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September is National Suicide Prevention Month, and it has special meaning to me. It was on the day before my 50th birthday — Feb. 26, 1997 — that I discovered my beloved 20-year-old-son Judson's lifeless body as a result of a self-inflicted gunshot blast.
In years since that dreadful time, I have spoken and written about his young life. In his earliest years, Judson Matthew had grown into a sensitive, polite person; his friends particularly appreciated his quiet charm that so often inspired, encouraged and humored them. By junior high, we began to see in him what we now know as clinical depression, though it was not formally diagnosed. Judd did have a counseling psychologist, but he rejected deep therapy. The young teen, however, continued to struggle to meet deadlines and suffered from sleep irregularities.
But Judd eventually rebounded and, after losing a year, he graduated from Hopkins High School in the top 10% of his class. He was accepted at Purdue University. Abruptly, however, after six months he dropped out of college in Indiana to return to Minnesota, where he was admitted to the University of Minnesota. As a newly minted Gopher, he was active in the Minnesota cold weather, including the February weekend where he joyously attended a Spike Lee lecture and a dance. He, however, canceled on our family plan to attend a play followed by our annual dinner at Murray's.
Sadly, on the following Wednesday evening, I found my son in the early evening some hours after his death, slumped over in a chair.
More than 700 family and friends attended Judd's funeral at the local Presbyterian Church. The high school choir of which he had been a member sang a Mozart number. Three of his best friends — Paul, Sam and Libbie — provided powerful, reflective comments.
It has been a quarter-century since I joined the 300,000 suicide "survivors" in America who, each year, carry on without their loved ones.