By Kevin Hines
The Golden Gate Bridge is without doubt one of the so much recognizable constructions to outline a latest urban. but, for writer Kevin Hines the bridge isn't really in simple terms a marker of a spot or a time. in its place, the bridge marks the start of his outstanding tale. At 19 years outdated, Kevin tried to take his personal existence through leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge - a distance which took 4 seconds to fall. lately clinically determined with bi-polar affliction, Kevin had all started to listen to voices telling him he needed to die, and days prior to his try out, he started to think them.
The fall could holiday his physique, yet now not his spirit. His tale chronicles the extreme will of the writer to dwell mentally good within the face of his psychological ailment: bipolar affliction with psychotic gains. With every one psychological breakdown, besides the fact that, the author’s wish to reside mentally well-- and to be a psychological overall healthiness advocate-- pulls him from the depths of his . Kevin’s tale is a extraordinary testomony to the energy of the human spirit and a reminder to us to like the existence we've got. His tale additionally reminds us that residing mentally good takes time, patience, labor, and help. With those disciplines in position, these dwelling with even very tough diagnoses can in attaining greater lives for themselves and people who support to help and deal with them.
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Extra resources for Cracked, Not Broken: Surviving and Thriving After a Suicide Attempt
Elizabeth squealed with joy, seated next to me, as she tore open packages revealing My Little Pony—miniature pastel-colored horses—and Care Bares with their colorful stomachs and rainbow-colored fur. There were always three stockings hanging from the mantle. They had been empty the night before, but come Christmas morning, we’d find them stuffed to the brim with candy canes, colorful Pez dispensers of our favorite characters, comic books, and other miscellaneous items. Everything we wanted and more was there.
I couldn’t crawl due to my severe malnourishment. My stomach caved in. But Debi Hines was touched and saw her little boy. ” And although the first child she took in, Elizabeth, was only eight months older than me, and friends warned Debi that the close age difference “wasn’t natural,” she came to see me again and again. Although I couldn’t crawl. But there was something about me. Or something about us. Instead of listening to her friends and family, Debi Hines remained longer than expected, watching the tiny toddler toss plastic colored horseshoes into the air.
My birth mother was the last link I had to my biological family. When I lost contact with her, at age twenty-seven, I heard that she had found sobriety. The last time she discussed anything about me to her other kids, she told them I was with a nice Russian family in Modesto. How wrong she was; it seemed she lost touch with me, too. Later—much later—I learned that my birth parents both suffered from serious mental health issues. Debi Hines and I were destined to be mother and son. She was the first person to visit me in the home of my former foster parents.