The Work I Do Now in My Son’s Honor After His Suicide


“You’ll never experience a pain like this again, Lisa.”

Strange that this would be one of the phrases I held onto for dear life. Lord knows, I didn’t want to go on living, nor did I know how. How do you go on after losing a child? How do you go on after losing a child to suicide? The despair that choked me for months, leaving me empty, hollow and hopeless. “This,” I thought to myself, “must be some of what my beautiful boy was experiencing.”

My George Cameron left this world on July 13, 2013. He was my only child and only 15 years old when he died. The usual demons stake their claim daily demanding, “Why didn’t you know? Why didn’t he talk to you? What kind of mom are you? You should have loved him better! And…. What kind of (clinical) social worker are you if you couldn’t even help your son?”

These questions haunt me each and every day since the morning I found my beautiful boy. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t cry, plead with God and tell my Cami that I’m so so terribly sorry. Sorry for his pain. Sorry I didn’t know. Sorry he felt alone. Sorry he felt no other option. As a mother, you care for your children and you will go to any extreme to protect them. Lord knows, I would have moved mountains for my son. Little did I know he needed protection from himself… from this horrible disorder, depression.

Adding to the tragedy and shock was that George did not appear to be struggling. Like so many struggling with depression, he kept his depression private. Family and friends were stunned and heartbroken to hear the news. George excelled in sports and academics and enjoyed being the jokester amongst his friends. But of all of the trophies, accomplishments and great things George succeeded at, the thing I adored most about my son was his beautiful heart. At the age of 8, he pleaded with me, “Mom, I want to have a Haunted House for Halloween. we need to raise money for Katrina.” In eighth grade, I picked him up from a dance when he told me that he asked a girl to dance because she had been crying in the bathroom. This was a big deal for a popular teenage boy to “go against the grain” and do what was right and kind. That’s the kind of boy my George Cameron was, willing to put his heart out there for others.

I wanted my son’s legacy to be that of his character, not of this one action. So, I created a scholarship in his honor called “LIFT.” His love for weight lifting and God inspired this tribute. Peers from the sophomore class are called to nominate another who exemplifies George’s spirt: One who “lifts” others in spirit; One who “pushes” through difficult circumstances; and One who expresses God’s glory through his/her talents.

I’d like to tell you that it’s gotten easier in the past three years. But quite honestly, life just becomes a little more bearable. I now get some respite from the crying and have longer periods of time where I can function in this world without the impending cloud of doom. I’ve poured my heart even more so into my work in schools, working with administrators and our superintendent to bring a comprehensive suicide prevention program (Screening for Mental Health’s SOS Program) to our small city in Montana. With one of the highest rates of suicide in the country, Montana has a duty to educate its youth about depression and suicide. They need to be informed, need to know that depression isn’t a secret you should keep and that it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Through my grief, I have become a strong catalyst and advocate for suicide prevention in schools and communities, advocating for a two-day suicide prevention program for the district, working with the school administration to develop a suicide prevention plan and policy, all with the hope that it will prevent the same thing from happening to other youth. I am optimistic. Optimistic that this work has started and there’s no stopping us now. We will grow. We will reach kids. And most importantly, lives will be saved.

So, when I’m having an especially difficult day, missing my beautiful boy or when I’m a nervous wreck about public speaking, I remember, “The worst pain is over Lisa, you can do this.” Forever in my son’s honor. I love you George Cameron Friesen.

— Mom

Lisa is a mother and worked as a licensed clinical social worker for the schools for 25 years. Her only son took his life in 2013 and she has been a strong advocate of prevention in her community since her loss.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, the Trevor Project at 1-866-488-7386 or text “START” to 741-741.

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Thinkstock photo via Marjan_Apostolovic


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