This first week of the “new year” has been kind of weird. I am tired (despite having spent most of the last two weeks in my pajamas) and feeling completely out of sorts. I can’t quite put a label to what is going on.

Last night I watched the powerful promotional videos for the 2015 Bell Let’s Talk campaign – Clara Hughes, Howie Mandel, Mary Walsh, Michael Landsberg. And found myself wondering if any of this is making a difference. Did Clara’s heroic physical and emotional feat last summer change people’s perceptions? When people watch and listen to these very personal stories, does it really change their opinion? Do they act with more kindness and understanding towards those who have developed a neural health issue?

It took so much emotional energy for us to participate in the mental health review process and the quiet release of the report during the pre-Christmas legislature catfight over Lean and Senior’s Care left the report largely ignored. We were extremely disappointed and I found myself wondering what the point was to any of this.

That’s the mood I was in today when I finally got around to asking the good folks at Facebook to memorialize Jordan’s Facebook page. It’s just becoming too painful to see his beautiful face popup every time I log on and it gives me a stab to the heart whenever I receive a note telling me “Jordan likes this page”. And then there was the really hard, can’t breathe moment when I got prompted to wish him a happy birthday. Ouch. And it suddenly dawned on me this weekend that I wasn’t the only one that this would be happening to; that his face was likely popping on my Friends pages as “People you may know” – sorry about that.

It made me sad to do it – another task completed in a long list of pragmatic details that must be dealt with in the aftermath of death (the final tax return is still outstanding – don’t tell the government but we can’t seem to bring ourselves to do it).

Then I returned to my Facebook page, and Kathleen Smith’s poignant posting hit my newsfeed.

His name was Mackenzie Thomas Pawluk.

I know it’s going to be difficult for some of you to understand, but our family is united in speaking out about our son’s suicide.

On Dec. 30, as I was sound asleep, my 18-year-old son took his life in his darkest, most desperate moment; a beautiful life filled with joy, wit, sarcasm, intellect, love and giving to those in need.

Statistics show hundreds of young men in his age group will take their own lives in 2015 in this country alone. Of those, 90 per cent will suffer from depression and other forms of mental illness that may be undiagnosed. Many will be shuffled from social worker to social worker, with no true resources for psychiatric care and in many cases for the medications that would help them care for themselves. They will be shuffled haphazardly through a system that cares nothing for them, focused on only the paperwork and the costs involved.

Their families will be judged, as though there is something we could have done to prevent this and as though we were bad parents.

But we will not hide. We will not be shamed. We will not be made pariahs.

We will shout their names at this government in a unified chorus.

And as for our children, our victims of mental illness:

They will be written off as street kids. (My kid lived in an affluent Sherwood Park neighborhood.)

They will be labeled drug addicts. (Mack smoked weed on occasion. We knew about it and had no issues with it because he smoked responsibly.)

They will be labeled bums. (My son had a physically demanding job that he not only loved and showed up for every day, but that also paid him more than enough to provide and care for himself.)

They will be called alcoholic party boys. (My son often gathered for beer with his buddies at Oscar’s Pub. He ate as many pickles as he drank beers. He was not a “party thug.”)

It will be attributed to their lifestyles. (My son was employed full time and a contributing member of society with no ties to the drug community, gangs or violence. He was madly in love with his girlfriend, travelled often to visit his out-of-province grandparents, showed up for every family dinner and stopped by with Barbie dolls for his kid sister whenever he could. Does that sound like “thug life”?)

There will be a thousand untrue labels thrown at him and all young kids like him who takes their own lives; labels that suggest their lives didn’t matter.

We shout it together: My son’s life mattered. Our children’s lives matter.

This is not the time to be talking about cutbacks to health care and mental health resources; this is the time to yelling at the top of our lungs for help for our children.

So if it seems as though I am channeling the profound grief at my son’s loss into a rage against the corporate medical monstrosity that keeps those in need from getting the medical attention and treatment they so desperately require, I am. And I won’t be stopping any time soon.

So, Government of Alberta, this grieving mother is coming for you and your impending cuts to health care. And I’m coming with an army of moms and dads behind.

You are the “gangster” mob that makes it impossible for kids like my son to get help.

And I am coming for you. In the name of my son, Mackenzie Thomas Pawluk.

 Kathleen’s grief is so fresh and so raw and her rage is so righteous. I remember it well. I read her words and wept for the pain she is in, and at the thought of another brilliant light needlessly extinguished. And now I find myself, at the start of this “new year”, confronted with old resolutions and filled with new determination to ensure that Jordan’s story and Jordan’s life makes a difference. Fear not Kathleen – I will join your warrior cry:

And I am coming for you. In the name of my son, Jordan Conley Chartier.