Not super talky tonight in general. I’ve been a bit blue today, because it’s not really all that weird to hate goodbyes. My visitors are off to their Thanksgiving vacation, and I’ve already been missing them something fierce.
To top off the blue feeling, I just watched a video for survivors of suicide. My brother is conspicuously absent too, and with the upcoming holiday and game I feel it keenly. There was a little mnemonic presented to anyone wanting to help anyone else who was grieving or dealing with a loss that I thought was particularly insightful. The three Hs were to Hug, Hush, and Hang out. That sounds just about right to me.
Of course, being showered with kisses by a kindergartener helps too. So does watching a second grader be goofy with his new foam bullet gun, and arguing about which Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtle everyone in the family represents. I highly recommend borrowing a couple of grimy little boys the next time you’re feeling sad.
Life goes on, right? My husband lost his job yesterday. There’s a lot of stuff that I need to rethink, since my classes at UAB are no longer going to be free. I was already struggling with prioritizing properly anyway, and everything got ever so much more complicated that it already was. I assume I’ll end up back at work at least part time. I’m not giving up on the engineering that easily, though. It just will be a different plan than I originally thought.
When Chris called me to pick him up, I told a few people, made a phone call to a friend who listened to me and I thanked profusely, then I made a quicky post to various social networks. People’s connections will be our best ticket to getting leads and straightening things out. What I didn’t expect was that so many people I knew had already posted images of their arms for me, referring to me as their impetus. I’d already been rewarded for allowing myself to show pieces of me I never usually would let be out there. Then, in short order after I announced Chris’ job loss, people showed themselves ready to help in whatever capacity they could.
Apollo immediately sent me the Mountain Goats’ This Year video. I hadn’t heard that song in ages, but it so appropriately expresses my exact mental state. This year isn’t going to beat me, damn it.
The day progressed, and though my head ached, there were more phone calls, more support, and even friends who came over and hugged me and made me laugh and wouldn’t let me stay down.
And it continues on, even today. One of the people I’ve known the longest, since preschool, sent me a message asking what was wrong? I briefly told him about the state of things as they are right now. Tonight I logged in to write this post, and he’d sent me a picture of his arm, with the word LOVE on it. His caption read, “Supporting an old nemesis.” (I was someone’s nemesis! How cool is that?!)
I’m very glad that I’ve learned to begin to show a bit of vulnerability. Letting people into my emotional inner circle is difficult, but I’m so glad I’ve gotten over that enough to let people in, or else how would they know I needed those little perks? Thank each and every one of you for all you’ve done. Karma will be knocking on your door, I promise.
For today’s post, I bring you pictures! These are the freckly arms of my family, all marked up for To Write Love On Her Arms Day!
At least 15 people I know participated, and a lot of them were doing simply to show me they cared. That helped me through a rocky day today. I am so grateful for the kindness of those around me. Love and hope are a wonderful message.
Tomorrow, probably a million people will be writing the word “LOVE” on their arms. To Write Love On Her Arms is a movement that started in 2006, in an effort to help a suicidal girl who had been turned out of a treatment center because she was too high of a risk. She’d written “FUCK UP” on her arms with her razor. For five days, her friends worked to give her hope, and to remember the reasons to live. Tee-shirts with “to write love on her arms” were sold to raise money to help her, and this movement was born.
Every year, on November 13, out come the Sharpies. The title of the story was not really intended to start so many people literally writing the word “love” on their arms, but that’s one of the ways it is being supported and expressed. The goal is to support those battling drug addiction, depression, self injury, and the culmination of it all, suicide. Last year I was invited to do this. I remember thinking it was a noble cause, and such a small gesture to help so many. But I forgot, because it really didn’t hit all that close to home. This year I can’t forget.
The effect that this movement has on those who need it is heart-warming. On the Facebook group, there’s a gallery of pictures of people who have written their love on their arms. There are pictures of groups of friends, some of them with healing scars from suicide attempts or self-mutilation openly beside healthy, whole arms. There are people posting that tomorrow is their favorite day of the year! My mind boggles at that thought, but it is so wonderfully hopeful! If this outpouring of love is truly nurturing the seed of love and self-worth in their hearts, it’s a tiny gesture for me to express it. I do have love and compassion for all of those suffering out there.
Renee, the young woman whose life was saved in 2006, hoped her story would help others. Her words seem to speak directly to me now. “The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope.”
The Out of the Darkness Walk was a huge success in terms of turnout and money raised. Personally, I cried my head off. I cry easily anyway, but I felt terrible about it as everyone else seemed to have a smiley face. Out of all those people, almost all of them were walking because someone they knew had been lost to this. A few were just being supportive, of course. But all those people were changed somehow by suicide, and so many of those hearts had this awful burden to bear.
So I couldn’t find it in me to smile or put on a brave face. It’s awkward and bizarre walking to benefit the prevention of something I knew next to nothing about just a few months ago. I suppose I should feel a kinship with all these people. Instead, I found myself feeling alone. I have felt very much alone in the last few months. I try to reach out, and people will meet me halfway, but I feel my trust in nearly everyone is so damaged. I mean really, who is going to burn me next? Working past that feeling is a real struggle.
To make matters worse, an acquaintance on FaceBook is telling the world how he doesn’t want to go on living. At the same time, he claims not to be suicidal, but he sounds so familiar. I’m not sure if he’s being melodramatic and trying to get attention, or he really needs help. My brother was very melodramatic. Suicide seems melodramatic to me, still. Of course I have to reach out to the friend, and I am trying. And naturally, he won’t even respond to my appeal. I just want to talk to him, to tell him… something. I guess I’ll try to write him a simple message and hope he understands I really do care.
It was an emotional day, and I’m tired and drained by it all. I am glad I went, though.
There are many purposes for this walk. Some people will be walking to raise awareness and hopefully save lives. Proceeds are going to the AFSP to fund research, education, and services for those in crisis and to survivors. There’s so little known about suicide. Those who are the sickest aren’t around to answer questions anymore. Yeah, we know some confusing stuff about dopamine levels, and serotonin, and of course there is what little we understand about the mental illness that is often associated with suicide. But it’s a sickness that often hides itself until it is too late. The only way to make things better is to shed light on the issue. Thus, “out of the darkness.”
I’m sure there will be those there that want to show support of suicidal loved ones and show they’re not alone. And of course, there will be the group that I’m a part of, those struggling to make sense. We’ll be doing what we can to honor the memory of those who actually completed the act. Later this month will be the Survivors of Suicide Day, and programs to go along with that. Those will be things to help me. This is about little lost Lauren. I still see him as a kid. It makes me so mad still. I’m so strong. For a while there I wasn’t sure if I really was, but now I know. I would have helped him if I could have, but he didn’t give me that. I found out fairly recently that he threatened this regularly, but then he’d be embarrassed and say he only said it to be manipulative. That sounds like shame to me. He didn’t want to be seen as crazy, or weak.
The stigma of suicide is very strong. People don’t talk about it very much, not really. Yeah, people say they want to shoot themselves, or get irritated when someone threatens it. It’s an evocative word, suicide. People use it to describe all levels of self-destructive behavior. But actually talking about the act, why it happens, and the aftermath, is rare. Now I understand partly why, though at first I didn’t. It’s so hard to make sense of and survivors don’t want to inflict the bewilderment on innocent bystanders. It’s bad enough that we’re dealing with it. We love our family, we don’t want to besmirch the memory. It’s uncomfortable to others, too. It’s hard to wrap your head around, not wanting to live. But the survivors need to talk, to mourn, to grieve openly. We need ways to honor our lost ones, especially because they didn’t honor themselves.
There’s so little I can do for him now. But I’ll be there.
Posted on 3rd November 2009 by LadyGlutter in Love | parenting
Today has been one of those two steps behind kind of days. I’ll just share a conversation I had with Red Chief on the way home to fill today’s quota.
“Mama, today C__ became a Walker.”
A Walker walks home from school, as opposed to someone who is in carpool.
“Oh, really? Is that important?”
“That’s very good, Mama.”
“Why?”
“Oh, because when I get old enough, I’m going to marry C___.”
“Really? After you move out on your own?”
“Ummmm…. No! Because … I know! When I’m that big, I’ll be strong, because I’ll be a grownup like Daddy. So I’ll push our houses together. That way she can have her Mom and Dad and I can have mine. And I’ll tape… no. I’ll glue the houses together! Yeah. But definitely tape over that. That will work.”
Just came off of my workout, and I’m already a minute behind on math class. I’m pretty happy with how working out is going right now. I just finished my pushups, which totalled 24 in all. It has been hard to push myself and know I’m making progress; I get so pissed at myself for being a weenie. Plus, I tend to have a crying fit after the endorphin rush passes, which feels awfully counter-productive. It’s probably needed, though. Holding on to my optimism and feelings of power is important to me right now, and working out keeps that flowing through my veins. So I need to look at the big picture again.
This time last year I couldn’t do a SINGLE half-pushup. And in 1999, I couldn’t even lift my left hand above shoulder level because of the nice combination of cervical neuritis, frozen shoulder, and whiplash I was diagnosed with. Oh, I think somebody said fibromyalgia in there, too. I was supposed to be popping pain pills the rest of my life, take that suckers!! And in 1989, I was cutting gym class and hiding in the band trailer. I remember specifically getting demerits for riding to a football game in a car with an unlicensed 15 year old, and not being able to do the pushups and laughing at my Band Director. So, that means that effectively I’m in better shape in some ways than I was at age 13. Actually, in almost all ways, really. Probably my body fat percentage was better then, but otherwise, I can go faster and longer and lift more stuff.
I’m screaming by the end of my pushups and situps now. But I’ve quit hurting for days afterwards, and random strangers keep telling me I’ve lost weight. I haven’t lost much, maybe ten pounds. I should probably get a new scale. My new jeans I bought that were skin tight two months ago are comfy and a bit baggy. It’s tough. Change is coming in tiny increments. And no one’s gonna stop me.
where I’m no fun any more. I am sorry. Sometimes it hurts so badly I must cry out loud. I am lonely.
This week has been hectic, what with me temping at my apartment office, Boy Scouts and flag football starting up, and the rumor mill running me ragged. I want to address this last bit really quick, since there are people who are apparently very concerned about my business. Maybe they’ll bother to check this blog, but even if not, I need to vent a bit of frustration.
I love my brother very much. Anyone who knows me at all gets that. I put up with a lot of drama from the people he associated with throughout his life. I still am. I love my neices and nephew. They’re all I have left of him So, to you punks out there, don’t tell me what I believe, whether I love him, how I think of him, or that I “think the worst of him.” What I think of my brother is that I love him and he is dead. And I have a hard time believing that last one. He unfortunately made some very bad choices, and some of those were the people he associated with. I wish I could ask him what is going on with all of this, how to fix it, but I can’t. I’m pretty sure if he’d had those answers, he’d be alive right now himself.
Right now I’m not sure if someone is just hatefully, spitefully trying to kick me when I’m down, or sincerely think they are honoring my brother by filling me in about circumstances surrounding his death. I’ve been told a lot of things, and some of them HAVE to be lies, because there are direct contradictions. Yes, I do want answers, but I wish people would understand that his hell didn’t die with him. I guess because I was the closest person to him, I inherit it. I try to live with seeing his widow obviously dating already, and not returning my phone calls, as best as I can. That doesn’t mean I’m happy with it. It means I don’t know what to do!
If I have to outline my grief, my thoughts on everything, to prove I loved him, well, I’m going to meetings at least once a week, sometimes twice, to deal with my grief. I can’t hear regular turns of phrase like “I’ll give him enough rope to hang himself” or see something as stupid as Bone Thugz-N-Harmony without hyperventilating. My only sibling, the only person who grew up with me, is missing from my daily life. I have to get out of bed every morning and try not to lash out at everyone because the barely contained anger at others — who hold the key to the only people alive with his DNA in them– spills over onto anyone in range.
I need to learn how to set up boundaries to protect myself. I was told that last time at group. But I desperately want to understand. I can’t even figure out what is right to do. My heart is sick, my soul is battered, and I can’t think what else to do but vent.
