Category: Life

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Do as I say … not as I do ….

chalk board pic for blog

"Do as I say, not as I do"….

Not sure who came up with that one-liner but clearly, it's bullshit. You don't have to be a child psychologist to know that children learn most from what they observe in adult behavior and much less in what they are instructed to do. If you tell your kids not to curse, but everyday you fill their ears with obscenities … odds are they will grow up talking like sailors. If you tell your kids to eat their veggies but you yourself always pass the salad and live off of carbs and protein … I promise, you will have a hard time getting your kids to comply with eating the green stuff. It's simple.

Statistics have shown very clearly that our children tend to copy the behaviors we display. According to many studies … teens whose parents are current smokers are substantially more at risk to become regular smokers at an early age or to experiment early on with cigarettes than kids with nonsmoking parents. Studies on alcohol abuse carry similar results. Study after study confirms the propensity for cycles of abuse. Be it verbal, emotional, physical or sexual … those who are abused tend to abuse others. And anyone who has survived this in their youth needs to seek professional help to learn how to break those cycles. Hating what your parents did to you typically doesn't create the skill that is needed to initiate positive change. You need help to learn how to behave differently.

These findings are no surprise to anyone. But what about the more subtle habits and behaviors we display? How do they affect our children? What messages do our word choices and body language and home environment teach our children? If we roll our eyes and dismiss our children, will they feel important and validated? (Ugh … that one is hard with teenagers … but one I am working hard to fix!) If we mock them or criticise them for their display of emotions – be it crying or feeling angry, will they grow to be emotionally vulnerable adults or will they shut down and become hardened? Can we teach them that feelings are real and emotions are vital and still teach them self-control?

What if we replied to the complaining child "I understand that this is frustrating, nonetheless, this is my decision." – rather than "I said shut your mouth" or, in the other direction, "Fine, go do what you want … I'm tired of your complaining." What do those words and actions teach our children? And in reference to the constant rec sport debate …. No, not everyone needs a trophy, but we can praise them for playing their best and teach them to shake hands with the other team. This "snowflake" generation is a direct response to a hardened generation and the right way, as always, is somewhere in between. We don't need to coddle our children, but we do need to respect them. Not everything needs to be sugar-coated but it doesn't have to be a smack in the face either.

Through either action or inaction, our habits, mannerisms and body language speak volumes. Through our words too, we teach our children when we talk to them, about them and around them. Our word choice, voice inflection and tone send messages much louder than the actual speech we may be giving.

It's no secret now that what we say to our children shapes what they think of themselves. Calling them "dumbasses" or "sluts" doesn't typically yield intelligent and self-respecting individuals. But fewer people discuss how our words and behaviors in regards to other people shape what our children think of themselves. God knows I am far from a perfect mother, but my hope for myself and others is that as we reflect on our own childhood, we learn to be better parents and role models every day.

I can still remember times that my mother criticised other girls behind their backs and how I, despite her best intentions, turned that criticism inwards. She wasn't talking to or about me, but I saw myself in those other girls. When we criticise the way other people act or dress or behave in an unkind way – we teach our children not only to exclude or to judge other people, but we create insecurities in our children. We send them the message that we look down on certain types of people.

And the truth is, we don't get to choose who our children become. We can help shape their character, but who they are is deep within them and we can't change that. You can make them go to medical school but you can't make them enjoy being a physician. You can tell them to get married but you can't make that marriage work. A "my way or the highway" mentality doesn't usually work unless you have super passive kids and super passive kids never grow up to change the world. But nurturing our children and gently guiding them allows them to build strong roots and to grow.

Remember that flamboyant guy you imitated? … Maybe your son is grappling with his own sexuality. Making fun of that man could end-up delaying your son's ability to come out for years. Don't approve of homosexuality? Well … our nations history shows us that ridiculing it, didn't stop it. People simply stayed "in the closet" and families were hurt because of it. Would you rather your son feel hurt and rejected and carry on a secret lifestyle or would you rather show him respect and tolerance and give him a safe place to call home?

Remember that girl who dresses sexy, who you referred to as "the little hooker"? Your daughter will one day want to look and feel sexy. Do you want her identifying herself as a "hooker" when she does? Or is there a way to channel your reasonable concern and focus on safety and self-respect rather than character, to encourage her to make positive choices in the future?

Remember how you rolled your eyes or giggled at that kid who was dressed "weird". Maybe your kid liked the way he looked and your reaction sent the message that he can't reeaally be himself. Are you sending the message that your kids can only be themselves if it meets your liking?

Remember how you talked about someone or teased them for crying/being fat/not doing something right? Your child was watching … and will likely copy your behavior and do the same to others. …. Even worse, they will choose a mate who behaves like you … and their spouse will be making fun of them for crying, for gaining weight, for not doing something right. Think you're immune?… Then you're about to get served a big 'ol dose of humble pie. Parenting is good for that. Teaching your child that they "Can be anything they want to be!" means nothing if your criticism of others and body language says otherwise.

As a mother, I have had my moments. Sometimes it's hard to teach my teenager that the way they or their classmates are acting is less than ideal without using the words "obnoxious", "ridiculous", "annoying", "attention-seeking", "dumb"…. but I've discovered that "bothersome", "unnecessary", "unkind", "unsafe", and "disrespectful" also convey the message I am trying to send without the dismissive and hurtful tone. It's equally hard not to roll my eyes when they are being dramatic but I'm perfectly okay with "You're going to need to take it down a notch."

Being a parent requires us to always be "on" and I am a work in progress. I wear my emotions on my sleeves and my thoughts seems to drool right out the side of my mouth. But I'm trying. I don't want to cause my children the hurt that I experienced as a child. I don't want them to pretend to be something that they aren't in order to meet my approval and I also don't want them to pull away and rebel because my expectations were too aloof and my rules were too rigid. And yet, I want them to be safe and I want to create the best human beings that I can.

My god, it's hard! Parenting is rarely the beautiful thing I once thought it would be. In fact, it's quite ugly most of the time. But my hope is that my results will one day reflect my efforts. Plenty of times I screw up and say the wrong thing and hurt my children without intending to do so. I am human. I swear like my father and I worry like my mother. I can't change everything or break every generational cycle. But my hope is that the more aware I am of myself and my tendencies, the more I will improve. And if I use the mistakes of my parents as inspiration to do better instead of excuses to repeat them or a reason to be angry, than goodness came from a dark place. And unlike parenting, that is always a beautiful thing.

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Teaching our Children: Christian Lessons Carried on by a Self-proclaimed Non-believer

holding hands pic

If you follow my blog, you already know that not every behavior my parents modeled for me was a positive one. I challenge you to find one set of parents that did. Despite the dysfunctions that plagued our family, there were also positive aspects to be had. And I fear, I don't often focus on these positives enough.

A large part of my childhood revolved around our church community. And many of the lessons I was taught stemmed from a fairly fundamental view of Christianity. Dr.Dobson was a favorite in our home. If you follow my posts, you already know that religion is no longer something I subscribe to. I think a lot of unhealthy habits and behaviors can easily grow from fundamentalism including exclusion, judgmentalism, revenge ("an eye for an eye"), and even violence and abuse -("spare the rod and spoil the child").

But I think it's only fair to give credit where credit is due. While I have many gripes about my childhood and even more about religion, there were many things that my parents did well. And they used Christianity as the basis for much of it. In a spirit of taking the good with the bad…

Here are some lessons taught by Christians … and carried on by this Non-believer:

 

We always ate dinner together at the table. Meal time was community time. It encouraged family togetherness and conversation and it created an awareness of each other's lives. It's harder to be self-centered and disconnected when you share a meal with someone and are aware of their days' struggles.

It's a practice that I've carried-on in my family today. One of the reasons I continue to work night shift is that it allows us to continue to eat dinner together. Many days it's the only time we all have together. Not hungry? Too bad … you sit at the table anyway. For that 30 minutes we commune as a family. And I've found that often times, that sulking teenager soon has something to share about their day that we wouldn't have otherwise heard.

Thirteen years of dinners we have had together and now the kids are dumb-founded if someone is missing from the table one night. While their growing independence may create a desire to pull away from this tradition, the sense of normalcy surrounding this routine is one I hope they continue to appreciate.

My parents taught me to be a friend to the less fortunate and to appreciate people for their genuineness, not their popularity. My father, in particular, had an affinity for the unusual and less popular kids and he taught me to not only discover their worth, but to celebrate their treasured uniqueness. Most of my childhood, I was friends with the dorks and still am …. dorks usually grow-up to be way cooler than the cheerleaders anyway 😉 Ok ok who's judging now … point taken.

They taught me charity. I remember my mother holding the hand of a homeless man in church once. When everyone else stepped away because he smelled bad, she stepped in. She always volunteered for the projects for the poor. Through her, we learned that there were many people much poorer than we were and that their misfortune was usually due to a history or unfortunate life events and not through some direct fault of their own.

Consequently, I've raised children who sympathize with the less fortunate. They carry extra snacks with them, to pass out to the homeless, every time we go into the city and donating clothes and bagged lunches are monthly practices for us.

They taught us to appreciate the things we had and to take good care of them. It was a lesson in respect for the work it took to buy the things we had. Nothing came free and every gift, no matter how small was to be cherished. I still have quite a few items from my childhood, in good working condition, that I have been able to share with my children. In a world of disposability, I cherish this lesson and continue to teach the same to my children.

Focus on the Family is a Christian ministry that focuses on helping families thrive. Family Game Night was one of the suggestions my Dad took from this and he practiced it regularly with us kids. Being able to escape from the current stressors and focus on something less serious, to spend time together just having fun was crucial to our survival. Some of my favorite memories came from those family game nights and it brought-out a youthfulness in my father that I rarely saw. My mother didn't usually participate on these nights and instead used it as an opportunity to have some "quiet time". As a mother, I now understand that need and have used my disappointment of her absence as a child as an opportunity to understand and improve.

Game night is a common practice in my household and while it is sometimes a challenge to pull my teens/tweens away from the screens, once the game is underway, it is almost always a great success! I love that Game night gives my kids another opportunity to see me as a fun-loving person and not just a parent all the time.

 

Leaving my childhood, there were a lot of things my parents told me to do/not do … and many of them I chose not to subscribe to …. including religion.  Although, my father and sister have also since left the faith. But regardless of where I now stand and what my current beliefs are, I did manage to carry-on many positive practices that were rooted in the church and practiced by my then-completely religious family. And while I still found myself holding on to some bias and judgment and a restricted view of the world, I'm learning to overcome that.

We all have unhealthy examples set for us and the sources or reasons behind them vary. But by hearing people's stories, seeking out different perspectives and being willing to accept that lessons can be learned from so many different places, I have learned how to shed a lot of that bias and yet still hold on to the goodness that came from a religious household.

The same way I learned from my parents to befriend the unusual, to play with my children and be to silly, to appreciate the community of a family meal, to be charitable to those in need and to appreciate the things I have … my children can learn from me. And my hope is that they learn their lessons not just from me, from any source they can.

The world is full of lessons we can learn and opportunities to improve …. regardless of where they come from. If I can learn from the addict, the prisoner and the fallen, then I can learn from the Christian. I am thankful for many of the lessons my parents and my church taught me. I am thankful that they taught me to fight for and believe in my family. I am thankful that given their limited resources, they sure as hell did try to create an intact and happy family. The church and it's teachings are full of good lessons to learn from, even if you don't buy into the whole package, even if you're a non-believer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Learning to love like a Christian and live like an Atheist

cross picFor those that don't know me, I grew up in a devout Catholic home and attended Catholic schools for 12 years. I am now a Humanist/Agnostic but I often use the word "atheist" because I don't care to play semantics and it gets the point across faster. This post isn't meant to incite an argument or to offend anyone. Nor is it an invitation for you to convince me that I'm wrong or invite me to your church because your church isn't like the ones I describe. If religion works for you, enjoy it! Just don't judge me because it no longer works for me. Here are my thoughts and experiences. I hope you find them reason to love more.

"Thou shalt not….."……I memorized them all….all ten. And then there were the beatitudes and the prayers and the rituals of the mass. I've read both the Bible and Catholic Catechism in their entirety. There were family rules and school rules and outside rules. I learned how to altar serve, how to lector, how to be a liturgical dancer and how to earn the Christian Achievment award every year. In many people's eyes, I was the model citizen, the model Catholic, the model child.

People often times ask me why I left the church, "What happened?" Some assume I left because I didn't want to follow their rules any more. Others assume I acquired some unbearable level of shame and that I felt unworthy of returning. Neither of these things are true. The reasons I left are many, though they mainly stem from difficulties I found in church doctrine. My brain and science as I understand it just don't jive with the stories and rules taught by any religion that I have studied. And yes, I've studied quite a few!

But the reason I've separated myself so much from all organized religion and Christianity in particular, is that what I wanted for my life and from my church community more than anything, was to be loved and I wanted to love others in return. I felt like Christianity sold me on an ideal that it didn't deliver and I'm working hard to shed my disappointment from this.

"They will know that we are Christians by our love."… that's true … isn't it?!

I wanted more than anything for this to be true. The bible taught me about a man who didn't judge, who didn't hurt, who had no sin … and yet in my experience, fewer places are filled with as much judgment and as much hurt as the walls people flock to for salvation. Inside the institution I so dedicatedly belonged to, I found myself submersed in a sea of people all pointing their fingers, all criticising and judging one another. Either 'her make-up was too dark', or he 'didn't contribute enough' or she simply wasn't following 'God's ways'. Often the biggest sponsors, the loudest mouths, the most visible faces, were the ones living double lives and I just couldn't take it. They would stand on their pulpit and condemn while in their basement they held boxes upon boxes of sins and secrets. The sins I can forgive, the condemnation of others I can't. Don't get me wrong … the soup kitchens, the clothing drives, the pregnancy centers are all worthy causes. The church has saved many lives. And for some, the structure and community that it offers is irreplaceable. For those, I would never take it away. But there is still so much work to be done within the body of the church; and for me, I have done better without it.

My church taught me to love IT and it taught me to do things to gain God's praise …. but it really didn't teach me to love others, or myself. I wanted God to be happy. I wanted my parents and teachers to be happy and I got so caught up in what the rules were that I failed to truly love. And I'm not alone in this, I'm just more honest than most. For years, I followed this lifestyle, fooling myself that I was happy, that I did love everyone. But there was a storm inside of me …. an unrest. I didn't realize, while I was in the midst of it, just how hard it was for me to love without restraint. There were so many rules that excluded others- homosexuals, atheists, those engaging in premarital sex, divorcees, liberals. And as I left the nest and explored the world as an independent adult, I began to discover that some of the best humans I'd ever met just so happened to live alternative lifestyles, held different beliefs and subscribed to different politics than the ones I was raised to believe were the "one and true". The people I was raised to look down on, to judge, were kinder and more honest humans than the people who sat next to me in church every Sunday.

I had no idea how unhappy and weighted down I was with the judgment of others, until I escaped it.

Maybe it wasn't the church … maybe it was my background … where my parents came from. Maybe it was the church members who were attracted to me because of my role-model status, who were fundamental in their beliefs. Maybe it was me. A degree of self-centeredness and a lack of perspective is common in childhood, I believe. I suppose it's also common for it to carry into adulthood for a time. Maybe my loss of religion and gain of love for humanity was just 'maturity' and my faith was just a coincidental and unfortunate casualty.

Wherever their origin, those judgments clung to me and hung from my neck like weights. Until, through my own adult journey, I learned to disrobe them. You ask me why? Why I left?… Why I changed?… Why I still get angry at the church sometimes? Because the moment  I became aware of my own judgement towards others, I felt the burden I was carrying and it became unbearable. It cut into my neck and I struggled tirelessly to rid myself of it. Every day I looked for a new perspective, a new understanding, a new love. I was tired of hating my fellow man because he didn't follow the rules I was taught. I was tired of being a part of a community that spent more time telling people what they should and should not do than simply loving them.

And I was tired of being loved conditionally. I was a "good girl". I wore my medallions and walked to church … before school even! I studied my faith every day for 12 years and I subscribed to what I knew was "holy". Their words instructed me to be honest, to respect, to obey and to be faithful. I knew what they wanted to see and I gave it to them. I thrived on positive reinforcement and I longed for structure. And I did it, knowing that if I didn't, they'd dismiss me like all the rest. I did it, because I wanted to be loved and I wanted to feel worthy. My home life was nothing for people to be proud of … nor were my academics … I was an average student; But my dedication to my faith made people proud. And I loved that.

As I began to venture outside of the church community, I expected the world to eat me alive. Afterall, that's what I was taught would happen; instead, they accepted me. Outside the walls of the sanctuary, I learned that I was loved and I was worthy, regardless of the medallions and the commandments and the mass schedule. Wearing short shorts, using swear words, having a sex life … didn't take away from the fact that I was kind and generous and honest. My worth wasn't based on those things anymore. Outside the church community, I could help people and still be "me". And I could do so without the sideways glances and the whispers and the disappointment. And believe you me, those whispers are deafening when its you that they talk about.

Without a church, I learned how to love like a Christian and live as an Atheist.

I am lighter now and yet I still carry a heaviness in my heart because so many still don't understand their hypocrisy. They don't understand the unspoken lessons they carved into my soul and the journey I took to erase them. What I would like them to know, what I'd like them to see, is that its the way they treat everyone else that speaks volumes. It doesn't take a saint to love babies and it's only human to feel compassion for the homeless and the destitute. But what about the un-holy, the un-faithful, the falling but not quite hitting rock bottom yet? Do you work as hard to catch someone when they're slipping as you do after they've hit rock bottom. It's not hard to help someone when they've got nowhere else to turn … but what about when they have a choice? Will you love them just the same if they fail to subscribe to your teachings?

What I want the church to know is that its walls are filled with little girls and boys who are watching. I was once that little girl and I learned the most by watching. Every time someone shook their head at that "other girl", I learned how to pass judgement on her. With every patronizing giggle, I was taught to feel insecure and inadequate. When they were "embarrassed for her" and "felt sorry for her mother", I knew they'd one day be embarrassed of me and I felt sorry for myself. When they said they were "proud" that I "wasn't like her", I saw myself in her. They ministered to the poor and yet they abandoned the girl next-door. Silently, not so silently they taught me. They said they were "proud" of me … but the conditioning had already been set, my sense of self-worth already tarnished. "Be yourself" they said …"but not like that". "I've never judged you", they said, but I'd watched them judge the world and I was afraid they wouldn't love who I really was.

They told me that if I laid with a man who had failed to put a ring on my hand, it only meant that he would leave me. Girls that did that were trashy whores. Only men worthy of waiting with me, were worthy of marrying me. It was a valid possibility, but when pounded and pounded with no other alternative it seemed to be an absolute truth. So when I did lay with a man prior to marriage, my expectations were set. And when he did leave, I felt nothing. They told me so. To avoid the hurt, I learned to be defiant and then to be numbed.  I didn't know then, that the man who would fulfill all my dreams, would be a sinner just like me …. and that he wouldn't leave, but instead beg to stay.

They taught me that while abortion was a grave sin, sex before marriage was also a unnegotiable one. And so without instruction or even self-awareness, I learned as a child to look for a ring when I saw a gravid belly. When the un-wed in our community ended up pregnant, we were embarrassed for them … less concerned because of the difficulties their future would hold in education or love or finance, but embarrassed because it was evident that they had sinned. That evidence which stuck out in front of them, a round belly, for the whole world to see and pity, held a miracle … but people only saw that when they stood outside the abortion clinic. Despite leaving the church several years before, when my own bare hands held my own swollen belly,  I felt ashamed. And it left me pretending to be something that I wasn't – either unashamed or betrothed.

With the storm brewing inside of me, I felt like a wild animal who was tethered. Pulling, pulling, I broke free and when I did, I ran, never to go back to that place again. I don't want to be a Christian anymore – but I want to love like one is supposed to. It is my journey to understand not to judge. To listen and to forgive, not to justify. To see and to help, not to turn my head. To lend a hand with no expectations of changing ones beliefs. The world as a whole is a much larger picture than one altar. And I am better person because I cut the ties that taught me to judge and learned to love without rules.

This atheist is going to show to world how to love …. like a Christian should. And if I do, if I can learn to love all people without restraint, including the Christian, than their god tells me, they will see who I am. And I guess that's all I really wanted …. to be seen and loved for who I really am and for others to love in return.

 

 

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Cold Soup

soup smaller

A head on collision with a 100 mph impact, divorce, tragic death, health issues that leave life-long scars, low economic status, cycles of abuse and dysfunction, victimization due to both environment and intentional assault…

What do these events do to a person? Who does one become? Tell me, how is one changed by them? Because they will change you. Forever.

Well, of course one could become cynical and bitter, lose their sense of self and sense of hope. They could develop tunnel-vision – an over-compensation of one’s traumatic life experiences that lead a person to see only one outcome for a particular experience and therefore make over- generalizations and judgements of others. They could continue their dysfunctional cycles because that is what they were shown, what they were taught. We see it all the time… you can picture the people and hear their words now. “It’s not my fault…”, “That’s the way I was raised….”, “It’s because when I was a kid…”
dot…dot…dot…

Or, one could in the face adversity and trauma, turn away, run, crawl and hide from life experiences and possibilities – in an effort to avoid being hurt again. That is a very real and natural, self-preserving trauma reaction, that without intervention could lead to a loss of one’s will to live. And challenging life experiences could be used to justify those actions and attitudes. It’s understandable. Life can be cruel and at times there seems to be no sign of improvement in sight.

This insight shouldn’t be used as an excuse to judge others for their life choices but an opportunity to hold our own selves accountable. No one experiences life the same or has the same genetic make-up. And therefore, don’t bother drawing comparisons.

We all have scars. We all have left-overs … remnants from our past that bubble-up or sneak-in… giving those who happen to be watching close a peep-hole view of the world we came from, behind the doors we thought we had closed behind us. No one comes away from a battle unscathed and we ALL have a story.

 

The point is, what you do with your story.

 

I remember a time when I walked into a patient’s room and she and her husband were eating soup, cold, out of a can.… cream based soup at that! Horrified, I said “Oh no, we have a microwave!” “We know”… they said, “its fine, we’re used to eating it like this.”

Now, those who know me, know I am direct but curious and never approach with the intent of making a judgment but instead, of gaining insight. And … I have the biggest mouth in the universe. So, I inquired, “What makes one start eating soup out of a can, cold? I’m just curious … and why would you choose that when you have a microwave available?”

The husband’s demeanor changed immediately. A smugness and attitude crept in. “We didn’t have a lot of money growing up. Sometimes this is what we could afford and we just got used to eating our food cold.” And then he made some vague reference to his days spent in college dorms and eating cheap food.

I knew in that moment, he saw the little blond registered nurse standing in front of him and he thought we came from very different places. I’m sure he thought I grew up in high society – with my highlights and big vocabulary and BSN. Fact is, when I was growing up, we couldn’t afford canned soup. My mom fed our family of 6 for days with a ham bone and a bag of dried beans …. probably from the church pantry. But it was heated and eaten at the table with dishes – the same set of dishes for 20 years that some relative handed down to us, because that was cheaper than paper plates. And we hand-washed them because we had no dish-washer. And I never had the privilege of living in a dorm. I paid for my college degree myself and commuted back and forth in between my four jobs in order to do so.

I knew exactly what it was like to ‘go without’… but that was no excuse for not striving for better. Eating cold soup straight from the can is lazy. And lazy has not a thing to do with economics. That’s what I wanted to say… I wanted to tell him not to use poverty and background as an excuse for continued choices and behaviors …. but I couldn’t.

Instead I very calmly and quietly said, “Yeah … me too … I grew up without money too. It was hard. At least we always had a fire source though and I didn’t have to eat food cold.” He was speechless and I just left the room.

Maybe some people like canned-soup cold and maybe they don’t want to dirty dishes. That wasn’t the point of that story. Had that man stated those reasons for his choices, I wouldn’t have had a judgment or an argument to make. He likes it, period! And that’s fine. Your past will always tint your future, but don’t use it as an excuse to keep buying the same color. Yesterday, you could have gone the extra mile to heat your food, with or without a microwave. Today, you have a microwave.

 

Cynical. Cyclical. Defeated. A victim ……… OR ……… Learned. Experienced. Diverse. Hard-working. Resilient. Fortuned with varied experiences. Gained perspective. A survivor. A conqueror.

The choice is yours.

What do challenging experiences lead to? How are you changed by them?

I can only tell you what I’ve tried to do. And I am flawed. My personality is a strong one and it’s not for everybody. Those experiences I listed up top in my intro…the ones that change people…they happened to me…and not just once. Many of them happened enough times or for enough time that they left scars. I don’t let my scars define me but I don’t cover them up either. They are a beautiful part of me and how I have evolved. I acknowledge them. I ponder them. I work on them – to keep them soft and pliable, not hard and rigid. They are reminders of a past and experiences that I learned from.

What will you do?

Will you run away? Or will you fight? Will you hide? Or will you seek an opportunity for success? Will you use fear as an excuse or a goal to overcome? Will your lack of perspective be a crutch or a reason to go explore?

What have my experiences taught ME?

They’ve taught me that tomorrow is promised to no one. That everyone has a story, and if you sit long enough with someone – they’ll tell you. That you never really know ‘what you would do’, until you’re there. They’ve shown me that kindness and goodness show up in the most unlikely of places. And that those two things, matter more than just about anything. I’ve learned that anger is a normal and an often immediate response but it can be controlled. And time and introspection is the best healer. I know that I can’t change my past … but I can accept it and learn from it … and further, I can learn to appreciate it for what good it has given me. Because there is some amount of good in everything.

And I am still learning, that like my past … I can’t change people and people don’t owe me anything. But, I can choose to learn from them, and to accept them as they are and I can relish in whatever goodness they have to offer. My life is a gift to me and I have one shot at it. So I’m choosing not to be a victim but a conqueror, an adventurer, a seeker, a student.

Many years after my youth, I own my own home … and it doesn’t have a dishwasher. Instead, I married a man who doesn’t mind hand washing in the least. Occasionally I do buy paper plates for convenience. And I never eat cold soup unless its gazpacho. And I eat it in a chilled bowl with fresh avocado on top because damn it, it’s delicious. And life should be filled with as many moments of deliciousness as we can fit in …. not laziness … just deliciousness.

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Come y Calla

saucepan pic

 

“¡Come! ¡Y Calla!” … It’s what we call dinner when we don’t know what to call it!

My husband, a refugee of sorts, who grew up in Chilé and left during the dictatorship of Pinochet was familiar with the concept of “making do”. His childhood taught him to follow this notion in all things. Stray socks from the neighborhood kids and some twine became a soccer ball. Scrap materials became household fixes. Shoes were repaired not replaced. You never bought seeds to grow more food … you saved and grew your own from the food that you just ate.

And dinner, was whatever grandma could put together.

If at the table, staring down at your plate, you found the dish to be one you couldn’t recognize and you dared ask her what it was … she would inevitably always respond – “Come y Calla”.

It translates from Spanish to “Shut-up and Eat”.

So of course the day would come in our little American family of 4 that money would be tight and groceries low and I would have to come up with something. Staring at this chunk of ham, this half bag of frozen corn, a stray onion down in the bin, part of a wilted green pepper and a loaf of bread … I wondered, what in the hell I was going to make for dinner.

Blessed with internet access, a creative mind and a raging appetite “Creamed Ham and Corn over Toast” was born in the Meneses household. And when the kids … just babes then, looked down at their plate with some slop over toast, they inevitably asked “What’s this?” And before I could apologize or ask for forgiveness or better yet, come up with a name … my husband piped up- “It’s called Come y Calla”. “Mmmmm…”, my wee-sized daughter remarked as she took her first bite, “… this Come-Calla is good!”

And so “Come Y Calla” transposed another generation. Since that day, Come y Calla has taken on many forms when pantry oddities, refrigerator and freezer scraps were turned into meals.

When all you have is a bag of onions and stale bread and cheese, check the spice cabinet – if you’ve got beef bouillon – you’ve got French Onion Soup for dinner. Save your carcasses from a ham, turkey or chicken dinner … boil those suckers and make soup. An orange in the fruit bowl, a head of lettuce and those hard noodle things that come with Chinese carry-out make a ‘good enough’ asian salad – especially if you have orange marmalade in the fridge to throw together with vinegar, some spices and olive oil for a vinaigrette. Panzanella salad is a great way to use up that french bread loaf that got stale and is now hard as a brick – combined with tomatoes, mozzarella and whatever other veggies need to be used up in the fridge. And zucchini fritters or zucchini bread are great ways to use up those giant, tough- skinned zucchini you grew in the garden because you didn’t harvest often enough.

Learning to “make-do” is a life-long skill that carries life-long pay backs. Saving money and resources is an obvious benefit, but taking on creative challenges, expanding your food horizons and boosting your confidence in cooking are the much more delicious by-products of thrifty food creations. And what if it’s a flop? Who cares….it was left overs…you’ve probably had worse meals that you’ve PAID for. And if nothing else, it’s a story to laugh about later.

Now more advanced in their ages, the kids have started to question the dinner title when “Come y Calla” comes around again. “This is Come y Calla?….. I thought Come y Calla was something else.” We play along and then my husband and I exchange a secretive wink. They don’t know what it translates to. One day they will and they’ll probably feel some injustice has been done to them. But after they get over it… I hope they see that Mommy did her best. And that some of the best meals we had were surprises that came from the days when we had the least.

Below are a few of my “Come y Calla” recipes … ones that ended up a hit and I jotted down. But don’t go shopping. The point of “Come y Calla” is to find your own hidden treasures waiting to be created. And when you manage to create a good one … you’ll be more proud of that dish than you are of the gourmet meal you spent a fortune to create. Because you saved your family money AND created goodness from scraps. Not to mention … perfecting this skill will make you a valuable asset in the zombie apocalypse 😉

If you’re looking for additional inspiration, Rachel Ray has some fun “Bottom of the Jar” ideas to use up the last morsels of condiments in the fridge. There are also some fun websites that allow you to plug-in the foods you have on hand and use a database to search for recipes using these ingredients. These websites can also help you to discover good swap-outs if you don’t have a particular ingredient on-hand but want to go forward with the recipe anyway.

Here are several of the top “search by ingredients”/recipe creation websites:

http://www.supercook.com/#/recipes

http://www.recipematcher.com
http://www.recipepuppy.com
http://www.cookthing.com
http://myfridgefood.com

Amanda’s Come y Calla recipes:

Creamed Ham and Corn

Ingredients:

1 cup of cubed ham
1/2 small onion, diced
1/4 green pepper diced
2 handfuls of frozen corn
2 TBS flour
1-2 cups milk

3 hard-boiled eggs, chopped

garlic powder, chicken bouillon, Worcestershire sauce, black pepper for seasoning

-Sauté cubed ham and veggies in butter until the veggies soften and the onion is lightly browned.
-Season sautéed ham and veggies with a dash of garlic powder, 1/2 tsp chicken bouillon, 1/2 tsp Worcestershire sauce, and crushed black pepper.
-Add 2 TBS flour to milk. Whisk.
-Pour milk and flour into ham and veggies mixtures. Stir until it thickens.
-Add the chopped hard-boiled eggs and mix into ham and veggie mixture.

Serve over toast or biscuits

Shrimp and Grits

Ingredients:

1 cup dry grits
2 cups milk
1 cup shredded cheese-whatever you have
1 bell pepper, chopped
1/2 medium onion, chopped or sliced
2 cloves garlic sliced
1 large sausage-preferably uncooked and pulled out of casing or crumbled
1 lb uncooked shrimp
seasonings: 1 tsp chicken bouillon, black pepper, garlic powder, swirl of olive oil, sprinkle of old bay, drizzle of hot sauce, splash of beer
eggs if you have them

In a pot, boil 2 cups of milk and 2 cups of water with chicken bouillon. Add grits. Stir occasionally. Add black pepper and garlic powder. Once grits are soft and cooked, stir in shredded cheese. Remove from heat.
In a saucepan, add olive oil, bell pepper, onion, garlic and sausage. Sauté, crumbling sausage and mixing with veggies as you go. Add shrimp. Cook just until pink.
Stir in Old Bay, hot sauce, beer if you have it and cook just a few more minutes.
Spoon the sausage, pepper, onion, shrimp mixture over the cheese grits and serve with fried or poached eggs.

 

Stay Happy, Stay Healthy!

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Who Saved Who? Lessons learned from a not-so-perfect dog rescue.

“Who saved who?”….

I’ve seen the bumper sticker with the paw print and the sentimental saying and I appreciate it for it’s worth. I’ve seen first hand the bond between cats and dogs and their lonely owners. Animal rescues hold the potential to save many lives, tortured by solitude. Scientific studies have shown the benefit of animal camaraderie on mental health. And so, this truth doesn’t weigh lightly on my mind. I’ve always loved animals. Fortunately for me though, they are less of a “need” and more of a “luxurious addition”.

A nurse who works full-time and blogs, two kids for whom schooling is a challenge and activity is a constant desire, and a husband who puts his all into providing for his family and yet is constantly trying to keep up with all their shenanigans …. No one here needed animals to keep them company. And yet there’s a zoo here:

The 9-year-old rescue dog who’s perfect, except for her propensity to sneak out of the yard and go hunting … only to come home smelling like death. The cat who will piss in the laundry basket if you don’t keep her litter box clean. The rabbit who loves more than anything to pull her hay out of the box and toss it through the slated cage all over the floor,  if her 13-year-old owner doesn’t exercise her enough. The algae- eating fish who doesn’t do his job and the snake who thank god … completely minds his own business, if only his 10-year-old owner would just remember to feed him on time! Oh yeah, and the frogs who need live crickets, which we toss in a powdered vitamin supplement just prior to feeding.

So, were we looking for a second dog? Haha funny. But she came to us … without tags or a direction home. My intention was only to find her owner, but when no one came forward, we grew by another 4 paws. We made it official on Facebook and sealed the deal to ‘commit’ by forking over the money to vaccinate, chip and spay her.

A new collar, matching bowls and freshly inscribed tags made it feel like a fairy tale ending. Only it wasn’t quite that magical…..

You see … after about a month and a spay that unfortunately ended an unknown pregnancy. Our sweet little rescue began to exhibit some undesirable behaviors and they took a toll on our family. She became aggressive and territorial. She obsessed about her sleep place and gathered cat toys as if they were her pups, defending them with vigor. Not to mention her constant barking became almost unbearable. It took a major toll on my day sleeping and an even bigger toll on my marriage. While I have an unrelenting affinity for saving lost creatures, my husband has a much easier time saying “Enough is enough”. I bought her some more time by explaining that her hormones were raging and her animal instincts were confused; But when she snapped at my husband as he tried to remove her from my bed, I knew her days were numbered if I didn’t take action soon.

Armed with the internet, an understanding vet and an undying desire to make this situation work, I took every feasible action I could. Daily walks, obedience training and a no-nonsense approach to her every behavior and household possessions became rote. I learned that it was my job to teach her that everything belonged to me and that she only gained access to them if I allowed it. Walks and playing fetch helped her to burn excessive energy and structure gave her expectations. This decreased her anxiety and increased her respect for us as humans. Within a week, I had a new dog. Within a month, we began to build trust again.

“You did such a good thing rescuing her!”, they said. “You saved her!” and for a minute I believed all the hype. It’s true! I didn’t need or really, for a minute, even want a second dog. But I saved her anyway. I’m kind of a hero 🙂

But every hero needs a little saving himself. And the truth is … she saved me too – not from loneliness and not because I needed fulfillment in my life. That’s important … but I get that through home and work. She saved me because she taught me what I had forgotten that I needed. She reminded me.

She reminded me that I needed to get outside for fresh air and exercise. Sunshine and burning off energy is good for dogs and humans. I needed those walks and sunshine more than I ever realized. I had become lazy with my older dog, merely opening the back door to let her out into the fenced yard. She’s loving the walks now too!

She reminded me that yelling accomplishes nothing and that calm assertive energy is effective. I’m a Mom…why did a dog have to remind me of that?!

She reminded me to be patient. Change doesn’t happen with one treat or one command but gradually over time and with repeated efforts.

She reminded me to be consistent. One of the fastest ways to sabotage your own efforts, in any relationship, is through a lack of consistency.

She reminded me that loving isn’t spoiling but learned respect and earned privileges followed by praise and affection .

She reminded me that when things are hard and the people you love the most are ready to give up – that’s when you work the hardest. And you don’t ever give up until you’ve exhausted all options.

If the dog hadn’t learned. If she had bitten someone or posed a true threat to my family’s safety – she would have had to find a new home. And I would have had to accept the possibility that she could be put down as a result of her age and aggressive signs. No doubt about it … my family comes first! But I’m glad she did learn and I’m glad I did too.

It’s been almost 5 months since Pinkie came into our lives and into our home. She’s not perfect ….. but neither am I. We’re both a little anxious, can be mouthy and loud, have lots of energy and need a ton of physical affection. She has grown by leaps and bounds but it will take much more time before she has gained full trust in all things. Still, we both worked hard to make the relationship work and it paid off. She’s the perfect snuggle-buddy for my kids, the perfect guard dog for the house and she has befriended all of the household creatures beautifully … including my husband.

Through hard work, commitment and patience ……. another soul, another pup … was saved.

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Tiny Treasures

 

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I spent a week in paradise, searching a beautiful chain of islands for rest, for answers, inspiration and strength. I hungered for solace but my mind was plagued by busy thoughts. Too exhausted to move and too restless to sit still, I was tired of thinking and yet silence drove my mind into a feral beast that lashed in every direction.

Like a small child to its mother, I turned to the island for comfort but when she reached out to touch me, I turned my cheek. I yearned for her to soothe me, yet I resisted.

All week I combed the beaches, not for shells but for answers. Walking past thousands of perfect specimens, I looked into the vague distance as I fought with my demons and talked to my angels. Asking for guidance, I waited for an answer but my requests were met only by a nagging silence. In the most wonderful company, I felt alone. Alone, I felt tormented.

Tired of walking, I sat at the water’s edge with a fishing pole. The periodic taps of biting fish and the occasional fight of a catch helped to maintain the busy-calm that I was looking for. The views around me were breathtaking and yet my perspective barely extended beyond the minnows nipping at my toes. I was lost in my mind and consumed by my thoughts.

Soon, despite the fishing pole wedged between my side and right arm, my anxious hands found the sand and shells under the waters I sat in. And I found myself collecting miniature shells and lining them up on my bare thighs.

“For the doll house”, I thought. “With these tiny shells, I can make something for the doll house”. And soon, I was in-search for the tiniest of shells, hidden in the sand around me.

Finally, I was searching for something other than answers.

As the storm clouds rolled-in, I scooped up my collection and we headed home.

The next day my mind found itself in the same battle … no energy for busy, no patience for quiet. Again, I combed the beaches empty-handed and again, despite the beauty that surrounded me, my mind was drowning. Sitting along the water’s edge, my fingers once again found the sand beneath me. And then, as my fingers sieved through the powdery white sand, their tips found themselves on the underside of another tiny shell and finally, my angels answered. “Keep searching for tiny treasures”.

“Keep searching for tiny treasures”

Slowly, my mind began to work in a different way and the view ahead of me began to clear. Instead of searching for something I may never find, I rediscovered the tiny treasures of my lifetime.

I remembered my childhood home. Inside those walls, there was plenty of pain and heartache … but on summer nights, in the backyard, there were fireflies! A mason jar, a childhood crush and the sweet green grass that always grew too long made summer evenings there, magical.
I don’t remember most Christmas’s and I can’t recall a single first day of school … but if I close my eyes, I can take myself right back to the sound of crickets and those glowing, flying, tiny treasures.

Looking further back, on the years we lived in the trailer park, I remembered when my Dad brought home “Kool-Aid” for the first time. I sat on the table with my face planted over the plastic pitcher. As he emptied the seemingly empty packet and added the sugar, a mysterious, sweet smoke billowed out and stuck to my lips. Then, as he poured the water, the white powder, like magic, flashed into a brightly-colored drink. He was a magician and that was the best “juice” I’d ever had!

It was from the orange clay that surrounded our white and green aluminum home that we spent hours making the best “cheese pies”. They were sun-baked and carefully crafted by the hands of babes.

One summer, the seventeen-year locust came. There might not have been much work and we might have started to out-grow our tiny home …. but those giant bugs provided endless entertainment. We’d carry our pet turtles outside to the empty baby pools and watch them catch and crunch the unsuspecting insects under the hot sun for hours.

I lived my first six years in that trailer and those are some of my fondest memories. Artificial dyes and sugar, poor soil and pre-historic-looking pests were childhood treasures I’d nearly forgotten.

And then, there was that summer at my grandparents “beach trailer”. My brothers and I ran outside in the evening rain when we saw some toads sitting on the porch. Using a fishing bucket and our bare hands, we chased the bumpy, brown amphibians by porch light. By the end of the night, we were soaked and filthy with mud and we had caught a hundred toads! Past our bedtime, Mom finally called us in and tipping the bucket, we released our tiny, hopping treasures back into the wet, dark night. And we carried the pride of our catch into our dreams.

On a camping trip, I found a large shark tooth along the water’s edge where I was playing. Holding it tight in my hands, away from the other kids who were trying to snatch it from me, I raced across the campground to show my mother. I found her in the cabin, alone, crying, but she stopped when I opened my hands. “What a gift!” she said and she forced a smile. In my jewelry box, I still hide that fossilized tiny treasure.

It’s the extra pickle on your sandwich and two cherries in your milkshake. It’s the smell of fresh-baked cookies. A sunset. The warmth of blankets when they come out of the dryer. It’s a text that says “I love you, that’s all.” It’s a bird’s sweet song. It’s an innocent giggle and a satisfied grin. It’s two tiny hands holding a buttercup, “For you Momma”.

The world is speckled with tiny treasures waiting to be found- little creatures, yummy treats, beautiful sights, wonderful sounds. And every place, no matter how dark it may seem, hides its own secret stash …. if you’re willing to look for them. Past the shadows and under the storm clouds, these treasures will be waiting and the joy they bring you, can carry you.

With the same fervor that you seek such wonders, you must also seek to maintain a focus on them, lest you lose sight of them into the background of life and worry.

This week, I saw a Momma dolphin fishing in the canal with her babe. I saw a manatee feeding in the grass. I saw pelicans dive and an egret swallow it’s dinner. I held an infant shark and chased little lizards. I was surrounded by treasures and yet I couldn’t take them in, because I was distracted.

My ‘life lens’ was out of focus. Instead of looking too far ahead, I had to look around. By focusing solely on ‘tomorrow’s’ problems, I was missing the beauty in ‘today’. And a missed appreciation for the beauty of today is exactly what I’ll mourn when tomorrow finally comes.

As I make my way down the shoreline of life, I know I can’t predict what will lie ahead. While I won’t lose sight of the horizon, my focus is on ‘today’. I can’t change tomorrow and I can’t change fate but I can discover each day’s hidden treasures and allow these small blessings to carry me onto the next.

If I’m lucky, I’ll one day look back at a set of footprints that’s stretched far from view and I’ll see just how far I’ve come. My journey will make me stronger and wiser and more resilient to the changing tides and life’s harsh weather. My body will tell the story of a thousand difficult days, but thanks to my angels, my pockets will be stuffed with lots and lots of tiny treasures.

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The Magic of Savannah

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Surviving life takes honesty, to know when your mind and body need a break. It takes gumption, to get off your tail and to go find solace when you need it. It takes wisdom, to know what places and what people will replenish you. And like everything that ends well, it takes a little magic. Anyone who tells you there isn’t magic, simply hasn’t found any yet. The world is full of magic, you just need to know where to find it.

Fernando replenishes me and Savannah holds my magic.

Walking along the river’s edge my tired feet carry me and the weight of my heavy heart. One step at a time, putting one foot before the next, I am reminded that this is just what I needed to do.

The lapping of the small waves and the glistening of the setting sun on the water’s surface sends waves of comfort into my soul. Like the rocking of the tides, my head is devoid of thoughts and then flooded again. Alternating between the welcome absence of thought and the inevitable pining and searching for inspiration and support, I see the river as a beautiful woman. Standing alone, she appears massive and exudes power and strength. Like a warrior upon a cliff with her wild hair whipping in the wind, her presence tells the land around her that she rules here. No one, nothing, can conquer her.

But in just a moment and a turn of one’s head, an enormous container ship makes its way down the waterway and the massive river appears small and overwhelmed. She is dwarfed by the load passing over her and it appears as though it will smother her. Don’t be fooled. She is still a warrior. With grace and beauty she carries that ship on her back, shouldering the weight of every burden that she is given. It is then that you see her true strength. Summoning my inner-warrior, my soul becomes one with the river.

While my soul is immersed in the water that runs along beside me, my feet carry me away from the water’s edge and find a new surface on which to tread. This path is a familiar one. My beautiful ‘River Street’ is paved in cobblestone. I love cobblestone.

As my eyes move from the water’s surface to the path ahead of me, I examine the stones laid before me. A magical passageway, each ancient stone cut by hand … none of them the same as the one beside it. Each one holds the markings of a hard day’s work and the weight of centuries. I am reminded that the most beautiful things in life are the ones that are not like the others. No one stops to admire the bricks of a modern building- stones that are cut by machines, each one designed to look just like the next, lined up, perfectly uniform and just the way they were intended to be from the start. There is no inspiration found in artificial perfection.

So why do we yearn for flawlessness when our hearts are always drawn to imperfect beauty?

My feet work harder to carry me over the uneven stones and I feel unsteady. Yet I welcome the journey. These stones inspire me. They hold their position, still standing strong after years of being tread upon, beaten by harsh weather and saturated by floods. For years, horse hooves clopped upon them, wagon wheels and trolley cars rode them hard and leather, hand-sewn shoes and hard boots walked over them, day-in and day-out, wearing their once sharp edges smooth. And despite its scars, still, it bears the burden and provides passage to those who come to the river.

Even the trees here, ancient and draped in moss, like a wizard, exude wisdom from the years they’ve survived. Thick with stories only their roots can tell and strength from carrying the weight of the epiphytic plants that adorn them, the great oaks comfort me.

Like the wave of a magic wand, a stroll down these streets assures me that my feet, though still tired, and my heart, only slightly less heavy now, too, will carry the load that it is given … with roots that run deep and branches that provide shelter, one step, one lapping wave at a time.

I am thankful for my honesty, my wisdom, my gumption … but most of all … today, I am thankful for the magic of Savannah.

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Death etiquette tips from a suicide survivor… a personal reflection and four tips on supporting the grief-stricken in an unexpected loss

I remember his death like it was yesterday. My father received the phone call at work. Seeing him pull up and race inside, asking for my mother, pulling me aside, it’s all still emblazoned in my mind. I remember his face. I remember how his mouth opened but couldn’t speak. I remember my mother collapsing.

I couldn’t believe this was happening to OUR family. I remember the stress. There were so many people to call. Where will his body rest? What do we do next?

No one plans to bury a child and especially not like that. The feat that is an unplanned funeral is a tremendous one : Picking out a casket, planning a memorial service – with no previous plan in place and no prior conversation on what his wishes would have been, no cemetery plot purchased, no money set aside …. and all to be done by a grieving family in a matter of days.

No doubt, the exhaustion that accompanies a planned funeral after months of caring for an ailing family member is tremendous, despite the time to prepare. An unplanned death seems to be gifted more energy in the form of a shock response. Perhaps shock is somehow a universal self-protection mechanism that allows the loved ones of an unplanned death to, in an almost zombie like state, prepare such rituals before the grief sets in and they are incapacitated. I remember being in shock.

I remember the people. There were so many people. His funeral line stretched so far behind our limo that we couldn’t see the end of it.

Some came and stayed. They were helpful and supportive and present. They were our pillars.

Some came and left. Worthy supports who served as a meaningful presence who then quietly and respectfully retreated. They were greatly appreciated.

And still there were some who merely poked their head in. Uninvited and intrusive, they served as nothing less than a disruption. Like the onlookers to a car accident, they didn’t bother to help but they wanted to know what had happened. They stopped-in only to peer. They wanted to talk when we didn’t. Twenty years later, I still have ill feelings towards those people. You don’t ever want to be those people … that disruption … or even worse … that blatant cause of pain. Morbid curiosity is never welcome in the presence of a grieving person.

I remember the storm – the non-stop ringing of the phone, the busyness of putting together a meaningful service in days- photos pulled out of basement boxes and strewn across the kitchen table, requests being given and offers being accepted, the opening and closing of the door from visitors. It was a chaos that was as organized as an unplanned funeral could be and it was only made possible by the family and friends rallied to help, and the fact that we were still in shock. I’d venture say it’s probably the most comforting time in the first year. Everyone is together. Everyone has a job. The teamwork is amazing. The unity is powerful. It’s exhausting but it’s done with great purpose and in your darkest moments, you still feel a sense of importance and accomplishment and support.

And then the services are over and people go back home and the empty calm after the storm begins. First, the phone rings less frequently. Then, the meals stop coming. The flowers die and the mailbox is once again filled with just bills instead of sympathy cards. Family and friends have gone back home and back to work and you know you’ll have to too. It seems the rest of the world has moved-on but you haven’t. You go to the grocery store for the first time and you look at all the shoppers and you think … “They have no idea. They have no idea that I just lost my brother last week.” They’re pissed about the long line at the register and you’re just trying to breathe again. Leaving the house and entering a public place, you feel like you’ve been mauled by a bear and no one around you notices that your organs are hanging out and there’s a trail of blood behind you. It was the loneliest time of my life. And returning to work/school was worse. I was ready to escape the oppression inside my home but the outside world was so fast, so loud, so different from two weeks ago. The oppression wasn’t just inside of my home, it was inside of me. And interacting with people was the biggest torture of all. People didn’t know what to say or how to act or where to look. Sympathy was appreciated but it was awkward. . . I wanted to feel normal, but I wasn’t.

Suicide is almost always unexpected and it is always tragic. Despite the progression of the world on many other things, mental illness and suicide continue to hold steadfast their “taboo” nature and it makes people uncomfortable. The grief is complicated because the cause of death and the victim are the same entity. It is also a less common cause of death which some people haven’t encountered on a directly personal level. And yet, the numbers are climbing and people are talking more.

Accordingly in Emory State, 34,598 people commit suicide every year. The suicide rate in the United States is nearly double the homicide rate. How often do you hear the news channels and government officials talk about reducing our homicide rate? And how often do you hear them address our suicide numbers? People who suffer from major depression are 20 times more likely to commit suicide. Treatment for depression is proven to be successful and yet only 25% of people with major depression receive help. Prevention of suicide is the key and organizations like Out of the Darkness are aimed at doing just that. But when it’s not prevented and this tragedy strikes someone you know, prepare yourself so that you can be a real support. If you do, they will never forget you, I promise. It’s time these families and all families who experience tragic loss receive the respect and the support that they deserve.

 

Those who have survived the suicide of a loved one are forever changed by it. So here are some tips from a suicide survivor on how, when faced with death, any death, to provide supportive, meaningful, and respectful sympathy and to avoid ever being part of the uninvited, intrusive and disruptive gagglers. May you give the survivors your best, lest god-forbid, you ever find yourself on the receiving end of the sympathy line, there will be someone there to do the same for you.

1. Never ask someone how their loved one died.

This one is number 1 for a reason … because it’s probably my single-biggest pet peeve when it comes to death etiquette. One of the fastest ways to identify a suicide survivor is, when they encounter a person who has lost a loved one, they will never ask “What happened?” or “How did they die?”. Do you know why? Because after their precious loved one elected to end their own life, they were asked this question more times than they can count. And every time they were asked, they felt violated. They didn’t know what to say. If they caved to the pressure to give an honest answer, it meant they had to verbalize their loved ones tragic end over and over again. And if they didn’t give an honest answer, they felt like a fraud. Worse yet, if their mouth found the strength to form the words “suicide”, the reaction from the person who just inquired was just as painful. Be that reaction one of surprise or shock or embarrassment for asking … it is so awkward and uncomfortable that they never again want to be put into that position. Twenty years after my brother’s death, I am now very comfortable discussing his end. But the uncomfortable reaction that I  continue to get from inquiring minds continues to divert my eyes away from theirs when I satisfy their morbid curiosity and answer “He committed suicide.” And so, a suicide survivor will never ask someone how their loved one died because they understand.

And the truth about this is, knowing the cause of one’s death has absolutely no bearing on your ability to provide support. The only reason you are asking is to satisfy your morbid curiosity. If they want you to know, they’re going to tell you. By asking them, you rip that choice away and you violate them.

Further more, if they answer “suicide” and you ask “How did they do it?”, you have taken that level of disrespect and violation to the umpteenth degree. If you have ever asked someone this question, I hope after reading this article, you never do it again. It is the single most insensitive and offensive question I have ever been asked and not only does it cause a grief-stricken person pain but you lose major respect in their eyes.

And it’s not just suicide survivors that hate this question, it’s anyone who has lost a loved one unexpectedly and tragically. It’s a natural tendency to wonder when a young person or a seemingly healthy person suddenly dies. But imagine for a minute that the person you love the most was kidnapped, raped and brutally murdered. Can you even begin to imagine how you would cope? The fact that the person you love so dearly is not only gone but that they suffered such a tragic end, it would have you utterly consumed by grief, a grief that will never completely leave you. Then imagine, that someone asks you “Oh, what happened?” How would you feel? Well if you can’t imagine how you’d feel, I’ll tell you. It’s a mixture of wanting to cry, wanting to scream and wanting to punch them in the face. And yet somehow our social pressures allow us to feel that our hands have been tied. ” I just told you that my child/my brother/my husband/my mother died! Are you so fucking insensitive that the only thing you can think to say is, ‘How?’ How about some fucking condolences and a casserole!” That’s how you feel. And if they continue on by asking the details, you literally feel like you’ve been violated, like someone took advantage of your vulnerable place and raped you of the intimate details of your loved ones passing.

Protect yourself too. You might be expecting to hear that they had cancer or were in a car accident. Save yourself from that awkward discovery and don’t be that person. When someone reveals that they’ve lost someone, say “I’m so sorry to hear that”, “How can I help?”, “Is there anything I can do?” or if it’s been a while “Wow, that must have been hard.”… and leave it there.

You can ask, “Were you prepared?” or “Was it sudden?” That information can help you to tailor your aid and response without asking for details. But be vigilant in reading their body language and if they signal feeling uncomfortable, back off and give them an out.

Go ahead and ask your intrusive questions to someone else, far removed from the grieving circle who might know … you are allowed to satisfy that curiosity and maybe you want to know so that you can provide more sensitive support. But don’t ask the people who are grieving, it only pushes the dagger further into their heart.

2. Mentioning a passed loved ones name is not only ok, it’s comforting.

Recalling a loved one won’t resurface the pain that you think it will … the pain never really goes away and they’ve never forgotten their loved one. Instead, it provides validity that they lived. Once we are gone, our legacy is the only thing that continues to live. You can help comfort surviving loved ones by helping to build and uphold that legacy and by affirming that you know that that person was important and that you remember them too. Further more, remembering their birthday or anniversary will add you to the “very special friend list”.

3. If you’re going to offer help-be specific, follow through and consider extending the offer throughout the first year.

Anyone who has grieved with any sort of support has certainly heard the words “Call me if you need anything.” How often do you think the grieving persons actually take people up on that offer? Not too often … The reason for that is that they don’t often know what that person’s limits are and what is an appropriate request. Instead, if you want to help, offer specifics: “Would you like me to coordinate a meal train?” “Would you like help compiling photos for the memory board?” “Could I help by taking the kids to school this month?” “Could I help with housework, grocery shopping, walking the dog, shuttling family members to and from the airport?”

Offering assistance in the house and making meals is a great way to help, as is sending flowers and checking in … but don’t forget them when the memorial services are over. One of the hardest things about death is the ‘quiet after the storm’ that I mentioned earlier. In the first week, the fridge is loaded with meals and the phone is always ringing …. which is great! But after a month or two or twenty … don’t forget, they are still grieving. Be a good friend and call, bring a meal by, offer them a day out … especially on the holidays, and around the anniversaries. People process grief at different rates and especially if the death is unexpected, people may not be ready to talk for almost a year. Be the person that’s still there in a year. Be the person who’s still there in twenty years.

4. Don’t look for a silver lining.

Ok that sounds harsh and a bit over generalized. But for the most part, when people have a loss, it’s not comforting to deduce anything positive unless it’s a mere “She’s no longer in pain”…and even that one can be tricky! When you are grieving, outsiders who are looking for a silver lining, often times because they don’t know what to say or they want to “fix”, can choose words that make you feel like your loss is being minimized. When you’ve lost a baby, you don’t want to hear, “You can get pregnant again.” That doesn’t bring back the baby you just lost. When you’ve lost a friend to drug or alcohol abuse, you don’t want to hear “It’s better this way.” You wish they had never been an addict, you wish they had gotten better. When your child is killed in a car accident you don’t want to hear “It’s going to be ok.” They are burying their child…it’s NOT okay! Don’t ever think that your loss is worse than someone else’s because you can’t possibly know until you’ve been there. You’d be shocked to know how many people feel that suicide isn’t as painful as another death because the person committing suicide made that choice. Ummm…hello…do you hear yourself? The person I love chose to leave me … do you have any idea just how fucked up that is for my head to process. And regardless of the cause of death, don’t ever tell a grieving person “It was God’s plan” -or- “It’s time to move on” unless you want to be punched in the face. Instead, often times the best thing you can say is “I am so sorry.”

You can’t make it better. You can’t make it go away. In the face of overwhelming tragedy, there isn’t a sliver lining. Don’t try to make one. Just be there to hold them up. Eventually, the sun will once again rise in their universe and they will remember the people who stood by them in their darkest hour. Superheros don’t really wear capes or throw lightning bolts. They look much more like the giant pillars that held the walls of ancient Roman architecture than they do the gladiators. And they don’t question or barge-in, they bake casseroles, they stop by, they pick up the phone, they remember.

 

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The great lesson that we’re not teaching our daughters

daughterIt’s no secret that girls are dramatic. They can also be clicky and catty and down-right terrible to one another. I think the average parent knows this and does their best to teach their children to be kind and inclusive and to avoid gossip. At least I sure hope they do…. The world is far too cruel to not make this lesson a priority. I’d like to believe that we all want our children to grow up to be kind people and that as much as we don’t want our daughter to be the subject of bullying, nobody wants their daughter to be the mean girl either.

But there’s one practice that I have noticed is getting missed in this ‘life lessons’ section of parenting. I like to call it the “informant practice”. I’ve noticed it amongst young girls and grown-women alike. It’s a practice that happens when a person is friends with person “A” and they hear person “B” say something negative about person “A”. They think that in order to be a good friend to person “A”, they have to go back and tell them what person “B” said. It is a practice that is structured to appear like loyalty but is in actuality a betrayal.

You see, when someone is your friend, your job is to support them and protect them. It’s not to be their informant. When someone is your friend, you want only goodness for that person. To be honest, you really should want only goodness for everyone. When you take negative information back to a person who otherwise wouldn’t have known, two things happen. One, they get their feelings hurt because they are now aware of what negative things people say. And two, they now have negative feelings towards the person you told on. There’s no goodness in that. There’s no support or protection. You might as well have called that person the negative name yourself. You single-handedly allowed your friend to be hurt by words that they otherwise wouldn’t have heard and have pitted one person against another in an effort to strengthen your own friendship. That’s screwed up!

Lets explore an example: What happens when you tell your friend “Mary” that your classmate/acquaintance/coworker “Johnny” said that she was fat/a bitch/lazy/ unreliable? In your mind, you are being loyal to Mary. You want Mary to appreciate you for informing her of Johnny’s disrespect. You don’t want her to trust Johnny. While your friendship may be temporarily strengthened, Mary has now been affected by being called fat/lazy/a bitch etc. and her self-esteem will tell the story somewhere. In addition, Mary now carries negative feelings towards Johnny. So the friend that you were suppose to protect, who was feeling just fine earlier today, is now hurt and angry. Nothing good came of this except for some temporary, selfish boost that you received for being “the informant”.

A second practice that likes to piggy-back onto the “informant practice” is the “Don’t tell” practice. This involves sharing the negative information, as previously stated, and then saying … “but don’t tell them I told you.” Ahhhh…killer!!!! So now, you’ve handed me an emotional pile of shit that I didn’t have before and now I have no way to unload it or deal with it because you’ve obligated me to secrecy. Again …..super-screwed up!

It’s selfish. It’s immature. It’s painful. And I’ve seen it over and over again in elementary school , middle school, high school and in professional places of work. You may feel like this is a practice that your girls will grow-out-of or that it’s the harmless workings of the girl social structure. But I assure you, if we don’t teach them now, they will continue to do it as adults. It’s a practice that hurts people and offers no goodness and it needs to stop.

Now, if everyone at work is complaining that your friend is “always late”. -Or- All the kids at school are reporting that your friend has an annoying habit of giving people wet willies. You can certainly be a good friend and say “People are noticing that you’re late a lot -or- Hey, people don’t like it when you give them wet willies. But you don’t have to single-people-out or quote them in order to make your friend aware of a behavior that is undesirable.

In conclusion, we need to teach our girls, ourselves, that it’s not enough to just be kind. It’s not enough to avoid starting or spreading rumors or gossip. In order to be a good friend we need to protect our friends from the negativity that other people unleash. In order to be a good friend, we sometimes have to stomach what other people are saying … even if that lets that person get away with it. Because friendship and loyalty means sometimes taking a hit or swallowing hard so that your friend doesn’t have to.

Life is hard. Growing up is hard. Parenting is hard. We don’t need to make it any harder. If we teach our girls now, how to be a good friend, how to stop negativity, how to strengthen our interpersonal relationships from the start, then, we in turn make their lives happier and more productive and we make the world a better place.