It's time to say Merry Christmas, Season's Greetings, best wishes and I love you. It's always time to say I love you.
I used to take Christmas for granted. As a child, what did I know? I knew the magic of tree's and gifts and feasts. I snooped once, searching the stack of presents, in my parents room. I didn't open the gifts, I just wanted to make sure there were some with my name on it. Funny I should worry about that, I was always a good girl. But sometimes even good girls have doubts.
As a young Mother I knew all about the gifts. I wrapped them meticulously, late at night, alone in the basement. I often wished I had company for that, just for companies sake. I wish I'd made it more of a festive ritual for me. Sometimes (often) we forget to include ourselves in the rituals. We are too busy giving to give back a little to ourselves. We are too busy with the business of life.
Even as an adult I rather took it all for granted. I shopped, I worked, I decorated, I wrapped, I raced through the season. I said Merry Christmas, I said I love you.
Enter a season of grief, and all that changes. All death is hard to accept, to make peace with. A tragic loss, or a loss from suicide brings more questions than one will ever have answers for. Regrets too many to number, and a profound shift in who you used to be as you define who you are now. I don't say that to dim the warm glow of the season. But to share the reality many people live with. In the midst of the mistletoe and the holly is a sorrow we carry. In the joy, we find the tears. In the midst of the love we feel the loss. We can be laughing one moment and crying the next.
Still the holiday arrives, with it's warm greetings, gifts and love. And, it is good. Even in the hard moments it is good. It's about the I love you's. It's about taking less for granted and embracing life with deep gratitude. It is about a silent night, and a star so bright. Wherever you are in life, in this Christmas season, hang on to the light, give thanks for the night.
Tuesday, December 24, 2019
Thursday, December 19, 2019
Little Things
I seriously considered if I should be writing a blog post or a country song, but my musical ability is sketchy, so a blog it is.
In this season of magic, when it seems the world is out shopping for large extravagant Christmas gifts, my pick-up truck died, my glasses broke, the top half of my fridge stopped working and my dawg got skunked. Not to mention the political unrest, the desire to be more and better, the stress of working retail and a longing to have a magic wand to make it all right.
So here are a few key words: desire, stress, all right. I'm going to turn them around into this: I desire to be all right with my stress.
Here is where I am with it. There are no "magic wands", but there are friends and family who support you in ways you never see coming.
I will always wish I could give my kids a gift the size and scope of my love for them. Every birthday, and at Christmas, I wish I could give them more, give them better. I feel much like the Little Drummer Boy lately. All I have to give is a simple, sincere give of love wrapped in my God given talents. They say my gift is enough, yet I wrestle with that. I need to embrace that, rather than wrestle with it. Maybe you do to. Repeat after me. I am enough, my gifts are enough.
The things I struggle with are sorting themselves out. They always do, yet I often forget that. When I can't measure the progress, I wonder if there is any. Most of them, in the distance, will be laughable moments. I just need to get a little distance. In the meantime, there is a second fridge in the mudroom, new wheels in the driveway, super glue holding my glasses together until I get new ordered, a slightly stinky dawg, and a lingering mustiness to the house. This too shall pass.
It shall pass because I have way more blessings than challenges. Even challenges are blessings. It shall pass more easily if I remember the reason for the Season, and be, really Be that Little Drummer Boy. Give with what talents you have. Be open to the gifts of love that come in a thousand different ways. Remember it's not what happens to you, but rather how you respond that matters most.
Life, and the holidays are a series of little things. Good little things, hard little things, funny little things, sometimes smelly little things. Little Drummer Boy things.
In this season of magic, when it seems the world is out shopping for large extravagant Christmas gifts, my pick-up truck died, my glasses broke, the top half of my fridge stopped working and my dawg got skunked. Not to mention the political unrest, the desire to be more and better, the stress of working retail and a longing to have a magic wand to make it all right.
So here are a few key words: desire, stress, all right. I'm going to turn them around into this: I desire to be all right with my stress.
Here is where I am with it. There are no "magic wands", but there are friends and family who support you in ways you never see coming.
I will always wish I could give my kids a gift the size and scope of my love for them. Every birthday, and at Christmas, I wish I could give them more, give them better. I feel much like the Little Drummer Boy lately. All I have to give is a simple, sincere give of love wrapped in my God given talents. They say my gift is enough, yet I wrestle with that. I need to embrace that, rather than wrestle with it. Maybe you do to. Repeat after me. I am enough, my gifts are enough.
The things I struggle with are sorting themselves out. They always do, yet I often forget that. When I can't measure the progress, I wonder if there is any. Most of them, in the distance, will be laughable moments. I just need to get a little distance. In the meantime, there is a second fridge in the mudroom, new wheels in the driveway, super glue holding my glasses together until I get new ordered, a slightly stinky dawg, and a lingering mustiness to the house. This too shall pass.
It shall pass because I have way more blessings than challenges. Even challenges are blessings. It shall pass more easily if I remember the reason for the Season, and be, really Be that Little Drummer Boy. Give with what talents you have. Be open to the gifts of love that come in a thousand different ways. Remember it's not what happens to you, but rather how you respond that matters most.
Life, and the holidays are a series of little things. Good little things, hard little things, funny little things, sometimes smelly little things. Little Drummer Boy things.
Saturday, December 14, 2019
New Wheels
The pick-up truck shot craps recently. It was a 2006 and had 210k+ miles on it. It wasn't my truck, it was Gordon's. But it made sense when he died to sell my car, pay off his and use the vehicle that had a newer transmission. It had a dark brown exterior and a black interior. I always wanted to girl it up. I never did. It served us both well.
When it died, it was a huge financial stressor for me. Sometimes we forget how important dependable transportation is. When you live alone it becomes even more critical. So the hunt was on. What I found was an opportunity to weigh my options. To not take the first vehicle that came my way, and to trust the process. I think I wrestled with that most of all. Trusting the process was hard. A woman shopping for a vehicle feels vulnerable, and least this woman did. I spent hours researching vehicles, mpg ratings, owner reviews. None of that mattered as much as trusting the process.
I've never felt like choosing the color was an option I could really afford to base a decision on. And yet, when bartering on the first vehicle I said, I don't like the color, I swore I'd never have a black vehicle again. The pick-up truck offered little trade-in value, yet I had to parlay that as best I could. The first vehicle would have met my needs, but negotiations stalled out. I was willing to let go and let God move me to another option. That was growth for me.
What I ended up with was way more than I'd hoped for. The bartering was smooth and generous. I had a great team working for me on this. I never actually laid eyes on the vehicle until it was delivered. I researched the model. My son thoroughly inspected it, the dealer I worked with was amazing, but the good Lord was in the driver seat. It's not black, it's not maroon which is my favorite car color, it is white. Clean and full of light. Admittedly I cried at the thought of letting go of the pick-up, of letting go of another tie to a past life. That part is hard. But life leads me on. It brought me a white vehicle (at least until the muddy roads of country life paint it another color). With way more luxuries than I dreamed of. I believe I will name it Bianca. No, I have never named a vehicle in my life. But life is taking me down new roads, so new traditions go with it. While I look longingly at pick-up trucks and what they symbolize, I am embracing a new-to-me SUV. New wheels, new growth, love and light. So glad the stress of that is over, that I owned what worked for me, what didn't, that I trusted the process. New wheels, new blessings and a renewed sense of gratitude. Amen.
When it died, it was a huge financial stressor for me. Sometimes we forget how important dependable transportation is. When you live alone it becomes even more critical. So the hunt was on. What I found was an opportunity to weigh my options. To not take the first vehicle that came my way, and to trust the process. I think I wrestled with that most of all. Trusting the process was hard. A woman shopping for a vehicle feels vulnerable, and least this woman did. I spent hours researching vehicles, mpg ratings, owner reviews. None of that mattered as much as trusting the process.
I've never felt like choosing the color was an option I could really afford to base a decision on. And yet, when bartering on the first vehicle I said, I don't like the color, I swore I'd never have a black vehicle again. The pick-up truck offered little trade-in value, yet I had to parlay that as best I could. The first vehicle would have met my needs, but negotiations stalled out. I was willing to let go and let God move me to another option. That was growth for me.
What I ended up with was way more than I'd hoped for. The bartering was smooth and generous. I had a great team working for me on this. I never actually laid eyes on the vehicle until it was delivered. I researched the model. My son thoroughly inspected it, the dealer I worked with was amazing, but the good Lord was in the driver seat. It's not black, it's not maroon which is my favorite car color, it is white. Clean and full of light. Admittedly I cried at the thought of letting go of the pick-up, of letting go of another tie to a past life. That part is hard. But life leads me on. It brought me a white vehicle (at least until the muddy roads of country life paint it another color). With way more luxuries than I dreamed of. I believe I will name it Bianca. No, I have never named a vehicle in my life. But life is taking me down new roads, so new traditions go with it. While I look longingly at pick-up trucks and what they symbolize, I am embracing a new-to-me SUV. New wheels, new growth, love and light. So glad the stress of that is over, that I owned what worked for me, what didn't, that I trusted the process. New wheels, new blessings and a renewed sense of gratitude. Amen.
Monday, December 2, 2019
To My Village
They say it takes a village, and indeed it does. My villages are diverse, my family and friends village, my crazy dog lady village and the larger crazy dog rescue village. My village of floral friends, Facebook friends, survivor of suicide loss friends and my little rural village friends.
It takes all these villages to keep me safe, healthy, loved and cared for. You, yes you, make life and growth and love possible for me. I won't deny that life has been hard lately. This second year of grieving has been intense. People say the second year is worse, and I'd agree. I've struggled emotionally, financially, and my faith gets a little shaky occasionally too. I try to make due, to go without, to live a simple life without many indulgences. But, and there is always a but, I have big big love pulling me forward. Well honestly, sometimes you have to really push me forward. Even drag me kicking and screaming forward.
My default mode has always been to do with less, go without, make due, and accept less. My middle name should be hunker down and ride it out. I'm can do that. That's not necessarily a good thing. I need to be embrace joyful anticipation. I need to allow light to wash over my life, my faith. I have faith, I don't always live like it though.
I can turn the thermostat low in the house, but I can't do that with my heart. I have to let people in and that involves being open to the gifts they chose to lavish on me. I am amazed by the love God provides for me in the form of kindnesses and support from my villages. You humble me. You make my eyes leak, I know, put on your surprised face!
I forget who I belong to and succumb to worry and fear. I hold in, instead of reaching out. 2 Timothy 1:7 says it all...For God has not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. Power, love and a sound mind. All that, and my villages. What an impressive, amazing roster of love. Amen to that, and bless you for being my village.
It takes all these villages to keep me safe, healthy, loved and cared for. You, yes you, make life and growth and love possible for me. I won't deny that life has been hard lately. This second year of grieving has been intense. People say the second year is worse, and I'd agree. I've struggled emotionally, financially, and my faith gets a little shaky occasionally too. I try to make due, to go without, to live a simple life without many indulgences. But, and there is always a but, I have big big love pulling me forward. Well honestly, sometimes you have to really push me forward. Even drag me kicking and screaming forward.
My default mode has always been to do with less, go without, make due, and accept less. My middle name should be hunker down and ride it out. I'm can do that. That's not necessarily a good thing. I need to be embrace joyful anticipation. I need to allow light to wash over my life, my faith. I have faith, I don't always live like it though.
I can turn the thermostat low in the house, but I can't do that with my heart. I have to let people in and that involves being open to the gifts they chose to lavish on me. I am amazed by the love God provides for me in the form of kindnesses and support from my villages. You humble me. You make my eyes leak, I know, put on your surprised face!
I forget who I belong to and succumb to worry and fear. I hold in, instead of reaching out. 2 Timothy 1:7 says it all...For God has not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. Power, love and a sound mind. All that, and my villages. What an impressive, amazing roster of love. Amen to that, and bless you for being my village.
Tuesday, November 19, 2019
Little Cubes of Gratitude
It's Thanksgiving week for me, as we celebrate early, and I have started the cooking preparations. That said, every day is a day of thanks giving when you choose to embrace gratitude. Stick with me on this, we'll circle back around.
Today I cubed bread to make stuffing. I know I can buy dried bread, sometimes for less than what I pay to make it myself. I know there are stuffing mixes out there. None that compare with homemade though. I also know, no matter how much stuffing I make it is never, ever, enough. So I slice the bread, and for the next few days I'll gently turn it over and over as it dries out. I'll remember other Thanksgivings each time I stir the bread cubes.
Other Thanksgivings were different, some were much much easier. Some were full tables of 20+ people. There were adult tables, and kids tables. There was polishing the good silver, getting out Great Grandma's china. There was the joy of the holiday and the fear in the background that too much alcohol consumed by the adults would change the joy to tense moments of anger. Childhood holidays often went like that. There was one Thanksgiving I was sick with mono. The kids and I ate just the basics, turkey, mashed potato's, gravy. Pretty sure I didn't make stuffing that year. We ate off of paper plates and it was good. There were smoked turkeys, deep fried turkeys, and feed the college kids and their friends turkeys.
The times change, the faces change, but the traditions continue. The bread must be cubed and dried. It's what I do to feed those I love with love. It's hard to accept that there are empty places at the table and there always will be. It's hard to find peace in knowing they were fed with love over the years and still they are gone. It's hard to wish you could have fixed it for them, that enough love would have made a difference. It is finding the grace to accept you did all you could, and the choice was not yours.
So I find myself looking ahead, and looking back as I cube the bread. There are tears and anticipation. There are memories to savor, memories to heal from, new memories to make. They are simple cubes of bread that hold so much love. I'd be remiss if I didn't stir in vast amounts of gratitude. Gratitude for feasts, for faith, for family. Gratitude for the path I'm on, for the pain that I feel, for the healing that I find on the journey. Gratitude for bread, cubed, dried and shared with those I love.
Today I cubed bread to make stuffing. I know I can buy dried bread, sometimes for less than what I pay to make it myself. I know there are stuffing mixes out there. None that compare with homemade though. I also know, no matter how much stuffing I make it is never, ever, enough. So I slice the bread, and for the next few days I'll gently turn it over and over as it dries out. I'll remember other Thanksgivings each time I stir the bread cubes.
Other Thanksgivings were different, some were much much easier. Some were full tables of 20+ people. There were adult tables, and kids tables. There was polishing the good silver, getting out Great Grandma's china. There was the joy of the holiday and the fear in the background that too much alcohol consumed by the adults would change the joy to tense moments of anger. Childhood holidays often went like that. There was one Thanksgiving I was sick with mono. The kids and I ate just the basics, turkey, mashed potato's, gravy. Pretty sure I didn't make stuffing that year. We ate off of paper plates and it was good. There were smoked turkeys, deep fried turkeys, and feed the college kids and their friends turkeys.
The times change, the faces change, but the traditions continue. The bread must be cubed and dried. It's what I do to feed those I love with love. It's hard to accept that there are empty places at the table and there always will be. It's hard to find peace in knowing they were fed with love over the years and still they are gone. It's hard to wish you could have fixed it for them, that enough love would have made a difference. It is finding the grace to accept you did all you could, and the choice was not yours.
So I find myself looking ahead, and looking back as I cube the bread. There are tears and anticipation. There are memories to savor, memories to heal from, new memories to make. They are simple cubes of bread that hold so much love. I'd be remiss if I didn't stir in vast amounts of gratitude. Gratitude for feasts, for faith, for family. Gratitude for the path I'm on, for the pain that I feel, for the healing that I find on the journey. Gratitude for bread, cubed, dried and shared with those I love.
Thursday, November 14, 2019
Crossing Hurdles
Since my loss I'm taken aback by all the "first times", all the hurdles one crosses in life and on a grief journey. I know, that all of life includes first time hurdles, but loss ramps up the intensity, the poignancy of them. I am acutely aware of life choices and experiences now. Frankly, I'd like to go back to being rather blissfully unaware. If you are in that stage of life count your blessings. Give thanks for the innocence, do the happy dance for simplicity. Now, I also am going to give thanks for losing said innocence, and for the lack of simplicity in my life. Gratitude embraces all of it, the good, the bad, and the ugly.
I am where I am. I can't go back to who I was, and I'm not sure I'd want to...except for the pain that brought me here. I wish I could have prevented it, or fixed it, or changed it. This new me is still evolving, still taking the hurdles with less that stellar grace, with tons of questions with no answers, with one step forward, two steps back. I should come with a warning sign: caution figuring life out and prone to weeping. Calm, cool and collected one moment, but watch out the next. Knows there are hurdles ahead, unable to anticipate their location. Or, caution - hormonal spill pending.
I had the absolute pleasure of attending my favorite concert of all this week. Tran-Siberian Orchestra is just the best, my happy place. I was delighted to be going and couldn't wait to experience it. Enter a caution sign, tears up ahead. It was everything I hoped it would be, and I was a weepy mess. You see, I am not the same person I was last time I saw them. I was thrilled to be excited, passionately excited, for the first time in over two years. Progress, right? Yes, and sometimes progress doesn't look like you'd expect. Sometimes it's wrapped up in sorrow and tied with a tearful bow. Sometimes it's a mix of emotions hard to fathom much less explain.
Next time I see them, and I will...I'm hoping it will be easier. Well, at least different, and beautiful in another way. It was amazing, even though the hurdles snuck up on me and I temporarily stumbled on them. I still came out touched by their talent and music, humbled by the experience and stronger on the other side. I guess that is the purpose of life hurdles, to get stronger on the other side.
I am where I am. I can't go back to who I was, and I'm not sure I'd want to...except for the pain that brought me here. I wish I could have prevented it, or fixed it, or changed it. This new me is still evolving, still taking the hurdles with less that stellar grace, with tons of questions with no answers, with one step forward, two steps back. I should come with a warning sign: caution figuring life out and prone to weeping. Calm, cool and collected one moment, but watch out the next. Knows there are hurdles ahead, unable to anticipate their location. Or, caution - hormonal spill pending.
I had the absolute pleasure of attending my favorite concert of all this week. Tran-Siberian Orchestra is just the best, my happy place. I was delighted to be going and couldn't wait to experience it. Enter a caution sign, tears up ahead. It was everything I hoped it would be, and I was a weepy mess. You see, I am not the same person I was last time I saw them. I was thrilled to be excited, passionately excited, for the first time in over two years. Progress, right? Yes, and sometimes progress doesn't look like you'd expect. Sometimes it's wrapped up in sorrow and tied with a tearful bow. Sometimes it's a mix of emotions hard to fathom much less explain.
Next time I see them, and I will...I'm hoping it will be easier. Well, at least different, and beautiful in another way. It was amazing, even though the hurdles snuck up on me and I temporarily stumbled on them. I still came out touched by their talent and music, humbled by the experience and stronger on the other side. I guess that is the purpose of life hurdles, to get stronger on the other side.
Sunday, November 10, 2019
Struggle and Acceptance
There is something comforting in listening to the winds blow as a storm rolls through, and yet those same winds remind me of how alone I often feel. It reminds me I long to share the daily experiences in life. The changes in the weather, the world as I experience it, the little and big in life.
Therefore, I am torn between accepting my solitude and knowing that the experiences are mine alone, and wrestling with them. If the winds are blowing and I alone hear them, don't they still blow like crazy? If I laugh, loud and long, by myself is not the laughter still valid? Where do I find the peace of acceptance? Why do I lose sight of the fact that this is a chapter of life, not the whole of it?
I have a thousand blessings, and still miss those blessings lost to life changes I never asked for. I suspect that is because I still look back at what was and what no longer is. I am both in the past and out of it. If I can not find a peaceful understanding, a closure, how do I at least find gratitude?
I have to wonder if struggle is universal. I have to wonder if the gifts in this chapter of life are the very solitude I try to push back, and the acceptance that is slow to take root. It is what I have and don't want, and also what I dislike and need to embrace. It's like desperately wanting pizza and always getting Chinese food. My needs are met, but my wants are in another drive thru. May I find acceptance and sustenance, if not joy, in my fortune cookie. Pizza will come another day.
So how to move with the storms and find the grace involved. It's somewhere in the letting go and the letting God of life. It's reminding myself I'm not entirely alone even when I feel like it. It's trusting an outcome that feels miles down the road. It's reminding myself that feelings aren't always facts. I feel like this part of life may never end, and that is not the truth. I won't be in this same place in life tomorrow, just today. I only need to do today, today.
So today I listen to the wind and marvel at it. I laugh out loud, and own the pleasure. I know I'm okay right where I am, and I trust that growth is taking place. I can breathe and release. I can embrace that life is hard and also that I am strong. I can speak my truth, share my thoughts and count my blessings.
Therefore, I am torn between accepting my solitude and knowing that the experiences are mine alone, and wrestling with them. If the winds are blowing and I alone hear them, don't they still blow like crazy? If I laugh, loud and long, by myself is not the laughter still valid? Where do I find the peace of acceptance? Why do I lose sight of the fact that this is a chapter of life, not the whole of it?
I have a thousand blessings, and still miss those blessings lost to life changes I never asked for. I suspect that is because I still look back at what was and what no longer is. I am both in the past and out of it. If I can not find a peaceful understanding, a closure, how do I at least find gratitude?
I have to wonder if struggle is universal. I have to wonder if the gifts in this chapter of life are the very solitude I try to push back, and the acceptance that is slow to take root. It is what I have and don't want, and also what I dislike and need to embrace. It's like desperately wanting pizza and always getting Chinese food. My needs are met, but my wants are in another drive thru. May I find acceptance and sustenance, if not joy, in my fortune cookie. Pizza will come another day.
So how to move with the storms and find the grace involved. It's somewhere in the letting go and the letting God of life. It's reminding myself I'm not entirely alone even when I feel like it. It's trusting an outcome that feels miles down the road. It's reminding myself that feelings aren't always facts. I feel like this part of life may never end, and that is not the truth. I won't be in this same place in life tomorrow, just today. I only need to do today, today.
So today I listen to the wind and marvel at it. I laugh out loud, and own the pleasure. I know I'm okay right where I am, and I trust that growth is taking place. I can breathe and release. I can embrace that life is hard and also that I am strong. I can speak my truth, share my thoughts and count my blessings.
Sunday, November 3, 2019
Feeling Connected
As a survivor of suicide loss, I struggle with feeling connected. Honestly, trusting and feeling connected has always been baggage I've carried. The stigma of suicide added greatly to that. Part of me feels completely invisible and the rest of me is just afraid to be seen. Of late, I've been unpacking it, sorting it out, and working on letting it go. It's not an easy process.
I don't believe Gordon's choice was instantaneous, it came after a long downward spiral, and he was at risk from having lost a sibling to suicide. The connection we shared as husband and wife was repeatedly challenged, and over time became so broken. Looking back I can see how many emotional hits we took as a couple, and to a degree how it affected us individually.
Connection is hard, it involves trust and trust involves vulnerability. While my instinct is to not trust so easily, that results in great isolation. I will not let my life choices, and his, define me. So I am taking baby steps to feeling more connected.
How do you do this you ask? And why would someone own this publicly? I'm learning how to walk this path by faith, with the help of a wise mental health care professional, and the support of people who love me. Why would I share this? Because I choose not to be alone. Alone is where we hide our inner pain. Alone is where we can lose our way in life. I'm unpacking it, looking it over, deciding what needs to be saved and what needs to be released. There is great knowledge in there, and there are mixed messages that need the light of day to be put to rest.
I'm allowing myself more. More time with friends, more time in prayer, more grace when I make mistakes, more self acceptance, more self understanding, more gratitude. And, yes, I have to push myself to do it. It's okay to have to push myself, in fact it's absolutely necessary. I have made so many mistakes along the way, and have many regrets. Pretty sure I am not alone in this feeling. And I love knowing I am surrounding myself with healthy connections as I learn and grow.
So I share these thoughts for my growth, and for others who struggle. For others hiding their pain and hurting, suffering in isolation. For people like me, like you, and the Gordon's of the world who lost their life to mental illness.
I don't believe Gordon's choice was instantaneous, it came after a long downward spiral, and he was at risk from having lost a sibling to suicide. The connection we shared as husband and wife was repeatedly challenged, and over time became so broken. Looking back I can see how many emotional hits we took as a couple, and to a degree how it affected us individually.
Connection is hard, it involves trust and trust involves vulnerability. While my instinct is to not trust so easily, that results in great isolation. I will not let my life choices, and his, define me. So I am taking baby steps to feeling more connected.
How do you do this you ask? And why would someone own this publicly? I'm learning how to walk this path by faith, with the help of a wise mental health care professional, and the support of people who love me. Why would I share this? Because I choose not to be alone. Alone is where we hide our inner pain. Alone is where we can lose our way in life. I'm unpacking it, looking it over, deciding what needs to be saved and what needs to be released. There is great knowledge in there, and there are mixed messages that need the light of day to be put to rest.
I'm allowing myself more. More time with friends, more time in prayer, more grace when I make mistakes, more self acceptance, more self understanding, more gratitude. And, yes, I have to push myself to do it. It's okay to have to push myself, in fact it's absolutely necessary. I have made so many mistakes along the way, and have many regrets. Pretty sure I am not alone in this feeling. And I love knowing I am surrounding myself with healthy connections as I learn and grow.
So I share these thoughts for my growth, and for others who struggle. For others hiding their pain and hurting, suffering in isolation. For people like me, like you, and the Gordon's of the world who lost their life to mental illness.
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Cry When You Need To. Life Is Complicated.
Two things, cry when you need to, and life is complicated.
I've been pondering at how easily I weep. Granted, I've always been a weepy woman, but I've moved into the skill level extreme. Most of you won't see it, but some of you have had the experience of seeing the well spring unload. As I've said mostly I weep in the privacy of the truck. That's okay, my truck is where I am usually in between. In between is okay. In between is temporary. In between can be safe. In between just is.
I know the first year after Gordon's death I was mostly numb. Numbness happens when a loss is too shocking to absorb. His choice is still impossible to fathom. Not to say I didn't cry when I was numb. I think I cried but didn't feel. Now I feel and cry. Yesterday I cried while watching a young Mom comfort her infant. I cried because I miss the days when life was so simple, so uncomplicated. Of course, her life may not have a simple thing in it, I don't know. But I remember when life was just easy, or at least I believed so. I trusted it to just be good. It's hard to trust when you know life can be tragic and complicated. And, it's important to trust when you know life can be tragic and complicated. Like I said...it's complicated.
The other night with friends I felt completely okay just as I was, and then within minutes felt completely lacking just as I was. Such a fine line of personal comfort. I emotionally checked out of the conversations and felt like an outsider. And, that is my baggage to carry, to sort out, to process. So here I am processing away.
This is what I've discovered. I don't fit into the places I fit before. Extreme losses will do that to you. That alone is worth weeping over. The nature of my loss sometimes makes people uncomfortable with me, and makes me uncomfortable with them. It sometimes even makes me uncomfortable with me. Not a path I chose, but one I must find a way to navigate. It's a painful thing this not fitting in. It's painful how slowly that realization comes to you. With the pain eventually comes grace and growth, but ever so slowly. I struggle with the slowly part. I'd like that growth now please (if not sooner), with a side of fries and a milk shake. Hey, a girl can dream, right?
So this is where I find myself as a survivor of suicide loss. Keeping the faith and trusting in the process even when it's uncomfortable. Sorting out what works and doesn't work like it used to. Crying when I need to. This is growth, this is grace, this is progress. And there you have it.
I've been pondering at how easily I weep. Granted, I've always been a weepy woman, but I've moved into the skill level extreme. Most of you won't see it, but some of you have had the experience of seeing the well spring unload. As I've said mostly I weep in the privacy of the truck. That's okay, my truck is where I am usually in between. In between is okay. In between is temporary. In between can be safe. In between just is.
I know the first year after Gordon's death I was mostly numb. Numbness happens when a loss is too shocking to absorb. His choice is still impossible to fathom. Not to say I didn't cry when I was numb. I think I cried but didn't feel. Now I feel and cry. Yesterday I cried while watching a young Mom comfort her infant. I cried because I miss the days when life was so simple, so uncomplicated. Of course, her life may not have a simple thing in it, I don't know. But I remember when life was just easy, or at least I believed so. I trusted it to just be good. It's hard to trust when you know life can be tragic and complicated. And, it's important to trust when you know life can be tragic and complicated. Like I said...it's complicated.
The other night with friends I felt completely okay just as I was, and then within minutes felt completely lacking just as I was. Such a fine line of personal comfort. I emotionally checked out of the conversations and felt like an outsider. And, that is my baggage to carry, to sort out, to process. So here I am processing away.
This is what I've discovered. I don't fit into the places I fit before. Extreme losses will do that to you. That alone is worth weeping over. The nature of my loss sometimes makes people uncomfortable with me, and makes me uncomfortable with them. It sometimes even makes me uncomfortable with me. Not a path I chose, but one I must find a way to navigate. It's a painful thing this not fitting in. It's painful how slowly that realization comes to you. With the pain eventually comes grace and growth, but ever so slowly. I struggle with the slowly part. I'd like that growth now please (if not sooner), with a side of fries and a milk shake. Hey, a girl can dream, right?
So this is where I find myself as a survivor of suicide loss. Keeping the faith and trusting in the process even when it's uncomfortable. Sorting out what works and doesn't work like it used to. Crying when I need to. This is growth, this is grace, this is progress. And there you have it.
Saturday, October 12, 2019
Riding The Waves
I am not sure I will ever understand the grief process. Why some days are so very much harder than others. Why some days tears flow at the drop of a hat. Why some things just trigger you.
There are days, days like Friday for example, that hit you like a ton of bricks. Fridays when you get off work, and the anticipation of the weekend meets with reality. Fridays aren't Fridays like they used to be anymore. There is a gift in these waves of tears. You just have to sort through them and extract the grace. But to sort through them you have to experience them. To experience them you have to feel them. To feel them is to cry the tears, feel the hurt, the loss, the regret, the loneliness. To own exactly where you are in life. Owning it is truly the first step.
I'd like to think it gets easier, and while the frequency of the waves lessen, the intensity often doesn't. It's a wrestling match of how we expected life to go versus how life actually went. Acceptance is rugged, acceptance is grueling. Parts of life are so hard, and hard is the understatement of the century.
So here is where my instinct is to spin the positive. Partly because I want to skip past the hard parts to look for the good in all of this. It's there, I know it. I'd rather cut to the chase. But for this moment I let the tears leak out. I roll with the waves and trust they will deposit me in a softer place. A place that offers a gentle hand and a profound love. I don't have to know why things are being triggered. I don't have to understand the correlation. I just have to go through it to get to the other side. It takes faith to move through the pain. It takes trust in the process which is somewhat erratic and definitely relentless. The process takes me whether I want it to or not. I can fight it or I can lean in towards accepting it. Leaning in takes less energy, but definitely more faith.
This is grief, this is growth. This is my reality, tears and all.
There are days, days like Friday for example, that hit you like a ton of bricks. Fridays when you get off work, and the anticipation of the weekend meets with reality. Fridays aren't Fridays like they used to be anymore. There is a gift in these waves of tears. You just have to sort through them and extract the grace. But to sort through them you have to experience them. To experience them you have to feel them. To feel them is to cry the tears, feel the hurt, the loss, the regret, the loneliness. To own exactly where you are in life. Owning it is truly the first step.
I'd like to think it gets easier, and while the frequency of the waves lessen, the intensity often doesn't. It's a wrestling match of how we expected life to go versus how life actually went. Acceptance is rugged, acceptance is grueling. Parts of life are so hard, and hard is the understatement of the century.
So here is where my instinct is to spin the positive. Partly because I want to skip past the hard parts to look for the good in all of this. It's there, I know it. I'd rather cut to the chase. But for this moment I let the tears leak out. I roll with the waves and trust they will deposit me in a softer place. A place that offers a gentle hand and a profound love. I don't have to know why things are being triggered. I don't have to understand the correlation. I just have to go through it to get to the other side. It takes faith to move through the pain. It takes trust in the process which is somewhat erratic and definitely relentless. The process takes me whether I want it to or not. I can fight it or I can lean in towards accepting it. Leaning in takes less energy, but definitely more faith.
This is grief, this is growth. This is my reality, tears and all.
Tuesday, October 8, 2019
Even When
Many years ago I began a list of graces/blessings. I try to write some down every day. Some days I'll write several. The goal being to reach 1000 graces, originally without any duplication's. I owe this lovely idea to friend of mine from town. The first time I met her I had a complete melt down in her store. Bless her heart for passing out Kleenex, encouragement and the challenge to count 1000 graces.
Truth be told I had a list of several hundred graces going when mental illness took Gordon. When he went, he took my list out with him. His despair was overwhelming. As where his very actions.
I've learned a lot since then. I am still on that path of learning. I've learned that counting blessings is critical to my life. Duplicates absolutely count. Some blessings just have to be counted more than once. Even if I can't remember counting something, it's okay. Forgiveness, forgetfulness and acceptance of our frailty counts double.
Even when I struggle for patience, understanding and comfort in where I am today there are blessings. I wrestle with being comfortably alone, when I am alone. And, I struggle with being comfortable in a group when I'm in a group. I am anxious being the single in a group of couples. I'm not quite sure where I fit anywhere at anytime. It's hard to process the pain, and release it into healing. It's a rugged journey, one I never asked for.
Even when the feeling of being lost and alone is strong, I can find the grace within. I can't count the number of times I've given thanks for the tears. I will continue to do so over and over. The times I separate things down to the smallest gift of grace are so worth noting. This list is proof that there is always something to be grateful for. Even if I am not where I want to be in life. Even when grief weighs heavy. Even when I look back at what was lost, and look ahead wondering how to find peace in it. Even then I have more blessings/graces than I can shake a stick at.
So I count these gifts in my head, but also on paper. It's like a freeze frame of precious gifts. All worth counting, all worth experiencing. Duplication's acceptable. Losing my first list did not destroy those blessings, they exist, and they continue to be counted day in and day out.
Truth be told I had a list of several hundred graces going when mental illness took Gordon. When he went, he took my list out with him. His despair was overwhelming. As where his very actions.
I've learned a lot since then. I am still on that path of learning. I've learned that counting blessings is critical to my life. Duplicates absolutely count. Some blessings just have to be counted more than once. Even if I can't remember counting something, it's okay. Forgiveness, forgetfulness and acceptance of our frailty counts double.
Even when I struggle for patience, understanding and comfort in where I am today there are blessings. I wrestle with being comfortably alone, when I am alone. And, I struggle with being comfortable in a group when I'm in a group. I am anxious being the single in a group of couples. I'm not quite sure where I fit anywhere at anytime. It's hard to process the pain, and release it into healing. It's a rugged journey, one I never asked for.
Even when the feeling of being lost and alone is strong, I can find the grace within. I can't count the number of times I've given thanks for the tears. I will continue to do so over and over. The times I separate things down to the smallest gift of grace are so worth noting. This list is proof that there is always something to be grateful for. Even if I am not where I want to be in life. Even when grief weighs heavy. Even when I look back at what was lost, and look ahead wondering how to find peace in it. Even then I have more blessings/graces than I can shake a stick at.
So I count these gifts in my head, but also on paper. It's like a freeze frame of precious gifts. All worth counting, all worth experiencing. Duplication's acceptable. Losing my first list did not destroy those blessings, they exist, and they continue to be counted day in and day out.
Friday, September 27, 2019
Definitions
We have so many things that define us. Names, titles, occupations, roles we've played over the years. Going way back...cheerleader (a hundred years ago), student, girlfriend, fiancee, secretary, wife, mother, florist, divorcee, florist, florist, florist, fiancee, wife, blogger, volunteer, crazy dog lady, still a florist. The one that gets me though is survivor of suicide loss. Because that is one I know gets said behind my back, and never to my face.
I wonder how often his choice is used to define me, to explain me, to reference who I am. Oh that's so and so, her husband killed himself. Now maybe it never happens, but I'd be willing to bet that it does because of the stigma associated with suicide.
I have no control over who says what. I get that. But the isolation of what happened makes for a lonely journey. I also understand that by defining others we try to feel a little better about ourselves. It puts them in a separate place and makes us feel a little more secure in a scary world. I totally get my experience represents a scary world for many people. Because we want to believe all is well, we like to think those we love are safe and happy. We want "safe" titles for who and what we are.
What happened does not define me, as much as serve to refine me. It pushes me towards growth and gratitude. It has changed me. You can whisper, oh her husband killed himself. But that "her" no longer exists. You see both Gordon's life, and mine as I knew it ended that day. After floundering, weeping, praying and being sustained by friends and family, I go on.
All of the people who have been part of my life have shaped me, blessed me, and challenged me. None more than Gordon has in his life and his death. All that said, be gentle with how we define ourselves and others. We are all doing the best we can on any given day. I am not the sum of another's choice. I am simply me, putting one foot in front of another by the grace of God.
I wonder how often his choice is used to define me, to explain me, to reference who I am. Oh that's so and so, her husband killed himself. Now maybe it never happens, but I'd be willing to bet that it does because of the stigma associated with suicide.
I have no control over who says what. I get that. But the isolation of what happened makes for a lonely journey. I also understand that by defining others we try to feel a little better about ourselves. It puts them in a separate place and makes us feel a little more secure in a scary world. I totally get my experience represents a scary world for many people. Because we want to believe all is well, we like to think those we love are safe and happy. We want "safe" titles for who and what we are.
What happened does not define me, as much as serve to refine me. It pushes me towards growth and gratitude. It has changed me. You can whisper, oh her husband killed himself. But that "her" no longer exists. You see both Gordon's life, and mine as I knew it ended that day. After floundering, weeping, praying and being sustained by friends and family, I go on.
All of the people who have been part of my life have shaped me, blessed me, and challenged me. None more than Gordon has in his life and his death. All that said, be gentle with how we define ourselves and others. We are all doing the best we can on any given day. I am not the sum of another's choice. I am simply me, putting one foot in front of another by the grace of God.
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Mine To Carry, Not Mine To Carry.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, May 30, 2019
Mowing
I spend a lot of time mowing these days. I have some thoughts about that. Up until last summer I'd never used the riding mower. Oh, I was welcome to use the push mower any time, lol. But not the John Deere. I admit I was leery of it at first. I can honestly say JD and I are in a committed relationship.
Here is what I've learned, I rather like mowing. For 2+ hours a week I have life under control. My edges are clean from trimming. The yard is neat and lovely. It looks picture perfect. I accomplished that neat and tidy, that picture perfect. I take comfort in that small period where I've got it all.
Most the time, I/we/you/me haven't got squat under control. I don't know about you, but I guess, you also find life both blessed and chaotic at the same time. Both, full to the top and empty beyond belief. Sometimes simultaneously. It's not what I expected, not what I ever dreamed, and yet full of grace.
I like the neat and tidy, the under control part. Those of us growing and healing know it's messy, and gut wrenching. We're not sure how we'll come out on the other side. We know the healing will be a life long process. We worry the loneliness will never end. We push hard just to keep up our momentum. And, we long for the comfort of rest. We dream of path's less rocky and exhausting.
So if my two+ hours of mowing gives me a semblance of normalcy, I'll call it a win. At least temporarily I need the bliss of the idyllic. I wish you the same, respite in the pain of progress, and peace during times of growth. If mowing does that for you, you're in good company.
Here is what I've learned, I rather like mowing. For 2+ hours a week I have life under control. My edges are clean from trimming. The yard is neat and lovely. It looks picture perfect. I accomplished that neat and tidy, that picture perfect. I take comfort in that small period where I've got it all.
Most the time, I/we/you/me haven't got squat under control. I don't know about you, but I guess, you also find life both blessed and chaotic at the same time. Both, full to the top and empty beyond belief. Sometimes simultaneously. It's not what I expected, not what I ever dreamed, and yet full of grace.
I like the neat and tidy, the under control part. Those of us growing and healing know it's messy, and gut wrenching. We're not sure how we'll come out on the other side. We know the healing will be a life long process. We worry the loneliness will never end. We push hard just to keep up our momentum. And, we long for the comfort of rest. We dream of path's less rocky and exhausting.
So if my two+ hours of mowing gives me a semblance of normalcy, I'll call it a win. At least temporarily I need the bliss of the idyllic. I wish you the same, respite in the pain of progress, and peace during times of growth. If mowing does that for you, you're in good company.
Thursday, May 23, 2019
Life Is Hard, Say The Words
Life is hard, although most of us keep that to ourselves. We tend not to say, I'm hurting, I'm struggling, I'm lost, I'm worried. We put on our game face and tend to the business of life. We rarely say....I am a survivor of suicide, part of every day is hard. Or, I'm a cancer survivor, I'm thrilled to be "cured" but I am forever changed and struggle to define the new me. Or, I lost a child to miscarriage. Part of my heart will always be broken. There are things we don't say, things we need to say, and things we are afraid to say. Granted, not everyone needs to know our whole story. But, some do, and we need to find the words to share it. Someone needs to hear it, to ease their burdens. To end the isolation.
I've shared before that I have never felt as invisible as I do now. People didn't know what to say immediately after Gordon died, and even with the passage of time, they still don't. It's like there are safe subjects and few veer off that path. Work is a safe subject, the dogs are, my kids are. How are you is still a trick question. Even when I give a safe lead in, few march willingly into my life reality. God bless those who do. Not so much with how are you, but with how was this for you? How is life looking for you today. Or simply, what kind of day is it today? Even days filled with absolute joy, such as my daughters recent wedding, held a flip side with sorrow weighing heavy on the heart. We can, and do, feel both complete joy and pain at the same time.
I think I need a t-shirt that says, I'm Not The Same Person I Was - Love Me Anyway. Or one that says, It's Okay To Say The Words. We are more than those words, and there is no shame in sharing it. We are strong, not by choice, but by the lack of other options. And, we can strengthen others by telling our story.
I've shared before that I have never felt as invisible as I do now. People didn't know what to say immediately after Gordon died, and even with the passage of time, they still don't. It's like there are safe subjects and few veer off that path. Work is a safe subject, the dogs are, my kids are. How are you is still a trick question. Even when I give a safe lead in, few march willingly into my life reality. God bless those who do. Not so much with how are you, but with how was this for you? How is life looking for you today. Or simply, what kind of day is it today? Even days filled with absolute joy, such as my daughters recent wedding, held a flip side with sorrow weighing heavy on the heart. We can, and do, feel both complete joy and pain at the same time.
I think I need a t-shirt that says, I'm Not The Same Person I Was - Love Me Anyway. Or one that says, It's Okay To Say The Words. We are more than those words, and there is no shame in sharing it. We are strong, not by choice, but by the lack of other options. And, we can strengthen others by telling our story.
Monday, April 29, 2019
Letting go with love...
I heard, that your hearts are heavy and full of sadness. Tomorrow you will help, not just one, but both of your senior Labs across the bridge. Face it, they say we own our pets, but basically they own us. They own our hearts. They have us hook, line and sinker. There is nothing better than being owned in such a way.
They own us, but in many cases we have to decide when it's time to say goodbye. It is our last gift of love for them. I think we'd all agree that decision sucks, sucks royally. Yet how could we deny them comfort? All of their years with you they gave you unconditional love and comfort beyond measure. Mixed in with antics and shenanigans. They made you laugh, and worry, and they eased your pain in the sad times. They gave with unbridled joy and tails wagging to beat the band.
So tonight you cuddle them, give them unlimited treats and whisper I love you's. You thank them for taking up residence in your heart. You know your last gift of love is the ultimate gift of love. And while you doubt your ability to let go, you will do so with a strength you don't know you have.
With your sorrow, know that you provided for all of their needs. Know your love for them was only exceeded by their love for you. Know that you are not alone, are never alone. Know that they are so very well loved, and you will see them on the other side of the bridge.
Sending you love and hugs......and a smooch on the schnozzle for them.
They own us, but in many cases we have to decide when it's time to say goodbye. It is our last gift of love for them. I think we'd all agree that decision sucks, sucks royally. Yet how could we deny them comfort? All of their years with you they gave you unconditional love and comfort beyond measure. Mixed in with antics and shenanigans. They made you laugh, and worry, and they eased your pain in the sad times. They gave with unbridled joy and tails wagging to beat the band.
So tonight you cuddle them, give them unlimited treats and whisper I love you's. You thank them for taking up residence in your heart. You know your last gift of love is the ultimate gift of love. And while you doubt your ability to let go, you will do so with a strength you don't know you have.
With your sorrow, know that you provided for all of their needs. Know your love for them was only exceeded by their love for you. Know that you are not alone, are never alone. Know that they are so very well loved, and you will see them on the other side of the bridge.
Sending you love and hugs......and a smooch on the schnozzle for them.
Sunday, April 21, 2019
New Normal
Life changes after a loss. After a health issue, the loss of a relationship, a loss by death. We pick up the pieces of what life once was, of the person we were and reassemble them into our new normal. First I'm gonna say, there ain't nothing "normal" about this new normal. That phrase ticks me off. I never asked for new, and I certainly can't define normal.
Most days, I can tuck the enormity, the reality, of Gordon's death away and go about life. Other times I am overcome by how tragic a death by suicide is. It is impossible to absorb all of it. I cannot fathom the level of his pain, as I try to process my pain. The first year was mostly numb, which is a blessing of sorts. The second year is harder than the first. Each holiday, wedding, anniversary, birthdays, the 19th of the month, even random days bring the pain to the surface.
I feel like I repeat myself as I share this struggle. Perhaps because over and over I am poignantly reminded how hard life is. For others the event happened long ago, and they are over it. Over it is not an option I have.
It makes me wonder why. Why and what purpose this served. What am I supposed to do with it and how do I make something of this. Why am I where I am in life? In moments of doubt, and we all have them, I wonder if I'm where I need to be or am I supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else. I wait for those answers.
Reality is that life is a mix of grief and grace, joy and tears. So I continue on the journey life placed before me. Perhaps you do too. Maybe, I'm here to remind you that you are not alone in your struggles. Maybe the message is life is hard, but together we are strong. Maybe grace is found in the rubble, and growth comes from it. I wish you grace, and growth. And a new you, normal or not.
Most days, I can tuck the enormity, the reality, of Gordon's death away and go about life. Other times I am overcome by how tragic a death by suicide is. It is impossible to absorb all of it. I cannot fathom the level of his pain, as I try to process my pain. The first year was mostly numb, which is a blessing of sorts. The second year is harder than the first. Each holiday, wedding, anniversary, birthdays, the 19th of the month, even random days bring the pain to the surface.
I feel like I repeat myself as I share this struggle. Perhaps because over and over I am poignantly reminded how hard life is. For others the event happened long ago, and they are over it. Over it is not an option I have.
It makes me wonder why. Why and what purpose this served. What am I supposed to do with it and how do I make something of this. Why am I where I am in life? In moments of doubt, and we all have them, I wonder if I'm where I need to be or am I supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else. I wait for those answers.
Reality is that life is a mix of grief and grace, joy and tears. So I continue on the journey life placed before me. Perhaps you do too. Maybe, I'm here to remind you that you are not alone in your struggles. Maybe the message is life is hard, but together we are strong. Maybe grace is found in the rubble, and growth comes from it. I wish you grace, and growth. And a new you, normal or not.
Monday, April 8, 2019
Stigma
Let's talk about Stigma. I'm giving it a capital "S". A small caps "s" won't cut it. Stigma from losing someone to suicide. By definition stigma is a mark of disgrace from a particular circumstance, quality or person.
It's there in so many ways, shapes and forms. It's silent, and perceived. It's obvious by what's not said, and what you know is said behind your back. It's judgemental, it's fueled by fear, it's fed by partial truths. It's a shadow in front of you and behind you at the same time. Before I walked this path, my reaction would likely have been the same.
It often keeps me quiet in large gatherings, and it keeps others from connecting deeply with me. We stick to safe subjects, as if by not mentioning it, it won't have happened. As if we're likely to forget if it's never mentioned. It makes the question "how are you" a trick question. Some days I don't even know how I'm supposed to be. Is it okay to have good days? Will they all be bad days? Can I have a mix of both? It makes people less inclined to to ask about your life, particularly your past life, but also your current life. It somehow makes me a little sketchy, because God forbid if it can happen to me, it can happen to you. It makes church feel uncomfortable. Partly that is my stuff, because while stigma may make others feel scared of me, it also makes me feel uncertain of them.
There is no shame in this loss. But I fight it daily. It is a tragedy, and a sorrow that he could not find his way to help. That mental illness changed him into someone I no longer recognized. It didn't have to be this way. Yet, for Gordon and many others it seems, in the moment, like the only way.
I offer you this, it's always okay to mention a tragic loss, a devastating illness, a life changing experience. Not by saying, you'll get over this, or it was for the best, or they are in a better place. Not by ignoring the whole topic. But by saying, I think of you often, I'm here for you, this must feel overwhelming. While we go through frightening experiences, it does not make us frightening, or less of a person. Just a person with more pain, and perhaps more grace because of the pain. Don't define me, or think of me only as a person who lost someone to suicide. I was more than that before, and I am more than that after. But I am different from the experience. Anyone touched by it is. So let's learn together to erase the stigma, to ease the pain, to be there for each other.
It's there in so many ways, shapes and forms. It's silent, and perceived. It's obvious by what's not said, and what you know is said behind your back. It's judgemental, it's fueled by fear, it's fed by partial truths. It's a shadow in front of you and behind you at the same time. Before I walked this path, my reaction would likely have been the same.
It often keeps me quiet in large gatherings, and it keeps others from connecting deeply with me. We stick to safe subjects, as if by not mentioning it, it won't have happened. As if we're likely to forget if it's never mentioned. It makes the question "how are you" a trick question. Some days I don't even know how I'm supposed to be. Is it okay to have good days? Will they all be bad days? Can I have a mix of both? It makes people less inclined to to ask about your life, particularly your past life, but also your current life. It somehow makes me a little sketchy, because God forbid if it can happen to me, it can happen to you. It makes church feel uncomfortable. Partly that is my stuff, because while stigma may make others feel scared of me, it also makes me feel uncertain of them.
There is no shame in this loss. But I fight it daily. It is a tragedy, and a sorrow that he could not find his way to help. That mental illness changed him into someone I no longer recognized. It didn't have to be this way. Yet, for Gordon and many others it seems, in the moment, like the only way.
I offer you this, it's always okay to mention a tragic loss, a devastating illness, a life changing experience. Not by saying, you'll get over this, or it was for the best, or they are in a better place. Not by ignoring the whole topic. But by saying, I think of you often, I'm here for you, this must feel overwhelming. While we go through frightening experiences, it does not make us frightening, or less of a person. Just a person with more pain, and perhaps more grace because of the pain. Don't define me, or think of me only as a person who lost someone to suicide. I was more than that before, and I am more than that after. But I am different from the experience. Anyone touched by it is. So let's learn together to erase the stigma, to ease the pain, to be there for each other.
Thursday, March 28, 2019
Accept and Rest
I am the person who first looks for the grace, the positives, the possibilities. I am blessed by that approach to life. But, I am learning I need to acknowledge the realities of life as well.
I will push forward, long and hard. I will put one foot in front of the other, even when it hurts. I will ignore the pain and press on. Until, I can no longer do that. Then I need to accept and rest.
Lately I've been accepting, amid the tears, that life is so so hard. It takes a lot of acceptance to get there. Because, I love life, I believe in it, I embrace it and all it offers. For some time, and probably for a long time ahead I have to own how hard life is. Can I say it sucks? Can I say it's not fair? Can I say I'm tired of the pain of grief? I own this even in the midst of a thousand other blessings.
It takes a strength I'm still building, and a faith I'm still growing. It takes tears I'm tired of holding in. Yet, in all the pain, the questions, the longing there is hope. For I know the sharp edge of this part of life will soften with time. If I can find this hope, I know you can to.
So when the weight of life is heavy, accept and rest. When the road is all up hill, accept and rest. Accept the help that is available, and rest. When the tears come, let them and rest. When small acts of kindness ease your way, accept with joy and rest in that. When you don't know all the answers, accept and rest. Own it, accept it, release it. What feels like it will never end is part of the beginning. Call it growth, call it grace...own it, it's yours.
I will push forward, long and hard. I will put one foot in front of the other, even when it hurts. I will ignore the pain and press on. Until, I can no longer do that. Then I need to accept and rest.
Lately I've been accepting, amid the tears, that life is so so hard. It takes a lot of acceptance to get there. Because, I love life, I believe in it, I embrace it and all it offers. For some time, and probably for a long time ahead I have to own how hard life is. Can I say it sucks? Can I say it's not fair? Can I say I'm tired of the pain of grief? I own this even in the midst of a thousand other blessings.
It takes a strength I'm still building, and a faith I'm still growing. It takes tears I'm tired of holding in. Yet, in all the pain, the questions, the longing there is hope. For I know the sharp edge of this part of life will soften with time. If I can find this hope, I know you can to.
So when the weight of life is heavy, accept and rest. When the road is all up hill, accept and rest. Accept the help that is available, and rest. When the tears come, let them and rest. When small acts of kindness ease your way, accept with joy and rest in that. When you don't know all the answers, accept and rest. Own it, accept it, release it. What feels like it will never end is part of the beginning. Call it growth, call it grace...own it, it's yours.
Friday, March 22, 2019
Mess And All
I had someone suggest, after watching an interview of someone who had lost two children to suicide, that they didn't emote enough. That they seemed numb. I'm trying to get my words to catch up with my thoughts when I encounter comments like this.
First of all, grief is not linear, it's intensely personal, it is never the same on any given day. There is a certain numbness to it that gets us through the first months, often longer. It protects us from the enormity of the shock. It somewhat contains how fractured we feel until we can process and feel again. Even then, when we get to that point, it's like walking in high water. A daily struggle. Even if/when we do have good days, the struggle is like an ever present shadow.
Now, I try to extend grace when I hear comments like this, but I try to balance it with words to defend the grieving, or erase the stigma. Frankly, I shouldn't have to defend those grieving a suicide or any other loss. But I will when needed.
I would say I am mostly past the numbness, but not the dismay. Some days I feel better, some days I don't feel better at all. I push forward in spite of the fatigue, I try to find joy, my humor seeps out and my hope runs deep.
Tread gently and judge not. We may know a person's story, or have no clue. Reach out in concern if need be. But don't decide we/they aren't feeling enough, showing it appropriately, or moving on. We don't move on, we move through and it's messy. It will always be messy. Accept us, bless us, love us, mess and all.
First of all, grief is not linear, it's intensely personal, it is never the same on any given day. There is a certain numbness to it that gets us through the first months, often longer. It protects us from the enormity of the shock. It somewhat contains how fractured we feel until we can process and feel again. Even then, when we get to that point, it's like walking in high water. A daily struggle. Even if/when we do have good days, the struggle is like an ever present shadow.
Now, I try to extend grace when I hear comments like this, but I try to balance it with words to defend the grieving, or erase the stigma. Frankly, I shouldn't have to defend those grieving a suicide or any other loss. But I will when needed.
I would say I am mostly past the numbness, but not the dismay. Some days I feel better, some days I don't feel better at all. I push forward in spite of the fatigue, I try to find joy, my humor seeps out and my hope runs deep.
Tread gently and judge not. We may know a person's story, or have no clue. Reach out in concern if need be. But don't decide we/they aren't feeling enough, showing it appropriately, or moving on. We don't move on, we move through and it's messy. It will always be messy. Accept us, bless us, love us, mess and all.
Friday, March 15, 2019
Gifts Worth Waiting For
Several month's ago a friend gave me a wrapped gift and the instructions to save it for a bad day. So long ago, in fact, I had to dust off the pretty wrapping paper. There is comfort in just having a box like that. Kind of like having a bell to ring if you need help. Just knowing you can get help makes all the difference.
I'm pretty good at holding it together, probably too good. Cover it with a huge dose of I can do this, followed by it's not so bad, and a butt load of positive self talk. Oh yes, and then stuff down those feelings for a while too. Not necessarily healthy but mostly productive.
Today, however, I owned that I needed to open that box. It was the perfect storm of emotions. Tears welled up and I finally said, yes tears, today I'll make time for you. Today it's hard, today it's frustrating, today it's overwhelming. Today I took my lunch to the truck and cried. Not saying I didn't eat my lunch and scarf down my dessert, but first I acknowledged how hard it is. It's hard financially and emotionally, it's hard to press forward. It's hard to find your footing. It's okay to say "today I am not okay". Today I need to pause and release some of the struggle.
It is a huge gift to ourselves to own our reality. To feel it and to wade through it. To mop up after it and go on. I am fairly certain I opened more than one gift today. For that I give thanks.
I'm pretty good at holding it together, probably too good. Cover it with a huge dose of I can do this, followed by it's not so bad, and a butt load of positive self talk. Oh yes, and then stuff down those feelings for a while too. Not necessarily healthy but mostly productive.
Today, however, I owned that I needed to open that box. It was the perfect storm of emotions. Tears welled up and I finally said, yes tears, today I'll make time for you. Today it's hard, today it's frustrating, today it's overwhelming. Today I took my lunch to the truck and cried. Not saying I didn't eat my lunch and scarf down my dessert, but first I acknowledged how hard it is. It's hard financially and emotionally, it's hard to press forward. It's hard to find your footing. It's okay to say "today I am not okay". Today I need to pause and release some of the struggle.
It is a huge gift to ourselves to own our reality. To feel it and to wade through it. To mop up after it and go on. I am fairly certain I opened more than one gift today. For that I give thanks.
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Trains and Automobiles
Years ago, when my coworker was out delivering flowers, she started sending me a picture whenever she had to wait for a train. In our part of the world it happens frequently. At first we laughed about it, but it helped me know about her drive time and whereabouts. In the world we live in feeling/being connected matters. Soon all of the delivery gals would send pic's. They would laugh sending them, I would laugh receiving them.
I've discovered what we did was touching, and loving in it's own way. I still receive train pictures from one coworker, even though we don't have the joy of working together any more. It makes us laugh, and it makes us pause for more than a train passing by.
We pause to honor, to remember, to feel warm fuzzies. We snicker because often there is a red car in front of her. The universe must like red cars. If there is a dog in the picture I award bonus points. Trains are big things, kinda symbolic of life. Life has big things, but it is the little things that touch us.
The roads of life don't necessarily lead us away from good things. More often they bring us closer. As close as a train, a red car, an old dog, and a good friend.
I've discovered what we did was touching, and loving in it's own way. I still receive train pictures from one coworker, even though we don't have the joy of working together any more. It makes us laugh, and it makes us pause for more than a train passing by.
We pause to honor, to remember, to feel warm fuzzies. We snicker because often there is a red car in front of her. The universe must like red cars. If there is a dog in the picture I award bonus points. Trains are big things, kinda symbolic of life. Life has big things, but it is the little things that touch us.
The roads of life don't necessarily lead us away from good things. More often they bring us closer. As close as a train, a red car, an old dog, and a good friend.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
Self, I love you.
Alone is a new concept for me. So first let me say, I know I am not really alone. I am surrounded by love, grace and gratitude. But, and there is always a but, I am marching solo these days. Maybe marching isn't the word, lurching maybe, stumbling probably, frozen in place sometimes. One step forward and two steps back marching. Not exactly a marching band, but a sketchy little soloist without sheet music.
I'm not really one of those people who likes to be alone, so I can only assume God has a special plan for me right now. I love nurturing others, but I kinda suck at nurturing myself. Learning opportunity right there in front of me. I am way better in small groups, than in large. In large groups I am an avid listener, but a hesitant sharer. I need to find my words and take them to the world.
Living alone encourages self talk, and talking to ones self. I'm good at talking to myself. I have complete conversations about the dinner menu (does a martini and a whole bag of chips count as eating clean?) I have conversations with the audience of dogs who follow me into the bathroom regularly. Yes, I can pet all 3 of you while I 'multitask'. I talk about the pile I just stepped in, or the winter roads, or the injustice of loss.
What if I talked about how life piled up on me, how slippery it got and how I'm going to gently love myself forward? Yes, I'm talking about self care. I'm going to be vocal about it. Self, it's okay to have regrets. Self, I know you grieve, and you will always grieve. Self, you are not the same person now that you were then, so those mistakes are now lessons. Self, do not be ashamed of where you are in life. Self, you deserve more. Self, I think you are beautiful. Self, this alone time is a gift of discovery. Self, I love you. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Alone is not a bad place to be, even if I tend to meet it with resistance. It's time find my words, write a new story and unfold my self.
I'm not really one of those people who likes to be alone, so I can only assume God has a special plan for me right now. I love nurturing others, but I kinda suck at nurturing myself. Learning opportunity right there in front of me. I am way better in small groups, than in large. In large groups I am an avid listener, but a hesitant sharer. I need to find my words and take them to the world.
Living alone encourages self talk, and talking to ones self. I'm good at talking to myself. I have complete conversations about the dinner menu (does a martini and a whole bag of chips count as eating clean?) I have conversations with the audience of dogs who follow me into the bathroom regularly. Yes, I can pet all 3 of you while I 'multitask'. I talk about the pile I just stepped in, or the winter roads, or the injustice of loss.
What if I talked about how life piled up on me, how slippery it got and how I'm going to gently love myself forward? Yes, I'm talking about self care. I'm going to be vocal about it. Self, it's okay to have regrets. Self, I know you grieve, and you will always grieve. Self, you are not the same person now that you were then, so those mistakes are now lessons. Self, do not be ashamed of where you are in life. Self, you deserve more. Self, I think you are beautiful. Self, this alone time is a gift of discovery. Self, I love you. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Alone is not a bad place to be, even if I tend to meet it with resistance. It's time find my words, write a new story and unfold my self.
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Picking Up The Pieces
I never expected, at this stage in life, to be trying to find the new me and create a new life. The old me is gone, so I have no choice. I never expected to find kinship with the grieving the easier path. I envy those who haven't had the pain and give thanks for their innocence.
I look back at my life with Gordon and see two separate people. One I thought I knew and one I clearly didn't. I could be referring to him, I could be referring to me. I will continue to look back and wish it had gone different. I will always regret how it ended.
Like pieces of a picture torn to shreds, I have to pick up and carry on. So while I stumble often, into a new life I go. I find it curious, that when a young person loses a spouse, how quickly we are to say you are young, you will find love again. Why don't we offer the same assurance to those of other ages? Love comes in so many forms. Let's leave age out of it.
Let's encourage the hurting and support them. Let's not make assumptions, let's leave stigma at the door. Now I understand that my experience represents one of the scary things that can happen in life. So in some ways I make people uncomfortable. In past years I would have felt that discomfort because of my lack of experience. This experience has been brutal, but with this experience comes empathy.
Some will never share their grief, their story, their regret, their longing. Everyone grieves a loss in their own way and time. I put mine into words, for others along the path who may not have words. Try to remember the hurting often pull it all together and present like any other person. Inside they have broken parts. We all have broken parts, now that I think of it.
As you/me/we go on with life, be gentle. Acknowledging the hurt promotes the healing. So hold my hand as I go on, and I will hold yours as you go on.
I look back at my life with Gordon and see two separate people. One I thought I knew and one I clearly didn't. I could be referring to him, I could be referring to me. I will continue to look back and wish it had gone different. I will always regret how it ended.
Like pieces of a picture torn to shreds, I have to pick up and carry on. So while I stumble often, into a new life I go. I find it curious, that when a young person loses a spouse, how quickly we are to say you are young, you will find love again. Why don't we offer the same assurance to those of other ages? Love comes in so many forms. Let's leave age out of it.
Let's encourage the hurting and support them. Let's not make assumptions, let's leave stigma at the door. Now I understand that my experience represents one of the scary things that can happen in life. So in some ways I make people uncomfortable. In past years I would have felt that discomfort because of my lack of experience. This experience has been brutal, but with this experience comes empathy.
Some will never share their grief, their story, their regret, their longing. Everyone grieves a loss in their own way and time. I put mine into words, for others along the path who may not have words. Try to remember the hurting often pull it all together and present like any other person. Inside they have broken parts. We all have broken parts, now that I think of it.
As you/me/we go on with life, be gentle. Acknowledging the hurt promotes the healing. So hold my hand as I go on, and I will hold yours as you go on.
Sunday, February 3, 2019
Stupid Stuff
I want to talk about the stupid stuff people say. I'll be the first to admit I have said stupid stuff, and no doubt I will do it again. It's part of being human, of floundering, of filling gaps with words that seem plausible, but miss the mark. We all miss the mark sometimes.
I can only assume having lost someone to suicide that people don't know how to bridge the gap between us. Likely they are scared, the reality that it could happen to anyone (and does) makes it too close, too personal. Nobody wants to be reminded that tragic, traumatic things happen. Survivors of suicide are frightening in that way. It's scary for us too, we know the horizon has shifted. We don't know quite where we fit either.
For the record, no, I couldn't have just hidden anti depressants in his food. No, I don't know what a crime scene is like. I do know what a horribly sad ending to life looks like. No, I won't get over it, but I will get through it. No, I'm not as strong as you think. I simply have to chose life even in it's smallest forward movements. No, never mentioning life before Gordon's death doesn't make it easier. It in fact makes it harder. Yes, I do have things to share about my weekend, even if I am a widow and lead a very quiet life. Yes, I weep frequently. I've always been an easy weeper, in fact it is quite healing. I would rather cry over a sadness, or a loving gesture, or sheer beauty, than to never cry at all. Yes, I do believe he is in a better place, but that doesn't erase the suffering he carried until he could carry it no more. Yes, I know many don't speak of it in front of me, but I know it gets whispered behind me. Their version, about what happened, or think they heard about what happened and why it happened. That judgment, where there should only be compassion, causes me to retreat. It's sometimes easier feel the hurt by myself, to keep a distance, to be closed instead of open for love. I'd much rather to be open for love.
I get that comments are made in a haphazard, even stupid manner. With no intent to be hurtful. Often with every intent to be helpful. I try to wash them with grace. I get that this journey is nearly impossible to fathom unless you have experienced it yourself. I still struggle with it, I will always struggle with it.
I have no doubt that I owe some apologies, over the years, for stupid stuff I have said. I pray the universe will accept my apologies and also my gratitude for now understanding how this happens. I'm a work in progress on a rough difficult path. Lead me, guide me, forgive me, fill me with gentle words for those hard moments in life.
I can only assume having lost someone to suicide that people don't know how to bridge the gap between us. Likely they are scared, the reality that it could happen to anyone (and does) makes it too close, too personal. Nobody wants to be reminded that tragic, traumatic things happen. Survivors of suicide are frightening in that way. It's scary for us too, we know the horizon has shifted. We don't know quite where we fit either.
For the record, no, I couldn't have just hidden anti depressants in his food. No, I don't know what a crime scene is like. I do know what a horribly sad ending to life looks like. No, I won't get over it, but I will get through it. No, I'm not as strong as you think. I simply have to chose life even in it's smallest forward movements. No, never mentioning life before Gordon's death doesn't make it easier. It in fact makes it harder. Yes, I do have things to share about my weekend, even if I am a widow and lead a very quiet life. Yes, I weep frequently. I've always been an easy weeper, in fact it is quite healing. I would rather cry over a sadness, or a loving gesture, or sheer beauty, than to never cry at all. Yes, I do believe he is in a better place, but that doesn't erase the suffering he carried until he could carry it no more. Yes, I know many don't speak of it in front of me, but I know it gets whispered behind me. Their version, about what happened, or think they heard about what happened and why it happened. That judgment, where there should only be compassion, causes me to retreat. It's sometimes easier feel the hurt by myself, to keep a distance, to be closed instead of open for love. I'd much rather to be open for love.
I get that comments are made in a haphazard, even stupid manner. With no intent to be hurtful. Often with every intent to be helpful. I try to wash them with grace. I get that this journey is nearly impossible to fathom unless you have experienced it yourself. I still struggle with it, I will always struggle with it.
I have no doubt that I owe some apologies, over the years, for stupid stuff I have said. I pray the universe will accept my apologies and also my gratitude for now understanding how this happens. I'm a work in progress on a rough difficult path. Lead me, guide me, forgive me, fill me with gentle words for those hard moments in life.
Friday, January 18, 2019
Steady Someone
Sometimes, in the middle of being mostly at peace with where I am in life, I lose my balance. It's gets a little shaky and being alone feels, well, lonely. The tears come and my eyes leak. The other day I was walking in to work with tears in my eyes and I said "God I feel so alone". I know those five words were a prayer that was heard. I know the prayer will be answered.
Someday, my well adjusted days will outnumber the shaky days. I'm getting closer to that. It always gets sketchy around the 19th of the month. My heart will not forget the date Gordon chose end his life. I have no doubt all of us have anniversaries of the heart that weigh heavy. Just as in other parts of life we have days and memories that make our heart sing.
I have two friends who chose to steady me on the 19th of each month. It doesn't take away the pain, but it gives light to the darkness. It's like a gentle hand that reaches out to say "I gotcha". Isn't that what friends do?
Some day, alone will simply be a comfortable thing, not a struggle. Someday, I will welcome both time alone and time with others. Sometimes, in this part of life, time with others makes me feel more alone. I long to get past that too. The stigma of Gordon's death stands in my way. It can't be seen, but is often felt. It's hard to explain and tough to navigate.
As I/we/you struggle, remember this. It's okay to be alone or feel alone, and it won't always be this way. It's okay to own the struggle. Sharing it divides the burden. I will continue to grow, and I trust you will to. Remember this today, or in the tomorrows of life, don't hesitate to steady someone. It is a gift we can all give.
Someday, my well adjusted days will outnumber the shaky days. I'm getting closer to that. It always gets sketchy around the 19th of the month. My heart will not forget the date Gordon chose end his life. I have no doubt all of us have anniversaries of the heart that weigh heavy. Just as in other parts of life we have days and memories that make our heart sing.
I have two friends who chose to steady me on the 19th of each month. It doesn't take away the pain, but it gives light to the darkness. It's like a gentle hand that reaches out to say "I gotcha". Isn't that what friends do?
Some day, alone will simply be a comfortable thing, not a struggle. Someday, I will welcome both time alone and time with others. Sometimes, in this part of life, time with others makes me feel more alone. I long to get past that too. The stigma of Gordon's death stands in my way. It can't be seen, but is often felt. It's hard to explain and tough to navigate.
As I/we/you struggle, remember this. It's okay to be alone or feel alone, and it won't always be this way. It's okay to own the struggle. Sharing it divides the burden. I will continue to grow, and I trust you will to. Remember this today, or in the tomorrows of life, don't hesitate to steady someone. It is a gift we can all give.
Sunday, January 13, 2019
How Are You
How are you? Three little words. One easy question? Or, one loaded question.
Since my life was impacted by suicide, I'm never sure how to answer that question. Partially because some days I don't know the answer to that. Sometimes it's a superficial question to which we give a pat answer. I'm fine, how are you? Never expecting an honest answer to the question. Some days it's easier to just answer this way.
I don't know what people expect of those who are surviving a catastrophic loss. There is no way to anticipate or prepare for this. I know that no two days are the same. Growth comes in painful spurts, laughter is always welcome, the loneliness is heart wrenching, and Lordy, I need more hugs. I know there are people I feel comfortable with showing my brokenness. Who either walk the same path, or have sufficient empathy to partner with me. I know that others are a step to distant, or different to open up to. And, that is okay.
It's a daily battle to try to grasp why someone would choose death over life. Likewise a daily battle to build a new life after a loss like that. Enough of a challenge that the question, how are you, becomes quite complicated.
To that I say....self, how are you? Friend, how are you? Neighbor, how are you? And I pray you take a moment to answer that honestly in your heart. Answer it with faith that if it's a hard day they won't all be this way. Answer it with hope, because the best is yet to come. Answer it with gratitude. Answer it with your shattered self leaning into the love that is readily available.
Since my life was impacted by suicide, I'm never sure how to answer that question. Partially because some days I don't know the answer to that. Sometimes it's a superficial question to which we give a pat answer. I'm fine, how are you? Never expecting an honest answer to the question. Some days it's easier to just answer this way.
I don't know what people expect of those who are surviving a catastrophic loss. There is no way to anticipate or prepare for this. I know that no two days are the same. Growth comes in painful spurts, laughter is always welcome, the loneliness is heart wrenching, and Lordy, I need more hugs. I know there are people I feel comfortable with showing my brokenness. Who either walk the same path, or have sufficient empathy to partner with me. I know that others are a step to distant, or different to open up to. And, that is okay.
It's a daily battle to try to grasp why someone would choose death over life. Likewise a daily battle to build a new life after a loss like that. Enough of a challenge that the question, how are you, becomes quite complicated.
To that I say....self, how are you? Friend, how are you? Neighbor, how are you? And I pray you take a moment to answer that honestly in your heart. Answer it with faith that if it's a hard day they won't all be this way. Answer it with hope, because the best is yet to come. Answer it with gratitude. Answer it with your shattered self leaning into the love that is readily available.
Sunday, January 6, 2019
Your People
How do you define your people? Your friends, your family, your work team, etc. I define mine as my kids and family, friends, on-line family/friends, doggy friends, floral friends, farmers market people. Our people are the groups that sustain us, that we connect with.
Since Gordon's suicide, the grieving are my people. His death brought great pain, and continues to do so, but it brought a depth of compassion I never knew before. I can relate to the hurting now. I count this as one of the small graces of the loss. I'm less afraid to own my hurt, and to be open to the hurt of others. You know what, the hurting are all around us. They walk the same halls, sit around the same break room table. They cross paths with us at the bank, at the store, in our neighborhood. In a way, it's a relief to connect with others hurting.
I never wanted to belong in this way. Just like he never wanted to suffer as he did. Mental illness, depression, you name it. It takes a toll on the person suffering and those who love them. It was destroying our marriage and it took his life. It took him from the people he loved with all his heart. It gave us pain we never expected, would never have dreamed possible.
In the rubble we have to find the grace. It's there if we dig deep. Now, I admit owning it is sometimes hard, very hard. Pushing past the stigma, the fear of being judged, the feeling I should have done more. The hurdle of knowing people know your story in whatever version, accurate or not. It's showing up anyway. Which some days takes all you have.
Show up, no matter how strong you are that day, or how weak you feel. Your people will carry you when you need them. Other days you carry them. Take comfort that you can relate to both immense pain and simple joy, can share both tears and laughter. Thank you people, for being my people. For helping me carry my burdens, and allowing me to help you carry yours.
Since Gordon's suicide, the grieving are my people. His death brought great pain, and continues to do so, but it brought a depth of compassion I never knew before. I can relate to the hurting now. I count this as one of the small graces of the loss. I'm less afraid to own my hurt, and to be open to the hurt of others. You know what, the hurting are all around us. They walk the same halls, sit around the same break room table. They cross paths with us at the bank, at the store, in our neighborhood. In a way, it's a relief to connect with others hurting.
I never wanted to belong in this way. Just like he never wanted to suffer as he did. Mental illness, depression, you name it. It takes a toll on the person suffering and those who love them. It was destroying our marriage and it took his life. It took him from the people he loved with all his heart. It gave us pain we never expected, would never have dreamed possible.
In the rubble we have to find the grace. It's there if we dig deep. Now, I admit owning it is sometimes hard, very hard. Pushing past the stigma, the fear of being judged, the feeling I should have done more. The hurdle of knowing people know your story in whatever version, accurate or not. It's showing up anyway. Which some days takes all you have.
Show up, no matter how strong you are that day, or how weak you feel. Your people will carry you when you need them. Other days you carry them. Take comfort that you can relate to both immense pain and simple joy, can share both tears and laughter. Thank you people, for being my people. For helping me carry my burdens, and allowing me to help you carry yours.
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