Seven months ago, our youngest son Avery succumbed to the pressures and pains of living with clinically diagnosed, treatment-resistant depression and took his own life, just three months before his 20th birthday.
It is hard for me to even write this, but I want to share what happened in the hopes that it might help someone, somewhere who is dealing with similar trials and challenges themselves, or who have people in their lives that are suffering.
Avery was incredibly gifted, with an abundance of talents and abilities. He was handsome, extremely intelligent, and you would be right to assume that he was a confident and capable young man, well equipped to deal with the challenges of his young life. At first he most definitely was… but things began to change for him, and despite the external veneer of happiness, there was a growing, internal darkness that was difficult to detect. In retrospect, my wife and I can see how the social changes and challenges brought on by the pandemic seemed to exacerbate these increasingly intense feelings of anxiety and depression for our son.
We were grateful that Avery tried to articulate what was happening to him, and we began searching for a therapist that could help and offer guidance. It took a period of more than a year and three unsuccessful attempts before finding the right fit. Meeting together each week added a measure of comfort for him, and they began trying different treatment modalities, but nothing seemed to help alleviate his symptoms.
Some close friends had a daughter dealing with similar issues, and they referred us to a wonderful psychiatrist who then worked closely with Avery for almost a year, progressing carefully and methodically through multiple combinations of medicines – but again to no avail.
During this time we tried slightly more unconventional treatments like Ketamine and TMS (Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation), but still nothing seemed to help him. Frustrated, Avery continued to strive for patience in the process, and was meticulous in communicating with his psychiatrist and documenting his medications (there were at least 16 unique entries). His physical state had also been deteriorating, as he was having trouble eating and sleeping. Despite every effort, there was still no relief, yet he kept going to appointments, taking his meds, and hoping for answers to come.
And then… he just ran out of gas.
It is important for me to convey that truth – he didn’t give up. Avery was relentlessly persistent in whatever he set his mind to. This time, it was his mind along with his body that wouldn’t cooperate.
He felt isolated and abandoned by his peers and friends, and an overriding anxiety that he had been left too far behind in the race to build a career and future for himself to ever catch up.
What was especially difficult for us as parents was that even though there was overwhelming evidence to the contrary, pointing that out to him didn’t help! We couldn’t solve his problems or ‘fix’ the situation, and his mind wasn’t in a healthy state to where he could accept advice and counsel – it was in survival mode. We had to learn to listen and empathize, and to support him in every way we could.
While Avery’s case may have been extreme, there are many people who are afflicted with these conditions that can and do respond to therapy and medical attention. Whether it’s you or someone you care about that is dealing with anxiety and depression, being able to talk about these issues without the fear of judgment is absolutely critical. And there are many resources available to help especially in moments of crisis. You can start here:
https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/find-help
Avery’s death has left a hole in our lives so enormous it is impossible to describe. Every day there is something that brings him back into our hearts with enough force to take our breath away.
Someone said that grief is the shadow of love, and that feels true to me. I don’t like having to pass through that darkness from time to time, but it is the evidence that my love for him is still there, so I’ll deal with it.
And I have hope.
I believe that I am a child of Heavenly parents who love me, and that the nature and design of this mortal life will help shape and enhance who I am, and who I can become. I trust in them to help me through these difficult times, that trials themselves serve a crucial purpose, and that things really will be alright in the end.
I believe that our families – by their very nature – are eternal, and that we will all be together again.
I am a practicing disciple of Jesus Christ, and am trying each day to live more like He did (even though I stumble and fall a lot). Basically, I’m trying to judge less, and love more.
For anyone who might be interested, here is a link to Avery’s memorial site; it includes his obituary, lots of pictures contributed by many people, and also the video of his funeral.
https://olpinmortuary.com/obituaries/avery-salmon
Finally: as hard as it is to go through an experience like this, it is also difficult for those who wish to give comfort and help. Many times people have approached us with genuine trepidation, not sure of what to say or do. May I offer some suggestions?
As much as you may want to, try not to ask “How can I help?” Just do something; whatever you come up with will be wonderful. Asking those who are grieving to stop and help you figure out what to do when they don’t even know themselves just makes things harder.
An example of this type of considered kindness occurred one day near the end of August. We had just weathered a ferocious summer rainstorm (complete with relentless hail) a couple of days before, when a dear friend of my wife Glynis showed up with this:
Here is her note:
A simple yet perfect gesture, and so deeply appreciated.
Also, it is nearly impossible to answer the question, “How are you doing?” The reality is that from day-to-day, minute-to-minute, that response will most probably change (quite drastically). I’ve found it’s much easier if you add one small word: today. “How are you doing today?” is a question that is actually manageable, and signals that you are interested in an authentic answer.
Thank you for your thoughts & prayers, for your continuing patience with me and The Price, and for making this a safe place to share.
Let’s judge less. Love more.
Compassion and Love for you and yours…
Thank you Chris.
Beautifully said, Christopher. You know we love you and Glynis. Infinitely more importantly, you know that Jesus loves you: His infinite Atonement as the very Christ will be seen one day to have been sufficient to heal all wounds – perhaps especially the wound of emptiness inflicted when a beloved child completes his mortal probation
– too soon! we cry, possessing as we do, limited earthly vision. One glorious day – together again, eternally.
Thank you Uncle Doug; your faith and prayers help us so much!
I’m so, so sorry for your loss. My husband is afflicted too, alas not as severely as your son, but it gives me an inkling on what you’re going through. All I can offer are hugs. The hole in your heart will never vanish but eventually it will hurt less. So don’t let grief take over and remember the good times often. Hugs.
Much thanks, Katharina. I am sorry your husband is dealing with these things, and he is lucky to have you as a compassionate ally. I allow myself to experience the grief and choose to remember all those wonderful things about him even if that makes me miss him so much.
Thank you for sharing your family truth—it’s all we can do to help each other…
You are welcome, L.W. Thank you for taking the time to read about my sweet boy.
Whenever we leave, we will be lucky if the people who knew us write such kind words. I looked through the photos on the memorial. He looks like a pretty cool guy. Thank you for allowing us to get to know him a little. My sister has had similar struggles through her life and almost left us back in 2001. There’s so many people out there struggling and many of them must feel so alone. Thank you for talking about this and normalising these conversations, as hard as they are.
You are so welcome, “Vic.” It is a hard thing to talk about, yet I have been pleased to hear from several people that Avery’s story has helped them to have some much needed discussions in their own families.
Thank you, Christopher, for the effort of gathering your thoughts like this. Very giving of you. It does helps us all.
Thank you, Avery, for being persistent and persevering for as long as you did. I doubt that effort ever goes to waste.
May we all learn together. May we all love together.
Thank you Kathy — I agree with my whole heart that no effort is wasted, not one. And I know Avery appreciates your kind acknowledgement that he was persistent and fought the good fight for as long as he could.
I am truly sorry for your loss.
Thank you so much, Robyn.
Having just lost my fiancee of almost 19 years this Saturday, and who backed this project with me (both our names are on our Kickstarter profile), I can relate to this. It wasn’t suicide, but she was struggling, as am I. Now more than ever. And I have just started on antidepressants myself. And mental health, particularly in men, was important to us both. Sorry, I’m rambling, but I really just wanted to say that I truly empathize with your pain, and while I don’t do prayers, I am sending my thoughts.
Oh Jon, I am so very sorry to hear about your own tragic loss! But it is so encouraging to hear that you are seeking help and medication — I am proud of you! It takes real courage to seek for help. And your thoughts are more than enough; thank you Jon.
Love you and your family so much! Beautiful thoughts about a beautiful person.
Thank you Jenny; you are the greatest sister ever!
Love you!!!
I’m so sorry for the loss of your son Avery. Thank you for speaking up about his depression and his suicide. May his memory be a blessing.
Thank you DG, and thank you for reading about him and his struggles.
My heart goes out to you and your family. What a terrible loss. Depression is such a vicious disease. I’m glad your faith is helping to see you through this difficult time. I remember how hard it was for my family when my stepbrother killed himself, and while it has gotten easier over time, the pain never really goes away. You just learn to carry on despite it, and hopefully it brings out the best in you.
Oh Chris. I’m so desperately sorry to read this about your boy. It brings back a vision of released balloons and the post about your father, not to mention the surreal times we’ve all experienced in recent years. It must have been so hard. There truly is a price sometimes; that’s how it feels, but that we’re all brought together by you and Neil and what this feline patch of night is coming to represent, I was right in my last comment: your wonderful film, however long it takes, will certainly be more than what we see, more than Neil’s words and your pictures, more than ever we could have imagined. Everything that you’ve been through during it’s forging will be protected and honoured forever in this little cat. We’ll know. And our own fights will be layered into it with yours. May Avery rest in peace now, and I hope you find strength and magic again going forward x