Behind every mask there is a face, and behind that, a story.
- Marty Rubin
On October 31, a lot of people will wear masks. Even before the advent of mandated masks, Halloween was a day to put one on.
So, I thought I would share some masks that help me to spread an important message. I can wear these on Halloween - or I can wear them anytime. Because suicide prevention belongs to every day of the year, not just one.
Hold me closer, tiny dancer Count the headlights on the highway Lay me down in sheets of linen You had a busy day today
There is a story here. It is the story of a journey. A seven year journey. And a six year journey. And a one year journey. And a seven month journey. This is the story of one journey and many journeys.
I'll start at the beginning, seven years ago.
In 2013, inspired by the counselors who (I believe) helped to save my son's life, I registered with CCAPP (California Consortium of Addiction Programs and Professionals) to become a drug and alcohol counselor. As with many social service vocations, certification (credentialing) was going to be necessary to work in the field. At the time, this required taking 12 academic classes and working just over 1,800 practicum (internship) hours. And all of this needed to be completed within five years. These requirements were non-negotiable. As soon as I registered, the clock started ticking. But I didn't take any classes in 2013 or in 2014 either. You see, in late 2013, I'd had a relapse and overdose. So the year of 2014 was dedicated to creating a foundation for not just my son's recovery, but my own recovery, as well. After my overdose, I moved into a sober living house (SLE) and I lived there for close to two years. In 2015 I spent many late nights sitting at the kitchen table of that house, studying for classes and exams. My roommates (also in new recovery) were very patient with me when, night after night, half that table was taken up by textbooks and note paper. In May of 2016, I was taking one of my last classes at Cal State University, East Bay. At that class, (the amazing) Jimmy Ischwas invited to speak. He was recruiting interns for the agency he worked for - Second Chance Recovery Center in Hayward, California. When he talked about Second Chance, he explained that they worked with underserved communities, including the homeless. Many clients were dual diagnosis, as well (dealing with illnesses such as PTSD in addition to their addictions). And there was one other thing he emphasized when he was recruiting interns. "You need to be able to write," he said. I knew then, this was the internship I wanted. I started right away, but only worked a few hours each week. My plan was to complete the bulk of the hours I needed by working full time, starting in April of the following year (2017). Everything went as scheduled and I was set to begin my full time hours on April 3rd. But then something happened. On April 2, 2017, John died. Everything in my life came to a halt as I tried to recover from his loss. My practicum hours had to wait. Second Chance was incredibly supportive. Everyone was very patient, taking my shifts when needed, and helping me with my work on the days that I did make it to the office. So I continued as I had before, a part time intern. It was all I could manage. Suicide loss stays with you always, but for me, the first year was particularly hard. By the time 2018 rolled around, I was in trouble. I simply wasn't going to complete the hours I needed in order to apply to take the statewide chemical dependency counselor exam (the IC&RC). My five years were up. So, I filed an application for a one year hardship extension. Armed with medical records from my 2013 overdose and a copy of John's 2017 obituary - my one year extension was approved. I made plans to work more hours. I believed that I could do it. That I could finally complete the bulk of my hours.
But 2019 was another brutal year. Loss after loss, yet again. Family members, dear friends, clients, and many other people I knew. Midway through the year, I was on the verge of a breakdown. Still, in August of 2019, I was finally ready to apply to take the official IC&RC exam. I filled out my application papers, and added documentation. The documentation included my transcripts from Cal State, and signed proof of those 1,800 internship hours.
As I was filling out the application, I re-read the requirements in order to ensure that I had everything needed. As I read, I noticed there was a discrepancy between what I was submitting and what was required. I was confused. I still remember that moment. I was at work sitting in the room where staff completed their notes after a counseling shift. No one else was in the room, and I was glad. Because suddenly, I couldn't breathe. I fought off tears. You see, in the six years that had passed since I first registered to become a counselor - the requirements had changed. For the first time, I realized that I was missing multiple required classes, and I wasover 300 hours short of those that were now required in a practicum.
I was already deeply overwhelmed by the grief of loss, and desperately fighting to control the beginnings of an eating disorder relapse. I was too ashamed to talk to anyone about the fact that I was likely to lose the six year long goal of becoming a fully credentialed counselor, too. I was angry and overwhelmed and extra sensitive to absolutely everything. I lashed out at people I loved. One particularly hard night, my son asked me if I would go into the hospital. So, I did. The truth is, I didn't want to live anymore. I just wanted to be done. I did live through the next several months though, but only because of the unwavering love of my son and my closest friends. More than once, the people who cared about me sat me down and said, 'Please make it through this.' In fact, on Christmas night, my son told me this same thing. "Mom, I need you to live." It was the greatest gift he could give me, I suppose, telling me that he needed me in his life. So I kept trying, even when I didn't want to. I complained to one friend that it was too much to ask of me. She told me something that we often hear in our circles of recovery. "Well, act as if," she said. "Act as if you want to live. That's enough for now."
I have two close friends whom I met in eating disorder treatment many years ago. Each one reached out to me. They buoyed my hopes when it came to the eating disorder part of my treatment this time around. "You can do it" really means something when the words are coming from people who've done it before, themselves.
Another friend came to my house one night with two matching pairs of pink onesie pajamas. She told me that we were going to put them on and sit on the couch and watch a stupid movie together. You don't have a choice, she said. It is amazing to me that there are times when I have no idea how to help myself, but sometimes there are others who know exactly what I need.
Equally important, John Macaluso's mother (and we'd lost John only two and a half years earlier) called me every single day for months. She wanted to make sure I knew that when a person deals with mental illness - even if, while suffering, they lash out at people they care about - it doesn't mean that they themselves are less lovable, less forgivable, or less of a valued person. My own mother is not living, but there were many nights that I spent at Jo Macaluso's house, just so I could be near a mother who loved me.
Always, all of these people reminded me that even if did cruel things while sick - those actions did not determine who I was as a whole. One friend reminded me that what you do while having a nervous breakdown does not take away the value you have as a friend. I was in day treatment when my counselors encouraged me to apply for a second hardship extension. They believed in me, they said. They believed I would be able to complete the additional classes and the additional hours I needed in order to take the IC&RC exam. I was desperately trying to find a will to live and they were telling me I should be applying for something that would happen in the future. I knew enough about suicide prevention to know what they were doing. Any step I took that spoke to the promise of a future, was a good step.
And so that is what I did. I applied for a second extension. It can be hard to get the second extension. If you are approved, it's your last chance. You will get no more extensions beyond the two years. That's it. Period.
Once again I gathered transcripts and medical records, and once again I submitted a copy of John's obituary. I included a letter from my supervisor at Second Chance that verified that I was a good intern with lots of promise and who was well liked by staff and clients alike. I submitted the application. Two weeks later, I received a letter telling me that the second extension was approved.
October 5th of 2019 marked six years since the day in 2013 that I'd overdosed. And the next day, October 6th, 2019, marked six years from the day that I began my journey of recovery. Meanwhile I was bouncing between inpatient and outpatient day treatment. Just like they had done six years earlier, my treatment team and the people who loved me made sure I lived through the last months of 2019 and the first months of 2020. I sure didn't know how to do it on my own, I leaned into all these people and learned to pick up the pieces of me that shatter when grief is too heavy for me to bear.
And I leaned into this too - the one thing that has remained constant from October 6th, 2013, until today: I stayed sober. Staying clean and sober when you are in eating disorder treatment can feel so very unfair. My primary addiction had been to anxiety medications, and for the past six years I have had to manage learning to eat again and all the accompanying anxiety inherent in that, without medication. This time around, it felt too hard. Just getting to day treatment felt impossible on most days. Seven years ago when I went through this process, even my doctors and my treatment team were at a loss as to how to help me. How to keep me in treatment at a time when my PTSD was so activated that I could barely breathe, much less eat. At that time, they suggested a service dog.
So, from 2013 - 2015, I'd had a wonderful service dog - Butter - who came with me everywhere. He came with me to the hospital when I was in treatment. He came with me to the meetings that supported my sobriety. He came with me to work and he came with me to school. Butter ushered me into the life that I have today. But Butter was an older dog. In 2015 he passed away. Although I was heartbroken, I knew I was ready to move on without a dog at my side.
She needs a service dog again, is what my doctor said this time around. And so, that is what we did. We trained my tiny dog Peanut to be of service. Most often, the service she provides is to sit quietly for hours at a time. Peanut is a spitfire ball of energy, but she learned her service skill right away. That dog can sit beside my chair or in my lap for up to six hours, without complaint. So again, a dog accompanied me to treatment. Slowly, we noticed that I could eat again. Soon after, I could sit through a day of treatment without crying the entire time.
One week though, people were particularly scared for my life. Once again, the people who loved me pleaded with me to go into the hospital. So in I went, yet again. My doctor knew that my efforts at eating would be lost if I was hospitalized without help for my anxiety. So my sweet little service dog came with me. She slept beside me in my hospital bed. Sometimes in the middle of the night she would bark at the nurses as they passed by my bedroom door. One of the nurses put a sign on my door, so that others wouldn't be startled. "Beware of Service Dog," it said. "She may bark if you enter the room." Beware of service dog. I thought that was the funniest thing. I just laughed and laughed.
I left the hospital two days before Thanksgiving, but I was in day treatment for a total of seven months. I've never been in treatment for so long. I just couldn't find purchase for a way to forgive myself for struggling so much. Perhaps the beginning of my true journey toward healing began one February day, while I was at day treatment. I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, with my face in my hands. I didn't know what to do with the self hatred that had been so unrelenting. Sarah, a fellow patient, sat down beside me. She knew that I couldn't forgive myself when my mental illness has impacted the people I love.
"Maybe you can't do anything to change the way you behaved when your struggles were at their worst - but today you can do the thing that you wish your boyfriend who died could have done for you, and the thing that the people who are in your life are asking of you, now." She looked at me, and then she finished. "Find a way to stay alive."
During those seven months that I was in treatment, I continued to work towards my counseling credential. I had to complete multiple classes. My friends and family cheered me on as I completed one class, and then another, and then another too.
I was still in treatment, but I had to work as many hours as I could. Second Chance accommodated me every step of the way. At one point I apologized to one of my supervisors. I couldn't return to taking day shifts, because my treatment was going to last for yet another month. And his response was to tell me that he didn't care how long it took, Second Chance just wanted me back healthy and ok. So I worked as many part time hours as I could. My little Peanut came with me to work, and soon she became more popular than I was. More clients at Second Chance know Peanut's name, than they do mine. By March, I'd completed the last of the hours I needed in order to apply for the IC&RC exam,.
Staff at Second Chance Hayward Recovery Center.
Left to Right, Andrea Caracol, Wendy Love, Chelise Stroud, Jimmy Isch
Dan Castro in the right forefront.
With all of this love and support surrounding me, and because of the extraordinary team at Alta Bates Herrick Hospital, in April of 2020 I was ready to leave day treatment. My feet were shaky but they were there, underneath me, once again.
That same month, I submitted my shiny new application to take the statewide IC&RC exam, so that I could finally be fully certified as a drug and alcohol counselor. I held my breath and waited. Within a week, I received notification that all of my requirements had been met, and I received my hard-fought Candidate Admission Letter. Now I could schedule my exam. Except for one thing. There was a worldwide pandemic and all exams had been suspended.
So I waited. I worked at Second Chance. I played with my dog. I mended some relationships, and I surrounded myself with lots of love. Maybe not physically, but through the phone, and zoom, and even through the mail. Week after week passed, I waited, still.
With the expiration of my second hardship year looming, I began to get worried. I called the credentialing agency. What if I can't take the exam in time? Will I be allowed another extension, even just for a few months, because the exams had been suspended? The answer was no. The state had not, as of yet, made any allowances for that.
So, I kept waiting.
Finally, in mid May, they opened up exam registration. The first appointment I could get was two months away, on July 10th, 2020.
The next two months were a flurry of studying. I'd taken so many of my academic classes five years earlier. I was worried that I wouldn't remember what I needed to know in order to pass the exam. Did I remember anything about pharmacology? The difference between agonists and antagonists and the partials of both? What about the differences between statewide and federal regulations and assembly bills? 42 CFR Part 2? AB109? It was disconcerting when I realized how little I'd retained of these types of details.
I read and I researched and I pre-tested, nonstop for eight weeks in a row. People worked with me as I memorized hundreds of flashcards. My job gave me time off so I could study. On the week before the exam, one person stayed up, twice, until the wee hours of the night, so that he could quiz me on 450 potential exam questions. Likely, he could pass the exam himself, now.
Finally, the exam day came. I prepared the people close to me for the inevitability that I was going to fail. I just could not remember enough. Too many flashcards and too many practice exam questions. My brain couldn't take it all in. The exam was three hours long, and it was harder than I expected. It did cover a great deal that I hadn't studied. There were many questions where I wasn't sure about the answer - I just had to pick the best one I could. When I finished the last question, I still had time left. But I used every minute of the three hours in order to check and re-check my answers.
I was still checking answers when 'Time is Up' flashed on the screen and locked me out of the test.
I blinked, and then the exam result appeared. Congratulations! Your scores indicate you have passed the IC&RC exam.
I realized I was holding my breath. I don't know. Maybe it was the only real breath I'd taken in over a year. If you had sat down with me one year ago, I was so enmeshed in all the loss in my life, in many ways I myself had become the walking dead. But that is not who I am today.
How beautiful it is, what can happen if you just don't give up.
So yeah. I did a thing. A great big little 'ol thing that was seven years in the making.
That same night, one of the women in my online suicide loss survivors group posted a request. In that group, we do whatever we can to share hope. This was her request:
Share something positive that happened today.
So I wrote it down there, first.
I passed my IC&RC exam to become a fully credentialed drug and alcohol counselor here in the state of California. ❤ That was where I wanted to write it. On that thread, in that group.
I know there are a lot of people who are proud of me. That amazing man who is in my life, and John's mom, and the people I work with, and even more friends. And I know that wherever John is, he is proud of me, too. I also know this:
Whether you are a suicide attempt survivor, a suicide loss survivor, or someone who is dealing with thoughts of suicide right now - I have been where you are. Please hold on. You may have a lot of heartbreak ahead of you. But, you will also have many busy days ahead, and there will even be moments of joy, and miracles too.
I promise.
Today I read a prayer by Nadia Bolz-Weber. The prayer comforted my heart. My heart has been hurting because of the isolation required of a world hit by a pandemic. In particular I hurt for those who are struggling with suicidality right now. Wherever a person may fall on the scale of mental illness, isolation is often both a symptom and a trigger. An April 2020 Physicians Weekly article simplified the dangers of isolation and it's impact on a person's reasoning in terms of suicidal thoughts. 'With no outside stimuli to contradict the negative thoughts, [people dealing with mental illness] can start to believe the thoughts are real.'
But how do we assuage isolation when we are being encouraged to shelter at home and/or socially distance? One suggestion is to focus on spirituality. There is strong evidence that a sense of spiritual connection can combat suicidal ideation. A 2018 American Medical Association article noted that when parents incorporated spirituality into their lives, even their children had a lower risk of suicide. Notably, the lower risk was demonstrated regardless of which religion. 'It isn’t about how much time you spend at church, or which particular religion you are, it’s having an inner belief that gives you some kind of strength that manifests in your behavior.' The good news about spiritual beliefs is that they are with you, no matter where you are. You need not socially distance from the feeling of connection to a God, an energy, or even to the mysteries of the universe.
This blog tends to not focus on religion. The topic can be controversial. My only interest in controversy is to combat the stigma and misunderstandings about suicide itself. I'd rather leave other controversies elsewhere. I also want distance myself from religions whose dogma is inclusive of a hard line about suicide being a 'sin'. The majority of suicides are caused by damage to neural pathways in the brain. Whether that damage is caused by chemical imbalances, physical trauma, or mental/emotional trauma, is of no importance. I believe that in the vast majority of cases, we should no more deem the act of suicide as unforgivable, than we would suggest that having an ailment such as epilepsy or cancer is unforgivable.
Having said that, what I can tell you is that my own connection to a God of my understanding has carried me through many a dark night. When I have been in the worst of my despair, my spirituality has allowed me to believe that healing is possible. It is for this reason and the reasons above, that I encourage you to consider seeking a stronger spiritual connection right now. We are in a time when a connection with things unseen is powerful, important, and comforting.
I started this blog post by noting that I'd read a prayer that provided me with respite from some of the sadness I feel about others who, like me, have struggled with suicidality. I am thankful that the ordained Lutheran Pastor Nadia Bolz-Weber shared this prayer with the world today. It works for me and I hope that it might touch the heart of others who read it as well. I do not know when we can gather together again in worship, Lord.So, for now I just ask that: When I sing along in my kitchen to each song on Stevie Wonder’s Songs in The Key of Life Album, that it be counted as praise. (Happy 70th Birthday, SW!) And that when I read the news and my heart tightens in my chest, may it be counted as a Kyrie. And that when my eyes brighten in a smile behind my mask as I thank the cashier may it be counted as passing the peace. And that when I water my plants and wash my dishes and take a shower may it be counted as remembering my baptism. And that when the tears come and my shoulders shake and my breathing falters, may it be counted as prayer. And that when I stumble upon a Tabitha Brownvideo and hear her grace and love of you may it be counted as a hearing a homily. And that as I sit at that table in my apartment, and eat one more homemade meal, slowly, joyfully, with nothing else demanding my time or attention, may it be counted as communion.
Amen.
p.s. - you can find more fabulous writing and prayers from Nadia Bolz-Weber by clicking on her photo below:
This traumatic episode in history, on a massive scale, will be studied for years to come. We know that after trauma comes the post-traumatic episodes and the world needs to be ready to help those who will need to be mentally supported once the worst is behind us.
― Aysha Taryam
Those of us with an understanding of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) who've been following the news (especially that coming out of Italy and New York) are likely less surprised that Lorna Breen, a successful ER doctor in New York, died by suicide a few days ago. We are no less heartbroken, but less surprised because we could see this brewing. For those serving on the front lines of the COVID-19 pandemic, there is a perfect combination of the circumstances that lead to PTSD. Last month when I first read about what was happening in Italian hospitals, I shuddered. The overcrowding, the lack of beds, supplies, and medical personnel. And the number of people dying from this virus, despite heroic attempts to keep them alive. Doctors were often put in the agonizing position of having to determine who would receive lifesaving measures, and who would not.
Most doctors go into their field in order to save lives. The Hippocratic Oath, the most basic tenet for medical doctors, states first: do no harm. But here, they were having to decide who they would let (likely) die in order to provide services to someone else. Having to make that type of decision flies in the face of 'do no harm.' This ethical bind alone will shake even the most stoic of medical personnel.
Looking at the causitive factors of PTSD, we can not deny that a pandemic the nature and scale of COVID-19 is going to have a lasting effect on hundreds of thousands of people - if not more. Some have called this pandemic 'the invisible war', Without going into the politics of who said it or why - it seems to be an apt term. Now consider that research on PTSD has shown that it is caused by certain circumstantial elements. One of the most common is a person's sense of helplessness when experiencing/witnessing a life-threatening or fatal event. Children get PTSD from traumatic events (especially long term neglect or abuse) because inherently, they are without recourse when it comes to stopping the situation. Those who are physically, sexually, or emotionally abused/assualted are also often victims of PTSD. And for military troops in combat, PTSD runs rampant. In all of the above cases, we can see that a common thread is feeling as though there is a terrifying lack control over a traumatic situation. Another factor in the likelihood of developing PTSD has to do with a perceived sense of responsibility. Loss that results in survivors guilt has a profound impact on the person suffering. This type of guilt and shame is a significant driving force in the development of PTSD.
For front line personnel in the areas hardest hit by this pandemic, in order to work, their psychological emotions are often in freeze mode. Physiologically they are inundated with a constant stream of stress hormones, specifically adrenaline and cortisol. And while both adrenaline and cortisol serve a purpose, long term exposure can be perilous to physical and mental health. When this happens, the deck for a healthy trauma response is stacked against a person. If you are thinking that medical personnel should be trained to mentally/emotionally handle this type of trauma and loss, thinking along those lines is both dismissive and dangerously mistaken. Even prior to this pandemic, in the United States doctors die by suicide over twice as often as those in the general population. In the case of the armed forces, military medics represent a significant portion of those who die by suicide. More concerning are studies that have shown that among first responders, those who indicated being regularly pushed to work past exhaustion and burnout are significantly more likely to die by suicide than their counterparts. In the communities hardest hit by this virus, the medical personnel who are managing the sickest of those diagnosed with COVID-19 feel helpless when it comes to managing a novel coronavirus with no significantly effective treatment yet available. While many are having to confront the most brutal aspects of this virus, over and over again - they also feel the strain of an expectation that they should be able to comfort and heal patients. Combined, we have the perfect stew for developing a PTSD that leads to suicidality. How do we help the health care professionals who are in this situation? The first thing to do is to acknowledge that there is very real possibility they are dealing with PTSD and recognize that suicidal ideation can be one of the symptoms of PTSD. Recognize the increased risk factors, and go from there. Learn the warning signs of suicidal ideation, and learn what to do if you are concerned someone is suicidal. Treat doctors, nurses, and hospital staff with kindness and caring, always. These are very frustrating times for all of us. Our entire world is dealing with the stress, inconvenience, and pain around this pandemic. If you have feelings of frustration around social distancing, shelter in place mandates, or other pandemic control practices - medical personnel are not the people to take these frustrations out on. Do what you can to support your neighbors and friends who are working in the medical/hospital/emergency services field. Reach out, text, or make a phone call. Ask if you can have a meal delivered to them at home or at work. Communities that are sending lunches and dinners to entire emergency rooms and/or intensive care units, are doing a good job of letting the staff know that they are seen and appreciated. Equally, when people are coming together to make noise to celebrate their medical personnel (virtually at a certain time of day, or in person during shift changes, etc.) there is a profound benefit. When a person feels as if they are seen, appreciated, and cared for, they feel less alone and helpless. We are confronted with enough loss of life when it comes to COVID-19. Let's not let suicide lend to additional casualties. The world needs to be ready to support the first responders in this invisible war. So, do this today. Tell someone on the front lines that you care, and that you appreciate everything they do. Sometimes one measure of kindness can be the difference between despair and the ability to go on another day.
And the land is dark And the moon is the only light we see No I won't be afraid No I won't be afraid Just as long as you stand, stand by me
- Bennie King, Stand By Me
Oh my heart.
My heart is so heavy right now. So full of love and so full of heartache.
In a few days, we will round the corner to three years since we lost John. Once again, memories of his loss are fresh. I am engulfed in the memories of those first days and weeks. But today, it is not for me that my heart aches. Today, I am aching for my fellow survivors of suicide loss - particularly those who are very new to their loss.
I made it through the first few weeks after John died, because I was never alone. My close friends and my son worked together to ensure that there was always someone by my side. Later I would tell people that I did not make it through the first year at all, but instead other people made it through for me and they held me up all the while. The people who loved me carried me. I was saved by hugs and shoulders to cry on and hands to hold. That is just the truth.
Who will hold up a suicide loss survivor today, though? As our world is adjusting to a pandemic and an urgent need to step back from physical contact - as we are all being forced into taking a time out - I can tell you for certain that suicide is not taking a break. I suppose I was blessed that three years ago, we weren't being given a worldwide message that the best way to show someone you care about them is to stay away.
How will new loss survivors make it through now?
I can't give you an easy answer. Like every question that has to do with how a person goes on living after someone they love has died - there are no easy answers. What I can tell you is this: survivors of suicide loss are some of the strongest people I know. We will find a way.
If you are new to a loss by suicide:
I know your agony. I may not be able to touch you, but I am standing by you and you are not alone.
I know your fear. We may never have met, but I am standing by you and you are not alone.
I know your tears and I know your hurt. I may not be able to hug you, but I am standing by you and you are not alone.
I know the hows and the whys that will tear at you. I know your rage at the lack of answers.
I am standing by you and you are not alone.
Three years ago, it took over a month before I could spend the night in my own home alone. On one of the first nights, it was raining outside. When the rain picked up, the wind caused one of the doors to the shed behind my house to blow open and then shut again. It was a startling and spooky sound. I looked outside my bedroom window and I could see what had happened, but I was in my nightgown, it was dark, and it was pouring outside. When you are a survivor of suicide loss, there are times when nothing about the world feels safe. I certainly didn't feel safe going outside that night. So, I made the decision to not venture out until morning. I'd latch the shed's doors then. Instead, I picked up my laptop and posted a message to an online survivors of suicide loss group. I explained what was going on. I am scared. I wish I weren't alone. That is what I wrote.
And then, a minute later, someone replied. "You are not alone." And then another person. "You are brave." And then another. "You can do this." And then another. "Try to rest. We are here for you now, and we will be here for you in the morning."
On that night, I was finally able to fall asleep because of who those words were coming from. Even when it seemed like the whole world was full of false fairy tales and deceitful stories of dreams come true, I knew that my fellow survivors of suicide loss would tell me the truth. It was that night that I learned how to take in the love and concern of my fellow survivors. Love that wasn't directly in front of me but was still ~ and always ~ around me.
To my fellow survivors of suicide loss, know this: learning to lean into love that you can not see will be an integral key to healing, in more ways than one. I promise you that.
If you are new to this loss, please don't let being physically alone stop you from reaching out. Don't stop telling us when you are lonely. Don't stop telling us when you are afraid. I am not the only one who - regardless of physical proximity - is standing by you. If you are like me, you may feel as if you will not be able to make it through these dark nights. That's ok. I felt that way too, and some nights I still do. But I am making it through. One day, like me, you will look around and find that you are among the strongest group of people that you have ever known. You do not have to do this alone. We will do this together. Let me share with you the truth that my fellow survivors shared with me on that rainy night three years ago: You are not alone. You are brave. You can do this. Try to rest, we are here for you now and we will be here for you in the morning.
We will find the ways to withstand physical separation from those we love, while leaning into love at the very same time.
You are not alone. I promise. I am right here, standing by you.
I promise.
Photo at top: Me with the Macaluso Family August 2017, four months after John's loss.
