DAY 7 - One More Light

 

If they say
Who cares if one more light goes out?
In a sky of a million stars
It flickers, flickers
Who cares when someone's time runs out?
If a moment is all we are
We're quicker, quicker
Who cares if one more light goes out?
Well I do

- One More Light, Linkin Park

One More Light is a seminal song about suicide loss. Written by Chester Bennington of Linkin Park, its raw and emotional lyrics are an homage to Bennington's best friend, Chris Cornell, who died by suicide on May 18, 2017.

The video was produced posthumously, as Bennington himself died by suicide on July 20, 2017. 

Chester Bennington died on what would have been Chris Cornell's 53rd birthday. 

I am happy to share the song again. It is a beautiful statement of how important our lost loves are to us. 

Grateful for the Ocean

 

My gratitude for good writing is unbounded; 

I’m grateful for it the way I’m grateful for the ocean.

- Anne Lamott

Every year, International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day takes place on the Saturday before the (U.S.) Thanksging holiday. For some, the timing of the event might seem odd. But for many of us who have suffered a loss, it makes sense.

As we move toward a holiday that encourages an entire country to express gratitude, suicide loss survivors often feel invisible. If we are new to our loss, we might feel as if we are expected to pretend that we are ok, when we don't feel ok. However, Suicide Loss Survivors Day allows us to express our feelings, just as they are. Perhaps more than anything, the day reminds us that we are not alone. Infact, feeling connected to others who share this type of loss serves as one of the most important foundations of gratitude.

So, I decided to ask fellow suicide loss survivors what they are grateful for this year.  I received responses from all over the world. I received facebook messages, texts, emails, and even handwritten notes. The words were varied and poignant. I am happy to share them with you now.

I am grateful that I am surrounded by people that I love and that they are aways there for me. ~ Gianna C., Oakley, California

I am grateful for my family, my dog, Eli, and all of the resources I have to help me at home to learn. ~ Emily C., Oakley, California 

I am grateful that my boys are no longer struggling and suffering, but I still wish they were here not struggling. But there is this thing called life, which is never perfect and everyone has struggles. I'm grateful that God has given me the graces to deal with the things I've had to deal with, and to be able to engage with people in this world. ~ Jo M., Brentwood, California 

This thanksgiving I am grateful for my wife and daughter, for helping to keep me out of the abyss after Peyton’s suicide. ~ David J., Conroe, Texas

I am grateful for my fur babies who bring me comfort when no one else can.  ~ Becky A., Jefferson, Georgia 

I wouldn't trade my time with my two loves, for anything. (One was a suicide, the other a heart attack). I am SO grateful for the time I was able to spend with each one. The things they taught me, too. I feel I have a greater love, even though losing them hurts, still. Even in their death, they have taught me so much. About life, grief, love and even myself. ~ Shalene T., Utah

I am grateful for the unconditional love of friends and family who give me incredible support and make me laugh! ~ Teresa C., Oakley California

I am grateful for my soul sister Heliana. She’s been there for me all the way for the past three years. I lost the love of my life, but I gained a sister.  ~ Martha B. , Weston, Florida

I'm grateful for my friends who continue to show up. I'm grateful for my cat who shows me love every day. ~ Tartine C., France, Europe

I am grateful for my beautiful family who are a blessing to me every day. ~ Pete C., Oakley, California

I am grateful for the love of God, and the strength He gives me each day to keep going after losing my son. ~ AnneMarie S., Santa Fe, New Mexico 

I’m grateful for my loving husband and my two dogs, Bennie and Luna. ~ Margie W., Alicante, Spain 

I am grateful for my Mum and partner. ~ Abbi W., Penworthan, United Kingdom

• I'm grateful for the 21 years that we had with her. ~ Katie G., United States

I am grateful for a great, strong friend who has my back at every bad turn. ~ Hazel S., Chesterfield, United Kingdom

• I am grateful for the memories I have of my son. When he was 5 and sat on Santa’s lap, he asked Santa to bring his mommy a special gift because she didn’t have a husband anymore. (Santa pulled me aside to tell me this.). I’m grateful for the heart shaped rock he found while on vacation with his dad and stepmom - he was 10. He saved the rock and brought it home to me as a token of his love. To this day, that rock goes everywhere I go. I’m grateful for the adult conversations we had and that he felt safe with me to share his innermost feelings. I’m grateful he shared his first heartbreak with me. I’m grateful for the times he visits me and guides me in the spirit. I’m grateful for every poem he ever wrote to me and every special drawing he made for me. I’m grateful that he thanked me for being his mom and taking good care of him. ~ Nancy VL., Dublin, Califonria

I am grateful for the memories we have together...it is all I have left of him. ~ Teresa P., San Antonio, Texas

I am grateful for getting to be his happily ever after... He had a hard life, right from birth on. I'm grateful I got to show him true love and loyalty, before he left... Doesn't make it hurt any less...but I'm grateful that he got to know unconditional love before he returned 'home'. If that makes sense...  ~ Sharon E.V., Northern Ontario Canada

I am grateful for long conversations I got to have with my friend after meetings, and how he always reminded me what a good mom I am. ~ Victoria G., Walnut Creek, CA

I’m grateful for the path I’m on that has enabled me to feel like I am enough and that I’m worthy.... it’s been a long road. ~ Sheree GK., Carrollton, Ga.

I’m grateful for having the strength to endure this grief, for knowing that there would be a rainbow at the end of this tunnel. I didn’t have family support, but I did have friends support and for that I am truly grateful. I’m still trying to find myself, let’s just say I’m a work in progress and I’m good with that. I find that not playing the victim truly helps and knowing that it’s ok to have bad days, but to embrace the good days. And, I’m grateful for the special friends that I have made through my grief from losing Greg. ~ Debbie W., Camus, Washington

I am grateful for my kids. They have been the ones to keep me going when I have just wanted to give up. ~ Shelly H., Willow Springs, Missouri

I’m so grateful that John took the time to visit me whenever he was in my neighborhood. I was grateful for the opportunity to make lunch or a snack for him, and learn about some of the things that were important to him. I was also grateful for the chance to drive him to where we’d go for vacation on Cobb Mountain. That time was so precious because we connected on a different, more meaningful level. David had just passed, and John was still very young. He was filled with sadness, fears, and insecurities. My mom and I spent our time encouraging him to be more independent. We loved watching him gain enough confidence to interact with the other kids. ~ Mimi O., Chico, California

I am grateful that since the virus, I am learning to appreciate the little things; the most important things. I am grateful for the gift of family and the opportunity to show my love in new ways. ~ Grace M., Tea, South Dakota

I am grateful for my fiancé, friends, family, and pets. A less common thing I'm greatful for is my Nintendo Switch, that little machine has kept me sane through the wild ride that this year has been. ~ Kerri S., Winston-Salem, North Carolina 

I am grateful for my family, friends, wonderful loving co-workers who are like family. ~Amanda CB., Mantua, New Jersey

I am so grateful for the years I got to spend with my partner and the relationship that formed with his daughter. ~ Clarissa B., York, South Carolina

I’m grateful for my overwhelming inner resilience to life’s difficulties. My willingness to fight the fight and to never give up; to stay in the game no matter what for as long as I’m able. Rather than focusing on only the stigma perceived by those who think they know something, knowing instead that mental illness runs rampant through society and the world, where people suffer silently unable to be reached by those with even the greatest of intentions. And I’m grateful that, as a result of chronic depression handed down to me from my mother, my unrelenting struggle with addiction, and the constant never-ending challenge to keep going even when I’m no longer really interested in doing so, I possess an inner truth and depth that constantly reveals both the beautiful and tragic elements of human nature, where nobody is above suffering no matter what one’s circumstances. I’m grateful to be one of those individuals with depth and connection with self and the spiritual. ~ Mike G., Pleasant Hill, California

I am grateful that I’ve learned to use the pain, loss, and grief to help others. ~ Laura C., New South Wales, Australia

I am thankful that when I think I am weak, I manage to overcome my insecurities and accomplish things that I thought I couldn't do on my own without him here, and I feel good about myself.

~ Susie W., Crowley, Texas

I'm grateful for the years I got to spend with my daddy, I'm especially grateful for the laughs we shared over the years.  ~ Breonna C., York, South Carolina

I am grateful for the honesty and bravery of my fellow survivors of suicide loss. Their courage inspires me every single day. ~ Chelise S., Concord, California 

DAY 15 - You Will Need Other People

Isolation is a common symptom of grief, depression, PTSD, and other conditions that present a high risk of suicide. Research has shown that the act of isolating during these times can make these conditions more difficult for the person suffering.
Often, even when you are depressed, the best way for you to reach out is to talk to others and ask them how they are doing. Start there, and then share your own feelings. You never know if someone else is struggling the same way that you are. Even just a brief phone call or visit has the potential to save to life - theirs or your own.

Whether you are a suicide attempt survivor, a suicide loss survivor, have struggled with suicidal feelings (or still do), accepting support from other people can help you to heal. And remember, you might be the person who is needed by someone else.

Reach out for support or to support others, today.

(You can find the quote on the top of the page on a t-shirt being sold to support To Write Love On Her Arms website.)

[Originally published 9/3/2018]

Many Busy Days

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 Isch was 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 was over 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.

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. 

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

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

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

Only Compassion

A kind gesture can reach a wound that only compassion can heal.

- Steve Maraboli

I belong to several suicide grief support groups. One of them is near my home and meets in person. Our group has over a dozen members. Another group is online. The online group has close to 2,000 members. Both of these groups are invaluable to me in terms of my healing, and my understanding of what suicide loss looks like for others.

One of the things that is repeated over and over again in all of my groups is this sentiment: "My friends and family just don't understand what it is like to lose someone to suicide."

This often comes up when we are told that we need to shake off our grief, move on, or that we need to stop focusing on the past. Sometimes our friends and family tell us outright that they are tired of our sadness or worse yet, that we are feeling sorry for ourselves.

Other times, we are pressured to get rid of the belongings or mementos of the person we lost. Some will suggest to us that the person we lost is somehow replaceable. We are told we need to date someone new, or that we should appreciate our remaining children.

While many of these suggestions may be well intended, often survivors of suicide loss feel as if we are being judged for a process that has no timeline. It is as if we are being asked to prove that we are recovered, in order to make someone else more comfortable.

I have personally experienced versions of all of these unhelpful responses to suicide grief. Because of this, when my fellow survivors of suicide loss agonize over the fact that others just don't understand - I know that often they are right.

But, I am a writer. I live by this conviction:

If people don't understand, we have to tell them.

So I am writing this post on behalf of survivors of suicide loss. We are in a club that no one should ever have to join. Always, I will do anything I can to soften the sharpest edges of our grief.

Moreso though, I am writing this for all of you who know and care about us. 

I am writing this for anyone who believes they know what is best for us.

I am writing this for anyone who believes they know what we should be doing. 

I am writing this for anyone who thinks that a survivor of suicide loss needs some heavy-handed advice in order to move on.

These words are for you.

First, it is important that you understand that the grief associated with suicide loss is unique.

Dr. Deborah Serani, a licensed psychologist in New York, has been in practice for three decades now. She is a well known expert in trauma and loss. In her Psychology Today article, Understanding Survivors of Suicide Loss, she says this about why grieving a suicide loss is different from other kinds of grief:

Research has long known that suicide survivors move through very distinctive bereavement issues. Family and friends are prone to feeling significant bewilderment about the suicide. Why did this happen? How did I not see this coming? Overwhelming guilt about what they should have done more of or less of —become daily, haunting thoughts. Survivors of suicide loss often feel self-blame as if somehow they were responsible for their loved one’s suicide. Many also experience anger and rage against their loved one for abandoning or rejecting them—or disappointment that somehow they were not powerful enough, loved enough or special enough to prevent the suicide.   

Because of these things, it is important that you be patient with our grieving. Our grief will likely be more intense and complicated than other types of grief, and healing may take us a very long time.

That is ok. How long it takes us to move forward after a suicide loss is not a reflection of how hard we are trying. More often, the lengthy time it takes for us to re-engage in all of life is due to the nature of suicide loss, and not us.

In fact, after a suicide loss our lives will never be the same as they were before. We need you to understand that, so that we can begin to feel as if you understand and care about us.

I can not emphasize this enough. Please don't tell us that we have been grieving for too long. Please don't tell us we need to be further along. Please don't tell us that we are wallowing. Please don't tell us we are focusing on the negative.

All of these sentiments are the opposite of supportive, and all of them are inaccurate in their assumption that a timeline exists for processing such a profound loss.

Worst of all, these types of words will further hurt and alienate suicide loss survivors. Telling us that it is time for us to move on will delay our healing. Regardless of how strongly you feel about wanting us to be further along in our grief, if you suggest to us that we need to move on - you are actually prolonging our suffering and not the other way around. That is the truth.

If you want to help us heal, acknowledge that we are hurting.

Are there ever times when you can offer us advice? Of course there are. But let us lead. Let us tell you that we don't know what to do. Let us be the ones to ask for help figuring it out. And you can certainly say, "I care so much about you and I see you hurting. What can I do?"  You can also ask us if we've considered counseling or a support group. Please tell us that you want us to have all of the support we can get. But don't tell us what we need to do. Let us make those decisions, and to make them at the time that is right for us. 

What we are asking for is simple. Please don't disappear. Please don't get angry or frustrated with our process. Please don't stop reaching out. When you ask us how we are doing, we just want you to listen.

More than anything else, we need your compassion.

Thank you.

.