as a survivor of suicide. I do not blame my wife because she is very depressed over the death of our son Curt. As most moms would say, she failed to protect him enough. She did not fail him in his death. Death is an event that is part of life. Some die sooner than others do. Death is a part of life many Americans do not wish to contemplate their own mortality. This contemplation will enable you to use your time and life in a meaningful way. People should contemplate their own mortality. Curt was and is still the essence of her life. I made a conscious deliberate decision to move on with my life in what I call a meaningful way for me.

Professionally, I am an applied sociologist. I am retired but continue to be active in the field. I write articles for the printed media as a freelancer now.

My son was an adopted child from Korea. My former wife and I adopted Curt in 1985 at age three months. At birth, Curt was healthy with no signs of any disease. When Curt reached age fourteen he began to exhibit significant manifestations of mental illness. We sought psychiatric help immediately. Curt attempted suicide twice and we were able to save his life. We admitted him to the best psychiatric facility that North Carolina offers twice.

His diagnoses is schizo-affective disorder. Curt died by gunshot wound to the head at his maternal grandparent's home.

I have dedicated the balance of my life to creating awareness of teen suicide so maybe some other parents will not suffer the loss of a child by suicide.

To write something that will enable other survivors of suicide to grow from this tragic event.

Creative Writing > Reflections Reflections: Shame

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Buck Buffalo I can still see Buck walking down the back alley behind our house. Bent over with a ragged top coat over tattered pants and shirt Buck wobbled down the alley. His stick thrown over his shoulder with a dirty burlap bag tied to his stick. His sack was always filled things but I never dared to speak to him. Buck's face was rough and dirty with a beard, which always curled up. It was just a wild growth on his face. Sometimes I would hide behind the shed next to the back alley and watch him. He stopped at every trashcan on the alley. He peed into the trash drum an if he saw somethi...

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