This is my life now

Posted on January 25, 2022 by cattalespress under Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Birthdays, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, Depression, Do Not Be Afraid, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, grief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, joy, Letting Go, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, mindfulness, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Pandemic, positive words of encouragement, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), Relationships, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, zen

_{My dear friend Camille surprised me with this card on what would have been my son’s 29th birthday}

“That’s for happy people.”

My mother sullenly responded anytime I invited her to join me in a fun activity or special event. As I’ve previously mentioned, she was not only a World War II survivor, but trauma and pain shadowed her for most of her life.

A flat out “No” from her was unnecessary since the sharp tone of refusal was unmistakable. However, I discerned the truth. Her baby-like face, twinkling, daring eyes and partially upturned pink lips forcing down what would be a natural upturned smile, revealed the opposite of her initial response: “Sure, I’d love to go to … “

In fact, until she grew much older and frail, in spite of her protests, she willingly accompanied me on outings, whether they were to the local library, a tag sale, diner lunches or most of the extracurricular activities my kids were involved with when they were young.

After she died in 2015, I missed her company, but forgot about her fussing that preempted our outings. That is, until after our family tragedy and the aftermath of trauma in 2019. Suddenly, whenever I received an invitation or gift of any kind, my mom’s familiar words entered into my mind, “That’s for happy people.”

Survivor’s guilt can do a number on you. To say it feels like you’re “carrying a heavy burden” is pushing it. It feels more like you are stuck in a life that has become a hunk of hardened glue.

This brings me to the generosity of my dear friend Michelle who, at the end of last year, gave me a gift card for a massage. What do you think my response was? Thank you! Thank you! On the other hand, my contradictory mind, though, lamented: “That’s for happy people.”

Sadly, my last massage experience took place about one month before I lost my beloved son. I laid on the table incredibly relaxed and melting to pieces, but my mind battered me. I felt tremendously guilty, pampering myself while my son led a miserable dark, depressed life. Flashbacks of this dreadful time, of course, made me even more reluctant to schedule another massage.

Before Marshall’s birthday rolled around, I knew to “sit around” like a magnet attracting more darkness to the severity of the painful situation would not be wise. I found, however, to sequester and seek solace helps my pain management the most. So why not, I reasoned, take advantage of a massage — in a quiet space under a pair of healing hands?

The day before his birthday, I made an agreement with myself. “If I am able to schedule a last-minute appointment at the place then, so be it. It is meant to be.”

It was meant to be because wouldn’t you know it, there was an opening. The massage therapist’s name was Dawn. I also interpreted the double meaning in her name, the first appearance of light in the sky before sunrise, as a sign.

I put my full faith into Dawn, a random woman I never set my eyes on, but who could either break the rest of my broken pieces or help me try and not shatter any more of the messy debris.

Needless to say, I was a wreck when I arrived on a brisk early afternoon, January 18, 2022. It boiled down to, I really, really needed a good massage.

When the woman who greeted me asked, “So, what brings you in?”

I swear I was so close to replying, “My dead son.”

Instead, I said, “A gift card.”

Ironically, Dawn turned out to be a nondescript woman who wore a mask that covered more of her face than necessary in a facility that requires everyone to wear face protection during these pandemic times.

Later, undressed and comfortable on the massage table, every time my mind started to scatter and squirm like an army of ants without my consent, I did my darnest to focus on what was. Be in the now. Humorously, her freezing cold hands won most of my focus. Then suddenly out of the blue, I recognized: “This is my life now.”

I was inspired from the publisher’s description of Joyce Carol Oates’ A Widow’s Story: A Memoir; a quote I could easily apply to myself now. “There is a frank acknowledgment of the widow’s desperation—only gradually yielding to the recognition that ‘this is my life now. ‘”

A few moments later, I heard my son’s voice in my mind shout, “Don’t touch me!”

Perhaps because of his shaky early years in the hospital, but my son, in the way some people don’t like to be around cats or dogs, was uncomfortable with physical touch and didn’t like a lot of human interaction.

_{Interior of my dear friend Camille’s card}

The realization flew at me like a boat’s paddle: That was his life then and this is my life now.

My faith in Dawn paid off. At the end, I felt fluid. And it felt good physically. Mentally, my gift of peace was still intact.

On what would have been my son’s 29^th birthday, after allowing Dawn’s icy hands to kneed and stroke me, I signed up for a year’s worth of massages.

This is my life now — if all goes per plan, I am now booked for a year of massages to take me through to his thirtieth in 2023.

This is my life now. Some, like Michelle and Camille, have stayed with me. Others have disappeared — to many of them I represent the fragility of our existence. In contrast, I honor my grief and the voices, oh, the unmistakable, unbelievable magnitude of voices that spin inside me and are part of all that I am and all that I will ever be, planted forever in the soul of now and every tomorrow, rising above the physical plane of temporary to the dawn of permanence and eternity.

Color 🎨 Outside the Lines

Posted on November 2, 2021 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Death, death of a child, Divorce, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Fourth Dimension, Gratitude, grief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Lost youth, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, Out of Order Death, Problem Solving, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, Self-Care, self-value, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, To thine own self be true, transparency, trauma, Turmoil

“November 2”

The date repeatedly magnified in front of my face on the oversized black- and-white 2010 calendar, the only wall décor in the attorney’s office where I sat for three and a half hours (no, she didn’t tell me she was charging per hour!) rehashing a month-long account of what had propelled me to file divorce proceedings against my then husband.

Trying to grasp the end of my 19-year marriage, my stressed brain couldn’t differentiate between November 1st and November 2nd, and which one commemorated All Saint’s Day and which one was All Souls’ Day.

If you are not familiar with the dates, the internet definitions are below:

All Saints’ Day, also known as All Hallows’ Day, Hallowmas, the Feast of All Saints, or Solemnity of All Saints, is a Christian solemnity celebrated on November 1 in honor of all the saints of the church, whether they are known or unknown.

All Souls’ Day, also known as the Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed and the Day of the Dead, is a day of prayer and remembrance for the souls of those who have died, which is observed by Latin Catholics and other Christian denominations annually on November 2.

I finally realized that November 2nd was indeed “the Day of the Dead.” From that bleak day forward, the day slapped a bookmark into the pages of my life and paused a full spool of memories made prominent with lace-up-the sneakers, leaf-peeping adventures. From that autumn on, it took eight years to refill the fall time colors into my black-and-white, gray-hued calendar world. Finally, the afternoon arrived when I drove through the neighborhood, and the sudden sight of crimson, golden leaves inspired me to recite poetry out loud in the car.

A year after color poured back into the lines of my life, little did I realize that the bottom of my world would completely unhinge, and I would be left fluttering around in a pool of profound grief that became my permanent autumn shadow.

Recalling the eight years of robbed autumn color, I appreciate the reawakened awareness of the hues. Consequently, they will never represent the same brazen fire irons they once did. Long lost are the years when the children were young, and we sipped fresh steaming apple cider that wafted through our sunny kitchen with an aroma that was a recipe to create optimistic dreams that seemed as real as finding the perfect fit in a new pair of lace-up sneakers.

Of course, some memories can be like leaves running their final course and dropping silently like dribbles of rain, composting and disappearing into the good earth. Clearly, in the cycle of life, there are new seeds to sow, harvest and grow.

Time takes time. There are no magic seeds that bloom instantly. From November 2nd, 59 days remain until the end of the year when the earth is frigid and stubborn. From there, all we can do is mull around in the new year and wait until spring softens the ground. Live a day at a time. Drink steaming hot cocoa to compensate for winter’s barren wasteland and warm us with the faith of knowing we have passed another day of life’s test, and we are in the process of learning an important lesson: patience. Colors may fade, strip and vanish, but year after year, cycle after cycle, the master painter’s palette is infinite.

Holiday🎃Season Kick-Start

Posted on October 26, 2021 by cattalespress under Christmas, Courage, Crisis, Damage Control, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, Divorce, Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Holidays, hope, humor, inspiration, inspirational messages, joy, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Lost youth, marriage, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, Mental Health, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Relationships, seasons, self-value, Serene-diptious Moments, sorrow, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, trauma, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability

When my children were young, the first sharp breeze, autumn’s precursor, stirred my enthusiasm. It signaled for me to uncover a special jewelry box and open the top drawer gathering dust from the year before. Inside was a treasure of assorted inexpensive trinkets that I spent seasons past unearthing at flea markets and tag sales. To me, though, the pieces were priceless because they helped me amplify the excitement of holiday time. Halloween kicked off the tradition. Two weeks before October 31st, I reached for my favorite troll pumpkin earrings and cottony ghost pin.

Earrings dangling and pin attached to my top, I performed the annual traipse up the attic stairs and started to pull out the jack-o’-lantern and fall leaf wreath. Christmas carols played in the background simply because I lacked a repertoire of Halloween music.

As a first-generation American child, my parents, both Eastern European immigrants, were not accustomed to Halloween. When I trick-or-treated around the neighborhood, I either went alone or joined a family a few blocks away. Each holiday, I wore the same old sheet I had worn the year before. My favorite part was at the end of the night when I came home and uncovered the scarcely distributed Hershey Bars among the bag of loot. An hour later, the juicy crunch of a fresh apple lessened the overly sweetening taste in my mouth from my consuming endless tootsie rolls and candy corn pieces.

I’ll never forget the Halloween when the TV news broadcast warned about evildoers hiding razors in apples. Learning about the deplorable act marked my innocence with its first blemish and elicited a spooky creaking door effect on my world, my first experience in adult boot camp.

After Halloween passed, my parents were big on church during Christmas, but, apart from that, they both worked tirelessly and viewed Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays as a burden. Looking back, my mother was completely bereft of organizational strategies, and her cooked meals turned out to be so late that my much older brothers had typically disappeared by dinnertime. She was exhausted and couldn’t eat. My father rushed through his meal, famished. I ended up eating my holiday meals in solitude.

It made sense that when I celebrated the holidays with my own family, I compensated for what lacked in the holiday memories of my youth. It all started with cracking open the dusty jewelry box and then pulling out the big decorations from the attic. A lot of the household décor I purchased the day after Christmas, long before frugal consumers understood the extent of the meaning behind “After-Holiday Sale!” savings. Christmas, in fact, got to a point where all the household décor was switched out for holiday ornamentation. Instead of one tree, we had two. We started with one fresh green pine and one white artificial that later transitioned into another artificial tree.

My then husband was not as keen on Thanksgiving and Christmas as I was. I feared I had recreated a familiar pattern, but I did appreciate how he loved escorting our kids trick-or-treating. Looking back, his crafted jack-o’-lantern had to be the spiffiest looking one in our neighborhood.

There wasn’t a moment that I did not burst with gratitude during any of the holidays, always feeling as if I were given a second chance to experience the magical component in them, and it started with flipping the lid open on the one dusty jewelry box. Even when some of the mostly China-made jewelry broke, I kept the pieces. To dispose of them was like discarding joy.

Some women might, rightly so, feel privileged by wearing mega-sized diamonds. For me, nothing could replace the delight I felt from the colorful plastic holiday turkeys on my jacket’s lapel and Christmas light bulb earrings catching on the collars of my clothes.

I am sure, if tragedy had not struck, I would continue to keep the jewelry box in my over-protective hands while woolgathering about myself dressed as a real-life ornament, a walking signal of joy among my future tribe of grandchildren. Instead, my hands are robbed by grief. The first sign was last year when I discarded the broken jewelry, only to slam the box shut, unable do anything else.

This year, I sorted through the rest of my holiday jewelry and then cleaned and polished the box before donating everything to Goodwill. As I did, I pictured the young children out there and moms who are cozy and busy with their lives, so much the way I had been. I know someone will uncover the stash at Goodwill with new eyes and hope for the future. Someone, I anticipate, who felt the same blissful way at Goodwill when they unearthed my freshly cleaned wedding gown that finally I was able to part with three years ago.

Like seasons, holidays are the ebb and flow of life. I read recently something I never knew. “Ebb and flow” means that sometimes our life flows toward our hopes and dreams, and sometimes it flows away. I see it as the rising and falling ocean, a harmony that can only continue if we hold tight while learning to surf, because the raw truth is, at one point or another, we realize we are all novices and there is no mastery at life, especially when it shocks us into knowing how true this is, and we are left grappling with abstract ideas like the meaning of faith.

Life Stages and Curtain Times

Posted on September 28, 2021 by cattalespress under American Dream, Courage, Death, death of a child, Divorce, Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Friendships, grief, Grieving, Growing Up, heartbreak, hope, joy, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, marriage, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, Out of Order Death, Positive Change, positive words of encouragement, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability

As a follow up to last week’s blog post, a few days after I spoke to my neighbor, Felicity’s dad, who is wrestling with his remorse over her departure to a college some four hours away, I spotted him alone, slouched on a log behind an overgrown maple tree. He reminded me of Elmer J. Fudd, the cartoon character in Bugs Bunny, being thwarted by the “wabbit.” In my neighbor’s case, he couldn’t capture Father Time, and his little girl grew up in the blink of an eye.

Less than 300 feet separated us, but I did not impinge on his solitude as he processed the fact that the past is printed on a calendar of unrecyclable paper. Instead, I attended to depositing the trash into the garbage can, and the grief, heavy in its now permanently designated space, in my own heart. How I wished Hollywood movies, where friendship, family, justice and love always win in the end, were real. In my mind, I imagined the heroine/hero voice exclaim, “I have returned. I will stay and be your child forever and ever until you die. Witness a metamorphose from a cocoon into a butterfly, keep me close, a treasure in a jar, and be spared from an unspeakable hurt.”

The next day, less than a week after Felicity’s departure, my friend informed me that while she took her daily walk, she noticed that Felicity’s boyfriend and her parents commiserated in solidarity over dinner in the dining room. When my friend explained the details, I understood why she emphasized the location. Dining rooms are where family and friends gather to make formal toasts and share milestones. Dining rooms are where grievers congregate and leave an empty seat and, sometimes, a place setting, at the table during special meals to commemorate those who have departed. In essence, my neighbors held a “farewell dinner.”

“You can never have enough love!” I exclaimed, acknowledging the depth of affection that surrounds Felicity.

The neighbors’ planned farewell dinner reminded me of one unplanned farewell dinner we held in our dining room shortly after my ex-husband underwent a mental breakdown and, in the process, abandoned his family. It was at the end of 2010 and the lavish meal at the table belied his sudden disappearance. We ate our food with intent, forcing ourselves to believe in the possibilities of the future, taking comfort in how the meat and meatless entries, along with the potatoes, carrots, peas and other trimmings on our plates symbolically melded together and fit into some kind of balanced ensemble. And, as we swirled our forks around our plates and clanged our glasses against the china, we wondered what would be revealed next on the big movie screen of life. I remember how suddenly my brother Paul blurted out, “Who will walk Alexandra down the aisle when she gets married?”

“Marshall!” we all exclaimed, gazing into our identical crystal balls, happy illusions in our minds as my son turned scarlet red, forced a grin, but remained silent.

I would venture to say that our unplanned farewell meal and my neighbors’ planned farewell meal shared many of the same feelings and emotions: fear, hope and faith.

The fear element, during both dinners, likely stewed along with a slew of desperate questions: “How, how do I get through this trench without knowing where my boots are? How do I move forward?”

These are the same questions that haunt me every day for over 22 months after the sudden loss of my son to suicide. His is now the greatest loss that has led me numerous times to our dining room where dishes brim with the greens of life and morsels to satisfy the palate as I poke and stab, but feel emptier by the moment as every memory digs into me, teases me, because the reality is that I sit in an unfamiliar seating arrangement. In my neighbors’ case, I thought while her family and boyfriend dined and attempted to figure out how to sing a new tune without her, Felicity found her voice in her dorm room with her new roomie, perhaps, chatting, getting acquainted, making plans to go shopping on the weekend and tour the city close by.

I have a coin I carry with me everywhere. It says: “Behind you, all your memories. Before you, all your dreams. Around you, all who love you. Within you, all you need.”

Felicity’s journey to adulthood has naturally been a rough transition on her family and boyfriend. As the years unravel, I am quite sure, though, that they will reckon with life’s growing and going pains and come to recognize the continual goodbye that strings the moments together until the final goodbye. They, too, will recognize the wave of the hand, year after year, as life marches on until, if they are lucky enough, they witness that the string of days behind them is much longer than those that are in front of them. It is all this as well as all those recurrent memories beaded together into a bespoke treasure to which words do not do justice.

Occasionally, I have faith that life is a Hollywood movie, because no matter how sad the plot is, the reality is that the more phenomenal the cast of characters, the more love wins in the end. In other words, even though the curtain is drawn and the show ends for my son, I know I once had the honor to share a stage with one of the most captivating, humorous and brilliant headliners one can ever imagine.

I also have faith and a full heart knowing that the curtain is still open next door, and I can’t wait to see Felicity when she returns for the Thanksgiving holiday. I think I’ll give that young starlet a coffee card token just to let her know how much I appreciate the opportunity to take a seat backstage as her character arc develops and unfolds and takes us all on the next grand adventure.

Hallmark’s Hallmark?

Posted on August 31, 2021 by cattalespress under A Writer's Life, Aging, American Dream, Career, Crisis, Damage Control, Death, death of a child, disciplined non-conformist., Do Not Be Afraid, Dreams, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Good over evil, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, I need a miracle, inspirational messages, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Lost youth, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, Mental Health, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, NEVER GIVE UP!, Out of Order Death, Positive Change, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), seasons, Self-Care, self-value, sorrow, Soul Food, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, trauma, Vulnerability

(The following post contains content that may be disturbing to some readers.)

Since 1986, I’ve harbored a secret resentment against Hallmark Cards. In that year, in my 20s, I though it was a slam dunk to apply for a job opening at the company that I saw advertised and was all psyched to move from New England to their Kansas City, Missouri, headquarters.

Growing up pre-internet days, while some kids played baseball, bowled and participated in other leisure activities, I bicycled to the drugstore downtown and browsed through greeting cards that I later personalized, writing about my life’s rather mundane updates. Just like an evening ritual glass of milk before bed, I had my trip to the mailbox at the end of the street where I would deposit a handful of Hallmark Cards addressed to friends and family.

Understandably, I had one hundred percent, unshakable faith that I would land the Hallmark Card writing job. Plus, I possessed the required education and background and enough creativity to grow old with the company. For a solid week after my day job, skipping dinner, I typed my application into the late-night hours, which included brainstorming and writing a variety of sample greeting card sentiments. Upon completion, I packaged the bundle and mailed the application. Afterwards, I even mentioned to a number of people my impending Kansas City move. I spent weeks elevated behind my rose-colored glasses, visualizing a future made for a sappy greeting card.

I’m going to Kansas City
Kansas City, here I come
I’m going to Kansas City
Kansas City, here I come.

That was my theme song that I sang to myself as the days rolled into weeks. By week six, I received a form rejection letter from the company that floored me. Like all form rejection letters, it basically said, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

After receiving the bad news, I felt utterly dejected for weeks. My dreams of becoming a greeting card writer were strip cut and made undistinguishable as if they were forced through a paper shredder. Deep inside, decades later, I still feel a tad resentful over the missed opportunity that when I least expect it, kicks in the “What if’s.”

My failed career experience, however, did not stop me from being a loyal Hallmark customer. I still purchase Hallmark cards along, of course, with other brands, to send to family and friends. Though I’ve cut the volume down immensely, thanks to the internet, sending a few cards for special and “Just Because” occasions is still like a secret mission of mine that I like to keep up on.

Needless to say, I am part of the Hallmark Gold Crown rewards program, which means I receive monthly promotional coupons.

Here’s the dicey part. After our family tragedy, I felt like an out-of-control mechanical bull was bucking and spinning in my belly when I realized that every Hallmark Card coupon code started with four letters: “SUIC.”

Granted, to 99.9% of the population, those letters are an innocuous, random combination. To “survivors” such as myself, the manual control joystick on that mechanical rodeo bull in my belly malfunctions, gets stuck in “10,” the highest speed, and cannot be disabled.

Each and every time I wanted to reach out to the company, but between my PTSD and my age, I don’t stray too far from my safe bubble. So, month after month, I “let it go” and turned a blind eye to the coupon code.

Recently, I opened my Hallmark Gold Crown rewards email, and the bull straddled my belly, kicked and spun so hard that, without a second thought, I immediately sent Hallmark customer service a note. Part of it stated: “….As a loyal customer, every time I receive a Hallmark Gold Crown rewards certificate, I am distressed to see the following promo code at the beginning of all promo codes: ‘SUIC.'”

To me, I always fill in the rest of the blanks SUICide. Aren’t there any other letters you can start your promo codes with? Is it in anyway possible to change this letter combination considering the sensitive nature of suicide loss survivors?”

I hit the “Submit” button and didn’t expect much. This time, 24 hours later, Hallmark sent me much more than I expected. It might have been partially a form letter, but not completely.

“We are deeply sorry to know about your loss and appreciate the time you have taken to let us know your thoughts about the initial name of the promo codes. We understand your concern because we strive for great customer service. We hope you will accept our apologies for this inconvenience. As with all of our incidents, this will be sent up to our feedback department so it can be reviewed by them in their next discussion and take into consideration. We can assure you that your feedback will be heard, but we can not guarantee a change will occur.”

Rose-colored glasses removed, cynical me, I figured, “I’ll never hear from them again.” Surprise! Surprise!

So a few hours after the letter, I receive a new coupon in the mail:

$2 Reward

2021 August | EXPIRES: 10/31/2021

Use this PROMO CODE online: SUIA459890056

Notice the SUIA instead of SUIC

I don’t know if this is a result of my feedback, but, man, that helps gives me faith. Perhaps, during one of those rare moments in my life, I’ve been heard and influenced a tiny smidgen of life. My long-ago resentment is wiped clean, the mechanical rodeo bull disabled, and I’m taking my newest coupon to the Hallmark store to stock up. I’m fired up to restart my spreading-good-cheer mission initiative. Who knows, maybe while on a high note, writing notes, I’ll revisit my resume, research what greeting card writer opportunities are out there these days.

UPDATE:

So much for helping me keep the faith. I received a new code coupon with the SUIC code again. Bummer. I think I’ll write an old-fashioned letter to the corporate office. 😞 (I will keep my blogging community updated!)

Blessed 🎂Birthday

Posted on August 24, 2021 by cattalespress under 12-Step Program, a spiritual life, Aging, Angels on Earth, Asking for help, Birthdays, Courage, Crisis, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, Do Not Be Afraid, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Fellowship, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, I need a miracle, inspiration, inspirational messages, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Lost youth, Meeting your needs, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, Out of Order Death, Positive Change, Positive thinking, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serene-diptious Moments, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, special occasions, spirit-filled life, spiritual, spiritual inspirational thoughts, spiritual transformation, Struggles, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, The God Channel, To thine own self be true, Total Control, transparency, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability

Hurricane warnings canceled my birthday “celebration” plans this past Sunday. Honestly, I was happy as a clam, relieved that I didn’t have to venture too far. Although I didn’t hide under a clam shell as I wrote about in my last blog post, I did hide under a rain hat and enjoyed a light, enjoyable brunch at a restaurant in close proximity to our house.

The morning kicked off with flower deliveries, as well as thoughtful wishes from my blogging community, and I want to thank those who remembered, Alec, Prema, Judy and Kathy specifically! In fact, shortly before I turned on my computer that day, I thought of my “Karmic Sister” Prema. She not only provides assistance to me through this grief journey, but is instrumental in helping me keep the faith and not lose my footing. And wouldn’t you know it, as part of her birthday greeting, Prema wrote: “Let us show our faith in the divine by being cheerful, surrendering to Cosmic will. We are blessed as pain has a purifying effect on us.”

Blessed? What?

After surviving some harsh realities over three decades ago, in comparison to my old life, it was easy to count my blessings. Every moment was an abundance of gratitude. After our family tragedy 21 months ago, I certainly did not feel blessed and removed the word from my vocabulary since I no longer had a clue to its meaning. Now, thanks to Prema, I am beginning to comprehend that “blessings” are not necessarily people, places and/or things to tick off my personal agenda list.

One example that puts the word “blessed” back into my vocabulary is calling to mind the people like Prema who have been brought into my life. They are the brave ones who do not shy away from mortality and pain, but are less self-centered and, thus, confident and courageous enough to accept their own human vulnerabilities. Call them the chosen ones, or the lucky ones who walk into the dressing room of life with ease and without a desperate need to cram themselves into too-tight, ill-fitting “attire.” Instead, they accept what is appropriated to them and walk with their heads held high.

These are the people I am blessed to be around. They are the people who value me instead of judging me, because they manage to accept “what is” and not “what isn’t” and this peaceful state enables a channel of love to radiate and multiply. These are the people who are the ones that blaze a path for me to follow.

Transparency is natural above normal with them. As a matter of fact, I found myself this past week sharing secrets of the harrowing, graphic details involving my tragedy with another grief-stricken friend. After I took the risk of baring my soul, I looked into my friend’s eyes and knew I had reached a plateau of holiness; a sacred space where I no longer had to suffer in silence, but where I was heard and appreciated and allowed to cry out and feel that I really matter in the big world where it is so easy to get lost and flushed away. I mean, how many people are blessed to experience this type of intimacy that goes beyond reason?

Another blessing I thought of, thanks to Prema, is how the pain and suffering I have endured have washed away murky and meaningless priorities and people in my life. I now understand that phoniness carries no meaning. With meaning comes courage to speak personal truth.

I am finally heeding to 12-step advice I learned so long ago. “Say what you mean, but don’t be mean.”

As far as I am concerned, the art of true living is honesty. l am working hard on telling people how I really feel and, in turn, I hope they are comfortable enough with me to reciprocate. One recent test that I scored an “A” in was for confronting a neighbor about a charity pledge she promised, but did not deliver. Unfortunately, after our conversation, she skirted the entire issue. I did not get the intended result, but I did gain a new confidence in myself. In essence, I feel purer because I did not compromise myself by putting her needs above mine. In addition, I did not enable her to make a promise to me she did not intend to keep. No, we cannot control someone’s behavior, but we can control our words and behavior. Ultimately, if I am in the full spin cycle of purification in my life, one of the things that doesn’t serve me any longer is being nice for the sake of being nice and not hurting someone’s feelings, especially when he or she has wronged me.

I looked up the word “purification.” Among other things, it means, “the removal of contaminants from something.”

At this point of my life, I do not want to carry the burden and weight of heavy contaminants. I am overweight enough. So I’m purging. I’m uncluttering. I’m simplifying. I’m seeing truth for what it is and sharing my feelings. Feelings, after all, are not right or wrong, they are simply a part of what makes us who we are. If, however, they fester, build up inside me, they will eat me or explode in an inappropriate way and cause an unnecessary pain, a false representation of who I am.

What I am finding in the process is that most things like the political or religious affiliations that we carry really don’t matter. For the most part, our words and how they are carried out by our actions define us.

Carrying the grief, finding a sacred space for it, is among my many accumulated treasures in my long journey. It weaves a silver lining ribbon through this final chapter of my life in which the working title is “Blessed.”

22 Strong

Posted on August 17, 2021 by cattalespress under Birthdays, Courage, Crisis, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, Depression, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Gratitude, grief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, I need a miracle, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Mental Health, Mental Health, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, Out of Order Death, prayer, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, sorrow, special occasions, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability

Twenty-two is an unlucky number for one of my closest friends. The reason she feels it is jinxed is that her mother died on the 22nd of September. The number, on the other hand, is a favorite one of mine, not necessarily lucky or unlucky, but a good powerful number in my eyes, and it was just happenstance that I was born on the 22nd of August, which happens to be five days away.

Don’t ask me what I’m doing for my birthday; likely, hiding under a clamshell, which is my plan every year that is yet to materialize. I think most suicide survivors have an incredible array of feelings and emotions to contend with when their birthdays roll around, beginning with “Why?” and ending with “Why?” and in the middle, a gossamer-spun dark cloak of shame, guilt, regret, sadness.

I spent my life grappling with depression that skyrocketed at adolescence. A few years after my last suicide attempt at 23, the darkest period of my life, I met an exceptionally trained, intuitively gifted psychiatrist. He presented me with an interesting theory. He said mental health experts were finding a growing body of evidence to suggest that when a mother considers aborting her child, but decides to birth it, the child is more prone to develop suicidal tendencies and thoughts throughout his or her life.

Now, I don’t know if my mom thought about aborting me. But I wouldn’t hold it against her. She had her two sons well over a decade before I crashed the party. I know for sure that it was not a surprise, but a shock for her to get pregnant for the third time. I know my mom was 36 and tired when she birthed me. All in all, I’m uncertain if that theory holds water as far as my mother is concerned, but it’s still an intriguing one.

As fate would have it and as I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts, I started to turn my life around more than 36 years ago, which doesn’t mean I still don’t wrestle with the gang of crazies that drop by uninvited inside my brain every once in a while. They set up a picnic there and start clamoring in dialogue laced with self-hatred and negativity. With the help of others, I’ve trained myself to block out the mental invasion. Some people at retirement age have achieved the level of mastery in their chosen field. I, in contrast, have achieved self-mastery. That accomplishment has brought me here, five days away from another birthday, four decades after my near-fatal 23rd year.

Since our family tragedy 21 months ago, I am flooded with memories of my birthday that involved my son. The last time I celebrated my birthday with him was five years ago. I remember feeling my usual self: in-sync and in harmony whenever I was with him. I don’t fully recall what we did, which was likely an informal dinner at our house, but I believe my son brought me a sweet card as he usually did, always signing it at the end with “Love” and then his first and last name. His custom signature struck me funny each and every time. Like I don’t know who my son is, and he has to sign his last name just to make sure? I always thought to myself after I read his cards.

My son wanted to strike out on his own from the time he hit adolescence. His idea of growing up was relocating to another state. A few years prior to the final birthday I spent with him, he had driven from the New England area with a friend, who was relocating to North Dakota. As it turned out this so-called friend just used him as a driving companion and, after their arrival, at the end of the week when this so-called friend settled in with his family that resided in the state, he fought with my son. Ultimately, in a rage, he drove my son to the airport, kicked him out of the car and threw his luggage and belongings after him before he rode away to his happily-ever life. Fortunately, a homeless man helped my son gather his items spewed all over the airport terminal. Needless to say, I paid a hefty price for his return flight that night, but I was delighted to do it. His life was priceless. I was so relieved when he returned home to us. In fact, I almost fainted from the feeling of euphoria the moment I saw him stroll, safe and whole, into my view at the airport terminal.

My son was always the restless type. He wanted to relocate to so many places all the time. The raw truth is, he wasn’t going to stay HERE on this earth for very long. He possessed a tumbleweed spirit. It’s ironic how often he, too, said he wanted to move to the desert out west one day, where tumbleweed thrives.

Anyway, four years ago I spent a lovely Sunday enjoying barbecue on our outside deck. I bid him goodbye without realizing how short our time together was in so many different ways. He had been living with his godmother, Pat, at the time. The next day, August 14, a Monday, he woke up and took her by surprise. He was packed and ready to go. Out of the blue he announced, “If I don’t do it now, I’ll never do it.”

I was also clueless to the plan he executed when he moved from our state and drove away in the hopes of creating a better life for himself in Bowling Green, Kentucky. The trajectory, of course, was the beginning of his demise.

He left no trail behind. After I learned the news of his departure four years ago, I was hard hit and felt abandoned and betrayed over his behavior to dash off without notice and without waiting long enough to at least celebrate my birthday together. Mind you, everyone in Bowling Green was a stranger to him. He had no job waiting there for him. He only had his car and a small amount of savings. He was doomed from the start, and I knew it. All I thought about was how I wasn’t able to give him a proper goodbye or proper send-off with a small family gathering or a card or present. It just didn’t feel right from the start.

Miraculously, he pulled it off. After a rough start, he secured successful employment with an incredible company that mandated college classes and on-the-job training. Scoring an 86 in trigonometry, his least favorite subject, he proved to be a solid “A” student all the way. However, he failed when it came to shutting down the demons in his mind for very long. In the end, the raw truth is, they won his soul at 26 as they came so close to winning mine at 23.

Every birthday I celebrated as a mother, all I wanted from my children was their presence. I was grateful from the second I found out they were in my belly. In fact, their godmother and I prayed over my belly for months before both of their births.

No other “stuff” could come close to satisfying me on my birthdays or any other day. In Bowling Green, my son nearly forgot my birthdays when they rolled around. I didn’t care in the least. My present was seeing how well he was doing and feeling so good about his course in life. That’s where I deposited my faith: wellness and success. It sounds corny as heck, but my greatest joy was to watch him and my daughter grow up into strong, capable, healthy adults.

Since the tragedy, grief has beat me down to a pulp of an apricot, but it has not warped my sense of gratitude. This year will be my second birthday living a “new normal” while hiding under a clamshell sounds appealing and homey.

Likely, though, when the 22nd hits, I will shower and change into something I haven’t worn for awhile, and join the kids’ godmother or someone else in my tiny circle and go out for lunch or dinner and mark the occasion in solidarity.

Another day in paradise, I can hear my son remark sarcastically as he so often did in his latter years.

Yes, I say to myself, “Another day in paradise” with a nuance of true meaning in the words. I imagine a sun-kissed, sandy seascape where there exists clam shells galore for the sole purpose of feeling as if you’re grateful to be alive.

Entering the Gates of 🌤️Heaven

Posted on August 10, 2021 by cattalespress under a spiritual life, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, disciplined non-conformist., Divorce, Dreams, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Fourth Dimension, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, Grieving, Growing Up, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, hope, inspiration, inspirational messages, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Lost youth, marriage, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, Mental Health, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Pandemic, Pipe Dreams, Positive Change, positive words of encouragement, Problem Solving, Relationships, Resurrection, Romance, scripture, seasons, Self-Care, self-value, Serendipity, Serene-diptious Moments, Sibling Death, Sing a new song, sorrow, Soul Food, special occasions, spirit-filled life, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Therapy, trauma, Vulnerability

While checking into the Hilton in Long Island, New York, this past weekend with my daughter to attend her former college roommate’s wedding celebration, across the lobby, we witnessed a platonic embrace between a man and a woman that stopped us in our tracks and, for a few seconds, so did our world.

Nineteen years ago, shortly after my brother Mike died suddenly from a stroke, someone gave me a wallet-sized, inspirational card with an illustration of a beaming Jesus hugging a young woman. On the card it said, “Entering the Gates of Heaven.”

Whether you are a Christian or not, the image represents the essence of universal love. In real life, if you are fortunate to experience the magnitude of this type of love, it would equate to living a thousand lifetimes onboard a peace train of which the grandest theme is acceptance and harmony so powerful, it reaches and washes out your deepest, darkest, ugliest, most shameful crevices and allows the sunshine to warm, caress and heal every wound, scar and trauma.

Watching this young couple across the way at the hotel, I saw the young man’s face in the face of Jesus pictured on the prayer card, along with the woman’s windblown hair whose silhouette also resembled the image on it.

The woman could barely catch a breath in between her tearful cries, because of the emotional exhilaration, and it felt like the hotel walls would pop open from the joy. For a moment, superimposed on the man was my now deceased son and on the woman was my daughter. Obviously, I don’t know what my daughter’s take on the sight was, but what I saw was a reunion between the living and the dead unfold on a white marble floor of a Hilton hotel.

After the dramatic embrace, it turned out that my daughter knew both of the people, and, in fact, they were all part of the bridal party. The man had just flown in from Los Angeles, California, and the woman had flown in from Richmond, Virginia. The two people, who had embraced, once shared a semester abroad, along with the bride, in Germany. The reunion between them was a telltale sign of how a connection grows through the passage of time and memories shared, painted in easy, carefree, lofty and heavy highlights.

This is how the wedding weekend began. It was a postponed wedding due to COVID-19. A wedding I dreaded attending, knowing the pain points it would touch. Fortunately, I was prepared; warned by a dear friend about the “Mother and the Groom” wedding song. My defense tool was advice from another dear friend Michelle: In essence, I was there to be happier for the bride and groom than sadder for myself. The advice worked! (Thank you, Michelle!)

The wedding began with love between friends reuniting and then moved to a couple sealing their vow of love. One of the readings at the church was from Corinthians 13, 4-7, a favorite among ceremonies and, in fact, one of the readings at my wedding over 30 years ago, a now dissolved marriage. The famous last line states, Love Never Fails.

The way I interpret the passage is that love failed in our family, because many falsehoods prevented it from forming a pure, genuine love and, ultimately, our unit failed. I’m okay with that for today, because if I do not work in truth, there is no hope for love.

Anyway, the wedding crowd was composed mostly of young, brilliant adults who are changing the world in positive ways. During the reception, I never dreamed I would dance without guilt, but I did! I saw it as long overdue exercise, and it worked. I was, however, overpowered by some flashbacks sitting at the table during the reception, remembering how at the last wedding I attended in 2018, my son kept me glued to my cellphone for a good part of the wedding, despairing about his agonizing love life. The last wedding he ever attended was when he was seven. Deep in my pained gut, I knew he would never have an opportunity as an adult to attend a wedding function, which included his own. By the end of that night, half the male bridal party was commiserating with him outside on the patio on my cell phone. I laughed at the situation, feeling we were all working in the solution mode and on that night, it was true.

At this past weekend’s wedding as the night rolled on, when the traditional wedding songs began, I darted into the restroom until they ended. I can participate in life, but also allow for human limitations by guarding myself.

Looking back, the weekend moved along smoothly, a few hiccups, but no hacking or fevers. I’m left meditating and pondering upon genuine, unconditional love and different types of love. When I first married my husband, in my heart of hearts I believed it would last forever. I believed we would retire, rent an RV and take a year to drive to Alaska, adopting as many old, unwanted shelter poodles as we could along the way. In his own words, he wanted the same ending, but midway through the book, I turned the page, and he disappeared. Though he verbalized what he thought I wanted to hear, he failed to verbalize the truth and allow me to accept it and risk my not responding with unconditional love. In this manner, love failed. Fake love always fails.

From that point, the three of us that were left behind tried to survive best as we could. I will always harbor a tremendous amount of guilt today knowing and realizing the mistakes I made as a mother. One thing I always put my faith into, though, was the greatest thing that mattered to me: seeing both my children grow up as happy, thriving adults. I had faith with fabrication. My son held back nothing from me. Incapable of meeting him on his level, because I believed that the solution that worked for me would work for him, I spoke to him as if he were my twin. It was only a matter of time, when everything backfired and my dream shattered in half, with only one-half remaining, my daughter. I never thought I could be more grateful to have her. She is brilliant and compassionate, much like my son was and also gregarious, positive and confident – in that respect, a total opposite of my son. I am over-the-top grateful these days for her existence.

Now, for damn sure there won’t be any earth-stopping reunions in this life between my daughter and her brother or me and my son. I might dance for the sake of exercise, but not for the sake of pure joy. Those days are done and useless to think about like disposed tattered socks.

Fortunately, I have the mental capacity to still love a little and feel a big happy heart for others while throwing off the pitiful feelings for myself. In this way, I did receive a surprise bonus during our wedding weekend. The groom – quiet, introverted, kind, a good listener, considerate and compassionate – reminded me so much of my son. His image comforted me to the point of giving me such a sense of fulfillment that it felt like a spiritual reunion akin to a group hug teeming with lace, glitter and a gown’s trail long enough to almost reach heaven.

Final Blastoff

Posted on July 6, 2021 by cattalespress under Angels on Earth, bankruptcy, Courage, Crisis, Dealing with special occasions, Death, death of a child, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, Friendships, Good over evil, Gratitude, grief, Grieving, Healing of Memories, heartbreak, Holidays, hope, I need a miracle, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Meeting your needs, Mental Health, Mental Health, Natural above Normal, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, Out of Order Death, positive words of encouragement, Self-Care, self-value, Serene-diptious Moments, sorrow, Soul Food, special occasions, Struggles, Suicide, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, transparency, trauma, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability

The day before Fourth of July 2010, my now ex-husband flickered around like a moth in a pageant of holiday lights. Impulsively, he corralled my then 17-year-old son and his best friend, Robert, and they jumped in his vehicle and rocketed away as if running from a disturbed hive of hornets and disappeared.

It was a spur of the moment decision. They traveled some 300 miles to another state to purchase legal fireworks, but illegal in our state, and they would motor them back to fire up at our house for the holiday.

I was all for it. My ex had spent the earlier part of the year in a dark depression and to witness signs of rebirth in him was like drinking a glass of sweet tea on a particularly hot day in Austin, Texas, where I attended college many moons ago.

When my ex and the young men returned with the booty many hours later, I discovered my ex had spent some $800 on fireworks. For nearly every previous Fourth of July, we “had a blast” in our backyard with legal, inexpensive fireworks intended for simple family play. I knew this fact, but I retrieved my rose-colored glasses, secured them perfectly over my eyes and did not argue. Instead, I shelved the fact that we were having difficulty meeting our monthly mortgage payment, never mind spending an insane amount of money on a frivolous, last-minute action.

I was determined to believe: we would meet our debt, and the daily stress would alleviate. We were taking the bumpy, longer-than-planned route, but we would arrive at our happily-ever-after destination and nothing was going to disintegrate The Maxwell House, as I first dubbed our happy home in 2002.

What I didn’t see was the separate household, some 600 miles away, that my then husband had begun to set up. What I didn’t see was his relocation to his new home in November 2010. What I didn’t see was 18-year-old Robert’s accidental death in January 2011, shortly after our marriage ended. And, I certainly didn’t envision, in a trillion years, my son’s premeditated death in November 2019.

All I saw was the solid black canvas screen that projected the light show on that last Fourth our family, including my daughter and the children’s godmother, would spend together. In the backyard, my now ex-husband launched dozens of bottle rockets, among his arsenals, into the sky as if he were a comic character set free from the confines of a book. The two teenage boys followed behind, laughing, mimicking his frantic movements. From the deck above, the rest of us screamed in delight, flashing smiles almost as big as the dazzling, sizzling and soaring fireworks. It was a night to remember and behind my rose-colored glasses I wore that night, no one could convince me that we would not experience decades of forthcoming holidays like boxes of traditional firecrackers strung together.

The illegal fireworks that my now ex bought to celebrate July 2010 accompanied us through 2017, which was the final Fourth I spent with the children’s godmother and my son, who had inherited the responsibility of launching the fireworks since the dissolution of our family unit. (My daughter was working as a summer camp counselor in Upstate New York.) Sadly, I remember on our final blastoff together, I felt irritated and bored, impatient between launches; thinking of all the projects and ruminating over an endless task list in my mind. And then it was as if “POOF” he was gone. First, he relocated to Kentucky, some 600 miles away. And then two years after the relocation, he disappeared entirely like stars and roman candles that fizzle out and leave behind a black tar hue that blinds your world without any sign of light or an escape door.

Fourth of July was my son’s best friend’s favorite holiday. It was my son’s second favorite holiday, after Halloween.

I’ve heard that many mourning mothers memorialize their dead children all over their homes with photos and other reminders of holidays and good times past. After the funeral at the end of 2019, the children’s photos remained where they had always been. The new addition in the entrance hallway, above a set of stairs leading to the front door, was an 8.5 inch by 10 inch framed photo of my son that was signed by his co-workers in Kentucky and delivered to the funeral home as a thoughtful gift.

By mid-March of the following year, I started getting woozy from the grief build up of viewing him in the photos at different stages in his life, and having him stare intensely at me from that enlarged photo at the entrance hall day in and day out as if pleading to me, “You saved the world. Why did you not save me?”

Feeling the blood on my hands, the maggot-like raw reality of the tragic situation ate me up. I would never see his white toothy smile. Hear his irritating giggle, reminiscent of mine. Or smell his familiar Irish Spring soap scent in real life. He filled every part – big, small, significant and insignificant – of my day in, day out life, and then “POOF” he was gone.

And so it was, I silenced all the expert opinions and advice and in stillness boxed up every single photo and reminder of him, only to deposit the painful treasures safely out of sight. Fortunately, my therapist stood by my decision. Afterwards, my angst, miraculously, subsided. The blank wall where the signed photograph resided bothered me though. The blankness seemed to grow emptier. I didn’t have a clue what I could display there.

The following month, I attended an art show, my artist friend’s exhibition. Harold is a gifted man, and I am truly humbled every time I view his creations. Since my new normal, I allow a handful of people into my life, Harold and his wife Chris have been two of them. We share on a gut level that never fails to fill my spirit with faith.

Anyway, after the show ended and I was headed towards my automobile on that beautiful spring day, Harold stopped me.

“I have something for you.”

“What?” I responded, surprised.

He summoned me to follow him to his vehicle and I did. It was then that he presented me with a vibrant-colored abstract painting of his.

“I wanted you to have this.”

As I stared at it, mesmerized by the boldness, I turned it over, only to find its title, “Fourth of July.”

After thanking the artist, I responded, misty eyed, “I have a blank wall that’s been waiting for this.”

Harold’s painting looks larger than life on my previously blank wall ever since. It isn’t a photo of my son. It is a piece of art that I see, perhaps, 20, 30 or more times a day. The bright colors fill my my mind’s dark horizon like fireworks blasting in the sky. The image fills me with an abundance of Fourth of July memories that I once was so grateful to share with my now sizzled out young family. The image energizes me and ignites my soul ablaze.

I also feel like the painting represents an eternal flame that fans my faith and courage, so I manage to accomplish the daily climb up and climb down on the stairs of a house once built on petals of love as sweet as the scent of roses.

Time on the Bleacher

Posted on February 23, 2021 by cattalespress under Courage, COVID-19, Crisis, Death, death of a child, Embrace Change, Faith, Faith Muscle, Faith-O-Meter, Family, grief, Grieving, heartbreak, Living through death, Living through personal crisis, Loss of a Child, Mental Health, NEVER EVER GIVE UP!, one day at a time, Out of Order Death, Pandemic, Relationships, Sacred Space, Safe Space, Self-Care, self-value, Serene-diptious Moments, sorrow, Soul Food, Suicide Loss Survivors, Swamp of the soul, trauma, Turmoil, Unconditional Love, Vulnerability

Since living a new normal, I spend plenty of time on the bleachers, my tiered observation booth of life. This is my designated safe space where I breathe slowly and deeply through my nose. Silently and rhythmically, I perch in the designated seat agenda-free. The spectacle of life unfolds right under my eyes. It is. IT is. This is it. This is how it was supposed to be in the dash of my life.

It just is.

When catastrophic things happen, as human beings, we are desperate for answers. We look for signs and interpret dreams. We pray to gods, goddesses and visit psychics. We adhere to human trailblazers in the hopes of providing us with some false sense of rational, predictable, immortal ground. We fabricate faith like the food industry uses GMOs.

“This is how it was suppose to be,” my brother Paul said in those first few hours after it felt like mammoth, blood sucking pythons swallowed our predictable, little lives upon hearing the news of my 26-year-old son’s sudden death by suicide.

His wise words helped make the unbearable bearable. Before that moment, as much as I thought I could control the things around me, I learned the hard way that I COULD NOT. I did not blast out a punishing God for it. Nor did I fly into a loving God’s arms. I was carried not only by my brother’s words, but also by the faith of others who lifted their derrieres off their own bleachers long enough to help me. Real-life contributions to charities in my son’s name, food supplies to our house and attending my son’s wake and funeral are examples of the good deeds. Receiving love and giving love is how I am still able to inch forward in my brokenness.

In the interim, unless I can help someone in their time of need and do things like cook a lasagna, send a greeting card or lend a listening ear, the fact of the matter is, I stay on my own bleacher. These days in particular, I watch the world spin rapidly. Incessant news rolls in about the latest developments surrounding the global pandemic: the latest death tolls, vaccine updates and what to do or not do next.

When things go out of control in someone’s life, here’s the secret: unless you can truly offer professional services, a listening ear and/or a hand (like a cooked meal, bouquet of flowers, etc.) to those in your life, catch your breath and just allow the process to happen. Otherwise, whirling dervishes not only exhaust themselves, but those in their immediate circle.

Life’s unpredictability is dizzying enough. Fortunately, my bleacher is also my balance beam. It’s reserved solely for me. When my breath becomes shallow, once I remind myself that I am living the life I was suppose to, I can deliciously and deliberately inhale. After all, I have the advantage of a space filled with a generous amount of oxygen.

It just is.