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.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
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.
Saturday, December 29, 2018
The Power of Compassion
Never underestimate the power of compassion. Everything else may weigh heavy, but compassion brings light to our hearts.
It is people you never expect to recognize and share your pain doing just that. In the middle of 60+ other people at a Christmas gathering. That you were hesitant to go to, because the freaking stigma part of losing someone to suicide makes you shaky at best sometimes. It's your kids who encouraged you to go, knowing you'd be welcomed with open arms. It's the people who jump up and down when they see you. And, it's the satisfaction of pushing past the fear of showing up more than a little bit broken. Who of us isn't a little bit broken?
Compassion is looking back to honor our trials, growth and the grace that came with it. It's looking forward to the days ahead. Even if, especially if, the present day doesn't seem to hold either growth or grace. Compassion is digging deep. It is finding the good stuff and releasing the bad stuff. It is choosing to take leaps of faith. It is something we give others, and ourselves.
So may you, in your time of need, experience compassion. It manifests love in unexpected, but much needed ways.
It is people you never expect to recognize and share your pain doing just that. In the middle of 60+ other people at a Christmas gathering. That you were hesitant to go to, because the freaking stigma part of losing someone to suicide makes you shaky at best sometimes. It's your kids who encouraged you to go, knowing you'd be welcomed with open arms. It's the people who jump up and down when they see you. And, it's the satisfaction of pushing past the fear of showing up more than a little bit broken. Who of us isn't a little bit broken?
Compassion is looking back to honor our trials, growth and the grace that came with it. It's looking forward to the days ahead. Even if, especially if, the present day doesn't seem to hold either growth or grace. Compassion is digging deep. It is finding the good stuff and releasing the bad stuff. It is choosing to take leaps of faith. It is something we give others, and ourselves.
So may you, in your time of need, experience compassion. It manifests love in unexpected, but much needed ways.
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