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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.