Category: Life

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The Captain and the Navigator

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I make it a habit to take as many adventures as I can. My family’s current goal is to visit all 50 states. In order to make this happen before my children leave the house and without breaking the bank, much of this goal is accomplished by road-tripping. We are currently finishing up our latest journey that will check state #30 off the list. See my article on why I think road-tripping is the way to go: https://lifelibertyandlibations.com/2017/09/07/looking-for-adventure-10-reasons-to-take-a-road-trip/

We have road-tripping down to a science. We pack the car the night before and leave the house on our first day at 3 am to beat the traffic. The kids have a loaded cooler between their seats, their own “carry-on” bag filled with activities and a new movie to watch. My husband drives and I navigate. We have a complete itinerary with all the destination addresses, confirmation numbers and times ready to go. Aside from the occasional back-seat squabble, we work like a well-oiled machine.

And my time on the road has me reflecting on our system and on life.

Life is a journey.

On every great journey, there is a Captain and at his right hand, is his Navigator.

The Captain, the driver, stands at the helm. He holds the wheel, accepting the weight of his cargo as his responsibility, owning the turns of the wheel that he makes, controlling, directing the vessel safely to its destination. And upon arriving at his destination, the credit of the embarkment sits on his crown. For he is the Captain.

The Captain is strong. He is resilient and responsible and quick both in his wit and his reflexes. He guides his vessel tirelessly and doesn’t truly rest unless his vessel is at rest.

The Navigator holds the map. He reads and interprets the signs. He doesn’t instruct, he guides. Looking ahead for impending hazards, he is the Captain’s eyes and ears. The Navigator is patient. The Navigator is astute. He holds a watchful eye, warns and informs the Captain and reads his coordinates with careful diligence. Not a side-kick or arm candy but a necessary counselor who carries the blueprints.

But ultimately at the end of the journey, everyone will ask, “Where’s the Captain?” “Who drove on this great journey ?”

And the Navigator will quietly step aside.

Like the old-fashioned mother who washes and cooks while the father earns a living, like the team who carries the prized medalist across the finish line, the Navigator receives his glory in the shadows of the Captain.

A Captain without his Navigator, is like an explorer without his compass – a dizzy fool, often making wrong turns, stopping frequently to reorient himself. A wanderer with little direction.

And a Navigator without his Captain is ready intelligence that is standing on the dock, bottled potential stuck holding his map, an eager adventurer with no vessel to carry him.

Often in life, we try to be both the Captain and the Navigator. In our hurried lives, we try to both hold the map and navigate the vessel on our own. And we fumble and stop and make countless wrong turns. But if we are careful, we realize the times we accomplish our greatest feats, are the times we are either the Captain OR the Navigator. But never both. Either we take the reins with a great advisor and guide directing us. Or we provide wisdom and support while the strength of another makes the hard calls and carries us through. The Captain will never succeed if he does not heed to his Navigator. And a Navigator who tries to take the wheel will merely sabotage the journey.

Rather than to harbor jealousy, the Navigator must learn humility.

And instead of becoming pompous, the Captain himself, should carry humble gratitude for the navigational guidance he was given.

Ask my children “Who’s the Captain?” of our ship and they’ll say, “Mom, but Dad drives.” The truth is, we take turns. Knowing our strengths and weaknesses, in any given journey, we decide who is best to take the wheel and who does best with the map.

We are a team.

Sometimes we are called to drive, to control, to carry the weight. In the end, we earn the medal. And other times, we are called to navigate, to carefully guide and quietly mentor, to step aside and allow the captain to gain the glory.

But the fruit of the journey belongs to us both. That’s winning at life. For without the other, we are lost.

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A glimpse into the life of a suicide survivor

tear-drop pic black and white“It was his life if he wanted to end it.” “Why did he leave me?” “He just wasn’t built to withstand the pressures of this world.” “How could he do this to me?” “He didn’t owe anybody anything.” “But didn’t he know just how bad he was going to hurt everyone.” “It was inevitable.” “This didn’t have to happen.”

The thoughts and the grieving process that a suicide survivor goes through is a long and complicated one. And one that never truly reaches a resolution. Like all grief, there is a complex cycle filled with an array of emotions from shock to anger to sadness to contemplative acceptance. But in the case of suicide, the grief cycle is much more complicated because the victim and the cause of death are the same entity. There’s no “Stop drunk drivers” “Cancer sucks” “Addiction is a disease” bandwagon to jump on. There’s no perpetrator to hate or blame or prosecute. There’s no “accident” to chalk up to fate or universal plan. And that is not to minimize the loss of persons via other means but instead to point out the fundamental difference of suicide from any other cause of death. In suicide, the same person you love and miss immensely is the same person who pulled the trigger, tied the noose, swallowed the pills. They did it electively. And it is fucking devastating. There will always be questions. Closure is very hard to find. And as a survivor, once you deal with “you”, then you gotta take on society and their lack of finesse and stigmas surrounding your loved ones passing. See my post on Death etiquette if you don’t want to be that person.

When my brother first died by suicide, after the shock of course, it was the “Why did he leave me?” thoughts that consumed me the most, followed by overwhelming sympathy for the horror that he lived inside his mind.

And then, as I reached my contemplative resolution, I decided that he owed no one. He was single, without children and his life was his own to end, if that’s what he wanted. And I accepted that the battle he fought daily in his mind was not for me to judge and was clearly a miserable one. And I reached an inner peace when I could say to him, “It’s okay. I know you had to go. I know it was too much. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

And then I became a mother. I watched my children grow and develop their own struggles. And like the flip of a switch, my thought-process changed and suddenly, it was all less “okay.” I wondered if my brother ever felt a sense of regret. Does he see how far the rest of us have come? Could he see his nieces and nephews and know what he missed? When he pulled the trigger did he wish he could take it back? The few people that have lived despite their suicide attempt, sometimes speak of feeling instant and overwhelming regret upon facing their death. If he hadn’t been drinking, would the outcome have been the same? Regret, to me, is life’s biggest nightmare. I don’t ever want to live with regret. The idea of my brother carrying the same was painful.

I also no longer viewed my children’s lives completely as their own. I grew them. I birthed them. I nurtured them. And me and my village have invested in them out of endless love. As the suicide survivor that I am, I have told my children, “You don’t ever get to check out. For the love that I brought you into this world with, for the love that your friends and family have carried you through different phases of your life with, for the reason you were put on this planet, you are obligated to continue living, always! I will stop at nothing to get you the help that you need and I will be by your side every step of the way. But you must always choose to live.” But is that fear or logic talking?

Choosing to live isn’t that simple, I know. Mental illness is a dark and complex illness and the stigma that is attached to it, is a heavy one. Even with my history and background in education and nursing, I feel it. I hear the comments, I sense the discomfort, I notice the change in tone of voice when people discuss mental health issues. And it is that stigma, that discomfort, that I believe, is killing people in droves. People with mental illness consistently feel alone and yet I can tell you, on any given night there’s rarely an open bed on the psych unit. As a person who has had to help someone through a crisis, I know I spent hours on the phone to avoid the emergency room. And most psychiatrists in my very populated area have wait lists that are months long. Further more, often the most recommended and more specialized psychiatric practitioners don’t accept insurance. But there are options, there are always options!

According to the CDC deaths by suicide are up 25% since 1999. The numbers were making a steady decline after the Great Depression but started to increase in 1986 and in the last 10 years it has skyrocketed. The statistics start at age 10. Girls aged 10-14 and males aged 45-64 show the sharpest increase. Firearms is most common cause of death. Suicide is now the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S. The US! The land of opportunity! The land of the free! The land of milk and honey! Why when we have so much are we choosing to end it all? Whether the decision was impulsive or well thought-out and planned for years, persons who choose to die by suicide almost always feel hopeless. Why are we so hopeless?

Maybe it’s social pressures. Maybe it’s a failing mental health system. Maybe it’s unrealistic cultural expectations. Maybe it’s guns. Maybe it’s social media. I don’t know.

What I do know is that it has to stop. And the “pull yourself up by your boot straps” mentality doesn’t work! We need real solutions. We need real change.

While I understand the risks associated with medications and I don’t believe any pill is an easy fix … correcting chemical imbalances saves people’s lives. And when there isn’t a chronic and biological cause for depression or a mood disorder, sometimes medicine, combined with therapy, helps to bid the time to allow someone to get over a traumatic life event. When people publicly shun medication, they contribute to the stigma.

And if you’re not ready for medication, what is the problem with therapy? Why do people avoid seeing a therapist? I mean, if I had a nickel for every time someone said “Oh we don’t need that!”… “I mean, we’re not there yet.”… or “Oh no, it’s not That bad!”,  I’d be a millionare! What are you waiting for!? A crisis?! Are you too good to talk to somebody? An expert in the field? And what does that make me? A headcase? An over-reactor? No, it makes me a sister, a daughter, a mother, who refuses to allow history to repeat itself, who refuses to wait until it’s too late.

My brother’s suicide, my uncle’s suicide and the many suicides I have now been personally made aware of since my brother’s passing have forever changed me. I will never be okay with it. I will never get over it. I will forever know the feeling of loss and regret. And I will forever have questions. But I will never ignore a warning sign. Never will I pass up an opportunity for assistance. Never will I rationalize that “We’re not there yet” or assume that we are better than anybody or immune to tragedy. Never will a person’s mental heath issues be a source of gossip or judgment in my presence. Never will I pass up an opportunity for someone who needs to talk. Further more, I will work to never minimize someone else’s struggle and always try to be kind.

Because where someone else sees a “weird kid,” I see my big brother. The teenager  “looking for attention” could easily be my own. Who the world writes off as “crazy,” I know, was once a precious little baby that someone loved. And the old man who has “lived a good life” is my father whom I still so desperately need. My family was The family. None of these statistics are just numbers. They are lives, lives who are loved, whether they accept that or not.

I hope you join me in my work.

And to this note, if you want to help, if you want to make a difference, here are a few small changes that we can make to help to change the societal influences of suicide. In addition, consider donating or participating in Out of the Darkness, a walk and movement to help end suicide.

  • Stop saying “committed suicide”, instead use “death/died by suicide”. It helps to remove victim blame. Save “committed” for crimes against society.
  • Don’t use the terms “successful” or “unsuccessful” when referencing a suicide attempt. Suicide is never a success.
  • Don’t share media posts that announce in the headline that the cause of death was suicide. This perpetuates normalcy as well as creates a hype that statistically leads to imitative behaviors. Teens especially, may look for attention in suicide attempts. Attention called to the act or to the details of suicide can encourage risky behaviors that could lead to suicide.
  • Focus on the victims or in the case of suicide, the suicide survivors (the loved ones affected by the suicide). The same way school shootings can be sensationalized by the media (and by us) and then copycatted, suicide too, can lead to imitative behaviors. This is decreased when the focus is put on the pain of the surviving family members/friends instead of the cause of death.  
  • In moments of exasperation never say “Well just do it then” instead make a phone call and get help.
  • Don’t refer to it as “an easy way out”-that can be attractive to those persons who are contemplating suicide.
  • Take every comment about wanting to die, no matter how trivial or off-handed or passive aggressive it seems, seriously!

Lastly, don’t take life for granted and don’t ever think suicide won’t affect you. Regret is life’s biggest nightmare, save yourself and those you love by remaining vigilant. And always choose love. I pray you never know the pain of a loved one electing to end their life and I pray that you yourself never feel so hopeless that you consider such an end. But if you do, I am always, always here and I will always maintain your confidence and promise to lend an ear without judgement. You are not alone.

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When the little things become the big things and the big things become the little things…

chalk board pic for blog

When I was 5, it was learning a new letter, skinned knees, and rain storms that were “big deals”. When I was 10, it was breast buds, a new school binder and a trip to the beach. At 15, it was my own phone line, name-brand jeans and a boyfriend. At 20, it was a new car, a new apartment, a new job. At 25, it was a baby, a new house and a wedding. At 30, it was an ADD diagnosis, a family trip across the country and finally getting date nights again. At 35, it was starting a blog, expanding my career, learning how to raise a teenager and finally feeling really good at the things I did well and completely humbled by my challenges.

Life is forever a journey.

In addition to writing, my followers know, I am also a veteran OB nurse as well as a clinical nursing instructor, perinatal bereavement coordinator, a mother, and a wife. (I know… I know… lots of hats). While I love bedside nursing, am driven to help bereaved families and find writing therapeutic, it’s teaching and raising kids that keeps me mindful of life’s stages and the way those stages formulate our priorities. Through my interactions with my students and in watching my children grow, in all their selfish glory, it is clear that what is meaningful/overwhelming/significant (whether good or bad) to a 10-year-old is very different from that of a 20-year-old is very different from that of a 40-year-old… from that of a 60-year-old.

I was recently talking to someone 10+ years my minor who was horrified that someone mistook her father for her husband. I had to giggle as my own father has aged well and my husband is 18 years my senior. And I told her of the same mistake being made for myself… as well as my husband being mistook for my father. “Doesn’t that upset you?!” she asked. And I had to laugh. You can’t marry someone 18 years older than you and get upset when someone thinks he’s your Dad. He could be! And if my own father’s genetics serve and allow him to appear much younger than he is… Hallelujah! Perhaps something in my genetic make-up might just benefit me.

My flippancy in this moment wasn’t born overnight. It was born from the last 10 years of challenges and experiences which have formed my hierarchy of importance. This conversation is just one of many that reminded me of life stages and priorities and it had me reflecting on my youth.

I remember when I was around 18, I paid almost $200 for a pair of shoes. They were completely impractical, but they were cool. They had these huge wooden platforms that were carved into these psychedelic swirls in the middle. You could literally stick your hand through the swirl in the base of the shoe. The shoe-salesman convinced me that the edgy accessory matched my edgy personality. And I was convinced that I needed to have them. They were so high that walking in them was like walking in stilts – time-consuming and painful. I think I wore them to the club once and spent most of the night sitting down.

I remember when making a statement with apparel was more important than making a statement with words or life choices.

I remember when my money was my own and I had no one to spend it on but myself. I was raised to buy many of my own things from a young age. And in that, I was a step ahead of many. But still, my phone bill, clothes and toiletries, were such little things. But they consumed me. My parents talking about “bills” sounded like background noise. They were always talking about money. But electricity and insurance wasn’t “my problem.”

I remember when I cared what some random girl thought about me; like her nameless opinion held any weight or at all defined my character. Those stupid words could make or break my day back then.

I remember when the highlight of my year was an all-day music festival and I camped-out all night to get tickets. That festival consumed me. I missed some really good acts because I was too drunk or too tired to make my way to that stage. But my friends and rebellion was more important than artistic experience.

I remember my older colleagues talking about the fiber content in food and jokingly asking “At what age will I start to check the fiber content in food?”

I remember listening to parents talk about their children with concern and being so flippant in my response, “Don’t worry about it.” “They’ll figure it out.” “They’ll survive.” I remember seeing mothers cry over their children getting into the same nonsense I was getting into and thinking, “What’s the big deal?”

I remember thinking drugs were cool and psychiatry was amusing.

I remember being hardened and unfettered by virtually everything.

I remember disrespecting the people I love the most and catering to simple fools.

I remember when I trusted that things would “just work out” and when they didn’t, I convinced myself that it wasn’t “important anyway.”

I remember when everything little thing… was a big thing- my clothes, my car, a cute guy, gossip…

And every big thing, seemed so little… like raising kids, medical problems, marriage and finances.

It seemed at times, that adults just over-dramatized things.

And now…

Raising children is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Medical problems literally end lives. Marriage is immensely complicated and yet more rewarding than I ever imagined. And finances? Shit! I wish I could afford those platforms again, but I need a new roof!

The people I once aspired to be, haven’t gone anywhere in life and the old folks who were “outdated,” are my closest confidants.

And I wonder, when that will change again.

Because you see, the last new shoes I bought were for work. I got tennis shoes (I can’t remember how long I went without wearing tennis shoes) because, “fuck what’s ‘cute'”, they help my chronic back pain. And I scoured Amazon to get them for $89. The kids meanwhile have outgrown 3 pairs of shoes that cost just as much.

Bills are the phantoms that haunt my dreams and rob the world of all things “fun”. And I find myself saying all the same things my parents said to us about “Turning off the lights” and “making do” and explaining the cost of all the things children take for granted… and I cringe at myself. Finances are a monthly juggling act and sometimes I wonder how my parents didn’t swallow a bullet when the electricity got turned off, again. I have an education and job security. My parents had odd jobs and 4 kids. My life is full with 2.

I couldn’t care less what people say about me unless I have genuinely hurt their feelings or it taints my professional reputation. Then, I’ll hear them out and prepare my apology or my rebuttal. Thank god my skills and reputation usually speak for themselves.

I can’t remember the last concert I attended, or even the last new movie for that matter. The highlight of my year is usually our family vacation or even just a really good day when everyone is happy and unconsumed by life’s challenges.

Fiber?! Ha, along with the sugar content and protein, salt for my hypertensive husband, artificial dyes for my ADD kids… no wonder grocery shopping takes so long! The nutrients my family consumes is a direct link to their health and longevity. And it all falls on my shoulders. And still, some days I only have energy for Chik-fil-A.

Worries for my children keep me awake every night. It’s not an 18 year commitment, it’s a lifetime commitment. And the love I have for them, no one could have ever described. The fairytale life you envisioned for them isn’t reality. They make their own choices and sometimes those choices are painful. They all come with their own issues and there’s no handbook.

That simple little ADD diagnosis that I once blew off with “Pfff … everybody has that!” has me sitting with my children sometimes 4 hours at a time and e-mailing teachers daily. They cry and I cry when I go to bed. Even with that and a new school and a 504 plan (I’d never even heard of a 504 plan before I had kids!) B’s are a struggle. Why does it seem like everyone’s kids get honor roll every fucking report card!? Keeping up with the Jones’s?! Pfff, most days I’m just in survival mode.

And still ADD is far from the worst diagnosis you could get.

Drugs are a death sentence. I see the casualties at work and in the neighborhood. Those once “cool” kids, no longer have their teeth and they leave their children parentless. And I know them. Please god, don’t let my kids think they are “cool”.

And psych?! Fucking terrifying. I mean the way the mind works is in fact fascinating but with my genetic history, I’m afraid, afraid for my children and what their future might hold. Knowledge might be power but that power can be unbearably heavy at times. Psych is fascinating until it affects the people you love the most. And then it’s heartbreaking.

I used to be so hard. And I’m still pretty damn tough… but 15 years ago, I allowed someone to love me. And in allowing that, I had to take down walls. Those walls are what made me hard. Now I am vulnerable and weak, sensitive and easily hurt, but only by those I hold close. And that isn’t a bad thing. Euphoria does not exist behind steel walls, it is grown when the walls come down.

My profession has taught me to speak to everyone with respect and to find respect for every walk of life. But I don’t cater to anyone. Nor do I have time for petty gossip.

So many things that were once so big feel so small now and the big things in my life now, feel overwhelmingly oppressive… and I wonder when that will change.

I find myself talking to the people who have survived, the “wise owls” and the veteran parents. The people who have maintained a happy 40 year marriage and successfully raised children to become contributing members of society, are the people I look up to now. I’ve learned that “out-dated” often refers to “adaptability” over decades and “class” has little to do with money.

And perhaps, some day, that will all change again.

Sometimes the things that my kids lose their shit over seems so small. Whether it’s a video game or a mean girl at school, I want to tell them, “Honey, this ain’t nothin!” But in order to honor and respect them where they are at right now, I have to remind myself that it’s big to them. 10 years from now, they probably won’t remember who hurt their feelings or how hard their math homework was … but if I support them and respect them instead of dismiss them, they’ll remember that their Mom was always on their team and made them feel important.

And for me, I need to remember that what feels oppressively huge to me right now, might only be a bump in the road when I’m 60. Challenges when they’re new always seem harder. With hard work, we usually survive. And building memories is more important than meeting deadlines.

If life’s patterns serve, my priorities will one day shift and the house repairs, job juggling and my children’s struggles will no longer consume me. Maybe my life expectancy will change my view on long-term planning and finances. And “comfort” will become even more relative. Maybe one day, the projected prognosis of the people I am responsible for raising, will no longer feel so overwhelming; and the little things like matching socks will one day matter again. I believe that what is “little” or “big” is all relative to your life stage.

For now, I’ll try not to roll my eyes at tween drama, I’ll still giggle at the college kids, sympathize with other middle-aged parents, look to the 60 year olds for their wisdom and pray that I die after the kids are grown but before I lose my mind 🙂

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The meaning of Memorial Day … and a cocktail

While summer doesn’t officially start this year until June 21st, many people are feeling summer has now begun. Memorial Day weekend has long been considered the ‘unofficial’ start of summer and is often riddled with activities and excitement. The pools open. Work places use it to differentiate summer holiday versus off-peak vacation time. And even the fashion world has made silly rules about wearing certain colors before that date. Businesses close while others use it as an opportunity to advertise big sales. And everybody looks forward to a good cook-out.

And while I love sales, the pool and a good BBQ as much as anybody, it is critical that we remember the purpose of this holiday. For many service members and their families, it is a solemn day of remembrance for their loved ones- those who have fallen while protecting the liberties we so often take for granted-those who have given their life for their country and left their loved ones feeing broken … proud, but broken.

Be it out in the field or as a result of the overwhelming burden combat has on the human mind (and a failing mental health system) the price our military pay is a heavy one. Few of us go to work accepting the idea that we will be willing to die for the cause in which we defend, including the hardworking and selfless profession of nursing. And yet somehow, we’ve become almost immune to the number of lives doing just that.

And of the soldiers who do walk away, rarely will you find one who hasn’t lost a comrade or whose mind, body and soul, aren’t marred by the scars of their battles. Our service members pay life long prices for their commitment. And it shouldn’t just be those closest to the fallen who feel that pang of loss. Every American should feel it! Memorial Day is a day for all of us to recognize the sacrifices that have been made by our soldiers.

The lives lost are many and their work is nothing less than heroic. Remember them this weekend, and every time you catch yourself taking liberty for granted. Because when you are picking up hot dogs, a wife is trying to pick up the pieces. While you stare at the TV, a mother is staring at a perfectly folded flag. And while you laugh and play, a GI silently goes through his list of losses, again. Where you see the start of summer, others see the faces that are now gone.

While this cocktail may not seem very “American” to some, I chose it for this weekend because its components spoke to me … and it’s delicious! The tropical fruit welcomes the upcoming season. The spices embody the cultural inclusion that this country was built from and fights to defend. And the heat and the burn from the pepper and alcohol remind me of the pain and burn that comes with loss. And yet, it’s the sweetness of life that allows us to tolerate the heat.

Tajin is a lime-chili spice blend often found in the international section of many groceries now. You’ll find it nearest the Latin foods. It is customary in many Central American countries to put chili powder on fruits like mango. Many cultures, Latino and Asian especially, love the way sweet and spicy combinations play on the palate. It is crucial to this recipe. So don’t leave it out! And due to our close proximity to Mexico, we have access to good tequila in the U.S too! I just love the exposure to foods and cultures that we have here.

So here’s to culture, a day off and of course to the men and women who paid the ultimate price for our liberties. Those liberties that allow me to vote, to dress the way I choose, to speak my thoughts and share my ideas … right here on this blog in fact. It allows us to worship, to protect, to create and to build in this wonderful country we call “home”. Bless this country and the lives lost to build and defend it.

Mango-jalapeño margaritas

  • 3 oz tequila
  • 1oz triple sec
  • 2 ripe mangos, juiced and pulped
  • 1 jalapeño, roasted
  • 2 Limes, juiced
  • Salt
  • Tajin (a chili lime seasoning found in the international food aisle)

Roast the jalapeño pepper (oven, grill, gas flame…doesn’t matter) until the skin blackens but not so long that it gets super soft). Once roasted, cut it in half and take about 4 slices from the center (with the seeds) and soak the slices in 3oz of tequila for several hours.

Combine the jalapeño infused tequila with the juice and pulp of the two mangos, 1oz of triple sec and the juice of the limes. Blend with an immersion blender until smooth.

Rub one of the juiced limes along the rims of the glasses and then coat the rims with salt and Tajin. Fill the glass. Serve with the top half of the roasted jalapeño and a sprinkle of Tajin as the garnish. Serve over ice. Makes 2-4 margaritas.

This recipe inspired by freutcake.com.

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The Warrior

He never wanted to be a soldier.

He didn’t ask to be called.

He wasn’t trying to save anybody today. That was the martyr’s job.

He didn’t sign up for this shit show.

He just wanted to go to work, stop for lunch, kiss his wife, have a normal day.

What he didn’t know was,  the grass he was walking on was a battlefield.

He didn’t want to fight.

But when the news came reeling, like a studded bat along his right side. Smacking him in his flank, crushing his ribs on contact …. he had two choices –

To lay down and die, or get up and fight.

For the ones he loves, for the sake of continuance, for humanity … he knew no goodness could come from allowing his will to be shattered or his life to be taken.

He choose to fight.

So he clambered to his feet and took a swing.

A pathetic attempt at first, but with each one, and each one after, he gained more power and more precision.

With every painful blow, knocking the wind out of his breath, he fought harder to breathe.

With every slicing cut, he lost more of the vital liquid that sustained his body, his mind and his heart.

With every loss, he created another scar, another endless ache, another painful memory.

And when the blows stopped coming and he collapsed on the ground in respite, getting back up seemed an even harder feat than withstanding the assault. And he hoped that somewhere there was a hand that would reach down to help him off the field.

With tougher skin than he once had, dirt on his face, scars on his heart and the experience of a battle survived but not won, he picked up his weapon. And moved to a safer place.

And the bystander who saw the fight that he fought, calls him a “Warrior” now – a worthy and respectable title.

But a title that he never wanted. From an attack he would’ve done anything to stop. In a fight, he couldn’t run from, though he tried.

Those in the trenches and on the battlefield know, that the resiliency and might that is seen by day is equally shared by wailing at night. And underneath that harden outer shell is a tender organ that still aches when the warrior goes back to that place.

While the world will see his strength; the darkness, knows his weakness.

Warriors don’t just wear camo, they wear heels and skirts, sweatpants and tennis shoes, ties and jackets, skinny jeans and flats, studs and leather.

Heartache and misfortune know no age, race or locale.

Dirt is oftentimes invisible. Pain is misconstrued. And our skin is just a very thin barrier to the life we try to protect underneath.

Everyone, at one point or another will find themselves on a battlefield. For some it is rare and brief and they come away with a few scratches. And others, just can’t seem to escape that scene and their many battle wounds tell the story of a life that has been unfair.

Though the battlefields of life are often hard to see at first glance, if we are astute, if we can look outside of the bubble of self-consumption, we might just see a comrade with pain in his eyes, who is working harder to succeed, to survive, than we are.

If you can’t join him in his fight, at least be the hand he sees when the battle is over.

If your own leg is bleeding, give him your shoulder to lean on.

Cuz one day, it’ll be you … looking through the smoke, asking for a break, hoping for a friend.

Life is one hell of a battle and the amount of times we will find ourselves out in the field, under the barrage of ammunition, isn’t known to us now. But if we are to survive, we must always be prepared to get back up and take another swing, another try. For when we lay down, we die.

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Happy Wife … Happy Life

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It's an age-old saying amongst satisfied, wise-old, married men, the advise my husband gives at every wedding he attends (when requested) and it's inscribed on a wooden plaque that sits in my living room. "Happy Wife, Happy life" aka "When Momma ain't happy, ain't no body happy!"

We are the matriarchs. We run the household, ensuring the family is well fed, well dressed and safe. And given the standards of today's living, we also work outside the home. I don't know if it's because we're biologically better at multi-tasking or because culture takes a long time to change or if it simply has to do with our propensity to control the environment around us; but most women I know carry the majority of the load when it comes to the family’s needs. From signing permission slips to making costumes, knowing what days the kids need a clean P.E uniform to coordinating the baby shower at work. Few women I know come home and play video games or read the newspaper. We work and we care and we nuture, constantly! And while the income gap amongst men and women still exist, women are working just as many hours outside the home as men are, whilst still maintaining the majority of the household chores. Mothers and wives today are doing even more than we ever have. And we are tired and burnt out and many marriages are suffering.

We all say "It's the little things that matter." So, put your words into action! … Here's a whole list of little things that you can do if you want a happier wife.

If you want a happy wife …

Start with a kiss when you leave the house, whether she's sleeping or not.

Then, when you know the time in her day when she's up and at 'em and just getting going … or, if you both leave at the same time, maybe her lunch time … send her a text that says "I love you babe!" You will stop her in her busy tracks and enter her thoughts while you are away from one another. It's a way to let her know you think of her without taking her time and attention away from work.

Tell her she's beautiful – every day! EVERY DAY!

When you see her in the kitchen or cleaning the house, ask her if you can help. And even if she says no, find a way to help her anyway, even if it's pouring her a glass of wine.

Thank her for your meal every time she cooks, even when it's terrible.

And speaking of wine, don't get yourself a drink without asking what she'd like. Offering someone a drink is as chivalrous as holding the door. And stop with your "but feminists…" BS. We all like chivalry.

When she gets all quiet and tense – rub her shoulders, kiss her, let her fall into you if she wants or walk away if she needs. We can't always talk and don't often have the energy to handle another human when we are stressed, but we don't want to be alone either. Let her know that you see her and are there for her but you don't want to burden her. Don't taunt her with "Ohhh … somebody's icey/bitchy"… women often keep their worries to themselves and you don't always know what burden she's carrying.

If she's doing quiet work while you watch TV or play games, come to her and ask if she'd like a snack or a cup of tea … 2 min, and she'll know you notice her and think of her.

Find little ways to surprise her: Make the bed and turn her side down. Leave her flowers. Pack her lunch for her. Fill up the gas tank. Leave work early and offer to pick up the kids.

Ask her to sit next to you and snuggle when you sit to watch TV – even if you're uncomfortable, tolerate it once in a while.

Ask her how her day went.

Kiss her before bed.

When you make love, think only of her and how to rock her world.

Tell her that you love her.

 

Still worried about you? Do all these things in the absence of yelling, name calling and accusations. Do it without a time line or an expectation of getting anything in return … make it an indefinite change. You'll amazed at how she loves you back!

 

Want a happy husband?

Start with a kiss when you leave the house, whether he's sleeping or not.

Then, when you know the time in his day when he's up and at 'em and just getting going … or, if you both leave at the same time, maybe his lunch time … send him a text that says "I love you babe!" You will stop him in his busy tracks and enter his thoughts while you are away from one another. It's a way to let him know that you think of him without taking his time and attention away from work.

Tell him he's wonderful – every day! EVERY DAY!

When you see him working on something or outside doing yard work, ask him if you can help. And even if he says no, find a way to help him anyway, even if it's bringing him a beer.

Thank him for your meal every time he cooks, even when it's terrible.

Don't get yourself a drink or a snack without asking what he'd like, it's only considerate. And respect and mutual consideration is the key to a healthy relationship.

When he gets all quiet and tense – rub his shoulders, kiss him, let him rest on you if he wants or walk away if he needs. They can't always talk and don't often have the energy to handle another human when they are stressed, but they don't want to be alone either. Let him know that you see him and are there for him but you don't want to burden him.

If he's doing quiet work while you watch TV or play, come to him and ask if he'd like a snack or a cup of tea … 2 min, and he'll know you notice him and think of him.
Find little ways to surprise him: Make the bed and turn his side down. Leave him a special little treat. Pack his lunch for him. Fill up the gas tank. Leave work early and offer to pick up the kids.

Ask him to sit next to you and snuggle when you sit to watch TV – even if you're uncomfortable, tolerate it once in a while.

Ask him how his day went.

Kiss him before bed.

When you make love, think only of him and how to rock his world.

Tell him that you love him.

And do it all in the absence of yelling, or nagging, or expectations.

 

Sometimes, despite our very best efforts, we can't make someone happy. Maybe they've already checked out and maybe their unhappiness rests inside of them and is untreatable by others. But before you say "I've tried", "I've done what I can." "I can't make him/her happy." Start with this very simple little daily list and see where it takes you. Think this is too much work? Then you don't know the fulfillment of a happy marriage. Trust me, it's worth it!

 

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Grief

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Grief is feeling as though you’ve lost your soul; but knowing that without a soul, you wouldn’t hurt this bad.

 

It is a pain that can’t be numbed by any pill, bottle or syringe.

It is a monster that can’t be out-run or out-smarted. And there is no place to hide.

It is wishing that you could die, but knowing that your death would only cause more grief.

It is being lost in a maze of shadows and not knowing where the fuck to turn.

It is being so consumed by darkness that when a sliver of light sneaks in, it hurts your eyes and burns your skin.

It is begging for a way out and being answered with unbearable silence.

It is the weight of a thousand bricks on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

It is the angst of being buried alive. And just talking, you feel as though you are choking on dirt.

It is lead on your feet, making it hard to get out of bed. Every step is painful, every step is work.

And lead on your heart, cold and stiff, making it hard to feel again.

It is panic and feeling your pulse race … and then devastation … feeling so empty that you’re sure your ventricles no longer contract.

It is a flood of feelings and thoughts so overwhelming that you can’t begin to hear all the voices screaming at you … and in the next minute it is an absence of thought and a miserable feeling of being alone.

It is worry and nagging uncertainty for the future and everything you know.

And it is sorrow and an unbearable longing for the past.

It is anger and impossible frustration for a change that will never happen.

It is pain that has no cure and a journey that seems endless.

And

It is evidence that you loved and lived.

It is a sign of your dedication and humanity.

It is the first step in healing … A long and painful process that leaves scars.

Like waking up out of surgery with no anesthesia on board. Or waking up out of a nightmare, still screaming, before you realize it was a dream. But this isn’t a dream.

It’s the hardest and longest journey, but an inevitable one.

It is the opportunity to sit with your pain and commune with your demons. To make peace with your weakness and to allow your eyes to adjust to the darkness.

It is finding solace in your sorrow. And then,

It is finding the courage to start to crawl. It is finding the strength to break the lead away from your feet … and your heart. And to feel the aching relief as you stand and take your first step. It is breaking down the walls and breaking out of the maze of misery. It is allowing light to pierce your eyes and seeing the world from a different view.

In time, your heart will regain a normal rhythm. Your lungs will learn to breathe again. And the light will one day, no longer hurt your eyes or burn your skin. Your steps will lighten and your stride will hasten.

Your memories will remain of a life you once knew, a life that was simpler and brighter and more comfortable. And those memories will both soothe and ache.

And the impression from the lead on your feet and your heart, the taste of dirt in your mouth, the scars from a loss you will never forget, will always be there.

But they will fade with time.

And as they fade, you will realize the strength and the wisdom that you gained, from surviving your greatest loss.

 

Grief is wishing that you never had a soul … but knowing that without a soul, you never would’ve loved. And sometimes, you just don’t know which is worse.

 

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Kindness

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I don’t know if it was the last week, or the year, or the last 36 years … but I found myself, after recently being the subject of a lot of anger and verbal abuse … self reflecting. And in my reflection, I contemplated this last week, this last year, the last 36 years. And what I discovered was that amongst all the things I disdain, a lack perspective, a lack of empathy, a lack of effort, self-entitlement, self-absorption, complacency, selfishness … the thing that I dislike the most, is a lack of kindness. And if I could pick just one thing that I desire the most from humanity, Kindness would be it.

Nurses often times find themselves as subjects of unkindness. Our patients are ill. They are in pain. They have lost independence, control and the life they once knew. Their families too, have lost these things. Sometimes we have to stand alongside their doctor while they are given a devastating diagnosis, or told “I’m sorry, we did everything we could.” And sometimes we stand alone when we clean their wounds or bathe their dead loved one. My worst days at work, are the ones that despite my best efforts, to love, to heal, to minister, to analyze and to advocate, end in ridicule, accusations, and insults. They are the days that I have given of myself until I have nothing else left to give … and what I gave, still wasn’t enough.

Mothers often times find themselves the subjects of unkindness. Our children are learning. They are growing. They are seeking independence and experience and wisdom. Sometimes my advise and restrictions, my love and my best efforts are met with push-back, lack of appreciation, criticism, and disrespect. And when our children don’t perform at their best, the world too, loves to blame mothers. They love to give unsolicited advise and suggest inadequacy. They look past the individualism of the offspring and place all responsibility on their mother-as if the mother is the child themselves. If only we had been home more -or- worked harder, made stricter rules -or- hadn’t been so strict, loved them more -or- hadn’t coddled them so much. I always feel the worst for the mothers of children who hurt other people, like school shooters; because not only has that mother lost her child in a most horrific event, there is a whole army of people hating her and judging her because of her child’s very poor choice/illness. The guilt and the ostracization must be unbearable.

People in any role, find themselves the subjects of unkindness. Our beliefs, lifestyles, appearances and our mere existence, open us up for judgement, opinions, prejudices and contempt. Sometimes it is an intentional attack and other times we are merely the victim of an unwarranted unleashing because we were the one standing there when someone had a bad day, got bad news, objectified us as their momentary punching bag. Regardless of the who, what, where and why, it is enough to ruin our day, our week …

A careless act of cruelty is for some, enough to ruin a life.

And yet, a simple act of kindness, can be enough to save one.

What I realized in my self-reflection was that it’s not the hard tasks, it’s not being pushed to my physical limit, it’s not managing one’s anxieties or handling one’s fears. It’s not giving the bad news or wiping the tears, establishing restrictions or confronting death. It’s not moving past the judgement you want to make and choosing love instead – Those things are not what I find to be the hardest. I don’t seek the easiest patient, the easiest kid or the easiest life, but what I do seek, is for kindness to be met with kindness. And when it isn’t, it hurts.

Maybe I am more vulnerable than I once was. Maybe, living my life in a safe place with a family and a husband that love me, has made me weak. Maybe the hardships of my past have weathered me. Or maybe I’m finally past them and I’ve become accustomed to my security. Maybe I’ve reached exhaustion and I just don’t have the energy to fight anymore. I want to use to my energy to help instead. Truly, life is still hard but the army of people that I have built, help to carry me. In order to build that army, I had to open myself up to people and soften my edges. And the angst I now carry, seems to sit under a thinner skin than I once wore.

I try to remember that others just aren’t there yet. That others are still very angry and lack the support that I now have. Whether its politics, or waiting in line, a diagnosis or a lack of therapy, some people use other people to release their frustrations and to gain power. And the easiest way to process pain, is to blame and hurt others, so as not to allow the pain to penetrate one’s own heart.

Regardless of their reason or their story, it fucking hurts.

It hurts when people aren’t kind.

When I was a kid and other kids teased me because I was skinny or because I didn’t have the same name-brands they did, it hurt.

When I was a teenager and I didn’t have a car, or the same cute styles or perfect teeth and I didn’t live in the same affluent neighborhoods as the other kids, and that made me “not popular” … When people knew me as the “girl whose brother died” instead of as “Amanda”, it hurt.

When I was 21 and a new mother and people no longer wanted to hang out with me because my “baggage” no longer allowed me to go to the club, it hurt.

When someone makes negative assumptions based on my religious views, political persuasion, or my physical appearance … when they insult my children, talk about others in a derogatory fashion, mistreat the less fortunate, or tell insulting jokes, it still hurts.

And after 13 years of nursing, 14 years of motherhood and 36 years of living a life that has had more tragedy than I often care to divulge, I just don’t want anymore hurt.

The truth is, life works better when we are kind. People are more apt to meet our requests, to cooperate with one another and to consider another perspective. Kindness yields a cohesion that conflict and aggression simply cannot.

Some of the people who I love the most, have religious and political views that differ greatly from mine. I am a strong personality and a self-proclaimed free-thinker. You won’t find me bending to anyone’s will if it doesn’t sit well with me and I am no “ass-kisser”. I am known to say what I mean and mean what I say. And I am oftentimes abrupt in my delivery. But I hope my ways are never misconstrued as unkind. If we can be kind and respectful, we can express our views and explain our perspective without insults or scoffing. If we’re lucky, it’ll lead to compromise and if we’re less lucky, it might still yield a gained perspective by both parties. Kindness never leads to broken hearts, a loss of a relationship or hurt feelings. Kindness never destroys.

We are all on our own journeys. We all face challenges and adversaries, bad days and bad luck. We have all said things that we wish we hadn’t and we’ve all made choices that we wish we could undo. Each of us carry a cross – perhaps of different weights and of different woods, but it is heavy nonetheless and burdensome. And we just never know what someone else is carrying. Sometimes, those who appear the strongest, carry the heaviest crosses. And sometimes the weak, are weak from a long journey.

It might be harder some days, but it doesn’t use any more energy to be kind than it does to be angry. And it doesn’t have to be attained with some Noble Peace Prize sized effort.

It’s a smile. It’s a “thank you”. It’s an “I understand.” It’s not accepting an undo defeat or stooping to lower standards but respectfully pointing out that, “I appreciate your efforts, but this will have to change.” It’s not weakness, but strength. It’s maturity. It’s wishing someone well, whether you like them or not. It’s making eye contact and giving them just a minute of your attention instead of ignoring them. It’s stepping away for a moment so that you can gather yourself instead exploding insults all over everyone. It’s self-expressing that you yourself are frustrated, afraid, anxious, or overwhelmed and that your angst has nothing to do with the person you are interacting with. It’s saying, “I’m sorry.”

People need to hear that. People need to see that.

“There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophies. My brain and my hearts are my temples; my philosophy is kindness.” – Dalai Lama

In a world where you can be anything, Be Kind.

 

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Tradition is the Chocolate Egg in my Easter Basket

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In my house, Easter egg dying was always a family affair. A day or so before Easter we’d boil, cool and divide up the eggs. And the four of us kids would spend a solid hour or two dunking our eggs and decorating them with stickers or a magic egg-writing crayon. Some of those brightly colored eggs always found themselves in our baskets. And it was obvious, at least later in life, that our baskets were always hand-prepared, never the store-bought variety. The contents were always economical, but thoughtful. And when the Easter bunny came, he hid them in various places in our home. When we awoke, we scampered through the house excitedly to find them. If you accidentally found someone else’s, the rule was that you quietly put it back so as not to ruin the discovery for your sibling. My parents got a basket too, which my playful father always managed to find and hand-over to my Mom.

After baskets came a yummy breakfast. And after breakfast was church. After church, we’d run home to eat more candy and my mother would finish her side dishes to bring to my grandparents house. We’d parade over to my grandparents house in our Easter clothes, which usually had chocolate on them by that point. And there, the whole family would gather. We feasted on ham and scalloped potatoes, green beans and fruit salad. And we talked and we laughed and we played. The kids compared the goodies in their baskets and ran around on sugar highs, while the adults enjoyed a break from their weekly stressors and shared stories.

And so tradition would have it that my children too, have hand-prepared baskets that are hidden in the house. The same rule applies for finding your sibling’s basket and the same parent basket finds its way there too, with a few dark chocolates and maybe some coffee. Over a yummy breakfast, we excitedly anticipate the change in the seasons and we start making our warm weather plans. And while my children get just as excited about candy as any other kids would, they always ask, “Where are we going for Easter?” Easter dinner is what they’re referring to … because they know that holidays mean family. And if ever they spent an Easter without at least some of their cousins, they’d be devastated. And my children know that regardless of where we go, we never show up empty-handed. Mommy always has dishes to prepare; and the kids, anxious to play with their cousins, hurry to get ready and help carry the items out to the car. And when we arrive at our destination, we feast and we talk, we laugh and we play.

Some things have changed. My grandparents are no longer living and Easter is often rotated. Some family have moved out-of-state. And as the family grows, so too does their experiences and their extended family. Some, like me, have also changed our religious beliefs and practices. But we all still treasure tradition.

 

Living my life as a self-proclaimed non-believer, every holiday that rolls around, there’s always someone who has some sort of remark about why I am celebrating a “religious holiday.” I then feel compelled to educate them on how most Christian holidays started out as Pagan holidays and practices, which the Christians essentially re-purposed and re-named in an effort to more easily convert the Pagans. And I’m usually met by blank stares as few people who make such remarks actually know the history of world religion and culture.

The truth is, egg decorating and fertility festivals pre-date the first “Easter” or “Resurrection Sunday” and eggs and bunnies have virtually nothing to do with Christ’s resurrection. Rabbits, who reproduce readily, have been a symbol for goddesses of fertility since ancient times. And the first “Easter bunny” most likely came from a German fable. Easter as we think of it, culturally, has much more to do with German traditions and the Pagan “Spring Re-awakening.” And these customs and practices have been largely adopted by Christians and re-configured to suit the needs of Christian teachings.

Similarly, many of the customs surrounding Christmas, stemmed from German roots and Pagan festivals. Decorating cut trees came from a custom associated with the “Feast of Adam and Eve”-a tradition based on the Old testament, not Christ. Whereas, decorating outdoor trees, particularly, evergreens, was a Pagan practice. In fact, in the early Christian Church, decorating with evergreen was banned during the Christmas season due to its associations with Paganism. The Pagan Festival of Lights involved lighting homes and tombs in honor of several gods and goddesses. And the gift-giving festival for the Roman god Saturn, which coincided with the Winter Solstice, was a widely celebrated festival that early Christians sought to replace. Jesus’ actual birth is unknown, though some historians believe he was likely born in Spring.

So why do I keep getting blasted with “Jesus is the Reason for the Season”?!

Well, that’s because Christians decided long ago, what they would celebrate and when. Christianity holds the majority in many countries, including the United States. Those religious meanings have become their tradition, and for them, these holidays hold great religious significance. The world and the U.S. is a collection of people who hold various beliefs and various customs. If we want to peacefully co-exist, we must learn to have a mutual respect for one another. We must learn to accept that different holidays, different customs, have different meanings for different people. Those of us who choose to celebrate a holiday or a custom simply for its tradition, should respect the sacredness that the holiday holds for religious observers. And those who find religious significance in their holiday celebrations should acknowledge that many of the holiday traditions are a collection of both religious and non-religious customs, many of which have ancient roots that have nothing to do with their current beliefs.

In the U.S. in particular, one will find a mosaic of cultural influences which create the holiday celebration as we know it today – much like a holiday table is a mosaic of familial recipes. Everyone in my family agrees, we have to have my father’s mother’s rolls and my mother’s grandmother’s corn pudding and my grandmother’s pineapple salad. My children will hopefully continue these and then add a Chilean dish or my self-invented marshmallow-jello parfait. Just like family recipes can come together to create a wonderus feast that satisfies all who come to it, religion and culture too, can coexist and fulfill our needs.

So, if Christians can take their egg-filled baskets into church to be blessed and their parents can use the fertile symbol of a hard-boiled egg to instead illustrate Christ’s empty tomb … than non-Christians too can use the traditions associated with a holiday to teach and celebrate with family. While Easter Sunday does not include a church service for my immediate family, it does include family togetherness, the celebration of life and generations of tradition. And those traditions are the sweetness of life. They are our comforts and the things we look for above all else in an ever-changing world and an ever-changing life.

Tradition is your grandmother’s recipe. It’s a monogrammed stocking or a basket that you held year after year and the one that you look for. It’s the cookies and milk for Santa. It’s reading the same story or poem on the same day every year until you can practically recite it yourself; but you don’t, out of reverence for the moment. It’s candles on a cake and a song that you sing. It’s a routine you expect … a custom you’ve adopted. It’s the threads of your past that are woven into your soul and tie you to your ancestors; and it creates a beautiful and varied textile that you can’t help but to wrap yourself in. And it didn’t come about overnight or from one single source but from many places and many people over many years. It is comfortable and familiar and exciting. It’s the chocolate egg amongst all the other candies and tiny gifts that change with time. And without tradition, there would be a void that is as palpable as a hollow chocolate bunny … or an empty tomb.

Happy Easter! Happy Passover! Happy Spring Re-Awakening! Happy Jelly Bean day! Happy Traditions … whatever you want to call them!

 

Below are articles I referenced and ones that are worth reading if you have interest in holiday traditions:

http://www.wisegeek.org/where-did-the-tradition-of-the-christmas-tree-come-from.htm

https://www.history.com/topics/holidays/easter-symbols

http://listverse.com/2012/12/15/10-remarkable-origins-of-common-christmas-traditions/

 

 

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Worth living for…. My gratitude list and a response to the play “Every Brilliant Thing,” an essential conversation on suicide awareness and mental health

writing-1317009-640x480I recently attended a performance of the play, “Every Brilliant Thing,” written by Duncan MacMillan and Johnny Donahoe and performed by Alexander Strain. The play is and further yields a worthy conversation on suicide awareness and the importance of an individual’s mental health. And in the play, the conversation is held in the form of a one man cast who begins as a 7-year-old boy who is trying to understand and navigate the suicide attempt of his mother. The primary way he does this and the ongoing theme of the play is a gratitude list, or as he so britishly calls it, a “A list of Every Brilliant Thing”. And he leaves it on the pillow of his mother when she returns home as a reminder of all the things worth living for.

The list grows and unfolds over a lifetime and using light-hearted humor and audience participation, it reminds us of the many good things in life. It also brings to light, the fact that when our lives are going well and we have much to live for, the list grows quickly and easily. But on our difficult days, on the days when life has handed you a royally shitty hand, it can be a painful and nearly impossible task to think of things to be grateful for … or even to look at the list at all, for that matter.

Through this presentation, as a model for life itself, we are given the therapeutic task of replacing sorrow with gratitude, a worthy and effective exercise. And yet the play makes it clear, that this isn’t a cure for mental illness. Gratitude lists help us to establish a more positive outlook on life. They create a healthier, more uplifting viewpoint on the everyday, which improves our quality of life and self-satisfaction; but they don’t usually save lives and they certainly don’t cure chemical imbalances. It explains how grief and our attempts to process it, change as we age. And it makes the feelings that suicide survivors have, relatable. The guilt, the frustration and the fear of inheriting the same illness are all very real feelings for those affected by suicide; and it is self-affirming when someone else echoes the things you speak of only in your mind.

But the most important aspect of the play entirely, in my opinion, is the conversation that the play both is and creates. The conversation that mental illness is real and serious and that it deserves immediate and respectful attention. And yet in order to be effective, we must create some sense of normalcy and a comfortable place for people to come. In order to treat the illness, we must first end the stigma. Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S and 1:5 Americans and Canadians suffer from some form of mental illness. The majority, not the minority, of people have been affected by suicide and the cascade of mental illness. And yet, we sabotage our own needs by labeling people, distancing ourselves, avoiding the topic or becoming uncomfortably solemn and unrelatable when we talk to those who are experiencing symptoms. It’s almost like we’re afraid of getting their “cooties.” Or perhaps we’re afraid of getting hurt or feeling responsible if things go awry. And yet, the name calling, ostracization and lack of relatability is exactly what perpetuates bad outcomes.

While there is still much work to do, and my experience is biased by living in a progressive part of the country, I do believe that we have made great strides in ending the hurtful exclusion and name calling of homosexuals and mentally retarded individuals. My children have grown to accept these people as they are and are blessed to have never heard the word “Fag” or “Retard” from their peers. And yet they know very well the term “Psycho.” And even worse, they know that quiet and cold feeling that comes when someone “has problems.”

As a medical professional and an advocate for mental health services, I can assure you of the suffocating nature that that stigma carries. Rarely to my face … but most often in small conversation, when the people talking don’t know my story, that’s when I hear it. That’s when, like my children, I feel it. The tone gets quiet and serious and suddenly, everyone involved in the gossip is “better” than the subject they are referring to.

And I do believe that the root of this reaction is out of self-preservation and not of mal intent. It is however, just as damaging. When people don’t have full regulatory control over their emotions or psyche, it makes people feel uncomfortable and afraid. And those people usually respond in 1 of 3 ways.

  1. They isolate that person. They stop hanging out with them, stop answering their texts and avoid them. They might be afraid of being manipulated by them or maybe they are just uncomfortable around them now. Maybe they don’t know what to say. It’s an immature response, but a common one. When one is afraid, they often run away. Still the affected person is left alone and learns by default not to confide in others. And because of this rejection, by default, the isolated person is labeled as an “outsider” or “different”.
  2. An even more immature response to feeling uncomfortable is to laugh and poke fun. This is not rooted in self-preservation. It is simply mean-spirited. And it happens all the time. The homeless guy that’s mumbling nonsense, the kid that comes to school dressed bizarrely or the jokes about voices in your head … all seem like viable subjects of seemingly innocent banter and yet to the victim and their families, it’s another assault. And even more so, to the bystander, whom you think is perfectly “normal”, those jokes are another rejection, another statement that “if you tell your secret, we won’t accept you”.
  3. And lastly, when they don’t ostracize or bully and tease, they judge. They judge them for “not really having a chemical imbalance,” without having any knowledge of that person’s medical records. They accuse them of “doing it for attention,” without ever wondering why. They judge them for “putting chemicals into their bodies”, for not being strong enough to handle life, for being dramatic, for always being “so negative”, for being “too lazy to get out of bed” or “too ____” … whatever.

So this week’s post is both a hand extended and a plea to all of those who have ended relationships because of a diagnosis … Who have refused to acknowledge or talk about the mental health of a person to their face and instead gossiped behind their back … To those who have labeled someone as “crazy,” a “head-case”, or a “nut job,” knowing full-well there was an underlying condition responsible for that person’s actions … For those who believe that simply “picking yourself up by your bootstraps” is an effective treatment … and for those who publicly demean mental health services in the form of therapy or medication … You are killing us!

Please educated yourself. Please try to understand someone else’s perspective. Please be compassionate and kind and patient. Please be a safe place. And if you can’t, at least shut up and give them a number to call. The worst place to be, is alone. And people who suffer from mental illness or have loved ones who are suffering, always feel alone. Please help me to change that!

Mental illness is so frustrating. And those affected can be incredibly draining and manipulative. And confronting mental illness most certainly can induce a grief response. But just the way we have changed the way we talk about mental retardation and homosexuality, a change in the way we respond to mental illness is also greatly warranted. It is not a new problem. It’s not a rich or a poor problem. It’s not an educated versus non-educated problem. It’s not a race problem. It’s not a strong versus weak problem. It is everyone’s problem. And people’s lives literally depend on it.

I am the mother, sister, daughter, granddaughter and niece of those affected by mental illness and there is not a single documented diagnosis in my family. Stigma and self-righteousness prevented diagnosis and treatment in our past. It led to many tortured lives and two untimely deaths in my beautiful, “normal”, middle-class, white, educated, god-loving, family.

That shit is changing with me.

So in the spirit of the play, I’ll end with my own “Brilliant List” and I’ll encourage you all to do the same, to seek out goodness and positivity. The National Alliance for Mental Illness reports that when you actively seek out ‘reasons to be thankful’ for 21 days, you will start to involuntarily think more positively. We could all use that. And then I’ll remind you that sometimes that list won’t be enough. And there are people and services that can help. Please let them help.

My favorite line in the play is :

“Life may not ever become Brilliant but it does get better. It always gets better.”

Amanda’s Brilliant List

  1. Hearing my children say, “Good job Mommy”
  2. Letting my husband love me in all his glorious ways
  3. Dancing in the kitchen
  4. Belting out Disney tunes with my 2-year-old niece
  5. Dark chocolate and red wine paired together, in the evening, when the house is quiet
  6. Finishing a photo book and reminiscing on that trip
  7. Planning a new road trip and anticipating the discovery of a new place
  8. The first unseasonably warm day of the year
  9. Talk therapy with my best friend, just the two of us … and wine
  10. Being assigned the patient that no one else wanted, and then connecting with her
  11. Having an opportunity to sleep in and actually being able to sleep
  12. Cooking delicious food with my siblings – we are like top chefs…well one is anyway!
  13. Going to a rock concert with my Dad and never sitting down
  14. Getting rid of old things and making space in the house without feeling wasteful
  15. Using up all the odds and ends in the fridge and creating something delicious with them
  16. Pedicures, with a really good leg massage
  17. A blog post that blows up, in a good way 🙂
  18. The smell and feel of a fresh haircut and highlights, good-bye grays and split ends
  19. Long conversation with deep thinkers over good wine
  20. Knowing that I’ve helped someone
  21. People who understand
  22. Extra time when I need it
  23. Thematic parties
  24. Outdoor summer family parties that start with food, lead to dancing and end with quiet conversation and star-gazing late into the night
  25. Feeling like despite all my failures and heartache, somewhere, somehow, I’m doing something right and maybe I’ll leave this world just a little better than I found it.

 

For those who need a phone number for help: 1-800-273-TALK, 1-800-SUICIDE, or text NAMI or TALK to 741-741