Equestrian Network Magazine

Dying Is Not That Hard!
It's The Living That's Hard!

By Spiritrider

In my hour of final decision, this little mustang came to me. First in a magazine article asking for help to save a rare breed. Secondly in a dream walking with me as a friend, bringing with him peace and joy. And thirdly in person as a little spotted mustang, half-dead from no human or horse taking care of him. His mom had run out of milk and he was in a herd where he was weak and low on the totem pole and didn't get much food.

When you look deep inside and see nothing but a big black hole of pain from birth 'til now, when all your dreams have passed you by and you have nothing in the way of hope to look to, then either the darkness takes

you in or the light pulls you back to life. Once there, it's easy to return over and over until one of two things happens. You either die, make sure you die, or you choose to live and find some way to break the cycle you have been trapped in. And the first thing is to forgive yourself, because for reasons only known to you, there is no forgiveness in the heart for the self.

I was still recovering from various problems when I stopped in Oklahoma. Some of my friends where camping up in the mountains for their annual play day. I had meet them through the article in the rare breed magazine. There I saw this little, skinny, weak, knotted-haired mustang looking at me, in the pen with the for sale mustangs. I watched him all week. On the next to the last day I asked how much they would take for him. He said, "Make an offer." I did and I got him. After everyone left the mountains I was all alone up there. I went in the pen and cornered him in the catch pen. I wrapped my arms around his little neck and held on. Thirty to forty-five minutes later I had a halter on him and was leading him with a butt rope, across the road to the pen where my horse Doc was.

I had to stay there for a couple of weeks, until he gained enough strength so we could go on the road. During that time a lot of things happened, not just to him, but to me. I named this little mustang, Gentle Breeze. Everything about him was so gentle. As I sat there with him one night the breeze came through, all gentle and healing. I looked at him and said, "Gentle Breeze," and he nickered to me as if to say, "That's good!"

After another week of waiting on vet papers to take him home, we hit the road. But instead of going home we headed to the Black Hills of South Dakota. We were the first to arrive at the Ceremonial Grounds. It was the end of June and still cold

up there. I moved down into a valley for warmth. That evening it hailed great big baseball-size hail. It was so loud in my trailer that I was crying so hard all I could do was pray for that little mustang. I don't know how long it lasted, but during that time a story and song came to me. It was about how Thunder and The Horse meet. I sang that song over and over until the hail stopped. Still crying, I felt so relieved. I ran out into the night, screaming for my horses. They came, first little Gentle Breeze and then Doc. I just held him close to my heart, his head on my breast, and having him safe like that took all my pain away.

Later in the next month, in Ceremony at the tree I told my story of that night, the story that had come to me and sang the song. Gentle Breeze was named again at the tree by my spiritual leader, Little Spotted Eagle. He named him "Spotted Thunder Dancing," the Lakota meaning for his new name, "Wankinyan Gleska Waci." My beautiful mustang is known as Waci and I will never sell him.

After a month up in the mountains on that early spring grass, he gained about 100 pounds. Waci was and is one of the gentlest horses I have ever known. He gives me strength to go on each day.Of course at the time you really can't pinpoint when you changed. After the years started rolling by, forgiveness started in my heart where this little mustang had opened a hole. And the forgiveness grew out from there to extend to all the people who hurt me, but mostly I started forgiving myself.

Do you know how hard it is to seek help when you are feeling this way? You just can't go up and start talking to people about how you feel! When you have been in a psych hospital you learn fast that you are not getting out anytime soon if you tell them you're thinking about killing yourself. So, you have to keep that to yourself. You get good at hiding your true feelings, your true thoughts. I have seen so much in my years, most people could never understand what I'm talking about. I don't believe any psychiatrist can help me get better, not when most are only book learned. Now if I find one that is "street raised" I might think differently! No therapy has reached as deep inside as this little mustang reached; there are no words and no books for that. For some things, words would just get in the way.

My dad said, "A man/woman must have something outside of themselves to move them forward." I found that something. The one thing I was always good with was horses. This little mustang bought me back to who I was, to who I am. He gave me hope. Although my act was down pat and no one knew the pain in my soul. I hid it so well, thanks to years of psychotherapy, where drugs where the only out, and the only way I could sleep. Knowing if I told my true thoughts they would never let me be. Death was always just a thought away, sometimes even a hope. It was all I could do sometimes to stop myself. But this little helpless mustang "Waci" (aka Gentle Breeze) just reached in and grabbed at life through me. As I bought him back, he bought me back. We gave each other a safe haven from all the pain we had felt. Some would call it unconditional love. Yet the word love just can't cover what he did for me. Maybe it's because that word has become a bad word to me. Maybe I'm not all the way there yet. But I'm here. And Waci is the reason I'm here.

~Spiritrider~ 8-4-06

In the United States, suicide ranks in the top ten causes of death, accounting for about 1.5 percent of all deaths. The annual number of suicides has averaged about 30,000 since the late 1980s and has consistently exceeded the annual number of homicides. The suicide rate (number of suicide deaths per 100,000 people) in the United States has remained relatively stable since the 1950s, ranging between 10 and 13 per 100,000 each year.

The suicide rate varies by age group. Of all age groups, the elderly have the highest suicide rates, particularly white men over the age of 75. The increased rate of suicide among elderly people appears mostly due to the debilitating effects of physical illness, loss of social roles and relationships, and untreated depression. Suicide is the third leading cause of death among people aged 15 to 24. Suicide rates for this age group almost tripled from 1950 to 1990, going from a rate of 4.5 in 1950 to a rate of 13.1 in 1990. The reasons for this increase are not entirely clear, but researchers have associated it with a greater prevalence of mental illness in young people, an increased use of drugs in this population, and the increased availability of firearms in the home. However, the suicide rate for youth aged 15 to 24 declined slightly after 1995, holding steady at about 10 per 100,000.

Suicide rates also vary between men and women and between ethnic groups. Men complete about 80 percent of all suicides, at a rate four times as high as women. However, women attempt suicide three times as frequently as men. Among men, whites have the highest suicide rate, followed by Native Americans. White men and women account for about 90 percent of all suicides.Statistics came from http://encarta.msn.com/encyclopedia_761555737_1/Suicide.html.

Do you have a short story, adventure or poem you would like us to publish? Send us your story, along with a picture of yourself, and we might publish it. Stories must not have been previously published or copyrighted. All photos must be taken or owned by you, and you must have full rights to them. Send your story to info@equestmagazine.com and write "horse story" in the subject line. All stories must be less than 800 words and have no typographical or grammatical errors. Who knows, your poetry may get published like Spiritrider.