From suicidal ideation to radical optimism: The birth of The Dark Pollyanna
Mental health02.06.2025
I didn’t always know what to call it. The constant undercurrent. The pull toward done. What I now understand as suicidal ideation shaped my life, even when I didn’t have the language for it.
I didn’t have a name for it – not through childhood, not after losing more than five people to suicide before I turned 30. It wasn’t until decades later, during a conversation with Frank King on the SZF42 podcast, that I finally learned the name of my quiet, persistent, unrelenting tormentor: suicidal ideation.
But I wasn’t just made of that. There was always this other part of me – the one who clung to something to keep going. Around age five, I saw Pollyanna with Hayley Mills. That movie introduced me to the “Glad Game” and the magic of crystal prisms – rainbows on walls that felt like proof of something good, even in bad times.
So I started searching for “one small good thing” in every awful moment. Not to fake a smile – just to stay alive. It became my original mindful practice. Decades before I learned what ideation was, I had already built my counterweight.
Never in a million years did I think that counterweight would become a daily necessity.
The early days
Life shattered at 16 with the suicide of my friend Andrea. I had no clue. I replayed every conversation, every weird vibe, every silence that now screamed. On New Year’s Eve, I dialed her number on the rotary phone – almost. I stopped before the last digit, afraid I’d wake the elderly relatives she was babysitting. We had Alice Cooper tickets for the next night.
Getting permission to go was huge. Holidays were sacred family time. This was the first time I’d ever been allowed out on New Year’s Day.
I found out she was gone… at the concert.
The weeks after were a swirl of jagged fragments:
The synagogue steps.
A grave with no stone – just a stick painted neon orange.
Catholic girls crossed themselves after the rabbi finished.
Grave-diggers smoking, too loud, too casual.
Me screaming at my gran.
An English teacher pulling my fingers from a boy’s hair after I lost it on him for mocking a suicide, Andrea’s suicide.
He didn’t know her. It was my third day at a new school.
I kept visiting that stick in the ground. Looking for answers. Hoping. Hurting. Drinking, even though I hated it. Trying drugs. Wanting numbness. Wondering if I should go too.
Life, in its cruel persistence, just kept going. I married too young – barely out of childhood myself, and mentally, I wasn’t much older. After Andrea’s death, in my broken state, I’d quietly retreated to about age 12, and I stayed there for decades. Only learning that truth and dealing with it in the past year.
The Dark Pollyanna
I had my first daughter, Amanda, just before I turned 18. She was a beautiful, bright light in my world.
At 19 months old, Amanda toddled around while I was seven months pregnant again.
Then, I fell down the stairs.
Rushed to the hospital, I was in and out of labour for days. Then, just like her sister, Shannon arrived on a Friday. Friday’s child is loving and giving.
She was born in the case room. Tiny. Fragile. A whisper of a voice.
Shannon died that night. I was 19 years old.
Not even a year later, death nearly came for me.
It was -25°F. I stood on a highway between my car and a police car. Hood up. Booster cables in hand. My Mustang got hit from behind. I was crushed between the vehicles, thrown into the air, and somehow, gently, something lifted my coat hood before I landed. Had my head hit the pavement, I wouldn’t be here.
It happened right in front of Andrea’s grave.
The engine of my car tore a massive vertical section out of my left leg. Months of debridement, and finally a skin graft. Years of surgeries and pain all to be left with a gaping hole in my left leg. Self-esteem and self-worth: now zero.
I was in my third trimester when that happened. The baby didn’t make it. Internal injuries. Both legs were fractured. Dozens of scars.
I was 20.
And that’s how The Dark Pollyanna came to be. I live with a duality: half weighed down by suicidal thoughts, half buoyed by stubborn optimism. It’s not pretty. It’s not linear. But it’s honest. And that honesty saved me – and I believe it can help others too.
During every Mental Health Awareness Month, I speak the names of the ones I’ve lost. Andrea, Margaret, Holly, Bryan, Peter and Ken. I share these stories not because they’re easy, but because someone else might feel safe enough to stay if I do.
So here I am: Finely tuned chaos with a boatload of compassion.
I am The Dark Pollyanna. And I’m still here.
If you or someone you know is struggling, there are resources that can help.
Visit https://www.canada.ca/en/public-health/services/mental-health-services/mental-health-get-help.html to find assistance in your area.
