Blame Game

Life is filled with questions.  One of the most pressing questions is why do bad things happen to good people?  Why is it that seemingly good people at times cannot catch a break?  Why do hurricanes, flooding and wild fires cause so much damage?  Why do children die?  Why do car wrecks, cancer, murder, famine and a million other unexplainable and horrific things happen?

Humans have a deep desire to want to blame unfortunate situations on someone or something.    I think in part, because if something can be explained in some way there is hope it can be prevented from happening to them. Blame often gives a false sense of control over situations.

People, both religious and not, tend to throw a lot of blame at God.  God caused this to happen.  God allowed this to happen.  God could have stopped this from happening.  God could fix this if He just would.  God this.  God that.  Truthfully, from time to time I have found myself searching for answers in difficult times and yes at times, I have tried throwing God under the bus.

My family and I have had more than our share of bumpy roads and curve balls over the past six years.  We have had 2 cancer diagnosis; 16 surgeries, with number 17 right around the corner; radiation; chemotherapy; 4 family members die; 3 friends die; 2 pets die; 1 pet killed; 1 chronically ill pet; we have been significantly betrayed on two different occasions by people we deeply trusted; totaled a vehicle; moved twice; been unemployed; experienced family estrangement, had two different family members move in and live with us; had a vehicle broken into; had $8,000 stolen; been falsely accused and had our character attacked; and battled suicide.  During this time period, we have had some people come right out and ask, and I am sure even more think, what my family is doing wrong that would put us in a place to experience all these stressors and losses.

I think consideration should be given to re-writing the narrative of the question.  As humans we often ask “why me” … when difficult, heartbreaking things happen in our lives.  When the question should be what is so extraordinary about me that I should be exempt from these things?  Or in essence, “why not me”.

The truth is bad things, sad things, hurtful things, happen to people because life is messy, life is hard and life is often unfair.  Generally speaking, bad things do not befall people because they are doing something wrong.  Nor is God sitting in heaven zapping people with tragedy because He is disappointed in them or trying to get their attention.

It has been my experience, tragedies rarely have any explanation, much less a reasonable one.   Why does one person survive cancer while another does not; why does one child die while another thrives; why does one marriage survive while another couple divorces; why can one couple readily get pregnant and another struggles with infertility; why are some families estranged and others are not?  The questions are infinite and the answers are elusive.

One of the hardest things in life is desperately wanting answers when there are none.  Sometimes, I believe the best we can do is try to find meaning in or lessons through the heartache.

 

 

 

Living Through Suicide

A 1978 study by Dr. Richard Seiden from the University of California, Berkeley showed that people who were stopped from jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge rarely went on to die by suicide.  He studied what happened to 515 people who went to the Golden Gate Bridge to die, but who were stopped by California Highway Patrol Officers.  Of the 515 people whose attempt was interrupted, only 35 later died by suicide in future years.

A year after my brush with suicide, which you can read about here, I have found Dr. Seiden’s evidence suggesting a suicidal crisis is very often temporary, is spot on.  As I look back over the last 12-months, I cannot say life has always worked out as I hoped.  But I can say I have worked hard and am still working to develop healthy coping skills.

Living through suicide looks different for everyone.  For me, looking back over the past year I am grateful for life, even the bad days.  In retrospect, it is sobering to me what I would have missed had I died this time last year.  Small things like beautiful sunsets, delicious cups of coffee, watching my favorite teams win sporting events, feeling a cool breeze on my skin, hearing a baby laugh, experiencing my dogs being sweet, hugs from loved ones, long walks, bike rides, Sunday afternoon naps, garden fresh vegetables, and rainbows after a thunderstorm.

I would have missed laughing with friends, conversations with my wife, connections with other humans, music, movies, art, theater, Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, butterflies, birds, flowers blooming, the smell of cut grass, ice cream, Mexican food, soaking in a tub, candles, puppies, sunshine on my face, Spring rains, and good books.

I would have given up the chance to give and receive love, comfort grieving family and friends, encourage those whom are struggling, pray for those in need, or support those being challenged.  I would have lost the ability to be a loving wife, friend, or family member.

Most significant to me, I would have not been here to walk with my wife through her rectal cancer diagnosis and treatment.  I would not have been here to go with her to doctor appointments, radiation, surgery and all the other million things that go with cancer.  I would not have been here to try to make her laugh when she is afraid, sad or in pain or assure her she will make it through this battle and come out the other side.  I would have not been here to tell her how proud I am of her, how much I believe in her, or how much I love her.  I would have missed the chance to support her, love her and to make this arduous journey less grueling.  In essence, I would have missed the greatest honor of my life.

At this time last year, suicide seemed like not only a rational option, but the only option, for ending a period of tremendous pain.  With dozens of small acts, important people in my life helped me make it through that pain and directed me to resources to aid me in learning new, more effective, life-giving coping skills.  I am so grateful to every one of them.

It does get better and life now in some ways is sweeter than it has ever been.

 

 

We The People

I have strong feelings about politics and vote regularly, but generally relegate my political conversations to close friends.  I believe everyone is entitled to their opinion.  I believe voting is a responsibility and a privilege.  I was a registered Republican for 38 years.  I changed to Independent during the 2016 presidential campaign.  While I was never one to vote solely along party lines, I have voted Republican more often than not.  Often, as a member of the LGBTQ+ community, I found myself casting a vote for a candidate that would not benefit me personally, but if I felt the candidate was the best for the city, State or Nation I voted for them in spite of personal concerns.   I give this back story and disclaimer because undoubtedly some folks will try to categorize me as a liberal, bleeding heart, Democrat.

I am not a bleeding heart.  I am not a Democrat.  I believe God created every human in His image.  Subsequently, no human should experience tyranny, inequality, inequity and oppression.  If that makes me a liberal, then I will gladly wear the label.

Which brings me to what is on my heart.  The problems we are seeing in our country today … The division.  The bitterness.  The cruelty.  The partisanship.  The hatefulness. The loss of civility.  All of it … is not a Republican problem, it is not a Democrat problem. It is a WE THE PEOPLE problem.

WE THE PEOPLE, myself included, have been comfortable in our homes and lives and have allowed it to come to this.  We have allowed the power of our representatives to go unchecked for decades.  We have consistently turned a deaf ear as things became more uncivil and more outlandish and are now surprised at the venom being spewed by our so-called leaders.

WE THE PEOPLE let the Tea Party say outrageous things and did NOTHING.  We did not call them on their behavior when they tried to replace the constitution with the Bible.  As a Christian, I have a high opinion of and respect for the Bible.  As a Christian, my political beliefs are formed by my faith.  However, the Bible is not the law of the land.  Let me give an example … Murder is against the law, and rightly so.  However, it is not against the law because it is a SIN or is one of the 10 commandments; it is against the law because it is against the civil rights of another’s pursuit of life.  Just because something is legal, does not make it right or moral.  Conversely, because something is right or moral does not make it legal.   Further, the Bible is not the basis for the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence or the Bill of Rights.  In fact, contrary to popular belief, most signees of the Declaration of Independence were not Christian.

WE THE PEOPLE allowed a Republican Congress and Senate to be obstructionist for the 8 years President Obama (whom I did not vote for either time) was in office.  We allowed our representatives to vote NO time and time again, simply because a Democratic President thought something was a good idea.  EIGHT YEARS we let this go on.  During that time, anything that was accomplished in this country was done so in spite of us, not because of us.  Once again WE THE PEOPLE let power go unchecked and we let representatives give themselves pay raises, without raising the minimum wage.  We allowed our representative to vote down equal pay for women holding the same job as their male counterparts.   All the while consistently raising the debt ceiling because there was not a balanced budget.  Our representatives were not doing their jobs and we continued to vote them in office, when we should have fired them.

WE THE PEOPLE have not pressed our representatives to have a balanced budget in 17 years.  SEVENTEEN YEARS!  The last time this country had a balance budget was 2001; when Bill Clinton was President, and Republicans controlled Congress.

WE THE PEOPLE allowed our representatives to refuse to consider a perfectly qualified, moderate nominee for the SCOTUS for 10-months, simply because he was nominated by a Democratic President.  We allowed our representative to refuse to do their job for 10-months and continued to not only pay them, but vote them back into office.

WE THE PEOPLE allowed the murder of 20 first graders at Sandy Hook without a single change in gun laws.  We did not force our representatives to do anything, other than send thoughts and prayers, in response to twenty 6 and 7 year olds being terrified and slaughtered while at school.

WE THE PEOPLE did not press our representatives into action when 9 people were violently murdered inside a church in Charleston while attending a Bible study.

WE THE PEOPLE have continued to vote for representatives who have allowed our nation to sink into a staggering new all-time high debt topping $21 trillion in 2018.

WE THE PEOPLE have allowed our representatives to constantly kowtow to a president who has mocked disabled people, veterans, gold star families, sexual assault survivors, war heroes, and countless others.

WE THE PEOPLE have allowed apathy to become the rule of the day.  Sadly, it is not unusual for 40% to 50% of registered voters to stay home on election-day.  Bad officials are elected by good people who do not vote.

WE THE PEOPLE need to get our heads out of the sand and collectively consolidate our feces before our democracy becomes an oligarchy.

As my friend Amy Courts (@AmyCourts) said … “It’s worth remembering that America has always been sick, we’ve never been well; we’ve always been genocidal, we’ve never been equitable or just.

The progress the Right fears was made via the 13th and 19th amendments, the CRA and VRA  … well, what little was accomplished was summarily and meticulously squashed by Nixon and Reagan, by the Tea Party and Trumpublicans.

There is nothing new under the sun, and yet we’re nevertheless better off.

WE ARE STILL HERE.

WE ARE STILL FIGHTING.

Look to women who fought for my right to vote and have never wasted their voice, regardless of the men who silenced them. Look to Queer leaders who gave their lives for the right to simply exist.

Look to Indigenous Nations who’ve survived genocide by violence, displacement, and cultural erasure and endure still to claim their space and protect our Mother; and to Black Americans who’ve survived slavery and Jim Crow and mass incarceration to be the most educated, creative, and revolutionary thought leaders among us.

The glory is not in the winning but in choosing to build and rebuild every time they bulldoze.

We do the work not because it will ever be done but because the WORK IS INHERENTLY WORTH DOING.

Take heart.

Keep lamps lit.

Burn it all down #ToAshes, be warmed by the flames.

And keep building.”

May it be so …

Pink

Today is October 1st; the first day of Breast Cancer Awareness month.  The day when pink becomes the color of the day.  I remember each October I would walk in honor of a loved one battling breast cancer or in memory of a loved one who had died from breast cancer.  It seemed like breast cancer surrounded me, but was always one degree or more away from me.  Until it wasn’t.

In September 2013 I had a routine OBGYN women’s wellness visit.  I completed the visit with the annual mammogram, we all hate to experience.  Two weeks later I received a call about abnormalities in my mammogram.  This had happened to me multiple times before and without giving it any thought, I went in for the standard “second look”.  Afterwards I was scheduled for a more detailed 3-D mammogram as a precautionary measure.  I remember sitting in the waiting room and telling my wife everything would be fine as long as the radiologist does not want to see me.  About that time, I was called back to see the radiologist.  Damn it.

The radiologist showed me the images and pointed out several suspicious abnormalities and she recommended I see a breast specialist.  I agreed and the referral was made.  Later that same week I was in the breast specialist office and he agreed it looked suspicious and scheduled me for a biopsy, which was scheduled for the following week.

The biopsy table was like nothing I had ever seen.  It was elevated and had a hole for the breast to hang down through and the doctor sat in a chair underneath and with the help of x-ray technology began to take pieces of tissue from the suspicious areas.  At a later appointment I went back to have small metal markers inserted near the places the biopsies were taken.  Marked in the event this particular area was questioned in the future.

At 8:02am on Monday, October 21, 2013 my phone rang as I was getting ready for work.  It was the doctor.  I will never forget him saying “its breast cancer and I need you in my office at 3:30pm this afternoon.  Can you arrange that?”  I stumbled around and said “sure”.

My wife came into the bedroom and looked at me anxiously waiting for me to fill her in on what the doctor had said, which I did.  She stood in front of me with tears in her eyes and said “we are going to be sad about this today and then we are going to get up and fight.”  I agreed.  Not knowing what else to do, we finished dressing and went into the office.

At 3:30pm we arrived at the doctor’s office and he explained the “process” saying the first step would be a surgery to remove the sentinel lymph node for testing, to decide if there was any lymph node involvement.  Explaining that if lymph nodes were involved it had to pass through the sentinel lymph node first.  As it stood, I had two malignancies, both of which were relatively small, with other suspicious areas which had not been tested.  This was complicated by the fact one malignancy was on the chest wall.  With the malignancies being located so far apart a lumpectomy was not possible, so we decided then and there it would be a double mastectomy.  One as treatment and the second as a prophylactic measure.

The slew of doctor appointments began; the hematologist, the radiologist and the plastic surgeon.  I was very fortunate, my team of doctors are rock stars.  I was further fortunate to have personal health insurance that covered everything, since my deductible had been met earlier in the year.

December 10, 2013 was the first surgery, which was the sentinel lymph node removal.  Fortunately, the lymph node came back clear of any malignancies, which confirmed no spread of the cancer outside of the breast area.

December 17, 2013 was the date set for the double mastectomy with DIEP flap reconstruction, a surgery which lasted 15 hours. In a DIEP flap reconstruction my tissue was used to reconstruct the breasts area after amputation.   I can remember arriving at the hospital and being in a mental fog of sorts. I was simply putting one foot in front of the other, smiling and saying everything is going to be just fine.  But deep inside I secretly wondered how different life would be post-surgery.  I stayed in the hospital 4 days and came home to begin the recovery process, as well as the very different post-surgery life.

The tumors removed during the mastectomy showed my diagnosis to be multiple invasive ductal carcinoma, stage 1 grade 2.  The type of tumor was estrogen positive.

In an effort to help myself be comfortable with my wife seeing my new body, which by this time had four and half feet of scars on it, I asked her to aid with bandage changes, emptying the drains from surgery, etc.  She readily agreed, for which I was thankful.  In my mind if she could love me when I was covered with wounds, stitches, blood and drains, certainly she could love my healed, scarred and very different body.

As the New Year arrived, I was still under the care of home health, with surgical drains and wound dressing changes twice a day.  There were binders for DIEP flap protection and surgical bras for drain and swelling fortification.  I was reporting to the plastic surgeon weekly for progress checks.

In one breast a stitch popped and the center of the breast began to have a concave look, much like an extremely older person without teeth.  This breast we named “Grumpy Cat”.  Part of the reconstruction in the other breast had necrosis and we named it “Massive Head Wound Harry”.  The plastic surgeons office referred to me as Grumpy Cat’s mom.

The dead and dying skin on Massive Head Wound Harry had to be debrided, which was the first of nine surgeries in 2014.

By mid-January 2014 I was more independent and was discharged from home health.  It was at this time that I also began a daily regimen of Tamoxifen.  By mid-February 2014 I was finally rid of all drains.  I would stay in binders until the summer of 2014.  My last surgery was in December 2014, when my ovaries were removed.

A total of 11 surgeries in 13 months takes a toll on a body.  I can remember looking at my body, after each surgery and wondering what the people who told me I was so lucky to be able to get new “boobs” would think of the reality of breast cancer.

The reality is nerves are severed when the breasts are amputated.  For the most part leaving the breast area numb.  More often than not the areola and nipple are removed and discarded leaving a scar.  New nipples can be  constructed, but they have no sensation and they are perpetually erect, which women spend enormous effort to hide with padded bras, etc.

In my case, a large area of skin and muscle was removed from my abdomen to reconstruct the breast area, leaving a scar from hip bone to hip bone.  In addition, I have a newly constructed belly button and the lower half of my abdomen is numb.  There are scars from the four drains and from the removal of the ovaries.  The truth is a battle with breast cancer, more often than not, leaves a person with a body that is no longer familiar to them.   It is a scarred body that no longer functions as it once did.  A body that does not have the energy it once had.  A body that aches from the treatment it endured.  A body that will never be the same because the treatment not only kills the cancer, it takes a toll on the rest of the body.

As the body is recovering, the mental and emotional recovery begins.  With every new ache or pain the nagging question deep within wondering if “it” is back.  With every scan and test there is the breath holding until the result is received.

So when you see pink ribbons this month, please remember the upside to breast cancer is not getting new “boobs”.  The upside of breast cancer is the same as the upside of any cancer.   Nothing can help a person prioritize their life like a cancer diagnosis.  Suddenly, what made you angry last week, seems unimportant.  The thoughts that used to consume, now seem petty.  The action by someone that seemed unforgivable last month, seems infinitely small in comparison.  A cancer diagnosis can bring your life back into focus like a new pair of glasses, which beats new boobs every time.

Sexual Safety

Anyone who owns a television, radio or internet knows there has been a great deal of discussion about sexual assault and the #METOO movement lately.  It is sad in the society in which we live this remains an issue up for debate.  Truthfully, there are thousands upon thousands of males who have never been inappropriate with a female in any way.  By the same token, I strongly suspect it is nigh unto impossible to find a female who has never been harassed, assaulted or raped.  Minimally most females have been harassed on more than one occasion.  Further, the majority of those women have never told their stories to anyone and most probably never will.

The reasons behind the silence about these violations are varied.  To someone who has NEVER been violated, they often sound like excuses, irresponsibility, exaggerations, lies, or all the above.  What is often overlooked is there is something that happens inside an individual when they are forced to live in a culture of frequent harassment, or if they have experienced assault or rape.  It is something that cannot be verbalized easily and  is hard to explain.  In a very rudimentary way, a person who has experienced assault or rape or who has been exposed to repeated harassment, views the world through a different lens than people who have not had those experiences.

A profound illustration of this is an exercise my friend Ellin Jimmerson shared from the book The Macho Paradox: Why Some Men Hurt Women and How All Men Can Help by Jackson Katz.  In his 2006 book, Katz describes the exercise …

“I draw a line down the middle of a chalkboard, sketching a male symbol on one side and a female symbol on the other.

Then I ask just the men: What steps do you guys take, on a daily basis, to prevent yourselves from being sexually assaulted? At first there is a kind of awkward silence as the men try to figure out if they’ve been asked a trick question. The silence gives way to a smattering of nervous laughter. Occasionally, a young a guy will raise his hand and say, ‘I stay out of prison.’ This is typically followed by another moment of laughter, before someone finally raises his hand and soberly states, ‘Nothing. I don’t think about it.’

Then I ask the women the same question. What steps do you take on a daily basis to prevent yourselves from being sexually assaulted? Women throughout the audience immediately start raising their hands. As the men sit in stunned silence, the women recount safety precautions they take as part of their daily routine.

Hold my keys as a potential weapon. Look in the back seat of the car before getting in. Carry a cell phone. Don’t go jogging at night. Lock all the windows when I sleep, even on hot summer nights. Be careful not to drink too much. Don’t put my drink down and come back to it; make sure I see it being poured. Own a big dog. Carry Mace or pepper spray. Have an unlisted phone number. Have a man’s voice on my answering machine. Park in well-lit areas. Don’t use parking garages. Don’t get on elevators with only one man, or with a group of men. Vary my route home from work. Watch what I wear. Don’t use highway rest areas. Use a home alarm system. Don’t wear headphones when jogging. Avoid forests or wooded areas, even in the daytime. Don’t take a first-floor apartment. Go out in groups. Own a firearm. Meet men on first dates in public places. Make sure to have a car or cab fare. Don’t make eye contact with men on the street. Make assertive eye contact with men on the street.”

As a female, I daily find myself doing some of these things, as well as other precautions not listed.  I have been harassed more times than I can remember.  I have been assaulted by 5 different males.    Two were rank strangers, one was a brother of a childhood friend, one was a boss and last but not least a family member.  Two of the five violations, I have never mentioned to anyone.  And I have not mentioned all 5 violations to any one person.  The fact that one dates back 42 years, and has remained a secret, in no way diminishes the violation or the mental and emotional consequences it forced upon me.

It is not unusual for an adult male to report sexual abuse by a priest several decades after it happens and people are rightly enraged.  Yet a woman can report sexual abuse by a male decades after it happens and people are suspicious.  Why?  Have females fraudulently accused males of assaulting them?  Unfortunately, yes.  While those cases are numerically low, they have caused great damage to the accused and in many cases have been widely publicized by the media.  These instances are important and should not be minimized. But at the same time they should not be given undue weight as to undermine the true victims.

The National Sexual Violence Resource Center estimates somewhere between 2% and 10% of reported assaults are either false or baseless reports.  A false report is a report of a crime which is investigated and found to have never occurred.  A baseless report is a report in which after investigation is determined the incident does not rise to the level of a crime, but is truthful.  Yet with these reports counted against the total, a staggering 90% to 98% of assaults are reported by true victims.

All reports of harassment, assault or rape should not only be heard, but taken seriously.  Once heard, they should be investigated by a non-biased, independent third-party.  If the violation is founded, then the perpetrator should face the consequences.  If unfounded the reporting person should face the consequences.  However, in all circumstances the alleged victim should be given the dignity of being heard and the perpetrator should be given the dignity of presumed innocence pending investigation; but an investigation is absolutely necessary.

Sexual safety is not a priority in our culture.  It is doubtful it will become the priority it needs to be until men see sexual safety as a basic human right.  It is time for boys to be held accountable for “just being boys” by their male peers.  It is time for males to call out other males for making inappropriate jokes and comments.  It is time for men, real men, to step up and see the generational patriarchy for what it is … a way of life that systematically decreases the value of women.  But for any of this to become a reality, men are going to have to share the power they were born with by essence of their biological sex, with the women in their lives.

 

The Night Time Stood Still

It was twenty days after my 50th birthday.  January 19, 2013 at about 9:00pm.  That was when my adopted mom, Guynell, died.  She had “adopted” me in her heart years earlier when I was in college.  I remember after she died, walking outside on that chilly night, waiting for the coroner to arrive at the home.  I was struck by how large the world suddenly felt and how small I felt in comparison.

My biological family was dysfunctional, hostile and demeaning.  So, when Guynell “adopted” me and became the embodiment of parental love in my life, my heart was overjoyed.  We had a special connection, because she CHOSE to love me, when my mother could not muster anything more than mere ownership of me.  Guynell did not HAVE to … She WANTED to.  For a young female who had been repeatedly told I was the greatest disappointment in the life of my parents, this love was treasured and overwhelming.

She had three biological girls of her own and naturally did maternal things.  She made sure I had a stocking on the mantel each Christmas.  She sent birthday cards, Christmas cards and “just because” cards.  She told me she was proud of me. She was interested in me and my life.  She remembered things that were important to me.  She listened, intent on hearing, when I talked to her.  She gave of herself, her heart and her time.  She was a safe harbor.  She not only told me she loved me, but unwaveringly acted on that love in practical, measurable ways.

To have Guynell as a guide into young adulthood was a game changer.    At a time when I was uncertain of how to be an adult and was grasping for a true north, she became a consistent constant in my life.  Guynell saw her girls, myself included, through a realistic lens.  She knew each of our short comings and she knew our strengths.  In her infinite grace, she focused on our strengths and generally any “ask” she had of us was strength based.  She expected her girls behave in a respectable, kind, honest and Christ-like manner.  However, when one of us fell short, we were met with nothing other than grace and love.  Consequences of poor choices might very well be forthcoming, but we always had her love and support to navigate those bumpy paths.  She always made sure we understood the difference between a disappointment in a specific behavior or choice and a disappointment in us as humans.  We all behaved in ways, at one time or another, she wished we had not; but her love never changed.

She had an infectious smile, a positive attitude and a compassionate heart.  When she took her last breath on that January night, I was genuinely relieved her suffering was over, but I felt so small.  So insecure.  So alone.  It was as if my world stopped momentarily and time stood still.

Being listed as her daughter in the obituary was one of the most cherished honors of my life.

Little did I know Guynell’s death would be the first of many emotional hits coming my way …

Origins

I was born in Mississippi to biological parents who cared for me materially, but were not warm or loving.  I am an only child.  Sad, yet true story, when I was 12, while on vacation, my parents left me at a gas station in Arizona.  I had gone to the bathroom and they did not notice I was not in the backseat when they pulled out.  Did I mention I am an ONLY child?   Who knew supervising a single child at a gas station bathroom in the middle of the desert was so difficult?

I share this, not to paint them in a negative light, but frequent episodes of oversights like this affected me as I was maturing.  My parents are not “bad” people, just self-absorbed people who felt a child was an accessory and not a gift from God.  Their love was always performance based.  By that, I mean as long as I acted the way they wanted or expected me to act they showed love to me.  Any deviation caused shunning, loud yelling and all in all a crappy day.  We are estranged and have been for years.  I do not see that changing.  Oddly, we are not estranged for the reason most people suspect … we are estranged because “I am the most disappointing and ungrateful daughter ever born.”  Ironically the elephant in the room was never discussed … but more on that later.

You might wonder why I refer to them as my biological parents.  Well, first it is accurate.  Secondly, it is because God sent AMAZING loving families into my life who adopted me through compassion into their families.  They were love when no one else would show up and stepped up to the plate and did incredible things for my heart, my mind and my soul.  During those periods, every family became my chosen family and I treasure each of them to this day.  What a difference a willing heart can make.

In the late 1960’s when time came for me to enter school, my parents enrolled me in a Catholic elementary school.  I stayed in Catholic school through the fourth grade.  During these four years I would attend school Monday through Friday and on Sunday I would be dropped off to attend Catechism, then attend the Sunday service at the local Methodist church with my mother.  Needless to say my religious training was multifaceted and often confusing.

After four years of dissention, my mother finally insisted, if my father was not going to a practicing Catholic, she was not going to allow me to continue going to Catholic school.  My father decided he did not wish to regularly attend Catholic mass; subsequently, in the fifth grade I transferred to a local private school.  I wanted to go to the public school with my neighborhood friends, but my parents gave a resounding “NO”.  I did not understand their decision and was sad I was not allowed to attend school with my friends.  To this day my mother will say she supported the decision because the private school was safer during a time of civil unrest and racial tension and my father will say it is because the education was better in a private school.  Both, in their own vernacular, were speaking “code” for a school with only Caucasian students was superior.

I accepted Jesus Christ into my heart and life when I was 14 in 1977 at a Billy Graham crusade.  I remember getting out of my seat and walking down those stadium steps to the football field.  As a 14-year-old it seemed like a long walk to take alone.  But I was decided.  I have had many struggles in that relationship for many reasons, but finally have found an incredible peace in knowing and accepting I am loved just as I am.

I knew from the beginning, I was different.  I knew I thought differently. I reacted differently.  I saw the world through a dissimilar lens than most of the kids I knew.  My perspective was unique as early as kindergarten.  As time passed, I realized I had unusual heroes.  My dreams and goals were atypical of those of my classmates.  I came to realize I was a misfit in Mississippi, as if being from Mississippi was not liability enough.

As I entered junior high school, it became painfully, and I do mean painfully, aware to me that I was not in the least romantically attracted to boys.  I had no desire to go to dances, or date, or be a cheerleader, or anything else the rest of the girls wanted to do.  Consequently, I immersed myself in sports and found a world I loved and in which I excelled.

In high school I discovered I was romantically attracted to females. Yes, I am a lesbian (the elephant in the room).   I was a pudgy female who was attracted to girls.  I had zero fashion sense and was attending a Baptist high school.   Not exactly the environment to blossom or question thoughts or feelings.  Consequently, I did not … blossom or ask questions.  During my high school years I was very fragmented.  I made good grades, always making the honor roll … but I was not valedictorian material by a long shot.  I was the classmate the cool kids wanted to sit next to on test days.  Fortunately, my athletic ability provided a small arena of acceptance.

As each year passed, I learned to navigate and hide my fragmentation more effectively.  I made myself fit into the norm.  While I never had a boyfriend, beginning my sophomore year I had a date to each high school event, homecoming, prom, athletic banquets, etc.   By my senior year I had camouflaged myself into a role I became comfortable playing.  I was student body chaplain, most likely to succeed, class favorite, and most spiritual.  I suspect the Baptists would have stripped me of the most spiritual label had they known I was a lesbian.  Not an “active” lesbian, but a lesbian nonetheless.

I never consumed drugs. I rarely drank and never abused alcohol.  I smoked cigarettes, from time to time but never became addicted.  I stored my cigarettes in the freezer so they would not go stale.  The last pack of cigarettes I purchased cost .55 cents and lasted over a month.

I graduated with honors and enrolled in a local junior college, where I obtained an Associate Degree.  While in junior college, my life began to spin out of control.    I was very active in a charismatic church, where in the height of the AIDS epidemic, often taught that gay and lesbian people were an abomination and irredeemable.  I carried a full-time class load and worked part-time.  I met myself coming and going.  I was deeply conflicted about my sexuality, but strangely never doubted God loved me.  Even in the midst of my confusion, it seemed inconsistent with the character of Jesus to damn me to hell for something over which I had no control.  But I had become convinced, from the teaching I had heard, that being a gay or lesbian was a “thorn in the flesh”.   An affliction to be endured and I was just thankful my thorn in the flesh was “invisible” as long as I kept it a secret.

With my life feeling like it was out of control, I desperately searched for something I could control.  I was still slightly pudgy and thought I could stand to lose a few pounds.  I could control what I put in my mouth, so I put all my energy into losing weight.   I was exceedingly successful in this endeavor, so much so that I became anorexic.  I was 5’7” and eventually weighted less than 100 pounds.  I wore a size 5 pants, tucked my sweaters in and wore belts to keep my pants up.  At my lowest point I would break out in hives when walking through a kitchen or smelling food cooking.  My hair thinned, I stopped menstruating and my skin was dry and cracking.  I remember laying out by a pool and pulling the top of the leg hole of my swimsuit and hooking it over my hip bones so I could get more sun.

I remember one year in the midst of this period, my parents gave me a digital scale and weight loss drink mix for Christmas.  I named the scale the “magic machine” and was able to forego the grocery store for months.  My parents never asked if I was sick.  They never mentioned I might need to go to the doctor.  The only conversation I remember about my significant weight loss was my biological father telling me he was proud of me for losing “all that fat”.

As I think back on this now, it was clearly insanity.  But curiously and sadly at that time my life was less chaotic than it had ever been.  This self-destructive behavior continued for several years.

After graduation from junior college I enrolled in a Presbyterian college.  I majored in psychology and Christian education.  I graduated on time, with honors.  During my junior year I entered into my first relationship.  It was a 10-year relationship with a straight woman.  I remember her saying she was not a lesbian, but she was in love with me.  We had a good relationship.  In fact, if I were honest it was the healthiest relationship I had experienced up until that time.  I liked having someone to love, to take care of, to dote on.  It felt very normal to me.  Very comforting.

When that relationship fell apart; I spent 5 years alone, praying and seeking God about being a lesbian.  I wanted His thoughts on what a lesbian should do or be.  Was I really an abomination?  Did I really have a thorn in my flesh to be endured?  I never prayed for God to make me straight, but I did pray “God help me be what YOU created me to be.”  This period ended when I felt God say, “You are as I created you.  You are not broken and you do not need to be fixed”.

So I began counseling with the hopes of finding fun in life again and putting the dysfunction behind me.  Twenty-five years later I am finally able to stand up for myself, love myself and love others.  I have also done a great deal of studying the Bible and discovered it says absolutely nothing about loving, same-sex relationships.  It says plenty about incestuous relationships, sexual relationships with minors or sexual relationships based on societal or economic standings.  But it says not one word about loving, same-sex relationships between consenting adults.  The word homosexual did not appear in the Bible until 1946, and then as it is now, was sloppily interpretated.  Further, homosexuality did not become a topic of debate in the church until the very late 70’s or early 80’s when the AIDS epidemic made it politically advantageous.  Homosexuality, if viewed honestly, is a secondary theological issue.  It is in the same boat as dancing, drinking, smoking, tattoos, divorce and remarriage, etc.  Issues that separate denominations, but in no way separates a soul from God.

Between then and now I dated some wonderful women … and I dated some not so wonderful women.  I dated some women because I did not want to be alone and I dated others because I genuinely cared for them.   I dated a few men, testing the waters to see if I could make it work and I dated a few men to appear straight.  I even dated a gay man and wondered if we could make some type of relationship work.  As you can imagine, the answer to that was a definitive NO.

For the most part, I was searching for a mate whose demons played well with mine.  Not that I was looking for a broken or flawed person.  I was looking for a person who was not totally comfortable in their own skin and had processes to work through, because I had processes to work through.  When all along I should have looked for someone who had the confidence in themselves and love for me to assist me in silencing my demons.

As time passed, a light bulb went off and I finally understood it was far better to be alone than to be with the wrong person.  Within a year of making that decision, the perfect person for me walked into my life.  She did not regularly need me … but she always wanted me.  She found me to be sufficient within myself.  She believed and still does believe in self-improvement, always becoming a better version of yourself.  But she loved and accepted the current version of me without conditions.  She was not demanding in any shape, form or fashion, except in her expectation for transparent and honest communication.  She was careful and patient with my insecurities because she could see my tender heart.  She helped me understand I deserved to be treated in a kind, humane and descent way and proceeded to treat me as such.

We dated for a year, then moved in together.  At the time we moved in together it was illegal for us to get married.  Within a year of same-sex couples being given legal marital rights, we got married.  Two years later our marriage became legal in our home state.  We have a really good life.  It is not perfect, but our marriage is rock solid, we are committed and encourage each other to become better humans.  Equally as important, we give each other room to stumble in the process of self-improvement.  My family is the most important, sacred and cherished human relationship in the world to me.  Somehow, I think that is finally as it should be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oil and Water

I was born in Mississippi, on the cusp of the civil rights movement.  My first trip around the sun began the morning of December 31st.  I arrived to mixed reviews.  The paternal side of my family, convinced I was conceived prior to my parent’s wedding, were primarily thankful I was born 9 months and 7 days after the nuptials.  As their first and only grandchild, the maternal side of the family thought I was a gift from God who completed their world.  My parents viewed me more as a possession or an accessory, and to this day will tell anyone who asks, my greatest accomplishment in life was being a much-needed tax deduction the first year of their marriage.

My parents did not give much thought to being parents, which was clear by the fact I spent the first several months of my life sleeping in an opened dresser drawer and not a crib.  They believed the important things would come naturally, what did not come naturally they would wing and a nanny could be hired for everything else.

My mother stayed with me the first several weeks of my life.  But as time passed, my father gave her an ultimatum; go back to work or be a divorced, single mother at 22.

My parents discovered they had differing opinions on a multitude of things, many of which were important, basic tenants of their personal belief systems.  I imagine this happens with great frequency when two people do not know each other very well.

My father was the “rebound” person for my mother.  My mother had dated a man she deeply loved for 5 years.  When she heard he had supposedly been unfaithful to her with one of her best friends she immediately broke things off with him without discussion.  A few months later, she met the man who would become my father.  They dated for 3 months, became engaged and married three months later.  My maternal grandfather begged her not to marry my father, but my mother is a prideful woman and was convinced she knew best.

My knowledge of this story happened in a rather peculiar way.  I was about 13 or 14 years old and my mother asked me to get something out of her wallet.  I went to her purse, picked up her wallet and began looking for what she needed.  I came across a black and white wallet size professional photograph of a rather handsome young man in a suit and tie.  I asked my mother who the man was and she told me his name; but insisted I not mention him or the picture to my father.  I later asked my maternal grandmother about the man and she told me the story.  When telling the story, she seemed sad.  She said she never believed he was unfaithful, and if he was, he stood accused of only one kiss.  As she shook her head she said he was a good, kind man from an upstanding family.

My parents could not have come from more different backgrounds.  My father was raised as an obligatory Catholic. My paternal grandparents married when my grandmother was 13 and my grandfather was 18.  Until the shock and dismay of their elopement wore off, they rented a small attic space from a man in another town.  My grandmother was later diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic and her husband was a philandering, evil man who taunted her.   Their home, often, was the staging area for shouting matches, derogatory remarks, emotional manipulation and exhaustive monologues about how unfair the world was to them.  They were ungrateful, stingy people with dead eyes who viewed humanity as a commodity.

There were three children born to this union and my father was the youngest and the only male.  My father was a momma’s boy and due to his gender and birth position he was the apple of her eye.  He was an average child by all accounts.  There was nothing in his life at which he excelled.  He did not play sports.  He was not musically interested or inclined.  In a good year, his grades were average and most years he would slide by from grade to grade.  He was tone-deaf, and as such, had a speech impediment which made it hard for most people to understand what he was saying.  I can imagine he was bullied in school for his odd way and peculiar speech.  At the age of 18 he had a full head of gray hair, which added to his unconventionality.  He did not date much, and as the story goes his longest relationship with a female, prior to my mother, was with a woman I later learned was a lesbian.

Due to his lack of interest in college and without any employment prospects, my father enlisted in the Marines.  He was stationed in Okinawa, Japan and to his credit was a member of the color guard.  For those unfamiliar with it, the Color Guard is responsible for rendering proper military honors in parades, ceremonies, funerals, etc. To be chosen for this was an honor and he represented the Marine Corps well.  He never saw combat and to his mother’s delight returned home no worse for the wear, in one piece, physically fit and much more disciplined.

After his discharge from the marines he went to a vocational school, where he met my mother.  He successfully completed this training and received certification.  However, he was toward the bottom of his class, and simply could not make the adjustment from the classroom to the work place.  Consequently, he went to work for the company where his father worked.  He was successful in this endeavor.  He found upward mobility achievable and the salary in the upper middle class range.  He remained in this employment until later in life when he was injured on the job and took early retirement.

My mother on the other hand was raised in a household where her parents were deeply in love, held hands daily until my grandfather died and never let anger rule the day.  Each were more concerned with the happiness of the other than their own.  They married on an Easter Sunday morning, when my grandfather was 18 and my grandmother was 19.

My grandfather was shy and reserved, but an incredibly intelligent man. He did not bear fools or foolishness well.  He worked in the oil and gas business and did well.  My grandmother was the post-mistress (as they called them back in the day) of their small Appalachian town.  I suppose now-a-days they might be called hillbillies.  But they were high school educated, honorable people who knew what loyalty and faithfulness meant.  Their integrity was above reproach.  Family was central to their lives, second only to their Methodist faith.

They tried for over 10 years to start a family.  When my grandmother finally became pregnant they were ecstatic.  Back in the early 1940’s when my mother was born, the father was not allowed in the delivery room and was not immediately allowed in the hospital room after delivery.  To catch a glimpse of my grandmother, my grandfather climbed the fire escape outside the hospital so he could look in the window.  He remained on the fire escape gazing from afar until they let him in the room to see my grandmother in person.

My grandmother had a difficult pregnancy, and it was soon decided she would have a hysterectomy, making my mother an only child.

After my mother’s birth, my grandmother became a full-time mother.  My grandmother was also the caregiver of ailing family members who lived in the family home.  Because the house was full, a couple of days a week my grandfather would ask that my mother be dressed and ready for him to take out on adventures when he came home from work. This soon became a routine my mother anticipated with great eagerness.

My mother did well in school and had a small, close-knit group of friends.  Throughout her school age years my mother battled her weight and was at times picked on because of it.  However, in high school she gained control of her weight and blossomed into a what people often referred to as a beautiful woman.

After high school, she attended junior college and received an Associate Degree.  She then attended the vocation training program my father attended.  She graduated at the top of her class.  She was very successful in her career and by the time she retired, after 35 years, she held the highest position possible in her given field.

My maternal grandparents idolized my mother and thus never made her do anything hard or uncomfortable.  She was raised as a southern debutante and as she matured she refused to relinquish that mentality.  She loved being seen by others as important, treated as extraordinarily special and praised for every infinitely small action taken.  I remember one time when I was about 7 years old we went to visit my maternal grandparents unexpectedly, on the spur of the moment.  They were so happy to see us.  I will never forget they were preparing two steaks for the grill, they had an extra potato to bake and said we would share it all and there would be plenty for everyone.  My mother became infuriated because no one offered to go to the grocery to buy a steak for her.  We got back in the car and drove 100 miles home after visiting 30 minutes.  This type of perceived slight happened often and would send her into a victim tailspin.

My maternal grandparents were incredibly generous people.  Throughout their lives, anytime they felt my mother needed something that was not being provided, they provided it.  One example would be when my grandfather retired, to celebrate his retirement, he bought my mother a dishwasher, so she would not have to hand wash dishes any longer.  They had a way of making everything in their lives revolved around my mother, even when it didn’t.

My parents were married in a large Catholic wedding in a beautiful cathedral.  The wedding party was 24 strong.  I heard it was breathtaking and one of the social events of the spring in the southern town where it was held.  They went to the beach on their honeymoon, accompanied by one of my father’s friends, which always struck me as a bizarre novelty.

After their honeymoon, they returned to their home and quickly began experiencing a flurry of fights, screaming, yelling, innuendos, hurled objects, broken dishes and doors.  My father would manipulate my mother by degrading her and emotionally abusing her.  My mother would manipulate my father by withholding sex.

Inexplicably, the oil and water partnership that is my parent’s marriage has survived, though it has never thrived.  They remain married, for better or worse. There has been suspicion of my father’s infidelity, but it was swept under the rug.  I once asked my mother if she ever considered divorce.  She responded “divorce no … murder maybe”.  To this day, I am still uncertain how to interpret the slight smirk which crossed her face when she said it.

 

 

 

The Thinnest Thread

Humans have told stories since the beginning of time.  History, family and culture, have been passed down from generation to generation through storytelling.  Stories affirm who we are, and allow us to experience the similarities and differences between ourselves and others.  Stories help us find meaning in our lives.  Stories help us learn from the experiences of others and if we are wise we will learn from both the mistakes and the triumphs of others.

In that vein, I want to share part of a very personal and intimate story.  It is a topic few are comfortable discussing, which is why I am sharing it.  It is a story of my struggle with suicidal ideation and hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

The first question most people will ask is “what happened”?  The strange but true answer is, it does not matter what happened.  The circumstances surrounding this 10 months of emotional hell is nothing but window dressing.  It matters not who betrayed me or why.  Who lied to me or about me and why. Or the numbers of friendships that have been damaged beyond repair.  None of that matters.  What matters is how I arrived at such a dark place and how I climbed out of that pit and began wanting to live this adventure called life again.

While I have struggled with depression my entire life, when the darkness descended I was happily married, gainfully employed, a member of a wonderful community of faith, was financially sound and had a small group of intimate and loyal friends.  I was coming off a period of 5 or so years of unimaginable stress, filled with a personal cancer diagnosis, eleven surgeries, several deaths of family and friends, moving twice, building a home, planning a wedding, getting married, totaling a vehicle, a pet being killed, two other pets dying, having my niece move in with us, then my mother-in-law moving in with us, etc.  But by August 2017, life had finally started to settle down and was looking brighter.   Then the phone rang.

The information I received during that phone call was unbelievable and an extreme distortion of facts.  I was shocked.  My character was being assassinated.  The professional reputation I had spent 31 years building without a single complaint, and dozens of commendations, was being drug through the mud.  I sobbed as I have rarely sobbed before.

This transpired on a Friday.  By Monday I had convinced myself it would blow over and those whom personally knew me would see through the untruths and half-truths.  But by the following Monday, after no movement had been made in my situation, I determined I could not take the pain, the sting of betrayal and could not possibly be strong enough to defend myself against the evil lies and exaggerations.  Subsequently, I made phone calls to confirm the death payout of my life insurance policy.  I wanted to confirm how much my wife would receive upon my death.  Sadly, with a brand new home, the death benefit was not enough to leave my wife financially secure.

Let me be clear, before I go any further … I never wanted to die. I wanted … no I needed … the pain to stop.  Suicide is rarely about wanting to die, rather it is about a deep commitment to stopping pain by any possible means.

One morning the following week, I found myself in our bedroom closet with a 9mm gun in my hand, inserting the magazine.  As I stood there, it was as if I was watching myself in slow motion from outside of my body.  My thoughts were interrupted when I heard the garage door open and realized my wife who had previously left for work, was returning to the house for some unknown reason.  I quickly returned the gun and the magazine to the case and sat down on a stool in the closet.  That was the first time I realized I loved my wife more than I hated myself.  The next morning I told my wife she should remove the gun from the house.  Which she did … and the first knot was tied in the thinnest of threads to which I was clinging.

Early the following week, I had the thought it might be easier for my wife if I died on a day the housekeeper was coming, so she would not find me or have to deal with the EMT’s, police, etc.  The housekeeper was scheduled for Tuesday of the following week.  I decided that would be the day.  I would have my wife take our dogs to day care and once she left I would close the master bedroom door, take a cocktail of sedatives and go back to bed.  I had the pills ready and set aside in old prescription bottle and I had purchased juice at the grocery store to hopefully help the pills not upset my stomach.  However, as I have often heard, the devil is in the details.  Monday before the “day” the housekeeper texted and cancelled saying she was going out-of-town to help a family member and did not know exactly when she would return.

As one day turned into another, then into another week, I found myself riding around town searching for places to die.  I located a park that seemed private.  I could park in the back, be found by a stranger and the police would be called.  This would be the easiest for my wife.

Looking back it is insane how much my suicidal ideation was seen through the lens of how it would affect my wife.  I was attempting to be protective of her, even as I was planning to carry out an act that would devastate her.  Which supports the fact it is impossible to make rational sense out of something irrational.

One day, as I was riding around town, I stopped at a local grocery store to buy a few items.  From the parking lot of the store I called a friend.  I am not sure why I made that call, but I did.  I began to tell her how I was feeling and that I could not take the pain any longer, but I was struggling with leaving my wife with a new mortgage debt.  She stopped what she was doing.  She talked to me about an hour and then prayed for me.  It was one of the sweetest prayers I ever heard.  That one small act on her part, took the edge off and I got through another day … and another knot was tied.

One morning shortly afterwards, a neighbor called and asked me to join her on her morning walk.   I did not want to go on a walk, but for some reason I said sure.  We walked an hour, talked a little, but mostly just walked.  For that one hour I was convinced I mattered to her, which gave me a glimmer of hope. At the end of the walk, she asked if I wanted to walk the next morning.  I said I did.  We have walked every morning, weather and schedule permitting, since that first walk.  That one small act of kindness, started many dark days on a brighter note.  There were, and still are, many days that morning walk makes a huge difference and sets the tone for my entire day … and another knot was tied.

After roughly two weeks of walking, I called and made an appointment with my pastor.  I am not sure what I looked like when I walked into her office that day, but I do remember asking her if it was a safe place.  She affirmed it was and gave me her undivided attention.  During the course of our meeting she offered to go with me to the hospital if I needed/wanted in-patient help.  That one small act of kindness made a huge difference.  We met routinely after that first meeting.  To know she would walk beside me in the valley, without condemning me, profoundly moved me.  In the days to come, she treated me in the same loving way as always, without any condemnation.  She did not treat me as a broken person who needed fixing, but rather a wounded person who needed healing.  She helped me feel worthy of love … and subsequently worthy of life … and another knot was tied.

My pastor gave me the name of two therapists.  One name was the same therapist my friend with whom I walk gave me.  I called and made an appointment with her.  The compassion and empathy of the therapist touched my heart deeply and made me feel safe.  I began seeing her multiple times a week.  As time progressed I moved to seeing her weekly. Now, some 10-months later, I am still seeing her monthly and participating in group therapy … and another knot was tied.

As time went by and the suicidal ideation began to subside, I no longer fixated on ways to kill myself, but on a bad day I would purposely do something risky, hoping I would get “lucky” and accidentally die.    Most of this revolved around taking increasing amounts of medication before bed and hoping I would not wake up the next morning.  Other days I contemplated stopping my cancer treatment and let nature take its course.

On one of my more clear thinking days, I created a safety plan.  This plan consisted of what I could do if suicidal ideation began to creep back into my mind.  The plan listed things to do and people to call until the ideation passed.  I shared this plan with my intimate, inner circle and it served me well.  It was helpful to me to have a plan of what to do before it was needed, so I did not have to rely on clear thinking in the midst of pain.  This was also an extra step in me taking personal responsibility for my mental health … and another knot was tied.

As far as that distant incident goes, looking back 10 months later, it was one of the top 5 best things that has ever happened to me.  It helped cleanse the palet of my life, unlike anything else could.  Now my life is much more free and peaceful.

I learned several lessons from this experience.  First, there is no shame in suicidal ideation.  There is no shame in depression or any mental health condition.  There is no shame in taking medication for mental health conditions.  The only way the stigma surrounding mental health issues can be overcome is through honest communication, transparency and vulnerability.  Most people are not comfortable talking about suicide.  It is my hope that by sharing part of my story, I will encourage someone else to feel safe telling his/her story.  To reach out, to stop the downward spiral by shining light on the darkness.

Secondly, I did not become suicidal because of one incident.  Generally, no one becomes suicidal after one event.  I now know it was a lifetime of holding things in and stuffing emotions.  It was a lifetime of refusing to be vulnerable with others.  It was a lifetime of trying to control my emotions and wanting to seem to be ok, when in fact there were (and are) times I am not okay.  It was a lifetime of not comprehending it is okay to not be okay.  It was a lifetime of consistently putting the needs of others before my own.  I now understand completely why we are told on airplanes to put our oxygen masks on first, before helping others.  Without proper care, we are unable to help ourselves or others.

Because of my neglect of my emotional and mental health, my tool box of emotional resources and coping skills was completely empty when this incident happened.  When this straw, fell on the back of the camel, the only resources remaining were instinctual and primitive.  With emotional pain building at an increasing rate, and with my resources depleted, the only option to stop the pain was to stop breathing, stop waking up, and stop participating in life.

Thirdly, I am a giver by nature and unfortunately never cultivated the skill of comfortably receiving from others.  That combined with having developed a pattern of surrounding myself with acquaintances whom are takers, set up the perfect storm of emotional collapse. I am now learning, through therapy, how to receive things from other people.  How to allow people to love me, support me, and care for me.  I am also learning how to stop running to the rescue of others, but rather help them help themselves.

Fourthly, it was necessary for me to cut dead weight from my life.  It is impossible to champion every cause.  It is impossible to meet every need I encounter.  It is impossible to live a life as a giver and never receive.  It is impossible to be all things to all people.  I must decide what are my priorities and values and live a life which reflects those.  I must learn to say no when appropriate.  I must learn to be motivated from within, and not pressured from without.

Lastly, I am learning it is of the utmost importance to stay in-tune with my feelings and to insist on authentic, transparent conversation with those whom are in my inner, intimate circle.  I have to be honest with myself to be honest with those around me.  While I was responsible for doing the work of getting to a better place; small, consistent acts of kindness by others made all the difference.  With every knot that was tied in my thin thread, the thread became stronger.

Mental health conditions and emotional pain should not be taboo subjects.  By keeping them in the dark, we give them a sinister power over our lives.  It is time to be open and honest, speaking truth to the fear of vulnerability.

If someone you love is suffering from a mental health condition and/or is in emotional pain, know you do not need to “fix” anything.  You simply need to do consistent acts of kindness to let them know they are not alone.  In essence, unless you are a mental health professional, all you need to do is be a genuine friend.  Please do not be afraid to reach out to them.  Love them well through human contact, but remember they must do the work to change or manage their situation.

If you are suffering from a mental health condition and/or are in emotional pain, reach out for help.  Reach out with the same confidence you would if you were in physical pain.  Please do not let the darkness overtake you.  Your pain matters.  It does get better.  You are loved.  You are enough.  You story is of infinite importance.

If you find yourself alone and in need of someone to talk with, the information below can be helpful:

National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

Suicide Text: Text HOME to 741741

Suicide Support for Hearing Impaired:  1-800-799-4889

Learn to love yourself well … you are worth it