For 729 days (almost exactly two years) I've been trying understand Gordon's choice to end his life. I've gone every way around it, thinking what if? why didn't? how could I have? I've done the I should haves, the I could haves. I have known from the beginning it was not my fault, and yet I felt responsible for his actions. I have always been that person who struggled to get it right. Get what right you ask? Well all of it. As if by getting it right I could control things. Hint, hint...we really don't have control of what life brings us. We only have control of how we respond to it.
Here is what I've learned. I will never understand the illness that causes one to take their own life. I cannot fathom such darkness. I did as much as I could to prevent his decision, but ultimately he was responsible for his illness and his actions. None of us has that much control, has that much power over another. Most days we struggle with controlling our self.
So how does one find the forgiveness within to let go of the feeling we should have done more. Done less, done things different? How do you accept that you can do everything possible and still have a tragic outcome?
Visualize a person sitting on the floor and sorting life into several baskets. For a long time the person carried everything, every little thing, in their basket. All the worry, the responsibilities, the hurt, the struggles. Even burdens they had no capacity to handle. The weight of the basket is enormous. It is exhausting. Truth is the basket is only meant to hold one life journey. Visualize that same person taking the weight of someones else's choices out of their basket and giving it back. Visualize that over and over, giving back what is not mine to carry. Giving responsibility to who ever it belongs to. Bit by bit releasing the weight of the journey. Letting go what one had no responsibility for, or control over.
This letting go business sucks, in case you didn't know. Letting go of dreams, expectations, plans, desires of the heart. Then as a survivor of suicide loss, wrap all that up in grief, surround it with stigma and cover it with regret.
I don't know, and will never know why he could not see the light and love that was available to him. Intellectually the answer is mental illness. Emotionally it's not so easy to explain.
So I struggle and I pray for direction. I let go of what is not mine to carry. I trust in the process even when the outcome is unbearably painful. I believe in the light, I lean into it and as I am able, I share the light.
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Thursday, September 12, 2019
Speaking My Truth
I had the opportunity to speak my truth on a panel for Suicide Prevention Awareness Week at the company my son works for. Had anyone suggested two years ago that my journey would lead me here I'd have never believed it. Life takes you down unforeseen paths. Sometimes life rolls you into a huge ball of angst and then sorts you out into a workable, grace filled person with a story to tell.
I shared the stage with a young man who attempted to take his own life, a man who had just recently lost a dear friend to suicide, and a man who'd lost two members of his military unit to suicide. Loss, grief, and stigma brought us together to reach out to promote mental health. Together we spoke our truth, and dreamed of times where mental health is openly encouraged and seeking help is commonly accepted.
I like to think we presented both information and comfort. That our stories may smooth the way for someone who struggles with depression and anxiety. We are simple people graced with life experience and an important message.
As the second anniversary of Gordon's death approaches, this opportunity to speak was especially poignant. That something so inspiring could come from something infinitely tragic does not cease to amaze me. We all have periods of great loss, personal strife and challenges. We also have seasons of growth. Sometimes all at the same time.
I hope when life gifts you with the opportunity to share your story that you take it. Trust that the words will come as you need them. Embrace the tears that fall as you share, and know that your words are seeds of faith to those listening.
Who would have thought these four people would end up sharing a stage together? Sharing with passion and purpose a profound message. It was a privilege, it was an honor. It was affirming life and sharing our pain. It is exactly what one would hope would evolve from the aftermath of tragedy.
I shared the stage with a young man who attempted to take his own life, a man who had just recently lost a dear friend to suicide, and a man who'd lost two members of his military unit to suicide. Loss, grief, and stigma brought us together to reach out to promote mental health. Together we spoke our truth, and dreamed of times where mental health is openly encouraged and seeking help is commonly accepted.
I like to think we presented both information and comfort. That our stories may smooth the way for someone who struggles with depression and anxiety. We are simple people graced with life experience and an important message.
As the second anniversary of Gordon's death approaches, this opportunity to speak was especially poignant. That something so inspiring could come from something infinitely tragic does not cease to amaze me. We all have periods of great loss, personal strife and challenges. We also have seasons of growth. Sometimes all at the same time.
I hope when life gifts you with the opportunity to share your story that you take it. Trust that the words will come as you need them. Embrace the tears that fall as you share, and know that your words are seeds of faith to those listening.
Who would have thought these four people would end up sharing a stage together? Sharing with passion and purpose a profound message. It was a privilege, it was an honor. It was affirming life and sharing our pain. It is exactly what one would hope would evolve from the aftermath of tragedy.
Monday, September 2, 2019
I Get By With A Little Help...
You know the Beatles song. I bet just saying the name got your toes tapping. Lately, I've been feeling especially blessed by the help of my friends. This comes from someone who is not good at asking for help. Who does without, or makes due on a regular basis in the name of "I'm ok", "I've got this", "it can wait", "it's not a big deal". I'm that person. I'm the person who holds it all together and then it seeps out in tears on my drive home. You know that about me.
At times it's much easier to push away than it is to pull in. There is a time for both. I have a friend who encourages me daily. Sage advice she gives. Like drink the wine, rest is important. Good stuff like that. She reminds me that we are meant to ask for help. Our skill set is limited. Brilliant in some regards, but limited as we can't be good at everything. How's that for a lesson?
Let me also say it's hard to ask for help...because it's so humbling. It leaves you vulnerable, feeling insecure and there is a risk of rejection. Like somehow you failed because you couldn't do and be everything. Who could? Such a huge expectation of ourselves, to handle it all. An impossible expectation. Definitely one to release and leave to God.
It's funny how we long to living independently, but can only do so comfortably within a community that loves us. A community that rallies around us, who shows up for the dirty work, who generously shares their time, talent and treasure. A group of people who explain their generosity simply by saying it's what friends do, it's what neighbors do, it's what family does, it's what I believe in doing. And they give you what you need. They fill in the holes of your skill set with gifts of love. For that, for you, for all you do for me...I am ever so grateful.
At times it's much easier to push away than it is to pull in. There is a time for both. I have a friend who encourages me daily. Sage advice she gives. Like drink the wine, rest is important. Good stuff like that. She reminds me that we are meant to ask for help. Our skill set is limited. Brilliant in some regards, but limited as we can't be good at everything. How's that for a lesson?
Let me also say it's hard to ask for help...because it's so humbling. It leaves you vulnerable, feeling insecure and there is a risk of rejection. Like somehow you failed because you couldn't do and be everything. Who could? Such a huge expectation of ourselves, to handle it all. An impossible expectation. Definitely one to release and leave to God.
It's funny how we long to living independently, but can only do so comfortably within a community that loves us. A community that rallies around us, who shows up for the dirty work, who generously shares their time, talent and treasure. A group of people who explain their generosity simply by saying it's what friends do, it's what neighbors do, it's what family does, it's what I believe in doing. And they give you what you need. They fill in the holes of your skill set with gifts of love. For that, for you, for all you do for me...I am ever so grateful.
Saturday, August 17, 2019
So I Cry
My eyes leak, regularly. I've always been a weepy woman during touching moments in movies, in life, while reading a good book, during parades with marching bands, weddings...you get my drift.
My eyes and my heart still cannot encompass the enormity of losing someone to suicide though. The mind can't grasp that much trauma at once. It protects us by numbing us in the beginning. Yes, we keep moving, we make decisions as best we can, but our heart is protected by not feeling. I am still taken back by the reality of this. Still trying to wrap my head around the facts and the fallout. Still trying to accept what I will never understand.
So I cry. Mostly I cry in the truck. I find that to be a safe space where the waves of emotion flood over. I can get through my work day just fine, yet in the safety of the truck my eyes leak. Sometimes I cry between home and the highway, sometimes between work and home. Sometimes I cry when I lay down at night. Sometimes I cry at a memory, or a moment, or for no obvious reason even to me. Those moments are my heart comprehending the scale of his actions and the pain of the loss.
My head simply cannot process this all at once. So in little bits and pieces, grief leaks out and healing happens. I get that this is a normal part of the process. I know some days it's harder than others, some less so. I know to others I look like I'm doing fine, functioning, and finding some joy in life. In some ways, and some days I am. It is hard to share the struggles and the pain. Partly because it comes and goes so randomly, and partly because people prefer not to hear it. It's a grueling pain to deal with from a choice ridden with stigma.
I know comprehension is difficult unless you've walked this path. I hate that my kids were taken on this journey because of this happening in my life. We want to protect those we love from intense trauma. And yet, they too have to grieve, they have been changed. While time has passed, it is still a pain in process. It is finding the strength and grace to keep moving, and taking time to weep when needed. It is breathing in and breathing out. It is owning the reality one day, one tear at a time.
My eyes and my heart still cannot encompass the enormity of losing someone to suicide though. The mind can't grasp that much trauma at once. It protects us by numbing us in the beginning. Yes, we keep moving, we make decisions as best we can, but our heart is protected by not feeling. I am still taken back by the reality of this. Still trying to wrap my head around the facts and the fallout. Still trying to accept what I will never understand.
So I cry. Mostly I cry in the truck. I find that to be a safe space where the waves of emotion flood over. I can get through my work day just fine, yet in the safety of the truck my eyes leak. Sometimes I cry between home and the highway, sometimes between work and home. Sometimes I cry when I lay down at night. Sometimes I cry at a memory, or a moment, or for no obvious reason even to me. Those moments are my heart comprehending the scale of his actions and the pain of the loss.
My head simply cannot process this all at once. So in little bits and pieces, grief leaks out and healing happens. I get that this is a normal part of the process. I know some days it's harder than others, some less so. I know to others I look like I'm doing fine, functioning, and finding some joy in life. In some ways, and some days I am. It is hard to share the struggles and the pain. Partly because it comes and goes so randomly, and partly because people prefer not to hear it. It's a grueling pain to deal with from a choice ridden with stigma.
I know comprehension is difficult unless you've walked this path. I hate that my kids were taken on this journey because of this happening in my life. We want to protect those we love from intense trauma. And yet, they too have to grieve, they have been changed. While time has passed, it is still a pain in process. It is finding the strength and grace to keep moving, and taking time to weep when needed. It is breathing in and breathing out. It is owning the reality one day, one tear at a time.
Sunday, July 21, 2019
It's Not A Rant, It's My Reality
Ever notice when we really want to express what affects us deeply we call it a rant. I've had those rants before, I'll have them again. I've started conversations with I'm just gonna rant here for a second. Or, finished a discussion with, that's it, end of rant.
We are allowed to do this, required to do this. It is not a rant, it is reality. Maybe your reality is a loss of another kind, loss of life as you knew it to a health diagnosis, loss of a marriage, loss of a child, loss of identity, loss of faith, loss of trust.
We don't have to apologize up front for feeling our feelings and sharing our pain. Owning it and sharing it divides the pain. We are called to share of ourselves. Granted it is so much easier to share the absolute joys of life. It is a much deeper experience to share the pain of life. Not that others can take that weight completely from us. I'd pass it on in a heart beat if that was really an option. Here, you take this pain, it sucks. But no, it's ours to walk through. Holding it in a tight knot prolongs the pain. We have to release it to relieve it. Having a story means little if we don't tell it.
My reality is I lost my husband to suicide. I lost him over a long period of time before mental illness claimed him. The man I married and the man I buried were not the same man. I lost him and life as I knew it. I lost the me I was before, the things I trusted as constants. I lost hopes and dreams.
My reality is people never mentioning that lost life of mine. It is knowing that simply saying I lost him to suicide will full on stop a conversation. It is rebuilding a new life one day at a time. It is finding small joys, and working through great grief. It is finding peace in a solitude I never asked for. It is finding the words to share my journey and actually speaking them.
My reality is sharing my story, as I am able, as I grow through it. I promise, I am growing through it. It is opening up to others. It is acknowledging others pain as they walk through it. It is realizing I still have much to give.
I can share of myself repeatedly, passionately, emphatically and without apology. It is okay to speak of hard things. It is not a rant, it is my reality.
We are allowed to do this, required to do this. It is not a rant, it is reality. Maybe your reality is a loss of another kind, loss of life as you knew it to a health diagnosis, loss of a marriage, loss of a child, loss of identity, loss of faith, loss of trust.
We don't have to apologize up front for feeling our feelings and sharing our pain. Owning it and sharing it divides the pain. We are called to share of ourselves. Granted it is so much easier to share the absolute joys of life. It is a much deeper experience to share the pain of life. Not that others can take that weight completely from us. I'd pass it on in a heart beat if that was really an option. Here, you take this pain, it sucks. But no, it's ours to walk through. Holding it in a tight knot prolongs the pain. We have to release it to relieve it. Having a story means little if we don't tell it.
My reality is I lost my husband to suicide. I lost him over a long period of time before mental illness claimed him. The man I married and the man I buried were not the same man. I lost him and life as I knew it. I lost the me I was before, the things I trusted as constants. I lost hopes and dreams.
My reality is people never mentioning that lost life of mine. It is knowing that simply saying I lost him to suicide will full on stop a conversation. It is rebuilding a new life one day at a time. It is finding small joys, and working through great grief. It is finding peace in a solitude I never asked for. It is finding the words to share my journey and actually speaking them.
My reality is sharing my story, as I am able, as I grow through it. I promise, I am growing through it. It is opening up to others. It is acknowledging others pain as they walk through it. It is realizing I still have much to give.
I can share of myself repeatedly, passionately, emphatically and without apology. It is okay to speak of hard things. It is not a rant, it is my reality.
Sunday, July 14, 2019
Fine Line
There is a infinitely fine line between joy and grief. I never realized that until the grief journey became my path in life. Perhaps, one must experience great loss to fully embrace great joy. Not that I didn't have an appreciation for joy before. I did, I think. But, and there is always a but, there is a depth to it that came with experiencing loss.
This is good news. There are a few good things that come from the experience of a death by suicide, or other tragic loss. Gifts, if you will. It's nearly impossible to see the gifts at first. And, truthfully, one would never ask for these gifts. Never in a million years. Some gifts are destined for us.
The gift of tears. No one wants to cry from pain, from loss. It's much easier to cry with joy. Tears cleanse, tears heal, tears always remind me I'll come out stronger on the other side. And I do. The gift of growth. Growth is hard, no one wants to learn this way. But, what an education. The gift of learning I need to ask for what I need. I'm suck at this. I am a push through, do without, make due person. I'm learning to reach out, to share my story, to ask for what I need. Loss has been a catalyst for this. The gift of depth. As the healing goes on I feel deeper. Deeper pain, yes. But also deeper joy. It's a fine wobbly line in between, but crossing back and forth is part of life. The gift of awareness and self care. I can't help you if I don't take care of me first. There is a life lesson if I ever saw one.
Here is the deal. Feel things. Feel deeply. Feel gratefully. Feel with tears, when tears come. Feel with laughter, when laughter comes. It's a fine line, this life of ours. A line that offers gifts. Accept them.
This is good news. There are a few good things that come from the experience of a death by suicide, or other tragic loss. Gifts, if you will. It's nearly impossible to see the gifts at first. And, truthfully, one would never ask for these gifts. Never in a million years. Some gifts are destined for us.
The gift of tears. No one wants to cry from pain, from loss. It's much easier to cry with joy. Tears cleanse, tears heal, tears always remind me I'll come out stronger on the other side. And I do. The gift of growth. Growth is hard, no one wants to learn this way. But, what an education. The gift of learning I need to ask for what I need. I'm suck at this. I am a push through, do without, make due person. I'm learning to reach out, to share my story, to ask for what I need. Loss has been a catalyst for this. The gift of depth. As the healing goes on I feel deeper. Deeper pain, yes. But also deeper joy. It's a fine wobbly line in between, but crossing back and forth is part of life. The gift of awareness and self care. I can't help you if I don't take care of me first. There is a life lesson if I ever saw one.
Here is the deal. Feel things. Feel deeply. Feel gratefully. Feel with tears, when tears come. Feel with laughter, when laughter comes. It's a fine line, this life of ours. A line that offers gifts. Accept them.
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Opening Up
I've decided I have a lot of love to give, to share, to enjoy, to receive. I'm not going to waste it. So let me just inform the universe it's okay, actually more than okay, to open the floodgates of love.
I'm pretty sure I don't have to do anything more than that. I know this, because I believe in the Big Guy upstairs. He holds the cards, and truthfully He doesn't need my permission for anything. His plan is better than any I could dream.
But, and there is always a but, I do have to be open. For a long time I have not. I've been struggling to find my footing. Working through regrets, afraid of more change, picking up the broken pieces. In a way I have hunkered down and been holding on in the quiet of work and solitary life. I alternately savored the solitude and wrestled with it. Face it I've felt beaten by my losses, and traumatized by the stigma of being a survivor of suicide loss. If I sound like a broken record, forgive me. I have to, and will, own this truth over and over to accept it, even though I will never understand it. Perhaps if I stand up boldly to it, another will find the courage to do the same.
I deserve to look forward with joy. I deserve to be loved. I am not defined by my loss as much as I am being reborn from it. I am learning to use my words. If these aren't graces from pain endured I don't know what they are. We rarely get the life we bargained for. Sometimes it is way, way more beautiful that we could have ever imagined. Other times it is tragic in ways never anticipated. Sometimes it is both beautiful and tragic. Sometimes early joys dissolve into epic grief. Life is hard, life is blessed, life is beautiful.
I chose to let go of the fear of living fully. This journey may be harder than I anticipate and easy than I envisioned. It will involve pushing through, opening up, being grateful for how messy life can be. It will call me to be brave in ways only God, my therapist and I will understand. It will require grace and growth. We are called to love and be loved. It's time I started answering.
I'm pretty sure I don't have to do anything more than that. I know this, because I believe in the Big Guy upstairs. He holds the cards, and truthfully He doesn't need my permission for anything. His plan is better than any I could dream.
But, and there is always a but, I do have to be open. For a long time I have not. I've been struggling to find my footing. Working through regrets, afraid of more change, picking up the broken pieces. In a way I have hunkered down and been holding on in the quiet of work and solitary life. I alternately savored the solitude and wrestled with it. Face it I've felt beaten by my losses, and traumatized by the stigma of being a survivor of suicide loss. If I sound like a broken record, forgive me. I have to, and will, own this truth over and over to accept it, even though I will never understand it. Perhaps if I stand up boldly to it, another will find the courage to do the same.
I deserve to look forward with joy. I deserve to be loved. I am not defined by my loss as much as I am being reborn from it. I am learning to use my words. If these aren't graces from pain endured I don't know what they are. We rarely get the life we bargained for. Sometimes it is way, way more beautiful that we could have ever imagined. Other times it is tragic in ways never anticipated. Sometimes it is both beautiful and tragic. Sometimes early joys dissolve into epic grief. Life is hard, life is blessed, life is beautiful.
I chose to let go of the fear of living fully. This journey may be harder than I anticipate and easy than I envisioned. It will involve pushing through, opening up, being grateful for how messy life can be. It will call me to be brave in ways only God, my therapist and I will understand. It will require grace and growth. We are called to love and be loved. It's time I started answering.
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