Of the 1,000,000 people in the United States who attempt suicide every year, the mother of this letter writer was one of them. The father of this film maker is another. This piece is in memory of them both.

We invite you to watch.
We ask you to share.
We love when we heal.
As family survivors (people who have lost loved ones to suicide), we understand intimately the need to start conversations on healthy ways to deal with fear, failure, & guilt. While we appreciate the many groups that address suicide & self harm, a majority of them focus on primarily crisis intervention, not prevention & reshaping this damaging idea that our life is not valuable.

At the core, Lifeline is an offering up of a new approach. It is a gift of new language for you who have wanted to transform words of tragedy to ones of self-forgiveness, value, vulnerability, & letting go.
*Mark Gonzales {Story. Family Survivor. Design}: @WageBeauty
*Kent Truog {Filmmaker. Family Survivor. Editor}: @KentTruog
*Guido Ronge {Cinematography}: @GuidoRonge
*Oveous {Story Contributor. Family Survivor}: @Oveous
*Mystic {Story Contributor. Survivor}: @ThatGirlMystic

If I could write a letter in this perfect moment, what would I tell you? Who? You, who is...

Me, the first person I owe an apology to for failing to fulfill the most basic of human lifelines at time. I've lived lifetimes inside wounds that I had no right to own. Yes, it's not my fault. I've always known this. That was never my question, it was:
"mamma... why didn't you love me enough to stay?"

A question I've tried to answer, & only found other children in grown bodies asking the same questions. I've sought guidance in the tears of lovers who sat from age 3 to 8 on doorstops waiting for father in another country to come join them, to come back home. I know ladies who've lost loved ones to addiction, to streets, to needles in arms, & we wound each other beautifully.

I am sorry to them, but first to myself for ever thinking that I was not worthy of being loved for a lifetime. It is no wonder in relationships so many of us learn to leave first.
No more. I deserve to be present in the presence of this present moment.

Every evening I wonder what right does a son have to tell a father who lost his wife:
"Let go!!! Of that demon you hold like the last memory of her not breathing, the ambulance in the garage, the failed first attempt in the bathtub, the decades of pain you tried to talk her through, Dad, let GO of her & the house you refuse to leave. She haunts you, not because of what you did or didn't do, but because she misses you."

You who have been my roadmap of masculine & feminine in the absence of estrogen energy, & brown, & male, & hands weathered from mechanics and fields, and drafts and guns, and Dad... put down the tears in your palm.
Hold me instead.
I am ready to do the same.

To my sisters and my sistas.
To my brother and my brothers from other mother & all the Ove's of the world, exhale.
Whether you are Indigo energy, Zinc Blue, lavender laughter, amber energy. Whatever color you are when you are crunk drunk on the dance floor, bluish bruises & blinking breath. Whatever creative BS ways you say live in color, say: "I live in color."
No matter the grey LA skyline, the NYC gritty city grind, the bleaching creams they sold us, they screams when they sold us, {exhale}
like breathing lessons underwater, {exhale}
like cops gun to your dome, {exhale}
like lover turning sunset into vanilla sky, {exhale}

Remember: we are sound's color so beautiful we even turn dreams damp with the sweat of our breath when we make life, make love.

In this perfect moment is you, ms. fragmented pink perfection, who I want to tell every second you breathe is your most perfect moment. Thank you.

Most days I feel my heart is large enough to house & hold all of humanity with those who are wounded young & often receiving the biggest rooms. Where the walls are made of angel's arms so they can continually hold you whenever needed. There is a drum in the distance & your father is dancing in the desert. Every now then he kicks up cloud storms to rain because you are thirsty.

This is not metaphor. This is my prescription that is written from researching my own pain. Your name is derived form lute, played like oud.

It is all music, isn't it? This out chord life, the different keys, the movements, the compositions, the scales, it is all music. The soul, all music.
Your sorrow, all music. Your beauty, all music.
Your pain, all music, and I want you know:
"I hear you like the echoing energy of a familiar wound & a familiar womb."

Your voice has been my lifeline in this healing process,
beautiful sister, wounded warriors,
powerful soldiers,
I hear you.

-Mark Gonzales

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