DAY 19 - Forgive Yourself

 

Whether you are a survivor of suicide loss or a survivor of a suicide attempt, forgiveness is the key to healing.

Forgive yourself.
Forgive the one you lost.
Forgive a world that seems to dole out as much heartbreak as it does love and joy.
Forgiving is an intentional act. Choose to live in a place of healing.

[Originally posted 10/20/2018]

I Wish I Could Show You

I wish I could show you,

when you are lonely or in darkness,

the astonishing light of your own being.

-Hafiz

Four years ago, I posted the quote above on my Facebook Page. It was meant for my boyfriend John to see. He was struggling at the time, not believing that he brought value to the world. It is such a common woe for those of us who deal with suicidality. We use our mistakes, our faults, the ways we lash out at the people we love - as proof that we are not worthy of life. The premise is heartbreaking and inaccurate. But for those who've been suicidal or who've had an attempt, the misconception is often there. I only hurt people. My leaving will be a relief to many.

In the ways that John hurt over feeling unworthy, I hurt in the ways that I could not get through to him. At times, his mental illness took away his ability to see his own value in the world. In the end, his pain was insurmountable. John died ten months after I'd posted the quote above. He died while I and others tried desperately to impart to him how important he was to us all. And when he died, just as many of us struggled with the question - had the limits of our love failed him?

Those of you who have supported someone dealing with a mental illness know that some days it takes a profound amount of commitment to find the strength to not walk away. I suppose it is only love that gives us the muscle.

With John, on some days I could handle the commitment. On other days I couldn't. On some days I probably helped John. On other days I probably made his pain worse.

In the end though, I have learned that neither my efforts nor my mistakes were responsible for his suicide.

My closeness to him couldn't save him. My boundaries didn't kill him.

I know.

Some people who knew John well told me that they believed he'd lived longer than he would have, because of me.

I don't know if that's true. Part of that sentiment touches my heart, part of it breaks my heart at the same time.

What I do know is this: I will never regret any of the times that I stuck it out with him. There were many times when John's illness dictated his actions and the words that he said to me, and in the same measure - the words he said to himself. Still, I will never regret the times I stayed, nor will I regret the times I left and then returned. John was not the worst of his illness. John was also and always the best of who he was as a human being, too. I knew that. Ultimately, every time I stayed and every time I returned, meant I had more time with John. And when he died, I didn't just miss the parts of him that were 'healthy' - I missed all of him.

I have had many times to stop and think about these things over the past year. Though my mother died 18 years ago, and John died 3 years ago, this past year has also been one of the most difficult of my life. I experienced so much loss, yet again. The people I loved the most were experiencing profound loss too. To say I fell apart would be an understatement. In no small part, I am alive today because of the people in my life who took the time to remind me that I had a light inside of me, and that even if I felt unlovable, I was loved.

There were days that turned into weeks and then months when it seemed like the only conversation I could have was to rattle off my faults and my mistakes as if they were reasons for people to leave me. In many ways, I used those judgments as a way to leave myself.

I'm here because people stood beside me (sometimes they got down in the dirt and sat beside me) and took on the brunt of my hurt and my anger and my pain - just so they could remind me over and over again that I was loved still, that I was loved always, and that even in the midst of my mistakes and all that anger and all my hurt, that I was loved, period.

Some stepped away for short periods and then returned. (We all need to breathe sometimes.) Some had the fortitude to sit beside me every single day.

No matter. If there was one crux that kept me alive, it was this. All of them recognized that it was my illness that was breaking me apart. None of them blamed me. None of them called me crazy. None of them said I was sick. Perhaps most importantly, none of the people who loved me told me I was unforgivable for the ways that I was lashing out - whether I was lashing out at them, or at myself. All of them focused on one thing through it all. And that was to tell me that I was loved.

Suffering from mental illness or not, I do believe we are all accountable for our actions. I had apologies to make when I began to lift my head up again. It was a gift that people let me make them. Perhaps the most poignant response came from a friend who said to me "I don't need you to apologize - I just need you to stick around. Stay in my life and that's apology enough for me."

Maybe I did help keep John alive for a little bit longer.

Maybe all of us that reach down into the mud and yuck that comes alongside loving those who suffer from mental illness - maybe we are all extending the lives of those we love.

My heart is with all of us who've  had to navigate how to let someone know that they deserve to be cared about - especially when that person's illness is telling them the opposite.

My heart is with all of us who've had to step away from those dealing with mental illness. Our own psyche, our own trauma, our own boundaries, are so important too.

And my heart is with all of us who've struggled with mental illness and who feel ashamed about the ways our illnesses have impacted the people we love.

Wherever we are on that spectrum - the truth is, all of us are bringing a light to the world that cannot be replaced, and we should not be judged.

And this too: everyone finds themselves lonely or in darkness, sometimes. May we never forget - even in the darkness, our light still shines. When we remain in a place that is dictated by love- or at the least return to that place if we've stepped away - even if it means we get just one more day, there is so much hope and beauty possible. It is astonishing. 

Look What Happens With a Love Like This

Even after all this time the sun never says to the earth, 'You owe me.' 

Look what happens with a love like that. It lights the whole sky.”
- Hāfiz

This morning, the Lighting Up the Sky blog crossed a threshold. The number of times the blog has been viewed surpassed 100,000.

It's an amazing thing, that what is written here has touched so many people. Not quite three years ago, I started this blog. I wasn't sure where it was going. At first I thought I'd share parts of the journal I'd kept in the months after John died. I did that because of the number of people who were telling me that my writing about suicide was helpful to them. The most powerful feedback then remains the same today. When I hear someone say 'I learned something important about suicide by reading your blog,' it motivates me. But when I hear someone say 'when I read your blog, I felt less alone,' I am humbled by those words. I am humbled by the fact that this blog has impacted people in this important way.

So I stepped back and paid attention to what was being said. People told me they appreciated that someone was talking about suicide. They told me they didn't feel they had a voice. Many survivors of suicide loss felt they didn't have a right to mourn. Nearly every person I spoke to said they were hurt by the ways that people didn't understand suicide. Whether they were a survivor of attempts or a survivor of loss, they reached out to me to talk about the agony that this lack of understanding can cause.

Quickly I realized I could do more with this blog than I originally intended. I recognized that there were an immeasurable amount of people whose lives had been touched by suicide, not just me. Asking those people to share their own experiences with suicide was important. The more lives and voices that this blog could share, the more of a reminder that none of us are alone.

"People don't understand!" is what I was hearing.
"So, tell them," has always been my response. 

I understood too, the importance of being allowed to grieve a suicide loss. To be sad, angry, hurt and sometimes relieved. I knew firsthand that the stigma around suicide complicates grief. Often, we are told we shouldn't be talking about the loss. We are told that we should be mad at the person we lost, that we should forget about them.  Or sometimes the opposite - we are told we can't be mad at those who die by suicide, at all. We can't rage against a person's mental illness and we are not allowed to celebrate the beauty of who the person was, either. It is an excruciating paradox. So, I wanted this blog to give people permission to react to their grief in any way they needed. And I especially wanted to celebrate and encourage the beautiful side of grieving and the beautiful side of healing too.

I am both honored and humbled that so many people have been interested in what we, those whose lives have been touched by suicide, have to say. Our voices matter. As Robin Williams once said, "No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can change the world."

Speaking of quotes, many people have asked me why I named this blog Lighting Up the Sky. The name is derived from a quote by the Persian poet, Hāfiz. 'Even after all this time the sun never says to the earth, you owe me. Look what happens with a love like that. It lights the whole sky.'

When I started the journey of writing this blog, I was struck and saddened by the often held notion that those who die by suicide are selfish. As a survivor of a suicide attempt myself, I knew that many of us truly believe that by leaving, we are doing something good for those we love. I struggle with this to this day. If I hurt someone, I wrestle with wondering if my loss would be an adequate reparation. The pain of this deliberation cannot be put into words. We think we are relieving our loved ones of a burden. We believe that we don't deserve love or to be cared about. In this sense, though misguided, our actions are the opposite of selfish.

I considered the lack of understanding about suicidal ideation, the lack of resources available to those who need them, and the lack of effective treatment. Given all of the prior, I believe that we often look at suicide from a faulty and painful perspective.

But what will happen if we flip that perspective? How much more will be accomplished if we stop blaming the ones we've lost? I believe that often it is not those who are losing their lives to suicide who are failing us. Instead our culture, the stigma, and the silence around suicide, failed them.

What if instead of focusing on their owing us forever unfulfilled promises, we focus instead on the beauty their presence in our lives had once offered? I would think if we did this, while their loss would be no less heartbreaking, it would be a measure less dark.

That's how I want to think about the people I've lost to suicide. Not that they have darkened my life, but instead, I want their memory to light up my sky.

I can't let this milestone of 100,000 go, without saying this:

I started this blog for John Macaluso. I loved him. I love him still. He was needed in this world when he lost his life to suicide. And I know he'd be proud that this blog has had an impact on so many people.

I continued this blog for my mother. She was a writer herself. She was smart and funny. She was needed in this world when she lost her life to suicide. She would be proud of my writing too, I know.

And I write for this blog still, for me. It has been much easier for me to write about being a survivor of suicide loss than it has been for me to write about my own attempts and my own thoughts of suicide. It is important to be able to talk about these things without feeling ashamed. Speaking up is one of the most important ways to fight stigma. My words, like those of all others who've been touched by suicide, are needed in this world. 

I know.

To all of you who have cheered me on, or supported me when I've been hurting, and to those of you who have told me that this site means something to you, thank you.

And thank you especially to all of my fellow suicide attempt survivors and suicide loss survivors. You are the bravest people I know.

And finally, to all those who have lost their life to suicide - know that we are fighting for you. You are not forgotten. The sky lights up for you, today and every day.

Committing to Better Use of Language - DAY 23

The language we use when we are talking about suicide matters. In some situations, subtle differences in language come down to more than just semantics. Often, language is the initial framework we use in order to categorize or interpret actions. In fact, this framework is one of the objectives of language itself.

Because suicide is so stigmatized, we often have trouble talking about it. Understanding the subtleties of the language we use or even knowing what to say, can be confusing. That being said - I will speak for many of us whose lives who have been touched by suicide:

Please stop saying 'committed suicide'.

I could go on and on about this. I could beg people to be more considerate, more thoughtful, more understanding, or to just educate themselves about the causes of suicide. Today though, I am not going to beg. Besides, all of those things are blog posts of their own. For the sake of this one, I will try to simplify.

Consider this: for survivors of suicide loss and for survivors of suicide attempts - the connotation (the definition itself) of the word 'committed' only serves to increase stigma and exacerbate pain:

com·mit

/kəˈmit/

Learn to pronounce

verb

past tense: committed; past participle: committed

1. 1.

   carry out or perpetrate (a mistake, crime, or immoral act).

   
   

   "he committed an uncharacteristic error"

For most of us whose lives have been touched by suicide, hearing the term 'committed suicide' is hurtful.

I don't want to beg you to understand that we are in enough pain already. My hope is that our pain alone is enough to help you to reconsider the terminology you are using.

While I recognize this isn't always the case, the vast majority of those who have died by suicide had been dealing with mental illness. Therefore, the suicidality was a symptom of their illness. Because of this, it is inaccurate and somewhat cruel to use language that squarely places the blame for their death on an immoral act they were responsible for.

For those who are not dealing with mental health issues, we are often unable to comprehend the depth of pain that it can cause. And mental illness can also contribute to all of these things as well: a decrease in pain tolerance; an inability to understand long term consequences; and, a lack of impulse control. Put all those things together, and without adequate treatment mental illness becomes potentially fatal.

Please consider that mental illness is also about things that we, as a culture (and even scientifically) are only just beginning to understand. The impact of trauma, the subtle balance of chemical activity in the brain, the delicate nature of neural pathways and the impact on a person when those neural pathways are disturbed or broken. These things are the causes of potentially fatal mental illness. While we don't fully understand all of these causes (yet) - what we can say is that none of those things are the fault of the person who is suffering.

As a person who endures mental illness, let me put this even more clearly:

I did not choose to be ill. I do not want to be ill. Often, this illness hurts. Often, this illness breaks my own heart. Often, I am fearful that I will lose my own life to this illness. 

My life is spent constantly trying to address and manage the symptoms of my illness. Some days are better than others. But never, am I 'committing' my mental illness on you.

Sadly, oftentimes the thoughts that complicate my own suicidality are directly related to the language our culture uses. Specifically, if I was worthy of life, I would stop committing the crime of suffering from mental illness.

Mental illness is not the fault of the person who is suffering.  Please, see it for what it is and change your language accordingly.

We do not say 'he committed cancer.'
We do not say 'she committed heart disease'
We do not say 'he committed alzheimers'

Please stop saying that those who lost their lives to the symptoms of mental illness 'committed' suicide.

Please. Stop.

Here is language that is more appropriate:

They died by suicide.
They lost their life to suicide. 
Suicide was the cause of their death.

Or, to be even more accurate you could say: "They were mentally ill, and their illness was fatal."

Please stop indicting me and my loved ones and all of us who struggle with mental illness. Please stop criminalizing those of us who are struggling still, and those who have already lost their lives.

I don't want to beg you.

But I am begging you.

Please stop using the terminology: 'committed' suicide.

Owning My Story - DAY 14

If we can share our story with someone who responds 

with empathy and understanding, shame can't survive.

- Brené Brown

I am a survivor of suicide loss. I have written about that. I am addict and alcoholic in recovery. I have written about that. I have an eating disorder. I have written about that, too.

But, until last year, I didn't write much about my own suicide attempts. Actually, I did do some writing in 2013, following my second and last attempt. I made some of that writing public, but within a month or two I removed the writing from public view.

I removed the writing for the same reason that I rarely write about my attempts now. I was ashamed. At that time, people contacted me and told me that they disagreed with my point of view, others contacted me and told me that I was being disrespectful toward my son by violating his privacy. Not that I was writing about him (I wasn't) but because he would undoubtedly be ashamed that his mother had attempted suicide. Out of respect for him (he was 16 at the time) I needed to hide the fact that I'd had an attempt. That is what I was told.

Every reluctance to write about my suicide attempts had been grounded in shame. The stigma in our culture is so strong. We are routinely told that those who attempt suicide are selfish, attention seeking, weak, sinners, inconsiderate, cruel, etc.. Those who die by suicide are taking their pain and without giving it a second thought, they are handing all that pain to someone else. That's what our society tells us.

Those who attempt suicide are everything that I don't want to be.

I can write about a lot of stigmatized issues that are close to home, but writing about my suicide attempts is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I am not alone in this. In Jamie Brickhouse's article Overcoming The Shame of a Suicide Attempt (New York Times, May 2016), he says:

"As a recovering alcoholic I know that admitting to my behavior and owning my story is the only way it can no longer own me. I’m not ashamed of being an alcoholic, but I’m still ashamed of trying to kill myself."

For me, despite having feelings that were similar to Jamie Brickhouse's, there was a point about a year and a half ago, when I knew it was time to share my personal story. I was knee deep in suicide prevention advocacy, and I regularly bemoaned the stigma that deterred people from reaching out for help. But that wasn't my primary reason for talking about my own attempts. I was frequently exposed to people who were angry at those who'd taken their life. But, that wasn't my reason for talking about my own attempts, either.

I decided to write about my experiences with being suicidal, because in my suicide loss survivors groups, I kept hearing people say: "How could they leave me like this? Why wasn't I enough? Why weren't our children enough? How could they not have told me what they were planning to do?" These questions were agonizing for the people who were posing them.

I wrote about my attempts because people who didn't understand the complexity of  suicidality were in excruciating pain. And by and large, this pain reflected a general misunderstanding of what it is like to be suicidal. I wrote about my attempts because my fellow survivors of suicide loss, who were already in so much pain, exacerbated their grief by tormenting themselves over the possible answers to their questions. And I knew, most of the questions didn't actually apply to the circumstances under which a person loses their life to suicide. I knew I wasn't going to speak for all who have attempted suicide, but I also knew I was speaking for an awful lot of us.

I wrote about my attempts with the great hope that my story might help someone else who was suffering.

So today I will share my story again. It's long. (I'm 'wordy' as someone once told me.) But, it is thorough. Others have told me that my story was very helpful as they processed their loss. I am so glad. If you would like to read what I wrote, simply click on the picture below:

One Less Day

I'm not afraid of getting older  I'm one less day from dying young  I see the light go past my shoulder  I'm one less day from dying young  I'm one less day from dying young
 - Rob Thomas One Less Day
My mother died seventeen years ago, today. It was a cold Wednesday afternoon. Cold at least for the month of April, in Oakland, California. That day, the temperature outside never rose above 56 °F. My mother took her life sometime during those cold daytime hours, while she was home alone. My step father would find her when he came home from work, later that evening. I, however, did not find out that she'd died, until early the next morning.

I remember bits and pieces of that morning. It was just after 7 a.m. when my phone rang. My brother was on the other end of the line, and he said that he had bad news. Then he told me that my mother had taken her life. Needless to say, 'bad news' was far from an accurate description.

Over the next several days, I would vacillate between disbelief, anger, and grief of course. It was the grief that seeped in between every other feeling. It would rise until it took over where my other emotions couldn't manage to hold on. The disbelief eventually settled into acceptance. The anger eventually turned towards forgiving. Forgiving my mother, and forgiving myself as well. But the grief, it never went away. Not completely. Seventeen years later, and I still grieve, today.

Still, as time went on, it was not the grief that wrecked the most havoc in my life. It was something different. It was fear.

For years after she'd died, there were times when fear dictated every aspect of my life. And the fear was very specific. I was afraid of all the ways that I was like her. And I am like her, after all. We share some physical attributes. Many would say that you can tell by looking that I am my mother's daughter. And we both had a sharp sense of humor, though hers was more dark than my own. And this too. She was a writer. She wrote sophisticated fiction and less complex but equally powerful poetry. We were similar there too, of course. My writing style is different, but we always shared a love for pen and paper - or, later, for a keyboard and the accompanying screen that would fill so quickly with our words. This adoration of the possibility inherent in the written word - we shared that, my mother and I.

Me, with my mother, El Collie Kress. 

Saint Clair Shores, Michigan, 1978.

It was my mother's disease that scared me the most, though. Her mental illness that had steadfastly stolen her from me and from so many other people who'd loved her. I agonized over the deterioration of our relationship during the years before she died. And I agonized, even before she died, over the thought that we shared the illness that was taking her from me. The illness that would eventually take her life.

I once confided to a counselor my fear that because my mother had taken her life - it was inevitable that I would also take mine. Perhaps not right away, but one day, I said. I was truly afraid that I would leave my own son with the same loss that my mother had left with me.

"Your fear is not an omen," my counselor had tried to explain. "It is not a predictor of the future. It's normal, it's common, when a parent takes their life. Their children then must contend with the fear that they might lose their life to suicide as well."

Predictor or not, the truth is, I did eventually attempt to take my life. Afterward, I was absolutely wracked with guilt over the attempt. "I've done to my son what my mother did to me!" I'd often weep when talking to counselors, and doctors, and anyone else who would listen.

No, no, no, they'd correct me.

"How am I any different than her? How is what I've done not the same as what she did?" I'd ask.

"Chelise, it is very different." people would tell me.

"But how?" I'd cry. 

"It is different, because you are alive," they would explain, pointing out the obvious.

Of course. There it is.

I am alive.

There is evidence that my mother planned her death over a period of time. She'd acquired the means weeks earlier. She wrote a lengthy note. She'd likely been composing her last words, for days ahead of time. And she was fastidious in the execution of her plans. A fastidiousness that suggested pre-planning. 

I don't know why she chose this particular day in April. Likely, I never will understand. But I do suspect she'd chosen the date well in advance.

I would imagine that once she decided upon the day, then her measurement of time stopped flowing smoothly and became instead a chipping away of sorts. Suddenly, every day that passed represented one less day until the date she had chosen to die. 

So there are times now when I look at life through that same lens - counting time backward instead of forward. It is just that our start and end points are different - as different as the very natures of life and death.

It would be easy to sit back and blame my mother for my mental and emotional woes. It seems likely that I have a genetic predisposition toward both mental illness and addiction, and those genes both appear to originate on the maternal side of my family. And I could blame much of the childhood trauma I experienced on her as well. Living with a parent who was so severely mentally ill meant that I lived in a constant state of chaos with little structure or support. My mother's untreated illness tore my childhood away from me. This is true.

But my anger at my mother has softened. By and large, I am much more forgiving now. My mother lived with an illness that was (and still is) misunderstood and stigmatized. She was provided with very few resources and no hope for a cure. The universal lack of understanding when it came to mental illness meant that she was blamed for her symptoms. Blamed by society, blamed by myself, and blamed by other loved ones as well. Looking backward is where I find my compassion for her. As my mother got older, her symptoms increased. Her anxiety and pain were joined by delusional thoughts that often bordered on psychosis. Her despair was relentless. In fact, without any hope for relief, in many ways it is amazing that she lived as long as she did.

So it is guided by this compassion that I allow my own countdown to begin. Unlike my mother though, I am not counting down to a final day. Instead, each day that I wake anew, I recognize that it is one less day until I live past the day that she died. And tomorrow will once again afford me the opportunity to say that I haven't just survived so far, but that I will continue to survive. I am my mother's daughter, I am a part of her legacy. So, despite her death, I will do everything in my power to carry her legacy forward as one that speaks of survival instead of one that speaks only of loss.

My mother died seventeen years ago, today. It's a sad day for me. This is true. But if someone asks me how I did today, a day when the absence of my mother is so prevalent - I am glad that it is one less day until I can say that I made it through.

Finding Peace

Jenn Gilstrap of Campbell, Texas has shared her writing on this blog before. As a survivor of suicide loss, her willingness to share her story is both courageous and a gift to her fellow survivors. I am honored that she has allowed me to share her most recent writing, once again:


I'm nearly two years out from my loss. Being honest about where I've been, and where I am, and where I hope to be, has been key for me; as has being determined not to let the loss control the rest of my life. 

To those of you who are new to having lost someone to suicide, my heart breaks for you. I wanted to take a few minutes to express some things that I've personally learned along the way in hopes that those of you who are new to this understand that it does get better.

I lost my husband to suicide on March 20th, 2017. I found him in our bed. I went into immediate shock. I remember very little from that morning. Mostly I remember walking the road in front of our house telling myself it had to be a dream. I didn't cry. I screamed a lot but I never cried. I was too far removed from the emotions you would think you'd feel. All I felt was numb and bewildered and stunned.
 
The signs had been there. Bryan talked about killing himself often; mostly when he was drunk. When he was sober, however, he'd always assure me that it was just talk and there was nothing to worry about. I loved him and I wanted to believe that what he was saying was the truth. We talked about his suicidal ideation and we agreed he needed help. He had all the tools at the ready. But the day he decided to go, he didn't talk about it. He didn't reach out. He just did it.

Now, because my husband drank and used his medications to get high, we fought. A lot. And I could be down right ugly to him. I hated what we were going through as a couple but what I hated even more was that I was being put through hell for an addiction that wasn't even mine. I had to deal with the drunken antics; I had to watch after him and hope that he didn't hurt himself or someone else. I had to deal with hostility that was directed at me. It was exhausting. I was hurting. And the man I loved, the man I was giving my everything to, just kept hurting me. 

In response I could be mean, but I thought if I said the "right" thing, it would stop. For a long, long time, I struggled with the idea that my angry words were what caused him to complete his suicide. I was so sure that if I'd treated him better, he'd still be here. If I would have said this instead of that; if I would have let one thing go instead of fighting for another thing. On and on my guilt went. After he died, I rarely stopped to remind myself of what had brought me to that point. I started to forget that Bryan had been a grown man and had done his part to bring our relationship to where it was.

I needed to take an honest look at Bryan's past, too. My husband had attempted suicide several times. I'm sure he'd attempted more times than even I knew; well before he and I ever got together. Had he completed then, who's fault would it be? His mother's? His father's? No. Nobody else was or is to blame. 

Today, I am still healing. I still have days that are hard. But I don't feel sad when I think about Bryan anymore. To be honest, I can't really put how I feel into words. I'm moving on. I have a new man in my life who I truly love. I'm pregnant with my first child; something I didn't think was possible when I was married to Bryan. My life is blossoming. 

I'm grateful for the beauty that's come from the ugliness of my loss. I got here though, by embracing the pain. I had to acknowledge what I'd gone through and stop looking for the whys behind it. There are no answers. There is no way of knowing what would have happened if I'd done this or that or said this or that. There is only what happened. And it happened. Not because of anything I said or did; not because I was lacking as a wife or friend but because my husband was sick. He succumbed to his illness; much like cancer. He made a choice with a mind that simply wasn't right. Once I made peace with that, it helped me move forward.

I hope those of you who are new to this glean something from my words. You are NOT to blame. You did nothing wrong. I don't care how mean or ugly you were. The decision to die by suicide was always theirs and theirs alone. I pray you find your own peace.

Whether you are a survivor of suicide loss or a survivor of a suicide attempt, forgiveness is the key to healing.

Forgive yourself.
Forgive the one you lost.
Forgive a world that seems to dole out as much heartbreak as it does love and joy.
Forgiving is an intentional act. Choose to live in a place of healing.