Florence Lawrence

Florence Lawrence was a Canadian-American actress. She was known as "The Biograph Girl" for work as one of the leading ladies in silent films from the Biograph Company. She appeared in almost 300 films for various motion picture companies throughout her career.

Lawrence began to experience career decline and significant financial troubles. Her personal life was difficult, she was married and divorced several times.

On December 28, 1938, Florence Lawrence died by suicide. She was fifty two years old when she died.

Florence Lawrence 

January 2, 1886 – December 28, 1938

Healing Ourselves and Healing Others

Lisa Mayne is a fitness and health coach who lives in Illinois. She is also a fellow member of my online Spouse and Partner Survivors of Suicide Loss group. She herself is an occasional Blogger. Her bravery and willingness to be vulnerable when writing is an inspiration to me.

Though we have never met in person, I consider Lisa to be a friend. And though we are connected through such heartbreaking loss, I am very grateful to have her kindness and support as a part of my life.

Lisa wrote the essay below to share some of her personal thoughts on how we can heal ourselves and how we can heal others, during this holiday season.

Today is Christmas Day, and I am happy to share the gift of her words with you now.

Healing Gifts 

 LISA MAYNE

There is a saying that goes something along the lines of  'In giving we heal ourselves, but in receiving we heal others'. If nothing else, in the months since Keith’s passing, I’ve been given a master class in that quote.

Last year my girls and I received these sweet gifts from some secret elves. I still don’t know who they came from – though I have tried to guess at least a million times. This Christmas surprise wasn’t the first either. I recall a box of sunshine (full of fun yellow things) showing up when we returned from a much needed retreat to the north woods.

Someone also paid for my girls school registrations that summer. The FFA class made fleece blankets for the girls for Christmas too, and we were given some amazing play equipment by two great families when we moved among countless other little things that came along to brighten our days … and sometimes big things, like not even realizing that hog raffle being held by the local American Legions was intended for donation to the memorial fund for the girls. Wow! Overwhelmed to say the least.

I’m not sure I was always able to communicate our immense gratitude for it all, whether we knew where the gift came from or not. Nonetheless, gratitude for the people who have surrounded us still swells in our hearts. I’ve come to appreciate this side of loss more than ever. Those people and groups who stepped forward to help us, support us, and just plain love on us in our grief, especially in the days long after the funeral.

I’ve become especially fond of being a secret giver now, since having been the recipient of secret givers myself. There is such a blessing in giving and helping and doing. And though we all want to help we often don’t know how. Unfortunately those who need us don’t always know how to ask.

Asking for help is hard for almost everyone and it is not any easier for a widow or anyone else who is bereaved. Our pride gets in the way. We often want to be able to repay a favor but aren’t always capable of doing so. And asking for help actually takes a lot of emotional strength because it reveals where we are vulnerable. These things have opened my eyes to the beauty of anonymous giving.

Since it is the holiday season I know that we all want to find ways to give. So give however you can and give where you see a need. If you can give of yourself without announcing it, you should! It blesses both the giver and the receiver. And isn’t that Christmas Spirit? Best of all, giving in a way that removes all possibility of any form of repayment can open the door to paying it forward for others.

***

On her blog, Lisa Mayne describes herself as an unexpectedly widowed mom of two who has found herself running, writing, and making her way up through the grief journey, following the loss of her husband to suicide.

You can find her blog, Motherhood Miles and Makeup, at the link below.

motherhoodmilesmakeup.com

Ryan Freel

Ryan Paul Freel (March 8, 1976 – December 22, 2012) was an American professional baseball player. A utility player, Freel played second base, third base, and all three outfield positions in Major League Baseball for the Toronto Blue Jays, Cincinnati Reds, Baltimore Orioles, Chicago Cubs and Kansas City Royals between 2001 and 2009.

On May 28, 2007, Freel was injured in a game against the Pittsburgh Pirates when chasing a deep drive to right-center field. Freel and a right fielder collided, resulting in Freel's head and neck hitting Hopper and finally the warning track. He was transported by ambulance to Good Samaritan Hospital, where he was reported to be coherent with feeling in his extremities. Freel began working out on June 15, about 2 weeks after the collision. He was briefly sent to the AAA Louisville Bats for rehabilitation. Freel began getting random headaches and pains in his head, which delayed his return for another 2 weeks. On July 3, 2007, 1 month and 5 days after the accident, Freel returned to play for the Cincinnati Reds.

In 2009 with the Baltimore Orioles, he was hit in the head by a pickoff throw while on second base. He was put on the disabled list after the injury, and officially retired a year later.

On December 22, 2012, Ryan Freel died by suicide. After his death, Freel's family donated his brain tissue to Boston University for research into chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), a degenerative neurological condition associated with multiple concussions which at present can only be conclusively diagnosed postmortem. In December 2013, a postmortem examination by the Center for the Study of Traumatic Encephalopathy showed that he was suffering from Stage II CTE, making him the first MLB player to have been diagnosed with the disease. Ryan was also diagnosed with various mental illnesses such as bipolar disorder, adult ADHD, depression, impulse control disorder and anxiety. Additional mental illnesses are consistent with many athletes who also suffer from CTE once their playing careers are finished.

Ryan Paul Freel 

March 8, 1976 – December 22, 2012

Healing involves pain. There are times when this feels like the greatest injustice. But survivors of suicide loss must find a way to live with their pain. Through their pain. Around their pain. We gain nothing by pushing it away, pushing it down, or denying it.

Surround yourself with support. Accept the help of others, find support groups, reach out to those who love you and learn to immerse yourself in self-care.

Feel it all, including what hurts. In this way, you will find yourself bearing even the most unbearable of pain. Do not give up. Do reach out. Do be gentle with yourself.

Remember, we do recover.

Stuart Adamson

In a big country dreams stay with you

Like a lover's voice fires the mountainside

Stay alive

William Stuart Adamson (known as Stuart) was a Scottish guitarist, vocalist, and songwriter. He was the co-founder, lead vocalist, and guitarist of the 1980s rock group, Big Country.

Big Country experienced international acclaim and U2's The Edge has said that he wished he could have written lyrics as catchy and good as those in the songs by Big Country.

Adamson was an alcoholic, and after over a decade of sobriety, he relapsed in late 2001. He died by suicide shortly after, on December 16, 2001.

He was married and had two children. Stuart Adamson was forty three years old when he died.

Telling our stories does not take away our grief or change what has happened, but it can heal us, and it can heal others - especially those who are hurting in the same ways. Empathy and compassion are fostered through honest communication. Your story matters. If you feel that no one understands what you are going through, use your words to help them to understand.  

They Are Proud of Us

Cherisse Boam lives in Utah. She is twice widowed. She lost her husband Justin in a car accident several years ago. Later, she remarried. In a doubly tragic turn of events, her second husband, Harrison, also died, this time by suicide.

Recently, a well meaning friend suggested to Cherisse that she should 'move on' from her most recent loss, and that her husband Harrison would want her to be doing that.

Here, Cherisse writes about her response to that suggestion. She writes about the experience of being a widow and especially, being a widow to suicide. Cherisse puts into perfect words what much of the frustration, agony, and pain feels like for those of us who have lost a spouse or partner to suicide. Having lost one husband and then remarrying, she also talks about the difference between moving 'on' and moving 'forward.' 

Cherisse's writing is raw, honest, and courageous. She speaks for so many of us who have lost the person we loved to suicide. I am honored that she is letting me share her writing, here:

After Justin died, I had friends who reached out to me in support. One of them called me to tell me he was thinking about me. He then confided that another friend had lost his wife. But he also said he couldn't understand why his other widowed friend started using drugs and giving in to lust (so soon after his wife had died).

I told him what I'm telling you now: The pain of losing a spouse is unlike any pain you've ever felt. It is deep, constant, and all consuming. You do ANYTHING you can think of to end the pain for even just a second. If you can avoid feeling or thinking or being in this deep agony, you will do it. I don't drink, and I don't have sex outside of marriage, and these things are because of my covenants within the church. I also hold the belief that if I did these things, when the underlying pain came back - it would be more intense playing 'catch up' after those moments of numbness. But sometimes, I have to be honest with you, if it weren't for the church, I'd take the numbness anyway. Not necessarily the lust, but absolutely the alcohol.

Widow's brain and widow's fog are real. You can't move and you can't do things most days. Grief isn't linear, it's not depression and then anger and then denial. It's anger and then depression and then anger again, Sometimes it's all at once. In addition to the pain, which mental, emotional, spiritual, physical, it also affects every part of your being and soul. It leaves no stone unturned, until you are annihilated completely and thoroughly.

Losing Justin didn't make the pain of losing Harrison less. In fact, losing Harrison hurt worse, and in a different way. I've been told that the method of death makes a difference, and I absolutely believe it. Suicide adds layers that weren't there with the car accident. I still found ways to blame myself after Justin died. "If we had just moved to the other side of the canyon like he'd wanted..." but fortunately his mother, my Mama, was very clear with me and shut down those thoughts, fast.

It's harder to shut down the voices with suicide, because people think it was a choice, so it has to be someone's fault, right? And it couldn't have been his.

Years ago, my Aunt Rhonda was widowed, and afterward I thought she'd lost her mind. She'd say she could hear and feel my uncle. I felt, at the time, deep pity for her. I'm here to tell you she wasn't crazy. Losing someone you've shared yourself with, body and soul, so intimately, makes their passing through the veil not so distant. You CAN still hear and feel them. They do visit you in your dreams. My belief in an afterlife is absolute.

The widow's fog means you sit for hours in agony, trying to remember just how to breathe, trapped in your thoughts and trying not to think. Your life becomes about survival. You can't get up to clean. You can't get up to cook. I cherish the words that a friend said to me on one long drive. I told her I hated when people said I was strong when I went back to work. First of all, it wasn't what I wanted to be doing. I wanted to be in bed constantly. (There were still times I did this. I called into work more than once to stay in bed because I physically couldn't get out of the pain enough to get up.) Second of all, part of why I went to work was I was hoping for a distraction from the pain for even a few seconds (remember that thing we were talking about earlier) and it didn't help. Third of all, I still had children to support. My friend said to me: 

"Sometimes we have to choose between the impossible," (getting up and moving) "and the unthinkable," (letting my children starve). "We can't do the unthinkable, so we choose to do the impossible." 

And that is what I did.

How long does the point of immobility last? It's different for every widow. Months. Years. The levels and intensities and lengths of time for each depth of pain varies by widow, by how well they move through their grief (or let their grief move through them), by the love they hold for their spouse, the fights or joys in their marriage, whether their spouse died slowly or if it was sudden.

Widows sometimes start with "We were married for x amount of years" as though that makes a difference in how much pain they are going through. Having gone through this twice, first with Justin, whom I was with for six years, and next with Harrison, who I was with for under two, it doesn't matter. The length of time you were married to someone doesn't matter. The depth of emotion you hold for them does.

How long does grief last? When should a widow move on? 

When should they remarry?

You NEVER get over the grief because you'd be getting over your precious, irreplaceable loved one. A widow will never move on, though they will be able to function again at some point, and maybe move 'forward' with or without a new chapter (relationship) in their life. They will take with them the old chapter as well. Harrison never asked nor expected me to get over Justin. In our marriage with each other (which is sacred) we honored our feelings, the kids' feelings, and we honored Justin. We still set a place for him at the table. When should a widow remarry? When is too soon? Pay attention, because this isn't well known. Whenever the hell they're good and ready, and not one second sooner or later. Only they know where they are in their grief. You don't. You understand me?

Finally, don't tell me what my husband would have or does want for me. This is me saying this in the absolute strictest, most angry way, NO ONE has the right to tell ANY widow how her spouse would feel. Let me tell you that our spouses, who have a beyond the grave connection with us still, who communicate with us even after their deaths, know us better inside and out, than anyone else. They know our agony, they know what we're doing and why we're doing it, they know we're trying to survive. and WE KNOW THEM. 

I remember feeling disconnected because what people told me Harrison would be feeling was different from the way I thought he'd felt. Eventually I found letters he's written and I realized I'd been the one who was right. 

Our spouses are damn proud of us for doing what we have to do to survive. 

They are proud of us for living. They are proud of us for taking care of things here.

You, an outsider to our marriage, to this grief, have no right to tell any widow that her spouse is or would be disappointed in us. They wouldn't be.

They are proud of us.

Cherisse Boam with her husband Harrison.

José Feghali

José Feghali was a Brazilian pianist who, until his death, was an Artist-in-Residence at Texas Christian University's school of music in piano. He was the Gold Medal winner of the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition in 1985.

Feghali struggled with depression throughout his life.

On December 9, 2014, Jose Feghali died by suicide. He was fifty three years old.

José Feghali

March 28, 1961 – December 9, 2014

Getting there.

Survivors of suicide loss and survivors of suicide attempts both, can turn a corner toward healing when they invest in the possibility of growth, as opposed to focusing on the trauma they have endured.

Sometimes that investment is as simple as putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward. Judge neither your process nor your timing, but rise to face another day and know that you will get there.

José María Arguedas

We were fascinated by the little glass spheres, by those dark waves of color, some narrow and drawn out into several swirls, and others that widened out in the center of the marble into a single bundle and thinned out smoothly at the ends. There were reddish streaks in Añuco's new marbles, but in the cloudy, chipped ones the bands of color also appeared, strangely and inexplicably.

― José María Arguedas, Antología poética

José María Arguedas was a Peruvian novelist, poet, and anthropologist. Because he lived in two Quechua households (from the ages of seven through eleven) he had a rare fluency in the native Quechua language. He noted that the time spent in Quechua homes was in order to escape the trauma he experienced living with his step family, after his mother died (when he was aged two).

Generally remembered as one of the most notable figures of 20th-century Peruvian literature, Arguedas is especially recognized for his intimate portrayals of indigenous Andean culture. The American literary critic Martin Seymour-Smith said that Arguedas was "the greatest novelist of our time," who wrote "some of the most powerful prose that the world has known."

On December 2, 1969, Arguedas died by suicide. He left behind an autobiographical manuscript that noted depressive episodes that were caused by his early trauma, as his reason for suicide. He was fifty eight years old when he died.

José María Arguedas 

January 18, 1911 – December 2, 1969) 

It is so important that survivors of suicide loss and those who love them accept the fact that grieving has no timeline. When we pressure ourselves to feel better or to move on before we are ready, we only succeed in adding another layer of pain to our grief. 

If you care about a survivor of suicide loss, it is critical that you understand that the grieving person must be allowed to grieve for as long as they need to, and to express that grief however they wish. 'Pep talks' that are meant to encourage a person to move on from a suicide loss, most often have the opposite effect. Suggesting that a grieving person is a failure or that their grief is inappropriate, only further complicates the grief and the pain experienced by the person who is trying to overcome their loss. You are far more likely to help them move forward if you tell them that you are willing to listen to their feelings, and if you do so without judgment. Offer advice only if asked. 

Know that survivors of suicide loss will most often never be the same. But we do heal and and we do recover from the initial devastation surrounding our loss. Support yourself (or support others) in achieving this recovery, by allowing yourself to get there at there at your own pace. 

Albert Ayler

Albert Ayler was an American jazz saxophonist, singer and composer. His music was classified as avant-garde and he is large considered as having inspired numerous subsequent jazz musicians.

In particular the music he performed in 1965 and 1966, such as Spirits Rejoice and Truth Is Marching In, has been compared by critics to the sound of a brass band, and involved simple, march-like themes which alternated with wild group improvisations and were regarded as retrieving jazz's pre-Louis Armstrong roots.

In 1970 Ayer began to experience a deep depression. On November 25, 1970, Albert Ayler died by suicide. He was only 34 years old when he died. 

Albert Ayler 

July 13, 1936 – November 25, 1970

Where the Joy Resides

For those of us whose lives have been touched by suicide, there are times when gratitude feels near impossible. But, my experience has been that finding gratitude is a significant and necessary part of healing. For those of us dealing with loss, joy may seem a lofty goal. But certainly, healing shouldn't be.

I wish I had a secret formula or stellar advice to give, about how to recover from such profound grief. However, I don't. What I can do is offer up the words above, from the author Anne Lamott. In short, gratitude begets service begets humility, and joy.

Even in the midst of our most grievous days, if we can focus on gratitude, service, and humility, I believe the joy will take care of itself.

I hope for all of us that we can find a way to be of service to one another, today. Doing service does not have to be special or exhausting. Perhaps we can take a moment to let someone else know that we care or that we appreciate them. Maybe we can make an extra effort today to ensure that all of our words are kind ones.

It is in this spirit of service that I wish you all a day filled with peace and love. And for those of you in the United States, I hope that you have a very happy Thanksgiving.

The Truth I Know

All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.

- Ernest Hemingway

Sometimes I am surprised by what I've forgotten about the day that John died. What did people say when I told them that he was gone? All I remember is that people told me that they were on their way to me. No one wanted me to be alone. But what words were said? What questions did they ask? I remember so little of those details.

Then there are the details about that day that stick with me, too. But, they are from those few short hours when I didn't yet know that he was gone. There is no rhyme or reason. It was a chilly April morning and I hadn't put a bath mat down. When I stepped out of the shower, I was annoyed at having to step on the cold floor. The memory of the tile beneath my feet stays with me. I remember debating which earrings I should wear that day, though not which ones I settled on. And I remember the brand of cereal I ate for breakfast that morning, too. All of those things, I remember. 

But then the memories fade. There is a heaviness attached to the rest of that day that makes remembering difficult. I would tell you that it was a darkness but that wouldn't be right. There were so many people who stepped forward and helped me on the day that John died, and so many who helped on all the days that have followed (and who help me still). It would be wrong of me to say that those memories are dark. But heavy? Yes. So heavy, I suppose, that they make no room for other memories to find their way to the surface.

I am so glad that I kept journals. Never in my life have I been so glad to be a writer. I can go back still and read about what it was like when I sat beside John, what it was like to laugh with him, what it was like to fall in love. I get to hold onto those things despite the heaviness that ventures to take it all away. Sometimes, I sit in amazement at the way that the people around me stepped up in order to care for me, and care for each other. My writing, I know, did the same. It served me, and when I offered it publicly - over and over again survivors of suicide loss told me that this shared grief served them as well.

Survivors of suicide loss endure an increased risk of suicide themselves. The moment John died, those of us who held him closest to our hearts struggled with the unfair dichotomy of understanding how painful these losses are for those left behind and wanting desperately to join the one we'd lost. I suppose there is an irony to the fact that eternity seems forever away when the person you love has stepped over some sort of threshold and you feel left behind.

It was in fact my fellow survivors of suicide loss who helped me salvage my own will to live. It was John's family who stood strong beside me and held me up, not just in a proverbial sense, but sometimes physically as well. It was his closest friends who circled around me, from day one, to remind me of what they were certain was true - that he'd loved me when he was alive. All of these were the people who helped me craft a steadfast belief that John still loved me, even though he was now gone.

The conviction that continued love means that the person we have lost remains alive, is an extraordinary gift when we are shrouded in grief. The love of the person who is gone, when joined by the love of those who are still living, is what lights the way through any darkness we may encounter. 

When new people join the survivors of suicide loss groups that I belong too - it is nearly inevitable that after a period of time, they ask the question: "How long will this pain last?" If their loss is fresh, sometimes they will put it into their limited perspective. "This hurts so much. It's been two months...three months... four... shouldn't the pain be less, by now?" And every time, my fellow survivors and I try to answer these questions as gently as possible. The answer is as harrowing as it is heartbreaking. Because the truth is, the pain will never go away entirely.

I often tell people that the heaviness remains, but the muscles holding onto it have gotten stronger. Now, a little over a year and a half having gone by - there are times when that strength makes holding the heaviness appear seamless, even to me. There are times when I no longer feel that this grief dictates my life. But just as swiftly, I am reminded that the trauma is still there. I am always reticent to outpace a person I love, even if we are just in the aisle of a store, or walking into a room. It is always there, the fear that if I were to turn around, my loved one will have disappeared forever. Keeping tabs on the people who are important in my life is a thankless and often impossible job. It frustrates me sometimes to be this frightened. And yet, for the most part, I try to be patient with myself. People do disappear in the blink of an eye, after all.

The acceptance of loss is critical to healing. There is impermanence all around us. For survivors of suicide loss though, inevitably, there is a sense of desperation attached to that impermanence. In therapeutic communities, they will tell you that we must embrace something called 'radical acceptance.' In short,this means that in order to effectively move forward, we must not only learn to accept that the loss has occurred, but also that we will always have pain around this fact. Ours is not an attempt to assuage the pain, ours is an attempt to live around it.

After many months of intense grieving, when those muscles of mine were beginning to proclaim their strength - I thought that perhaps it would have been easier to get through those first months, if other survivors would have lied to me. For a moment, I wished that they had told me that things would get much better. I wished that they had told me that soon enough I'd live a life where this terrible thing hadn't happened. I couldn't help but feel that maybe the earliest part of my journey of grief would have been tempered, even just slightly, if someone had told me that the sadness that had settled in my bones would find a way to escape.

Now though, when others are new in their loss and ask for this same reassurance, I understand why it is we don't lie to one another. It has been far more important for me to learn to live with this new layer in my bones. If I'd been given a false promise, then how would I know that we do recover? In my life, recovery has never looked the way I thought it would. Like any great wound, whether physical or spiritual, recovery is not clean and it often leaves a scar. Ultimately though, it is the scar itself that speaks to our profound ability to heal. I don't lie to my fellow survivors of suicide loss because I know that their healing will come from finding beauty and strength in that scar, and not from wishing that it weren't there.

Today is International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day. In the United States, it is the Saturday before Thanksgiving, every year. It is not so much a day that we mark our loss, but more, a day to honor the survival of those of us left behind. How fitting then, that this day always paves the way for a national holiday that speaks to gratitude. For I have found that survival and gratitude are most profound when one leads to the other.

To my fellow survivors of suicide loss, know that my heart is with you today, and always. Know that your strength inspires me. Know that your endurance heals me. And know that I am humbled by the fact that so many of us rise up and reach out, even in the midst of unbearable pain. And always know that I am forever grateful that when I have asked questions of you, that you have told me the truth.

I hope that we can honor each other today, and I hope for all of us every single day, that when we honor our losses, we will honor ourselves as well.

Jonathan Brandis

Jonathan Gregory Brandis was an actor, director, and screenwriter. He began his acting career in 1982 when he was cast as Kevin Buchanan on the ABC soap opera One Life to Live. In 1990, he portrayed the main protagonist Bill Denbrough in Stephen King's supernatural horror miniseries It. In 1990, he starred as Bastian Bux in The NeverEnding Story II: The Next Chapter. By the early 1990s, Brandis had become a popular teen heartthrob.

His career began to wane in his twenties, and he began to drink heavily. Some suggest that he may have been depressed about career, though no clear motive for his death has been established. Brandis died by suicide on November 12, 2003. He was twenty seven years old.

Jonathan Gregory Brandis 

April 13, 1976 – November 12, 2003

Holding Her Father's Flag

Amon Gift, a US Army veteran, was twenty three years old 

when he died by suicide, in January of 2017. 

This photo is of his daughter, at his funeral.

I first published this photo as a Beauty of Grief feature. Its heartbreaking message stands. We are losing too many veterans to suicide.

If you want to learn more about suicide and the military, I have written about it extensively here on this blog, including sharing statistics, research, and as always - the voices of those who have lost a loved one to suicide.

The reasons and solutions to the epidemic of military related suicide are varied and complex. However, the importance of showing our support to individuals is critical. Today is Veterans Day. Reach out to someone who is serving or has served in the military. Let them know that they are loved and that you care.

Remember that close to 22 veterans a day are dying by suicide. Supporting military related suicide prevention efforts should be happening every single day, as well.

If you are a veteran or actively serving member of the armed forces and you are feeling hopeless or suicidal - please reach out. You can start by calling the Veterans Crisis Line. Your service to the country is appreciated. Your life matters. You are needed in this world.

(Thank you to Kelsey Leann Tobin for permission to use the beautiful photo of her daughter, above.)

Tom Forman

Tom Forman was an American motion picture actor, director, writer, and producer of the early 1920s.

Forman made his first film in 1914. With the exception of service at the front during World War I, he had a successful career as both an actor and director. Forman directed Lon Chaney's Shadows (1922), but his biggest achievement was realized directing the second screen version of Owen Wister's The Virginian (1923). After his career faltered, he was reduced to working on cheap poverty row melodramas. Forman is also known for his work with Edith Taliaferro in Young Romance.

Forman was destitute and depressed when, on November 7, 1926, he died by suicide. Tom Forman was thirty three years old when he died.

Tom Forman 

February 22, 1893 – November 7, 1926 

 

 

The transformation of our suffering can be the basis for extraordinary compassion and empathy. Your own heart will continue to heal, when you reach out to others.

Volunteer.
Advocate.

Join support groups.



Reach out and let someone know that their life is important to you.

The voices of those who have been where we are, are often the ones that provide us with the most caring and hopeful words that we will ever hear.

Speak up.

El Collie Kress

November 4, 1947  -  April 17, 2002

My mother would have turned 71 today, had suicide not taken her life 16 years ago.

I can see the ways I am like her, now. I recognize her long brown hair in my own. My hands have always been the same as hers. I can see her nose when I look in the mirror. And I can see her eyes, the same eyes we now share with my son, too.

And I recognize her every time I hear the click clack of my computer keyboard in use (though, in her day, hers was a typewriter). I am familiar with the sound of writing, because of her. Whenever anyone tells me that my writing is important to them, I think of my mother, and I know in those moments, that she would be proud.

We differ too, though. Sometimes I wonder what her life would have been like, had she been given the same gifts that have been afforded me. When broken hearted, would she have mended faster if she knew what it felt like to be surrounded by ocean water and to swim in the sea? When frightened by the darkness of life's often overwhelming turns - would she have been more strong if she'd known how to let those who loved her carry her through? If she'd been able to reach out to others, would she have understood that she was never alone?

I wonder too, what it would have been like for me if I'd had a mother present in my life during my adult years. I've had so many extraordinary women support me and hold me up. I've never been at a loss for love. But as for a mother, I've only ever wanted her. I wonder if she knew that?

I wish that she'd believed in healing. I wish that she'd believed in the possibility that one day people would better understand her illness and offer better treatment too. And I also wish that she'd been able to avail herself of every resource that might have made her illness more bearable. I wish I wish I wish. But none of those things were true for her. In the end, her life was a constant struggle between finding a will to live and yet the unending notion that her suffering would end if she were to die. The latter won and took her from those who loved her. Her desperation to end her pain took her away from me.

If I could give my mother a birthday gift, it would be this:

A belief that there is hope for those who suffer from mental illness. A belief that there are ways to mitigate it's pain, and that there will be even more effective treatments down the line. I'd want to give my mother the gift of believing that reaching out is possible, that letting people love you is healing, and that when we pull together, the fight to prevent deaths like hers, is a fight that will be won.

I wish I could give her the gift of belief in all those things. Today though, the only gift I can give her is a promise that I will believe all of those things, on her behalf.

Perhaps the healing of her spirit comes from knowing that her daughter's life is filled with love and hope. And with as much certainty that she is proud that I am a writer - I know that she is proud that I will not give up on the fight to find treatment and services for those who still suffer in the same way that she had. I know that she is proud. I do.

My heart is broken that she was not afforded the same gifts in life that I was, but I know that there is a heavenly grace in the fact that my love for her propels me to live a life dedicated to making a difference in the lives of others. Part of that grace for me, is in knowing that every word I write endeavors to honor my mother's talent and her compassion.

My mother would have been 71 years old today. I will celebrate her birthday by believing the things she didn't know how to believe. And always, I will celebrate her life by letting the world know that for every resource we now have to treat mental illness, the most important ones are to love and be loved in return.

And I promise her still, that I will celebrate her life every single day, by honoring the greatest gift she ever gave me. A dedication to writing.

Brad Bufanda

Brad Bufanda was an American actor. He was best known for his recurring role as Felix Toombs in the television series Veronica Mars.

On November 1, 2017, Brad Bufanda died by suicide. Little is known about the reason. He left notes and sent messages, but only to thank people for their role in his life or to tell them he loved them. His friends and family have said they were shocked and don't feel that he had a history or mental illness or suicidality.

Bufanda was thirty four years old when he died.

 

Brad Bufanda

May 4, 1983 – November 1, 2017