Smell the Sea and Feel the Sky

Smell the sea and feel the Sky. 

Let your soul and spirit fly.

. - Van Morrison

I wonder sometimes, did my mother know that twenty years later this day would still leave its indelible mark on my heart? Did she know that twenty years later the memory would be still be held in the hands of my soul? Did my mother know that twenty years later, the sadness of this day would still quietly sit within my bones?

I wonder if she knew?

Each year, I can not believe that another has gone by. Her loss was yesterday. And also her loss was forever ago. The memory of my mother is always fresh in my mind. And yet the memory of my mother is always so distant, sometimes I wonder if she were ever here at all.

It is funny how the dichotomy of my sense of her loss can still dictate how I feel. It is often difficult for me to tend to this grief, when one moment I feel one way, and moments later I feel another.

Twenty years ago I was at a loss as to how to go on. Did she know, when we scattered her ashes at sea, that it would be the very same sea that would save me?

Did my mother know that Mary would drag me by the ear and insist that I step into the water in order to let it carry me?

Twenty years ago did my mother know that today I'd let Mary take me to the water again?

I wonder if my mother knew?

My mother could never swim. Water was too overwhelming and vast for her.

Today I will stand at the water's edge and remind her, and myself, that overwhelming and vast things can be healing too.

I believe that is why I was led to the ocean in the days after my mother died. I think her spirit was with me twenty years ago. I believe that in the days after my mother died, her hand was still in mine. Perhaps that is why I was led to the ocean, the same ocean where her ashes had been scattered, the same overwhelming, vast, and healing ocean.

Twenty years ago, I think my mother knew.

El Collie ~ November 4, 1947 ~ April 17, 2002

DAY 15 - I am a suicide attempt survivor.

 

Our deepest wounds surround our greatest gifts.
― Ken Page

When I first published What I Want To Offer in 2018, I was nervous about its response and uncomfortable with the vulnerability of the writing.

Since then, it has become the most popular post on this blog. This personal essay about my own suicide attempts has been particularly helpful to those who have lost someone to suicide and are struggling with questions like 'How could they do this to me?' and 'Why wasn't my love for them enough?'

Because of this, I have gone from feeling uncomfortable with the essay to being honored that I can help loss survivors in this way. So, I am sharing it with you again, today. Click here or on the image above to see the essay.

Tan Lines and Courage

I don’t know that I look particularly good in this picture. I’d just come back from a walk. I'm sweaty and 'flushed.' Still, anyone who is familiar with my pictures on Facebook will notice something unusual.

A friend of mine just posted pictures of herself walking (for exercise), and she had all this adorable exercise attire. I don’t have adorable exercise attire. Generally I wear some shorts and a tank top of some kind. That’s OK. Works for me.

I do, however, have olive complected skin, so getting lots of sun means getting very dark. I wanted to show my friend that. No cute exercise clothing - but tan lines. They count as cute, too, right?

Taking selfies is not unusual for me. But something in my pictures shifted several years ago. People noticed. They pointed it out. They teased me sometimes.

Here's the thing. It’s not that I don’t smile. That’s not it. And I certainly smile and laugh in real life. But, I haven't wanted to post pictures with those 'great big toothy' grins. I’ve posted a few, but just to prove a point. (Yes, I know how to smile with my mouth open.)

There’s a certain amount of guilt that survivors of suicide loss are always juggling. Even when we know it’s not our fault. Even when we know everybody else understands it’s not our fault. So, not always, but every once in a while I still struggle with this thing: I don't want anyone to think I am genuinely happy, in a world without my mother and without John. Their unhappiness took them away from the world. Am I allowed to be happy in the world that they left behind?

This has been a brutal few years. I don’t wish these kinds of circumstances on anybody. But, as always, there’s been so much good too. There is someone who I love so so much, and she got very sick this year. She was in the hospital, but I didn’t talk about it on Facebook. I didn’t talk about it much, at all. But inside I was holding my breath, in a way that hurt. Holding it in a way that can only be described as jagged around the edges.

I don’t know how to steel myself for loss. They don’t matter, the efforts at steeling. What we tell ourselves about being prepared. Long illness or sudden loss. No matter, there is always a tearing of the heart when people we love are pulled out from under us.

I understand now in a way that I never did before, that making it through this kind of pain is not about being stoic or strong. More than anything, it is about having the courage to face each day even though we feel so completely broken.

The person I loved who'd gotten sick a few months ago, pulled through. I could breathe again. So, in a roundabout way, this summer I do everything I can to get outside and breathe in as much light as possible.

Today, I thought about John. Anyone who knows him knows that he was ridiculous about getting out in the sun. He would go outside sometimes, close his eyes, and turn his face to the sun. He would just stand there, soaking it all in. The hotter it was, the better.

When I got back from my walk today, I had a moment of thinking that if John saw these tan lines, he'd be happy.

I took that picture so that I could say - I may not have cute exercise clothes, but I do have cute proof that I exercise. But, that's not what this post is actually about,

It turns out, it is a reminder that this world is not just full of loss. It is full of happy outcomes, breathtaking courage, and great big smiles too.

Try to get outside and get some sun, people. Sunshine is full of everything good, and that is what I hope for all of you.

(PS - put some sunscreen on.)

The post above was originally posted on my fb page on July 10, 2021. I also shared it with my fb suicide loss survivor groups. I received a lot of feedback in those groups. One example (that carries the theme of most of the feedback) was this:

"Thank you for this. I needed to hear that I might smile again one day."

Because the post resonated, I am publishing it on this blog, too. 

  

*Note - In the interest of transparency, note that the picture above has been filtered with a standard orton filter. The same photo was used in the Facebook post, but it had no filter. If you are interested in seeing the original post on FB, you can find it here:

Mental Health Awareness Month. Because we are needed in this world.

These Things I Know

 

Written by Jim Yoder, April 29, 2021

Nine years ago this morning, Tammee left us.

We have so many questions. We work so hard to try and know things.
Why didn’t we see something? Why didn’t we realize she was in danger?
Why didn’t she say something? Reach out?
What was she thinking? How was she hurting so badly inside?
What could we have done differently? Would it have mattered?
.
Here’s an idea:

Let’s don’t focus on what we can’t know.
Instead, what if we focus on what we DO know about her?
.
I’ll start:

I know Tammee loved with abandon, loved deeply, and cared deeply.
I know Tammee valued her family, her faith, her friends.
I know Tammee was adventurous, even to a fault. Whether flying airplanes, scuba diving, riding horses, driving motorcycles, she loved speed and exhilaration.
I know Tammee danced always like no one was watching, even though entire dance floors would stop and clear to watch her (which would always then embarrass her greatly).
I know Tammee was impulsive, always choosing immediate action over analysis and planning. I know this caused many wonderful things to happen, and sometimes not so wonderful.
I know Tammee was in great pain and fear 24x7.

When her psychosis and extreme paranoid delusions began 11 years prior to her death, her and everyone’s lives changed drastically, and survival became our driving focus. She suffered on a scale that devastates me to this day, and will forever affect me.
I know Tammee was somehow stronger than anyone I’ve ever known, and it still amazes me.
I know Tammee loved me.
I know Tammee is in heaven.
I know I loved her always, and will love her forever.
These things I know.

Fly free, Tammee Lee! 

Jim Yoder lives in Kansas. He sings in a gospel band, he's a Kansas City Royals fan, and he is a survivor of suicide loss. On April 29, 2012, Jim lost his wife Tammee. Yesterday, Jim shared the note above with his fellow loss survivors. 

The anniversaries of my own two primary suicide losses are in April. As we round the corner from this month into May, what Jim wrote was a beautiful reminder to me that we can move forward holding equal amounts of Grace as grief.

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.

You Are Needed

Truths your heart has always wanted you to know. 

1. You belong: enter the race, join the club, sign up for the class, take the job, try out for the team, own your place.

2. You cannot be your best friend if you are your own worst enemy: quit discounting, disregarding, disrespecting yourself.

3. You should never measure yourself by any number: Count less what is countable. Because what is countless, counts more. Memories, laughter, adventures, goosebumps, moments of breathlessness.

4. You need never apologize for your song, your dance, your path, your wings, your heart, your life: sing, dance, wander, unfurl, love, live.

5. You are needed: someone wakes up, smiles, has a friend, is loved, because of you. 

6. You deserve to be happy, to chase your dreams, to know love, to live your life: you need simply grant yourself permission.

7. You are beautiful: the discussion ends there.

8. You are more than good enough: right now, just as you are.

9. You, above all else, deserve your own grace, kindness, light and love: be good to you.

10. You possess a superpower: a heart, that even when broken, still beats. A promise that you will be okay.

~Tony Garcia, author

This morning, a woman in one of my survivors of suicide loss groups shared the message above with fellow members. She shared this message with us because she understands the devastation and hopelessness that suicide loss survivors feel.

I see the message above as being equally as important for those of us who struggle with our own thoughts of suicide. If only we could be gentle with ourselves, and always know that we are needed in this world.

Garcia's words are powerful. I hope they may touch someone's heart today, the way they did my own.

So Incredibly Loved

Yesterday was a hard day. This past holiday season was difficult. Last fall was really shitty. Most of 2019 was beyond heartbreaking. And, I won't even bother backtracking from there.

Here is an understatement: I'm tired.

I am tired of grief and loss. I am tired of trying to figure out how to lift my head and keep putting one foot in front of the other. I am tired of the impact that eating disorders and PTSD and mental illness have had on my life. I am tired of trying to protect people from my illnesses, and I am tired of failing at that spectacularly.

The past few months, I have been consumed by the mistakes I've made in my life. In particular, I've been desolate over mistakes that I've made more recently. As people sometimes do when they are struggling - I have lashed out at the people who were the closest to me.

Struggling in friendships always returns me to the same agony. It seems a ridiculous leap, but I end up questioning whether I am responsible for the death of people I love. The mix between interpersonal conflict, PTSD, and my own suicidality, is profound for me. I should be wearing a t-shirt that has the words "Handle With Care" printed across the front.   

So, lately I have been plagued by memories of John. Of the morning he died. Of losing a person I loved, unexpectedly and overnight. What could I have done? Surely there is something I could have done. What did I do? I am certain that I did something to start a ball rolling that stopped only with his loss.

Two days ago, I was talking to my doctor, yet again, about my certainty that I am responsible for John's death.

"Did he leave a note? Did he say that he blamed you?" my doctor asked.

"No. I was the last person he talked to. And then he sent me a text. He told me that I was an incredible person, and that he would always love me."

"Well, don't you think that if he blamed you, he would have told you?"

"I don't know. Maybe he didn't blame me. I still blame myself. I'm definitely not 'incredible' and I sure don't deserve to be loved." I said. And for me, two days ago there were no truer words than those.

So yesterday, I wanted to give up. I didn't just feel tired, I felt weak.

And then, the mail arrived.

My life has been saved over and over again by people who love me. More often than not, I haven't known how to save myself. Even now, there is a small core group of people who are making sure, every day, that I am safe. Over and over again they tell me that I am loved no matter what. That I am forgiven no matter what. And most importantly, that love and forgiveness are the cornerstones of life itself.

It's been very difficult for me to take in. There are people I've hurt and people I'm desperate to have forgive me. But whenever I step back and detach from the pain of those unresolved resentments, I land back in the place of being responsible for the death of someone I loved so much. How can I be forgiven by someone who is gone forever?

Today in the mail, I received a little blue box. It was cardboard and there was nothing written on the front. Just a mystery box with an anchor printed on the lid. It was not something I was expecting, and whoever sent it did so anonymously.

I was alone in the kitchen when I opened the box, yet I still I found myself looking around. That cliched search for an explanation. As I removed things from the box, I began to hold my breath. Every item in the box was geared toward reminding me that life was worth it. That even in the worst of times, holding on almost always means that there is more beauty in store. There were bracelets and buttons and stickers and more. There were things I could wear, things I could put on my books or binders or walls. Two wonderful posters too. You Are Not Weak, one of the posters read. There was even a deck of cards, each one printed with a different 'Reason to Live.'

And there was a long letter in the box. One paragraph in that letter stood out above the rest:

"You and I have not met, and we may never meet. I do not know the specifics of your character, of your flaws in their entire complexity, of the mettle you possess and may have already lost, or of the scars of life experience that have torn into the youth of your face. Though I long for it, I do not know your specific beauty and I have not witnessed the ugliness that has brought you to this place."

A stranger sent this to me? I couldn't fathom this fact. Someone who didn't even know me? A stranger sent me this box full of hope and love? Of course I began to think that I did not deserve this type of support, but then I read the last line of the letter.

"You deserve this intervention. You deserve to have people work hard to save you."

I would tell you that this is what brought me to tears, but I was in shock. I was overwhelmed with the timing of this box's arrival. I received it on a day when, once again, I was finding it very difficult to imagine how it is I will live through my struggles.

After I pulled all of the items out of the box, there was just one thing left. A post-it. Like the rest, it was not signed. But when I read it - that is when I cried.

I cried because I know, I must keep working on forgiving myself for having lost someone to suicide. I cried because wherever John is, he wants me to forgive myself too.

I don't know the people who sent this to me, but I am so incredibly thankful that they did. Because of this box, I was reminded that there are friends and family who need me to hold on. And just like I am always hoping for peace and healing for all who are struggling with mental illness, I was reminded there are strangers who want all those same things for me too.

And if I were to somehow manage to dismiss those facts, this one thing remains: There is an angel up there who knew exactly what to say so that I would know that he is pulling for me as well.

*** I can't express enough gratitude to 'Find Your Anchor', a non-profit that works toward suicide prevention through grassroots efforts to pass on the message that every individual deserves to stay alive. Speaking from personal experience - I can tell you that their work is important, needed, and has the potential to save lives. Click on their logo below, to learn more or to donate to this amazing cause. 

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:

You are not Imperfect. You are Beautiful.

You did not die a coward.

You did not die a meaningless death.

You died - fighting for your life.

You did all you could to survive.

You chose to battle the darkness on your own.

Young and wounded you fell.

You did not die alone and forgotten.

I was with you in spirit - I felt you fall.

Your life flowed through my hands - along with my tears.

The mirror of life has been broken.

The reflection we can see - does not show

What we can see - with our naked eyes.

You are not imperfect - you are beautiful.

I know you now.

I fight for you now.

I suffer for you now.

I live for you now.

We miss you so much!!!!

Poem written by Kellye Pummill

Kellye Pummill lives in Mesa, Arizona. She is a survivor of suicide loss. 

Kellye lost her daughter, Marissa "Roo" Pummill, on October 18th, 2014.
Melissa lives on, always, in Kelly's heart. 

Happy endings do exist, but for those of us who have lost someone to suicide, a happy ending is far from what that kind of loss entails.

In my own journey of healing, I find that acceptance is key to moving forward. In the fight for suicide prevention, my loved ones were on the side of the losses that underscore the need for change. I don't have to accept the inevitability of suicide, but I have to accept that I've lost more than one person in this heartbreaking way.

However, in healing I have found it necessary to remember the positive things about the loved ones I've lost, and not just remember them for the tragic way in which they died. I make a conscious effort to recall the peaceful and happy times that I shared with my loved ones. Often, those we lose to suicide have also had periods when they were healthy and times when their lives were filled with joy. So, I focus on those things. In this way, I am better able to process my grief. When I remember the good parts of the people I have lost, I am able to put the magnitude of my loss into thoughts and words.

If you are a survivor of suicide loss, I urge you to do the same. Allow yourself to remember the reasons you loved and cared about the person you lost. Allow yourself to appreciate the gift they were in your own life, when they were still alive. Our ability to remember and grieve the whole person that we lost (and not just the way in which we lost them) will be in direct proportion to our ability to heal.

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.