And For My Next Gig....

I am ready to go back to work.

And boy has applying for work changed since I last had to look for a job.  I have always just talked to folks and found work - almost but not quite over the backyard fence.  Now, everything is online.  Typos take precedence over character. Sentence structure obliterates experience.  Neglecting to check a box will completely sink an application.

Over the last 25 years or so, I enjoyed a certain amount of professional success, I've maintained my network, and I did not foresee that it would be difficult to drop back in to the work world when I was ready.  So, after Molly took her own life, and it seemed critical to my own healing to leave my job, I figured I'd find something new when I needed it. Perhaps a tad bit naive on my part.

Don't get me wrong.   If anyone asks, I can account for the last four years.    First and foremost, I have been mourning  for Molly and Mom, but I  have also been helping my dad rebuild his life after the car accident that killed my mother, earning a masters degree, serving on a county commission and working as a substitute teacher.  I've also lost 50 pounds, finished a 5K in under 30 minutes and turned 50.  That this has been the highest and best use of my time is unquestioned.   

And by golly, as a result of these last four years, I am stronger, more confident and more clear-headed  than I have ever been. I am ready.  I am not broken.  In fact, I bring with me a hard-earned sense of both confidence and compassion that will only be an asset in any workplace.  

It's time.

If only I can figure out how to convey all of that through an electronic application form!

Neighbors

Did I mention that my neighbor recently took his own life?  In his house?  Which physically shares a wall with mine....

 

I saw him that day. 

 

It registered with me that he seemed pre-occupied.  He was clearly agitated but met my eyes with a greeting.  That he would take his life that evening - despite my own experience - never entered my mind.

 

Frances and I were at work by the time he was "found", so we missed the cops, the detectives, the mortuary truck.  And our neighbors were too uncomfortable to tell us what happened.  So my first clue that there was pain next door was that my neighbor's grown children were around.  All of them.  A couple of times over the course of the week.  Having just been through my mother's death, I had a strange sense of deja vu.

 

So I asked the family if everything was okay.  

 

And the oldest son handed me a box - a mortuary box of ashes - and said.  "No, everything is not okay.  Here is all that is left of my dad.  He took his own life."

 

Just like that.

 

I appreciated the directness.  But shit.  Molly did not take her life in our home - but my neighbor's death brought Molly's death home.  Literally.

 

If I start talking about moving, you'll know one of the reasons.

Ashes

Both Molly and my mother were cremated.  

My father chose to inter my mother's ashes in a small cemetery next to her parents; it's a lovely cemetery in a small Illinois farm town.  Off the beaten track.  We won't visit often.  But I did want to take Dad to the cemetery at least once.  He deserved that - and I wanted to make sure the stone was installed correctly.  So we went two weeks ago.  I did not expect - and did not find - any special sense of my mom's presence there.   We've installed a park bench in mom's memory at our local town library - that seems alive to me.  The cemetery - not so much.

When Molly died, a thoughtful friend asked if she could pick up Molly's ashes and hold them for us until we were ready to to claim them.  We IMMEDIATELY took her up on her offer, but for the last four years I have expreinced a nagging sense that we needed to buck up and free Molly's ashes.  It's so final.  So hard.  And Frances and I didn't have a strong sense of what we should do with them.  Hence - four years. 

We got the ashes back last week.  So thoughtful: our friend gave them to us in a beautiful box - not the sterile white box from the creamatorium.  But there was no avoiding them - the ashes seared into my soul as we drove home.   It wasn't so much that Molly was present to me in any new way - it was that I needed to honor them.  Now.  Quickly.

I woke up the next morning before dawn and opened the box, taking the white box with the sterile plastic liner outside to divide the ashes into three bags.  I willed the neighbors not to watch.  The absolute humility of the whole thing was soothing.  Just a paper cup to scoop the ashes into plain old ordinary freezer bags.  That was it.   And then I took one of the freezer bags, put it in one of those cloth grocery bags that most of us have in our cars, and walked along the river near my home.  Beautiful.  Almost but not quite alone.  Moving water.  Flowers, butterflies and the occasional deer.  I climbed onto some rocks, almost slipped in the water and (illegally, I am sure) let Molly's ashes go.  Incredibly peaceful.  Very honest.  No pretension.  It felt right for me.  Molly is not in that river.  But a piece of me is.   The rituals around death, it seems to me, are for the living.

The other two bags  of ashes are ready for Frances to honor Molly in her own time.  Frances and I have never grieved at the same time.  This timing was right for me - Frances will do what is right for her.

At the Beach

For the first time in my life, I am taking a leadership role in a vacation.   I have had plenty of vacations before - great vacations - Hawaii, Florida, Paris, New York, the Pacific Northwest.  It's a long list, reflecting generous people who have opened their homes and hearts to me and Frances over the last 30 years or so.

But I have never been in a position - financially or  emotionally  - to book a vacation, pay for it, and move into the master suite.   After my mother's death, I knew that I wanted to use some of my inheritance to spend two weeks at the beach. I have honored Mom by including  my sister and her family for a few days...  which has insured that this experience is about a lot more than water ice and board walk games.   There is, I hope, legacy in these days.

As of today, we are five days in, and the time seems to be going incredibly quickly.  I sat alone on the beach this morning and watched the sunrise - made particuclarly  meaningful because the rainy morning offered a sedate sky with a watercolor rainbow.

During my sister's visit, she asked if I had any goals for this trip - a fair question,  but also a question that felt suprisingly personal to answer.

 Yes, I have goals for this trip.   I want the cacophony of daily life to quiet so that I can hear the stirrings of my own soul.  I want to offer Frances the space  I sense she needs.  I want the ocean to remind me that I my be wonderously made but I am not in charge of much beyond what's for breakfast. I want our friends to have fun and I hope that there are wonderful memories.

It's a fairly long list.  I know.   But as I sit on the  porch and type while the rain falls around me, I do feel my soul stirring...   a bit...   just a a bit.....  And the stirrirng feels something like hope.

Anticipating Vacation

Looking forward to anything is risky business.    It's an act of faith, really, to book a vacation in advance and then hope that the right pieces of life will fall into place: that the people will be well and the potential catastrophes of life will put themselves off long enough for the trip to actually take place.

But I am looking forward to our upcoming two weeks at the beach anyway. There won't be a hurricane.  I won't break my leg.  If  it is within my power to will this trip into a happy reality, I am on it.  

Since we are renting a house, we have to pack some of the things that a hotel would typically provide, and my packing lists are revealing.  I want high end toilet paper  - not our typical bargain brand.  And I will bring candles (even though I seldom light them at home).  I am picturing flowers on the table.  New sheets have been purchased.   I am going to indulge in some nice body scrubs and hair products.  Baking and freezing will start in a week or so - banana bread; pumpkin bread; chocolate chip cookies; maybe some soup.

The irony of course is that I don't have to go on "vacation" to create the lifestyle that my lists are anticipating. I can enjoy flowers on the breakfast table fairly easily.  Nice toilet paper is not prohibitively expensive.  I suppose chocolate chip cookies should not become an every day treat, but they don't need to be in the "two weeks a year" category either.    Perhaps more than simply having nice shampoo and the other simple upgrades on my list, I am actually looking forward to the time and emotional energy to deeply enjoy them. There is a difference between having and enjoying.

This trip is a big deal - it's paid for with inheritance money from my mother; we will surely be back to bunking with friends on extra couches next summer.  And it is a "re-visit" to a place that holds memories of many wonderful, lazy afternoons when Molly was a child.

It seems like I have arrived at a place where I can let myself look forward to having a really good time.  I can picture myself laughing, playing in the waves, eating great meals, sleeping in, sipping coffee on the porch.    I imagine  that Molly and Mom's presence will be felt  - and they will be welcome.    And THERE WILL NOT be any of the emergencies that seem to crop up with consistent irregularity in my life. The trip will be wonderful.  I am choosing to let myself get excited.  Just a few weeks to wait.

Matthew Warren

 

 

The pictures in my house, the bed that is not slept in, the phone calls that I do not receive.  I am reminded every day – more than once a day – that I am a suicide survivor.
 

But suicides that take place in even the dimmest illumination of the media always come with waves of renewed, almost primal, mourning.  Mourning for the bereaved family.  Mourning for myself.  Mourning for all of us because if well known people – with access to  every resource the world has to offer - can go through a suicide loss, then any of us can.
 

I heard Kay Warren speak once; I know Rick Warren offered a prayer at Barack Obama’s first inauguration.  I am aware of Saddleback Church.  My heart goes out to them as they mourn the death by suicide of their son Matthew; they have done incredible good in the world and I imagine that their good work will continue.
 

The Warren’s public profile opens them up to a judgment that I have already seen in online commentary: in their case, that Rick had been moving away from a strict interpretation of the Bible in his public ministry.  The implication being, of course, that the family deserved this loss or God sent it upon them to bring them in line.  The underlying thought being that there is some sort of protection from tragedies like suicide that comes from honoring God in a proscribed manner.  Rick has also been criticized for not supporting civil rights for gay people - the implication of course being that Matthew was gay and that Rick found that to be an impediment to unconditionally loving his son.
 

Such judgments may be publicly directed this weekend toward the Warrens, but they touch us all; it is the possibility of having to endure such hostility that makes silence so appealing.  We survivors can barely function after the loss of a loved one – to risk insult and injury is to risk a permanent derailment of any mental health we have managed to cobble together.  
 

It’s a vicious cycle, of course, since survivors are in a unique position to raise awareness and compassion around mental illness and suicide prevention.  Our collective silence practically insures that these heart-shattering deaths, which we do not cause and God does not visit upon us,  will continue with no regard for creed or race or social standing.
 

As the Warrens grieve, their loss is both a visceral reminder of Molly’s death and an unmistakable challenge to raise my own quivering voice with those who have endured similar losses and have found the courage to risk telling their story; it is our hope that each story  inspires research, medical advances and compassion on behalf of those who suffer from mental illness.

The Out of Darkness Walk

I am participating in this year’s Out of Darkness Walk sponsored by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. For the last couple of years I have followed the Foundation’s work on Facebook, and with this year’s walk coming to my home town, it just seems like its time to DO THIS THING.

It will be a 16 – 18 mile walk through Washington, DC, timed to begin at dusk and end at daylight. I love the imagery. The Foundation raises money to support research and we all know that research around mental illness is not just going to magically happen. And it is obvious – too painfully obvious – that there is untold research to be done. The topics of mental illness and suicide must come out of the darkness so that they can be studied in the light of day.

For me, the walk itself will not be the most challenging piece of this walk. More challenging for sure is the fund raising. Fund raising means revisiting and telling my story in ways that I have not been comfortable before. As you know, I don’t even use my real name in writing this blog. So this is a massive leap for me. Perhaps this is just the challenge I need as I continue, with life long commitment, to put a new sense of self together.

As new as this feels, I have been overwhelmed with the support I have received and reminded of how love surrounds us all. As a society, it seems we have gotten to the point that we know that something must be done to support those impacted in any way by mental illness. I am encouraged.

If you would like to join me in this walk – either in person or by donating – I urge you to visit the site. Even a brief skimming of AFSP’s webpages is a testament to the fact that, even as we grieve, we are not alone.

 http://theovernight.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&participantID=6675

The New Year

 

I am getting to know 2013 very slowly.  The path ahead is unclear.   I don’t see the doors or the windows or even the cracks.  I am not just sprinting in to it with abandon.

In 2012 I: lost 50 pounds (oh yes, I did); made great strides toward my masters degree which I will finish in May; chaired a local government commission; nursed my dad for a couple of months after his traffic accident (moving half way across the country to manage that); taught summer school and subbed during the school year; and travelled an insane amount.  I am preparing myself for SOMETHING.  A piece of me would really like to know what that SOMETHING is.

But another piece of me is cautious about the what the future brings.  The anniversary of my mother’s death is this week.   My daughter will be dead four years in February. I have no illusions.  I know beyond anyone’s telling of it that this new year is as likely to bring heart wrenching challenge as it is to offer life-affirming opportunity. 

The New Year, despite my ritual of welcoming it from the warmth of flannel sheets and comfortable PJs, offers neither security nor control.

So the best I can muster is cautious optimism.  Optimism because I have worked really hard to remain open to new opportunities and all of the good that the world offers everyday.  But caution seems like a reasonable approach when the path ahead can best be described as murky.