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

Starting From Here

 

There are no real start-overs, only start-from-heres.
― Richelle E. Goodrich

Yesterday was International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day. I noted it on this site, but other than that, I let the day sit quietly. What I did do yesterday, was head for the ocean.

I went surfing and I was riding a board that was given to me by a friend. The gift was lovely, kind, and very generous. It was also particularly poignant.

Twenty years ago, when my mother died by suicide, this same friend encouraged me to begin my healing journey by getting into the ocean. She taught me to surf, and this was the board she used while she taught me. A few days ago, my friend put this same board into my hands and said to me me, "This is yours now." 

When I received the board, the deck was covered in thick dark grey bumps. My son looked at it and cringed. "What are those?" he asked. You see, my son doesn't surf. Fellow surfers would know what the bumps were, immediately. Wax.

Surfers put wax on the deck so that they don't slide off the board in the water. It is ironic in some ways, that without the thing that keeps you where you are, you can not move forward.

Wax, when applied, is clean and white. But, each time the board heads into the ocean, sand begins to embed itself into the wax. After a while, the white turns to grey, and as time goes by, the grey becomes darker and more evident. In order for the wax on the base to be effective, it has to be applied again and again. The bumps become larger and darker every time we do this. Wax buildup on a board means that it will be even less slippery. And that's the entire goal. So, when I saw the bumpy grey wax on the board that was given to me, I didn't see a board that was ugly, I saw a board that was well loved.

Still my friend pointed out that I might want to scrape the old wax off. I agreed. I wanted to give the deck a fresh start. So I headed to my favorite surf shop. They had a little kit that included a special comb to scrape the wax, and a small cloth bag to polish the board after. They too suggested I wait for warmer weather.

But when would the weather be warmer? In the spring? Next summer? Five months from now? Six? I didn't want to wait. So, I was determined. I knew, things can be done. Even hard things. Even things that you don't believe you will get through. I knew.

So, on Tuesday night I took that board into my house. I set it down on my living room floor, sat beside it, and got to work.

It took me five hours to scrape the hardened wax off. At the end of the night both my fingers and my back were cramping. When I was done, there was one part of the board that remained a little grainy. It was at the very tip. I don't know the reasons, but the wax on the tip was harder and more embedded. I scraped at the wax for as long as I could, and then I decided to let the minor grey discoloration remain. If I scraped at it any more, I ran the risk of damaging the top of the board itself. Still, overall, the board was shiny and beautiful, all around. Even I was amazed when I sat back and looked at what my work produced.

And then, I took a deep breath and did the thing that was necessary so the board could carry me into the water. I applied new wax.

When I did this, the shine I worked so hard to uncover was clouded once again. The lovely colors were muted, and the scribbles of new wax were visible everywhere.

In other words, the board was absolutely perfect.

It's true, yesterday was International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day. But, instead of making a big fuss over it, I headed to the ocean and got in the water. At first I carried my new board. When the water became too deep, I put it down and hopped on, so that the board would carry me, instead.

~~~

Here is the thing. Other people might deem grief ugly or upsetting, but I see something different. I look at my fellow survivors of suicide loss and I see people who loved someone so much that the loss has broken their heart. That broken heart is evidence of love, not something ugly.

Some of us sit with grief that all can see, for years. Sometimes even, we sit with overwhelming grief for a lifetime. Still, the grief is proof of love. Those who don't understand how grief works, may never understand that prolonged grieving is not a sign of weakness. In truth, this kind of grieving requires a lot of strength.

But some survivors make a decision to move forward. This is not the better thing or the stronger thing, it is just a different thing. And it takes so much effort. Loss does not gently fall away, it is processed and chipped at and allowed to be for as long as needed. That's how it works. Grief makes the rules, not us.

And still, as shiny and new as we seem - there is almost always a vestige of the visible grief that remains. Let that be. If we try to scrape from ourselves every last inch of grief, we are more likely to do damage than to somehow improve.

To my fellow survivors of suicide loss, I offer this reminder: In the end, it is not the shine of having 'moved on' that makes us lovely. Grief can be purposeful. What I want for all of us, is that we learn that grief is not dirty or bad. 

Allow your grief to be here, even if others don't understand.

Know this, your grief is the thing that makes you strong, and beautiful, and ready. You don't have to start over entirely in order to heal. Wherever you are in your journey, let it be ok for today. For survivors of suicide loss, we can not change the past. This one thing remains the same for all of us:

There are no start-overs, there are only start-from-heres.

DAY 22 - Tips For Surfing. And For Grief.

 

There is no one right way to ride a wave.
- Jamie O'Brien

Lately, I've been going to the ocean to practice surfing. I don't want to say 'to surf'' because that makes me sound like I know what I'm doing. What I'm actually doing is re-learning. (I used to surf 20 years ago. It's been a long time.)

Last week, a couple women who'd been surfing at the same time as me said hello. They were very friendly and encouraging. One of them asked me why I'd taken up surfing again, and I answered with one word.

Grief.

Here's the thing, a lot of my friends who have never seen me in the water have told me that they want me to teach them to surf. The request suggests a vast overestimation of my skill level.

However, while I may not be able to help anyone with technique, I can provide some surfing tips.

These tips work well for grief, too:

When you are in the parking lot, do not take a spot if someone else is waiting. Do not take someone else's spot. Do not.

When you are in the parking lot, do not stare at people who are getting in and out of their wetsuit. Do not stare. Do not.

Be careful when you are wielding a surfboard. Especially in the wind or in rough water. And be slow and thoughtful if you are holding it and you are going to turn in any direction.

Never enter the water without checking to make sure you aren't in someone else's pathway.

Never ride your surfboard into the path of others.

When paddling out, remember that waves come in sets, never assume the first wave is the worst one.

If you get knocked over or tumbled in a wave, hold onto your surfboard.

If you lose contact with your board underwater, curl up and protect your face and body. And then get your board back as soon as you can.

Get out of the water if you are really tired.

Get out of the water if you are scared.

Get out of the water if you are hurt.

Treat your board with the reverence it deserves. Rinse it off when you are done. Do not kick it, throw it down, or push it around. And whatever you do, don't drag it.

Treat your wetsuit with the reverence it deserves. Rinse off the sand and salt water after every use. Lay it out in the sun to dry, if you can.

Treat the ocean with the reverence it deserves. Standing on water is more than just a hobby. Its' a miracle. It's offered to you only because the ocean is allowing you to be there.

Treat your body with the reverence it deserves. Salt water can be harsh. Fresh water can be salvation. Rinse yourself off.

And always, ask for help if you need it.

And don't give up.

Never give up.

Translated as Grief Tips:

Do not judge someone else's or your own grieving process. Provide space and privacy if needed.

Don't let anyone else tell you how long you should be grieving or when you should stop. The timing will be determined the grief itself, not by other people looking in.

When you are grieving, be careful not to wield your grief like a weapon. Needing extra support, having a wide range of feelings, including anger, are all normal. Using the grief as an excuse to take the anger out on someone else is not ok.

Know your boundaries. Assert your boundaries. Pay attention to the boundaries of others. If someone tells you that they can't handle something or that they can't hear something, or that the information is upsetting them, listen.

Don't put pressure on yourself to be finished with grieving or to never grieve the same loss again.

If your grief knocks you to your knees, you haven't done anything wrong. Your job is to figure out how to safely stand up again.

If you find yourself swallowed up by grief, surround yourself with support. If you are tired, let yourself grieve. If you are scared, let yourself grieve.

If you are hurt, let yourself grieve.

Treat yourself (and your loss) with the reverence it deserves. You are important. The person you lost is important. You deserve gentleness and care.

And always, ask for help if you need it.

And don't give up.

Never give up.

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.

The Cruelest Month

 

April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
― T.S. Eliot

April is the month I want to rip from the calendar. I need wings. I want to fly over this month and everything that it brings with it. I will take to the skies and land in May. I will shake myself off and march forth, again. Willingly, I will stumble into Mother's Day which is a quagmire of its own. But no matter what Mother's Day brings, at least it's not April. 

At times, I debate this one thing. When John died, did he remember that two weeks later it would be the anniversary of the day my mother took her own life? Did he not care? Did he want to compound the pain? Or did he think to himself: "I will leave in April too, so that she can tie up all her grieving in just the one month?"

That last one can't be it. There is no 'tying up' of grieving, as if it could last just one month, anyway.

I do know that suicidal intention gets in the way of remembering anything about others. Their dates and plans and feelings and needs all fade away when you entertain the thought of dying. I know this. The date of my mother's death was a detail that was unlikely to bear any weight under the heaviness of John's desolation. It wasn't so much that he didn't think of me, as it was that he couldn't.

My debate goes on. Perhaps if I had held his hand in mine just a little more tightly, perhaps he'd have lived. Perhaps he wouldn't have taken the entire month of April with him. How could I not have saved him?

But the debate does no good. There is no way to win. So I live with this fact - the losses of John and my mother have impacted every part of me. Loss has settled deep inside of me and my bones have become brittle in response. I am always near breaking. 

There have been so many people who have stepped up in order to hold me together. The gratitude I feel for this is profound, yet it is always imbued with guilt. No one should have to hold me together. If I was just stronger somehow, I wouldn't push and pull at people, desperately hoping someone could rescue me from this relentless tide of sadness. 

But then again, strength does me no good either.

A friend and I were talking about this recently. She has endured similar losses to my own. We hate being told we are 'strong.' Words that seem like they are compliments. They are meant to be compliments. But for us, so often, the suggestion that we are strong makes us feel as if we are invisible. Can no one see us? Plus, when you acquire strength by necessity - it makes it sound like it is a gift. But, we don't want this strength. This is not what we signed up for, and this was not the prize we were hoping for. 

Some days, like today, there are no right words to say. I am full of fear and I need help. But I don't know how to ask and I don't know what to say. I've seen the tenuous threads that bind us to the earth. Too many times, I've watched them snap. People float away. There are many days when I am afraid to take stock of the joys in life. Is blind faith in the goodness of things better than the heartbreak of life's promises that are not kept?

I feel like 19 years later and 4 years later should be enough years to be able to breathe again. To fear only rain in April, not memories. Shouldn't this have been long enough?

They are not here, my mother and John. But sometimes when I write, I stop for a moment to remember them. To really remember. 

I think of his hands. Of his fingers which were long and thin. I think of his fingernails, which were flat. There was usually a little bit of dirt under them, some remembrance of the day he'd had. And he chewed his nails, so one or more of them was always ragged and uneven. If he reached for me while I was wearing a sweater, sometimes there would be just the tiniest snag, when his finger brushed against the knit. 

Lately it has been my mother's voice that haunts me. I can barely remember what it sounded like when she was angry or crying, but I can remember what it sounded like when she was telling me that she loved me. The rise, the fall, the intonation. I remember it all. "You are my sunshine," she would say. I think of it often, because it comforts me still. 

Perhaps this too is a part of April. The remembering of things. Maybe this is the sweetest part of grief. The way it knocks on our hearts asking us to tell stories about our lost loves.

Maybe John's touch and my mother's voice are wrapped up in this month. A month that I want to escape from. If that is the case, I suppose I am not so quick to say I want to take leave of these April days. 

Maybe April is the cruelest month. And I need help. And I am full of fear.

Knowing nothing else to do, I will do what my mother taught me, and I will write. Because this is where I find my words, and this is where I find my courage. And writing is the only way I know to find wings, and fly away.

John Bernard Macaluso

August 20, 1985 - April 2, 2017

Forever loved. Forever missed.

Exactly where we need to be.

To all of us who have lost a partner to suicide. To those who have lost a partner in any way. To the widows and the widowers. And to the forever heartbroken. 

I see you.

To those of us who have someone new,

To those of us who are still waiting for the heavy veil of grief to lift before we can love again,

To those of us who yearn for someone to appear and hold us through it all,

To those of us who choose solitude intentionally because it offers us safety and warmth,

I see you and you are exactly where you need to be.

Some of us will bear this day that celebrates love by hiding our sorrow. 

Some of us will take the vulnerable step of asking others for support. 

Some of us will sit in peaceful memories. 

Some of us will stand in anger. 

Some of us will be celebrating with someone new. 

Some of us never cared about Valentine's Day anyway.

Whatever you do - 

I see you and you are exactly where you need to be.

Watercolor at top © Mira Santos, 2021

I Am Glad You Are Here

 

I am glad you are here.

Those are the words I say to every new client at the treatment facility where I work. When they are in one of the groups I facilitate, I offer them the opportunity to introduce themselves. I ask them if they want to share some of their story. "Do you want to say what brought you here?" I ask gently. It's up to the client to answer. They can talk if they want, or not. 

Sometimes clients have never been to treatment before. Often you don't even have to ask what their treatment history is. They look at the floor as if they are afraid to catch someone's eye. That's usually the tell. What brought them into treatment? "I'd rather not talk about it," new clients will often say.

I don't care if they share their life story or if they feel too shy to speak a single word. When I first meet a client, there one thing I want them to know and one thing I make sure to say: 

I am glad you are here.

Last week the facility where I work found out that one of our clients died. He was 24 years old, and he'd been murdered. He is not the first client I have worked with whose life has prematurely ended. I've even had other clients who've been murdered. Still, any time we find out we have lost someone, all of the staff I work with are shaken up. 

For me, whether I want to or not, the first thing I do is search my memory. When was the last time I saw this client? What did I say to them? What did they say to me? Could I have said something more? Should I have listened more intently?

It's a short lived contemplation. Addiction is a disease that kills. I work in a field where clients will be lost. I could say a lot about the failing of mental health and addiction treatment in this country, but I'll save that for another post. What I know personally is that we can't save every client we work with. So much of the saving involves healing hearts and dismantling shame. This is the hard work required of those who are suffering from addiction, alcoholism, and mental illness. Most cannot do this alone, they need support. And those of us who are trying to help cannot succeed unless our clients are open, honest, and willing to do that hard work. 

On my end, I believe the first step is to let a client know that I believe in them. I believe in their capacity for recovery. I believe in their ability to heal. I believe that they are entitled to lay down their shame and instead move forward with the compassionate act of self forgiving. Sometimes I tell clients who seem to feel partciularly unworthy of recovery: You have a life waiting for you. It's yours. You get to claim it any time.

And then, as a clinician I have to take a step back and wait for a client to find the courage to take their own first step. Sometimes they are able to do that, sometimes not.

In my own efforts at recovery, I meet with others who remind me to say prayers. Often we pray for 'the addict who is still suffering'. Just as often we will also pray for those who will lose their life to addiction today.

Sometimes people die from mental illness. Sometimes they die from addiction or alcoholism. And it's heartbreaking, but without better treatment modalities, some days the best we can do is to say a prayer for those who will die.

When I thought about the client we recently lost, I couldn't remember the specifics of the last time I'd worked with him. I am not sure what I did or didn't do. But there is no formula for what might have been missed. At present, we just don't know who is going to walk out the doors of our facility and into the life that is waiting for them, or who is going to lose their life to the very thing that brought them in.

Mental illness and addiction will steal away a person's sense of belonging and therefore their sense of hope too. I don't know the specifics of what happened to our client, and I don't know what his mindset was in the days or hours leading up to his death.

I can't remember the last words I said to him, but I am confident in what words were among my first. I can only hope that even if it were just for a brief moment, he took in what I tried to tell him. It is the thing I want every person strugging with addiction, alcoholism, and mental illness, to know. I say it because it is true. We are not alone. And so to every peer who stands beside me fighting this same good fight - know this: 

I am glad you are here.

DAY 27 - Changing the World

We are rewarded for hiding ourselves. 
 The fact that we can function, at great cost to ourselves, is used to beat up the people who cannot function.

S.E. Smith

 

Not quite six months after John died, I reached a turning point in my anger. Up until then, most of my anger was focused on the mental health care systems that had failed him. I was enraged at the lack of information, lack of adequate treatment, and the industries that prioritized cost effective measures over making mental health resources available to those who need them.

I was also angry at the lack of resources and support available to those who love someone with a mental illness. I hated that much of the messaging for partners and loved ones is that they either leave, love perfectly, or assert boundaries that are nearly impossible to manage. All of these messages fell terribly short of respecting the imperfection of being human.

I have come to believe that the suggestions that are made to the loved ones are born of the fact that we don't have adequate treatment for mental illness itself, and we don't have adequate resources to foster universal suicide awareness.

These illnesses inflict pain and suffering on not just the person with the illness, but also on their loved ones. Trying to mitigate this suffering, loved ones often treat the person with the illness as if they are the enemy. Sadly, this dynamic exacerbates the shame and fear that mental illness already imposes.

And if we lose someone to suicide? We disect in excruciating detail the ways in which we'd been in conflict with the person we'd lost. We continue to confuse the illness with the person we loved. How could they have done this to me? But we must begin to replace the words 'him/her/they' with 'the illness,' in order to have an accurate reflection of what was going on.

Similarly, we ask ourselves: how could I have said this to him? How could I have done this to her?  The answer is that we weren't fighting with the person we lost, we'd been engaged in an argument with an illness.

Still, whether we are loss survivors or we are attempt survivors - we agonize over what we could not do, what we did do, and what we believe we should have done. We blame ourselves for not having tools and resources, despite the fact that they do not yet exist. We blame ourselves for not knowing many things that are still unknown. We blame ourselves for not being the cure for mental illness - as if that were even possible.

So yes, in the months following John's death I was angry. And I was also ashamed. I survived only because the people who loved me held me up. I know too though, it was often a struggle for them. 

My guilt was so incredibly heavy, it dragged me down again and again. I'd lost my mother to suicide. I'd nearly lost my own life. And now I'd lost John. I didn't understand why life was so unfair. Not in a self piteous way, but in all earnestness. How could this be happening? How would I ever be able to incorporate the reality of these losses into a life that might include hope and joy as well?

It was exhausting. The grief was exhausting. My self flagellation was exhausting. I was tired of the confusion. And then one day I realized that I would never overcome the worst of my pain, if I didn't better understand what had happened to John, and myself, and my mother.

It is important for me to point out that amidst all of this emotional exhaustion, I remained motivated by wanting to defend John. Because he died by suicide, there was this constant inference that he was selfish. But I knew him well. He was human with many flaws, but selfishness was the least among them.

If nothing else, I understood that John had lost his life to a mental illness that was beyond his control, and yet he was being blamed for it. I knew that he'd fought extremely hard to rebound from the ways his illness impacted him. I knew this because he told me, I knew this because I saw it.

When John died, I knew he deserved far better than the fallacy that he'd been weak or selfish.

I thought about when my mother had died by suicide 15 years earlier. When she died, I was beside myself with grief and guilt. My lack of understanding set me up for years of feeling responsible and years of feeling as if the similarities between her illness and my own meant that I would lose my life to suicide too.

And then I thought about my own suicide attempt, which had happened less than five years prior to John's death. In the weeks following my attempt, family members stopped speaking to me. People unfriended me on Facebook. I received one anonymous text: "Don't do this to your son." To this day, I don't know if that was supposed to be instructive or accusatory.

I changed my phone number and stopped replying to messages.

The truth is, I hadn't known the answers to the questions people were asking. I agreed with the premises though. There was something terribly selfish/bad/wrong with me. I was not worthy of friendships or forgiving. I couldn't understand how I had 'let' this happen either. I, like John, had tried desperately to stay alive, for years. What went wrong and how could I have failed so terribly? The accusations from others and the self blame on my end was agonizing.

I had bursts of blaming others for my despair, and bursts of feeling defensive of myself. Mostly though, I agreed with what the world at large says about those who are suicidal: I was selfish. All I cared about were my feelings and I was incapable of thinking about the feelings of others. I was rash and weak and not to be trusted. I was not worthy.

When my mother died, initially I was convinced that I should have 'done something different' to save her. Fifteen years later when John died, I believed that I should have 'loved him better' in order to save him. With my own attempts, I just knew I'd failed everyone who loved me. In all three, I still struggle with guilt some days. This is common for people whose lives have been touched by suicide. Guilt offers very few people mercy.

Our culture tells us that death by suicide is driven by choice. This belief creates an agonizing contemplation on the part of the loss survivor. 'Why didn't the person I lost choose me over death?' And for the attempt survivor, the stigma driven suggestion that they made a selfish choice only serves to add a layer of shame on top of what is likely already profound self hatred.

How do we challange stigma and change the unhelpful premises that exacerbate it? We speak up. 

After John died, I realized that my voice was important. I am the voice of someone who has experienced all these facets of suicide and stigma. I am a multiple loss survivor. I am a suicide attempt survivor. And I am a person who, at times, still struggles with suicidality.

I have experienced first hand the misunderstanding, the accusations, and the insensitivity. But I have also experienced the support, the understanding, and the love that carries people like me from one day to the next.

This is why I use my voice. Because it is those who speak up who are making a difference. If those who read learn something, that can potentially lead to life saving advocacy and action. And for others, knowing that they not alone and that they are understood can save a life too.

There is an African Proverb: Not to know is bad; not to wish to know is worse. If suicide has touched your life, I encourage you to reach out, ask questions, and learn more. Educating yourself is the first step toward compassion.  

And I believe that knowledge and compassion have the capacity to change the world.

[The essay above was first written in June of 2018.]

If you are looking for resources and organizations that promote suicide awareness or prevention - click on the image below to reach our Links/Resources/Learn More page.

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.