Category: self-esteem

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Enough

When I was young, before the age of 5.  When life was simple.  I spent a great deal of time with my maternal grandparents.   They lived roughly 100 miles from my parent’s home.  I would go to their home for months at a time.  About 4 times a year, my grandparents and I would travel to my parents home.  I would beg to go back with my grandparents to their home after each trip.  Sometimes that wish was granted, sometimes not.

One absolute overwhelming trait of my maternal grandparents was their consistency.  They were consistent in behaviors, reactions, responses, beliefs, love, and compassion.  They were extremely faithful and loyal people.  They were faithful and loyal to each other, their friends and to me.  They were faithful and loyal when it was convenient and when it was not.

I always felt safe with them.  Something about their mere presence made me know that everything would be okay.  With them everything was predictably calm, steady, loving and unflappable.  Both of my maternal grandparents were incredibly dependable people.  Their moods and personalities were stable.  Their actions and reactions were reasonable and proper.  In all the years I knew and loved them, they never once flew off the handle or displayed an ill-chosen response or reaction to a situation or behavior of another.  Likewise, I never observed them raise their voices or speak harsh or demeaning words about anyone.

My grandparents gave me many of my “first” experiences.  They were the first people to love me.  They were the first people I loved.  They introduced me to God, Sunday school and church. They acquainted me with Disney, fairy tales, fishing, Carol Burnett, Lucille Ball, Lawrence Welk, Hee Haw, music, letters, numbers, colors, jump rope, jacks, and gardening.  But more than anything they taught me about human decency.  They often cleaned up, generally during the holidays, the collateral damage of family disagreements and feuds.  Countless times I saw them be kind to folks who were not kind to them.

Without fail, they showed a united front in every situation.  They may have disagreed behind closed doors, but you would never know it.  The loved purely without condition, they supported without descent, they sacrificed without complaint, and they encouraged without reservation.

I cannot over emphasize the vital role the time I spent with them played in who I am today.  Their home was a polar opposite of the home of my parents.  While my parents showed me what I did not want my life to be, my maternal grandparents set an example I longed to adopt.  I did not know it then, but looking back I now clearly see their example was one of sacred authenticity.  They were true to God, to each other and to themselves and concerned themselves very little with anything else.  They each valued the happiness of the other more than their own.

It is their example I strive for in my marriage, my home and my relationships.  I am sad to say I often fail miserably, but they taught me that even in failing I am loved.  It is in that love that I find the strength to get up, dust myself off, accept responsibility and try again after each failure.

They have been gone for decades and I miss them more than I can say.  Some days my heart still aches for the warmth, kindness and unique way they had of making me feel special.  I often wonder what they would think of the path I have taken in adulthood.  Would they be proud of me?  What advice would they give me?

Fortunately, I have found if I sit very quiet and listen intently, I still can hear something my maternal grandmother said to me during our last conversation … “Sugar-foot, angel-baby … you are the most precious thing in the world to me … I love you and nothing will ever change that” … and it is enough.  Enough.

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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.

 

 

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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.

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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 …

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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.

 

 

 

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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

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When Truth Speaks

The truth is, summer has always been the most difficult time of year for me because of Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, followed later by my mother’s birthday.  The cards, the commercials, the sales, not having anyone to call, everything about it has always been like a dagger in my heart. But this year I began thinking about it and realized I am a 50 something year old and as some would say a grown ass woman.  I have always believed truth triumphs over lies and light will disperse the deepest darkness.  So, that is exactly what I am going to do and stop generations of lies, deceit and manipulation in its tracks.

The truth is, I do not have a relationship with my parents.  Most people assume my relationship with my parents is non-existent because I am lesbian.  It is true, I am a lesbian, but that is not the reason for estrangement.  In fact, my sexual orientation was never discussed.  It is not that I was afraid or ashamed to discuss it, it was that our family was so dysfunctional there was never a sane opportunity to have an honest conversation.

The truth is, I have not had a peaceable relationship with my parents since I began living with them full-time at 5 years of age and started kindergarten. Prior to that I spent most of my time “visiting” my maternal grandparents.  My parents would say this is because they both worked and my grandparents had more time to spend with me.  I was born 9 months and 7 days after my parents nuptials and they were ill-prepared for a child.  My mother was not ready to give up being the center of the universe and my father was not ready for his wife to be a mother.

The truth is, as hard as it is to admit this, I grew up in an abusive household.  There I said the word … abusive.  I have spent my entire life minimizing the abuse of my childhood.  Making excuses for both of my parents and accepting blame, as well as feeling guilt and shame for their behavior.  That stops today.

The truth is, the home in which I grew up was violent, controlling, demeaning, manipulative and as a result incredibly sad.  No one intended for it to be that way, but it is the result of one adult with a personality disorder and the other being extremely self-centric.

The truth is, my parents provided exceptionally well for me materially.  But there was little warmth, love, kindness or compassion.  My parents are not bad or horrible people, they are simply incapable of deep connections and unwilling to put in the work to change a lifetime of behaviors.

The truth is, I am uncertain if my parents love each other.  I would like to think they do … but honestly it is so dysfunctional it is hard to tell.  Behind closed doors there was a plethora of yelling, throwing things, breaking things, choking, hitting, biting, withholding of sex and many other unhealthy, vile things.  After over a half century of marriage, I think they are simply tired of the battle and are more comfortable together than apart.

The truth is, as long as I can remember, my parents told me I was their greatest disappointment.  They further told me that my friends did not love me and were using me.  I never really understood why, and I have heard they told others outside the family a very different story.  Try as I might, I never figured out what I could do to make things different.  What I could do to be better.  What I could do to be loveable.

The truth is, I have made many, many mistakes in my life.  I have not always done my best.  I have not always been honest.  I have not always acted or reacted in an honorable way.  I am a deeply flawed human.  I will own every bit of that and more, as long as it is the truth.

The truth is, regardless of my past, my mistakes or any other multitude of circumstances, I am finally content where I am.  I am happily married.  My wife is not only my best friend, she is an equal partner.   I have a church home that welcomes my wife and I and allows us to worship freely.  I have a safe and peaceful home.  I have a small group of intimate friends who support me and love me unconditionally.  My life is sweeter and more fulfilling than I ever thought possible.

The truth is, I am making peace with the past.  I am learning to accept what is … well … just is.  So, this summer and all the ones yet to come will no longer be spent grieving what never was.  I will no longer accept feelings of unworthiness for having biological parents who rejected me.

The truth is, I have so many wonderful people in my life who genuinely and deeply love me.  As such, I choose not to waste any more precious time grieving two people who chose not to love me or want me in their life.  They decided not share life with me and I am respecting their decision.

The truth is, life is full of twists, turns, up and downs.  It is full of unexplained events.  Life is entirely too short to live in the past and let others affect my perception of myself.

The truth is, detoxifying your life is hard as hell, yet infinitely freeing. Furthermore, free people are dangerous people.  Free people are not easily manipulated.  Free people are not victims.  Free people do not play the blame game.  Free people are accountable for what is theirs, and reject what is not.  Free people are able to live with an open heart.  Free people are capable of forgiveness.  Free people allow others to be true to themselves without judgement.  Free people love compassionately, live authentically, and welcome those whom are different.  Free people know who they are, who they are not and take equal responsibility for both.

The truth is, if no one has told you lately, you deserve freedom.  You are worthy of love, consideration and kindness.  Any person, regardless of relationship, who is a toxic influence in your life needs your permission to stay in your life.  Your sacred worth is one thing that need not be on the table for negotiation.  Ever.