DISCLAIMER:
This blog contains some sensitive and intimate information. The part about my past reveals a lot. The part of the story about my friend is not detailed and is being written with her permission. If you are in my circle of friends and know her, do not publicly name her. If you don't know who it is, don't ask. I'm not telling.
***
Almost daily, stories are coming out about sexual assault. Assaults on babies, young children, teens, adults and seniors. Some with a single victim, some with hundreds. We can share the horror, the disgust. We can feel frustration, rage and sadness. We can comment with "why didn't s/he tell," "why didn't they report sooner," "how did no one know." We can wonder how a predator can prey on so many before anyone finds out. I say the same things. I ask the same questions. I share the same feelings. It's sick. It's sad. It needs to end.
Pointing a finger at one person and and making them responsible for the act itself is easy to do. In a movie, the main character gets the awards, the spotlight, and the publicity. But there are a lot of people behind the scenes who've contributed to the film's success. And in cases of sexual assault, especially where the number of victims bleeds into the hundreds, the behind the scenes crew holds a small percentage of responsibility.
In the highly-publicized Larry Nassar case, allegations first surfaced in the 1990s. No one investigated. No one believed. No one listened. And by the time someone finally did listen, 20+ years later, the number of victims was well over 100. But even with the publicity, and the documentaries and the countless Google search results about this case, if you are someone who has never been affected, either as a victim or as the friend or family member of a victim, it is easy to dismiss the amount of trauma that can be experienced from an assault. It's difficult to understand how anything at any time, even years later, can be a trigger. There is no way for someone who is not a victim to completely understand but when we take time to listen, we can get a little bit closer.
My knowledge of the amount of damage that can come from a traumatic experience is limited. While I know people who have been sexually assaulted, I never have been. But I have been shoved off of a bed for refusing sex. I have been sexually harassed. And while neither of these experiences caused me any real trauma, they have taught me to be empathetic and have shaped my attitude about sex and relationships. I believed after the first incident if I refused sex, I'd lose a friend. I thought if I refused sex, people would walk away from me. I believed if I refused sex, I would be in danger. And after the harassment, which was not a one time incident, but one that continued for two years, I believed no matter how kind or persistent I was, it didn't matter. I believed I was doing something wrong by telling someone I didn't want to be with them intimately. I believed at some point I would have to submit. No one should feel like this. No one deserves to feel like this.
Up to the point of entering college, almost having sex was as far as I'd gone with anyone. My quest continued to find where I fit in the world and college only made it more complicated. All of those thoughts about sex circulated through my brain day after day. It was then that I decided, at age 20, to have sex for the first time. My partner was gentle, patient and put no pressure on me. But it hurt. Badly. It wasn't what I'd imagined sex to be at all. After the first time, it became less painful and I almost started to enjoy it. I say almost because at the forefront of my mind was the thought that if I stopped having sex with him, the relationship would be over. I believed this was the only reason he cared about me and paid any attention to me. I believed this to be the only reason anyone would pay attention to me, and that was all that I wanted. Attention. Because sex wasn't something I really enjoyed, I'd drink myself into a complete haze beforehand. I started down a lengthy path of drunken one night stands. I am not proud of this. But I am also not ashamed of it. I got lucky that all of my partners were clean. I got lucky that no one ever assaulted me. I got lucky that it taught me something.
But I have a friend who is not as lucky. She was in an abusive marriage once. Physical abuse. Sexual abuse. Emotional abuse. Financial abuse. And while she's able now to tell her story without shame, her pain is not gone and she is not done healing.
We were out with a group of friends last month. After dinner, shooting pool and a few drinks, we all went back to one couple's house to play games. Everyone was up for just about anything and a few of us suggested Poker. My friend halted the idea almost immediately. It wasn't because we weren't playing for real money. It wasn't because she didn't know how. It was because it was a trigger.
She explained that in her previous marriage, her then in-laws played Poker frequently. And while those nights may have been filled with laughter and good times, that game makes her mind travel back to a place in her life when she was taken advantage of. A time when she was hurt intentionally. A time when she was controlled and scared. A time when she was a victim.
A friend of ours responded by saying we could start playing and if she felt triggered, we could just stop. That seems like a reasonable thing to do, and there is nothing wrong with this suggestion. But it's not that simple. She and I tried together to explain that sometimes when someone gets to the point of being triggered, it's already too late. In this situation, a potential trigger was something she could avoid. Admittedly, the conversation was much too short, and while neither of us are sure he still completely understands where she was coming from, the few minutes we spent discussing it opened the door for future dialogue.
Fixing this epidemic is going to take a lot of time, a lot of open and difficult discussion and a lot of listening. Everyone needs to be willing to participate in the conversation. People who
don't understand cannot be afraid to ask questions. Those who do
understand need to be willing to answer the questions. No one can force
anyone to share their story before they're ready. No simple, quick
conversation will give anyone a complete picture of what the post-trauma
from these experiences looks like. But if all of us can start
listening, be patient and be willing, then we're moving in the right
direction.
Thursday, June 6, 2019
Saturday, May 4, 2019
I Appreciate You!
Teacher Appreciation Week is almost here, and being the youngest of four kids, I had a hard time getting any teacher who didn't refer to me as "so and so's little sister." Any time I got a teacher who'd had one of my siblings, I felt like they'd already decided what kind of student I was going to be. Sometimes this gave me an advantage and other times, it put me under more scrutiny. Either way, I had some really great teachers who I'll never forget.
Mr. Ferguson - 5th grade social studies.
He was the teacher every girl had a crush on. He was tall, slender, and tan with brown hair He had dark brown eyes. Every girl wanted to be in his class, and I did enjoy social studies a little more that year!
Ms. Dorsett - 6th grade English.
I don't remember the exact assignment but it was to write a paper. Mine detailed a recent visit to a haunted house with my parents and a group of their friends. It was called Necropolis, and at that time, a guide led you through different rooms one by one and various Halloween shenanigans took place in each. The last room had 6 doors. Only one let you out and the others looped back in. Ultimately, you went through the doors until you chose the right one. I DO NOT LIKE HAUNTED HOUSES and having been in there for what seemed like forever, I just needed to get the hell out! With me trembling and in tears, my mom begged an employee to tell us which door would let us out. After giving us a hard time for a few minutes, he finally obliged. We left Necropolis and went to a pizza place to eat. Our party was one person too large for the table. Instead of doing what normal people do and asking for another chair, someone grabbed a high chair and I sat in that. I was 11 years old. In a high chair. It was okay until I tried to get out. This is the only time in my life I remember my legs being too long for anything. I couldn't maneuver myself into the seat in a way where my knees would bend above the lap bar to allow me to get out. Someone in our group had tools in his car and he removed the bar. Why didn't we just ask for a chair?? 🙄 Well, I wrote of this evening and when I got the paper back, there was only one word in red ink across the top - AMATEUR. I still have no idea how to interpret that.
Mrs. Carmichael - middle school gym.
She was all business during class time, but afterwards, she always had carrots. Tiny, ice cold carrots. They were delicious, and I don't know that I've had a carrot since then that was as good as the ones she gave us.
Mr. Schneider - middle school English.
He was old and knew my mother. I remember one day he called on me but said "Mary Ellen." This is not my name. Mary is my mom's first name and Ellen is my middle name. I have no idea why he called me that and I'm even more unsure of why I responded.
These teachers gave me a few fond memories. But there are three teachers who really had an impact on me, and I'm fortunate enough to still be in contact with them today.
Mrs. Mary McCormack - 5th grade.
I remember her being a patient teacher. She didn't put up with poor attitudes and behavior, but she was always fair. She was kind and was the first teacher who really made me feel special. She asked me and another classmate to stay after a few times a week just to help her with the classroom. We weren't being punished for anything and we hadn't done anything to win the privilege. She just chose us. I never asked why. But being given that opportunity gave me a sense of purpose. She was the first person who made me feel like I really mattered. Mary is still a teacher at the same elementary school.
Mr. Paul Mendenhall - high school radio/TV.
He was a phenomenal teacher, and my junior year of high school, I finally found something I was good at. Within the first week of his class, he'd memorized all of our names, faces and voices. He didn't hesitate to tell me that I had a great radio voice and he was kind enough to never tell me I had the perfect face for it too! 😄 He encouraged us on every assignment and always provided constructive criticism. He gave us advice on how to do better and showed us ways to improve. He never told any of us we couldn't do something. I know he rolled his eyes at the stupid show promos we recorded, but he helped us be the best of the stupid. I hosted the Friday morning show for my high school station during my senior year as Jane E. When I got to college, my radio career aspirations halted due to lack of support from professors. I wish I could have taken Mr. Mendenhall with me. Paul no longer teaches at the high school, but you can catch him every weekday morning on 92.3 WTTS in Indianapolis.
Dr. Laura O'Hara - intercultural communications prof at BSU.
I cannot say enough about this lady. The first time I visited Ball State, I sat in an auditorium full of college hopefuls. She introduced herself and told us about the communications department. She was upbeat, funny and engaging. I remember at one point she was walking through the aisles and said "I feel like Jenny Jones." I knew immediately I wanted to take her class. And when I did, I sat in the front - stone faced and quiet. I hardly ever participated and she told me on more than one occasion that she wasn't sure I was even paying attention. I promise I was! Beyond the classroom, she was much more than a teacher. She was a mentor to me in both academics and personal matters. She was never condescending or judgmental but she was always honest. She listened. She advised. She cared. I enjoyed college a lot of the time but the years I was there were the hardest of my life. I suffered from extreme depression and a very VERY low self-esteem. I cannot count how many nights I would call Laura after hours and talk to her on the phone. Some nights I'd end up in her office, spilling emotions and shedding tears. She took me back to my dorm one night and Everybody Hurts by R.E.M. was on the radio. It was probably the most fitting and the most ironic way the evening could have ended. She has seen me at my absolute worst and has never abandoned me. Our professor/student relationship ended, but she's remained a mentor and has become one of my dearest friends. She holds a very special place in my heart. She's still a professor at BSU.
If you are a teacher, a coach, or a mentor, you've got one of the toughest jobs in the world. Please believe me when I say that you are making a difference to someone, even if it goes unsaid forever. THANK YOU!
A recent article by Indianapolis Star Journalist Gregg Doyel inspired me to write this post. His story can be found here:
https://www.indystar.com/story/sports/columnists/gregg-doyel/2019/05/02/doyel-dont-do-what-did-take-time-thank-teacher-week-teacher-appreciation-week/3549380002/
Thursday, April 11, 2019
What's in a Name?
You may or may not know that I'm writing a book. I thought it would be simple and easy because I love to write and I have a million and one ideas. Well, there's nothing easy about it!! And to any published authors, YOU ARE AMAZING!
One problem I didn't anticipate was how difficult it would be to choose a title. I had two working titles but learned this week that there are already nonfiction works with the same titles. My book is fiction and there is no law saying more than one work cannot hold the same name. And let's face it, I need to publish before it's a real issue. But to avoid confusion, it would be nice if my book was the only, or at least the first, with the title that I select.
I am a lover of analogies, symbolism, and representation, and for me, the title is more than just a name. I want it to mean something and to be significant. I want the title to be more than just a way to identify the book.
One of my very favorite books is Break the Line by Allison Mullinax. If you haven't read it, you should! And while you're at it, read ALL of her books ☺
Here is the summary, used with the author's permission:
Not only is this a great story, but the title is so fitting for the book. Of all of her books, this is my favorite title because it carries significance to the story in multiple ways.
If books aren't your thing, try music. I LOVE MUSIC! And most songs are written with a particular story in mind - yes, songs are short stories.
I remember walking into a 9th grade US History class one day and our teacher had a boombox on the desk with a CD inside. Our assignment was to write a one page paper supposing the she in the song he played was the Statue of Liberty. The song was Invisible Touch by Genesis. I'm not a huge fan of Genesis or Phil Collins, and I SUCK AT HISTORY and pretty much any other social studies class. Don't believe me? I repeated US History and the best grade I earned for the course was a C. UNITED STATES HISTORY. I live here!
Anyways, while most of what I learned in there was forgotten, I will always remember this assignment. It's not every day you hear a rock song in a social studies class. I'll also remember because it was the only one of two assignments I ever got an A on in that class.
On the surface the song and the monument don't seem to have any connection and I really doubt Phil Collins wrote it about her. However, if you go back and listen to the lyrics, and think of the Statue of Liberty and what she means to America, it's a beautiful interpretation of the song.
This assignment combined my love of music and writing with symbolism and I'll probably remember it forever. And I still don't have a passion for history or know who she is. But if this paper taught me one thing, it was that sometimes a love for one thing can be enough inspiration to make something else great. I enjoyed US History a little bit more that day, and had the assignment been given any other way, I certainly wouldn't remember it today.
I hope to finish my book. I hope to publish my book. And I hope to someone, somewhere, the title will be enough to make my book unforgettable. So I'm going to use my love of analogies, symbolism, and representation to choose the perfect title for my book.
And while you're waiting to read my book or for me to stop talking about it, find something you love and use it to help you learn something new.
One problem I didn't anticipate was how difficult it would be to choose a title. I had two working titles but learned this week that there are already nonfiction works with the same titles. My book is fiction and there is no law saying more than one work cannot hold the same name. And let's face it, I need to publish before it's a real issue. But to avoid confusion, it would be nice if my book was the only, or at least the first, with the title that I select.
I am a lover of analogies, symbolism, and representation, and for me, the title is more than just a name. I want it to mean something and to be significant. I want the title to be more than just a way to identify the book.
One of my very favorite books is Break the Line by Allison Mullinax. If you haven't read it, you should! And while you're at it, read ALL of her books ☺
Here is the summary, used with the author's permission:
As a pro-fisherman, Benson
Howell's days are spent on murky lake water, reeling in largemouth bass
and winning first place trophies. At twenty-nine, life is easy and
carefree. His only job is to stay in the top rankings during the fishing
circuit, and keep the sponsors happy. That is, until he meets hot
tempered, fiery haired Danni-Rose in small-town Alabama. He has never
backed down from anything too big to reel in.
Danni-Rose has spent the past six years of her life burying her past. When Benson Howell literally plows his boat right into her life, armed with simmering anger, she fights the current pulling her closer to him. With a past she can't let go of, and the sexy fisherman breaking down all her walls, Danni-Rose does everything she can to break the line connecting her to Benson.
Will Danni-Rose be able to let go of the past? Can Benson change her mind about him? Or will they both miss the catch of a lifetime?
Danni-Rose has spent the past six years of her life burying her past. When Benson Howell literally plows his boat right into her life, armed with simmering anger, she fights the current pulling her closer to him. With a past she can't let go of, and the sexy fisherman breaking down all her walls, Danni-Rose does everything she can to break the line connecting her to Benson.
Will Danni-Rose be able to let go of the past? Can Benson change her mind about him? Or will they both miss the catch of a lifetime?
Not only is this a great story, but the title is so fitting for the book. Of all of her books, this is my favorite title because it carries significance to the story in multiple ways.
If books aren't your thing, try music. I LOVE MUSIC! And most songs are written with a particular story in mind - yes, songs are short stories.
I remember walking into a 9th grade US History class one day and our teacher had a boombox on the desk with a CD inside. Our assignment was to write a one page paper supposing the she in the song he played was the Statue of Liberty. The song was Invisible Touch by Genesis. I'm not a huge fan of Genesis or Phil Collins, and I SUCK AT HISTORY and pretty much any other social studies class. Don't believe me? I repeated US History and the best grade I earned for the course was a C. UNITED STATES HISTORY. I live here!
Anyways, while most of what I learned in there was forgotten, I will always remember this assignment. It's not every day you hear a rock song in a social studies class. I'll also remember because it was the only one of two assignments I ever got an A on in that class.
On the surface the song and the monument don't seem to have any connection and I really doubt Phil Collins wrote it about her. However, if you go back and listen to the lyrics, and think of the Statue of Liberty and what she means to America, it's a beautiful interpretation of the song.
This assignment combined my love of music and writing with symbolism and I'll probably remember it forever. And I still don't have a passion for history or know who she is. But if this paper taught me one thing, it was that sometimes a love for one thing can be enough inspiration to make something else great. I enjoyed US History a little bit more that day, and had the assignment been given any other way, I certainly wouldn't remember it today.
I hope to finish my book. I hope to publish my book. And I hope to someone, somewhere, the title will be enough to make my book unforgettable. So I'm going to use my love of analogies, symbolism, and representation to choose the perfect title for my book.
And while you're waiting to read my book or for me to stop talking about it, find something you love and use it to help you learn something new.
Monday, January 7, 2019
Sausage, Butter, Tampons
If you're confused by the title, that's fine. It makes no sense standing alone but it will, I promise!
I receive daily emails about product recalls and this was the title of one a few weeks ago, as it was the items featured in that day's email - sausage, butter, tampons. I jokingly updated my social media status to say that I would title my, hopefully, one day to-be-published book. That isn't true! But it did get me thinking - what are sausage, butter and tampons? Well, for me, they're analogous with parts of life. And if you know me at all, you know I love analogies!
Sausage - big, thick, meaty, of substance; sometimes spicy, other times mild; Can be crumbly or solid (link or patty); And while it has some grease dripping off that we don't need to put into our bodies, the large portion of it satiates us, keeps us full.
Butter - SO GOOD! And yet so bad. Who needs butter? NEEDS! NO ONE! Yes, some recipes call for it and it is delicious, especially when it's melted and drizzled atop a corn cob, mashed potatoes, big fluffy biscuits. But do we need it? NOPE! Does it make us feel good, bring us comfort? Absolutely!
Tampons - we all know what those are! And while they do serve a purpose, and are needed at times, the bottom line is they're a mess. And everyone knows they're there, but no one talks about them.
***
SAUSAGE
The sausages of my life are the big things, the things that matter the most - family, friends, security, faith and worth.
Family is important for obvious reasons. I am not limiting my definition of family to the ones related to you by blood because for me it goes far beyond blood. Family are the ones who are there 100% without a doubt, day or night. I've got a group of people in my life I consider my family because I know I can count on them no matter what. We share love, not blood. And I've got some with whom I share blood and not so much love 😐
And then I've got friends. I've got REAL life friends - the ones I see and talk to frequently. I've got VIRTUAL friends - the ones I've "met" through social media. The ones I can seek advice from because they're close enough to be honest without being complete asses, but are also distant enough to be objective. I really love this group!
The security is about job, or anything of meaning that fills your time; your finances; your education; your knowing you'll be okay. I don't think any aspect of security is possible without friends and family because no matter how tough we are or want to be, we all need help and support.
Faith - I DON'T CARE WHO YOU WORSHIP! I love God. The one in the Bible. If he's not who you choose, it's okay with me. I'm still your friend or your family because I love YOU. But let's face it, no matter who or what you worship, we all know we are not the biggest and the end all. We can believe the stars are directing our course of life - those are bigger than we are. We can believe God put us where we need to be - He's bigger than we are. We can believe it's WHATEVER - and whatever it is, it's bigger than we are. If it wasn't, we wouldn't seek comfort in it when we need a sign that everything is going to be all right.
And worth - this one is tough for me because I often feel worthless. But no matter how I feel, it's a huge part of life. We all want to feel worthy. We all want to matter and be needed. We don't want to simply be an obligation.
These are sausages because most of the time, most of them are great. They give me purpose and hope. But they also come with their own form of grease - families and friends fight, quit talking, disagree. Our security is unsteady sometimes. Our faith wavers, especially when life gets tough. Our worth, or what we feel we're worth, can just bring us down.
***
BUTTER
This is the good stuff that you indulge in that really isn't doing you any good. For me, it's things like playing Candy Crush, watching Days of Our Lives or Friends OVER AND OVER AND OVER, drinking a glass of wine or a beer. Whatever it is that entertains me and makes me feel good. BUT...are they things I need? Absolutely not! Do they make me feel good? Most of the time. They help me escape from reality, give me a break and help me to de-stress. Are they doing anything for me mentally or physically? Nope.
And while these things can just add fat or calories to life, they're all still very important. Candy Crush on the surface does absolutely nothing to improve my life. What it does do is keep my brain busy. It makes me do something difficult until I achieve it.
What does Days of Our Lives do? I know the typical soap opera stereotypes - lying, cheating, betrayal, infidelity, and the list goes on. The last couple of years, the story lines have become very topical both among society as a whole and for me personally. I've watched shows about a cop shooting a young black man; rape and sexual assault; suicide and mental illness. I'm not trying to get you to watch DOOL or any other soap. I don't care if you watch TV at all. You can make fun of me for watching it. I don't care. I'm just saying that while these "butters" of life seem meaningless, they can actually have a meaningful impact. They mean something to us whether they actually matter to anyone else or not. And if they make you happy, embrace your butter!
I really don't need to say anything about watching Friends. I've binged the series multiple times. It makes me laugh every time, and I genuinely love laughter. I love hearing it. I love doing it.
Drinking - no one needs to do this! We know it's toxic. But sometimes I need to relax and it's just a quick fix. A lot of times I'm with friends or family while I'm doing it. We're watching football, playing games or at karaoke. Can we do all of these things without alcohol? YEP! Do I sometimes enjoy those things more with alcohol? YEP!
***
TAMPONS
I'm not going to talk about tampons or periods. We know what those are. But the tampons of life are the messes - and everyone has them! We don't talk about them. We tiptoe around and try to hide them sometimes. It's easy to feel ashamed of the mess but everyone has a messy life in one way or another. We might have a past that we aren't proud of. We might suffer from mental illness. We might closet eat or drink, or have another secret addiction. The point is, it's just part of life.
My mess is my depression and anxiety. I've shared before and have been very open and honest about my multiple suicide attempts. Does anyone want to talk about that? NOPE! Does it need to be discussed? YEP! I've learned from sharing my struggles that I am not alone. Other people can relate to how I feel. And sharing my story might actually help someone else who is dealing with the same thoughts. No one's situation is identical but no one understands depression more than someone who is depressed. I was told once that it's both a blessing and a curse.
Don't be ashamed of your mess. We can't hide them from everyone forever. And we shouldn't have to. Do you need to talk about it to everyone? Certainly not. But know that while messes are a part of life, we were also given friends, family and resources to help clean up our messes. Our messes are a part of us, part of our story.
***
I encourage you to think about what are the sausages, butters, and tampons of your lives. Think about why they fit where they do and embrace them. We all have some of each. We all have our own story. Be proud of yours!
I receive daily emails about product recalls and this was the title of one a few weeks ago, as it was the items featured in that day's email - sausage, butter, tampons. I jokingly updated my social media status to say that I would title my, hopefully, one day to-be-published book. That isn't true! But it did get me thinking - what are sausage, butter and tampons? Well, for me, they're analogous with parts of life. And if you know me at all, you know I love analogies!
Sausage - big, thick, meaty, of substance; sometimes spicy, other times mild; Can be crumbly or solid (link or patty); And while it has some grease dripping off that we don't need to put into our bodies, the large portion of it satiates us, keeps us full.
Butter - SO GOOD! And yet so bad. Who needs butter? NEEDS! NO ONE! Yes, some recipes call for it and it is delicious, especially when it's melted and drizzled atop a corn cob, mashed potatoes, big fluffy biscuits. But do we need it? NOPE! Does it make us feel good, bring us comfort? Absolutely!
Tampons - we all know what those are! And while they do serve a purpose, and are needed at times, the bottom line is they're a mess. And everyone knows they're there, but no one talks about them.
***
SAUSAGE
The sausages of my life are the big things, the things that matter the most - family, friends, security, faith and worth.
Family is important for obvious reasons. I am not limiting my definition of family to the ones related to you by blood because for me it goes far beyond blood. Family are the ones who are there 100% without a doubt, day or night. I've got a group of people in my life I consider my family because I know I can count on them no matter what. We share love, not blood. And I've got some with whom I share blood and not so much love 😐
And then I've got friends. I've got REAL life friends - the ones I see and talk to frequently. I've got VIRTUAL friends - the ones I've "met" through social media. The ones I can seek advice from because they're close enough to be honest without being complete asses, but are also distant enough to be objective. I really love this group!
The security is about job, or anything of meaning that fills your time; your finances; your education; your knowing you'll be okay. I don't think any aspect of security is possible without friends and family because no matter how tough we are or want to be, we all need help and support.
Faith - I DON'T CARE WHO YOU WORSHIP! I love God. The one in the Bible. If he's not who you choose, it's okay with me. I'm still your friend or your family because I love YOU. But let's face it, no matter who or what you worship, we all know we are not the biggest and the end all. We can believe the stars are directing our course of life - those are bigger than we are. We can believe God put us where we need to be - He's bigger than we are. We can believe it's WHATEVER - and whatever it is, it's bigger than we are. If it wasn't, we wouldn't seek comfort in it when we need a sign that everything is going to be all right.
And worth - this one is tough for me because I often feel worthless. But no matter how I feel, it's a huge part of life. We all want to feel worthy. We all want to matter and be needed. We don't want to simply be an obligation.
These are sausages because most of the time, most of them are great. They give me purpose and hope. But they also come with their own form of grease - families and friends fight, quit talking, disagree. Our security is unsteady sometimes. Our faith wavers, especially when life gets tough. Our worth, or what we feel we're worth, can just bring us down.
***
BUTTER
This is the good stuff that you indulge in that really isn't doing you any good. For me, it's things like playing Candy Crush, watching Days of Our Lives or Friends OVER AND OVER AND OVER, drinking a glass of wine or a beer. Whatever it is that entertains me and makes me feel good. BUT...are they things I need? Absolutely not! Do they make me feel good? Most of the time. They help me escape from reality, give me a break and help me to de-stress. Are they doing anything for me mentally or physically? Nope.
And while these things can just add fat or calories to life, they're all still very important. Candy Crush on the surface does absolutely nothing to improve my life. What it does do is keep my brain busy. It makes me do something difficult until I achieve it.
What does Days of Our Lives do? I know the typical soap opera stereotypes - lying, cheating, betrayal, infidelity, and the list goes on. The last couple of years, the story lines have become very topical both among society as a whole and for me personally. I've watched shows about a cop shooting a young black man; rape and sexual assault; suicide and mental illness. I'm not trying to get you to watch DOOL or any other soap. I don't care if you watch TV at all. You can make fun of me for watching it. I don't care. I'm just saying that while these "butters" of life seem meaningless, they can actually have a meaningful impact. They mean something to us whether they actually matter to anyone else or not. And if they make you happy, embrace your butter!
I really don't need to say anything about watching Friends. I've binged the series multiple times. It makes me laugh every time, and I genuinely love laughter. I love hearing it. I love doing it.
Drinking - no one needs to do this! We know it's toxic. But sometimes I need to relax and it's just a quick fix. A lot of times I'm with friends or family while I'm doing it. We're watching football, playing games or at karaoke. Can we do all of these things without alcohol? YEP! Do I sometimes enjoy those things more with alcohol? YEP!
***
TAMPONS
I'm not going to talk about tampons or periods. We know what those are. But the tampons of life are the messes - and everyone has them! We don't talk about them. We tiptoe around and try to hide them sometimes. It's easy to feel ashamed of the mess but everyone has a messy life in one way or another. We might have a past that we aren't proud of. We might suffer from mental illness. We might closet eat or drink, or have another secret addiction. The point is, it's just part of life.
My mess is my depression and anxiety. I've shared before and have been very open and honest about my multiple suicide attempts. Does anyone want to talk about that? NOPE! Does it need to be discussed? YEP! I've learned from sharing my struggles that I am not alone. Other people can relate to how I feel. And sharing my story might actually help someone else who is dealing with the same thoughts. No one's situation is identical but no one understands depression more than someone who is depressed. I was told once that it's both a blessing and a curse.
Don't be ashamed of your mess. We can't hide them from everyone forever. And we shouldn't have to. Do you need to talk about it to everyone? Certainly not. But know that while messes are a part of life, we were also given friends, family and resources to help clean up our messes. Our messes are a part of us, part of our story.
***
I encourage you to think about what are the sausages, butters, and tampons of your lives. Think about why they fit where they do and embrace them. We all have some of each. We all have our own story. Be proud of yours!
Saturday, November 24, 2018
Words on Repeat
In July, I posted this as my status on Facebook:
If I had to use one word to describe what has impacted my life the most, coincidentally it would be "words."
Words of God. Words of people. Words of friends. Words of enemies. Words of strangers.
Words in poetry. Words in music. Words in books. Words in letters.
Words inside my head. Words said out loud.
Words can be painful. Words can be hurtful.
But among all of the things I love and see as beautiful, the common factor is words.
One of the most powerful images I've ever seen - and you can Google it, I'm sure - is of a small child that is being choked. And while choking a child is bad enough, the adult's arm is put together by words.
Words like these:
You're stupid.
You're worthless.
You're a waste of time.
You'll never amount to anything.
You're bad.
No one likes you.
And the list goes on. Imagine being told these things over and over and over again. Imagine hearing words every single day that are meant to hurt you, meant to tear you down, meant to abuse.
When I was in seventh grade, a classmate asked me "Are you sure you aren't a black girl in a white girl's body? Because that ass is way out there."
When I was in tenth grade, a friend said to me "You are book smart but you really have no common sense."
When I was just out of college, a guy that I hooked up with for one evening, though we'd met several times prior, said to me that it didn't matter that my butt was "plump" because it "made fucking [me] nicer."
When I was in my late twenties, a friend told me she'd kept a list - not sure if it was physical or mental - of all the "bad things" I'd done that she disapproved of.
And just last year, someone told me that the true problem they had with me is my face.
I can tell you exactly where I was when I was told these things. I can name every single one of these people. I won't name them. But whether I do or not doesn't take them away. It doesn't make them unsaid things. After hearing things like this throughout my entire life, it's been so easy to replay them in my head. They've replayed so many times and for so long that I've come to believe that I am stupid. I am only good for one thing. I am a bad person. And some days it is all I can think about. Sure, there are also days when I can sit back and, in a more rational mindset, tell myself that none of them are true. But they aren't completely untrue. I'm curvy. I do stupid things. I've done things people don't approve of. I have resting bitch face. I am aware of all of these things. And anything that someone is saying to me, I can guarantee I've already said to myself a million times. Someone else saying them doesn't help anything.
I also have a lot of people in my life though that say very nice things to me. Unfortunately, those things are harder to believe. And with the exception of a few recent examples, I can't credit any of them to any specific person. I'm that unsure that they're true. And retraining your inner voice to repeat the kind things is a lot tougher than training it to replay the negative things. I've been trying. I made a promise to a friend that I would be kinder to myself. Let's face it - no one wants to be around someone who is constantly speaking poorly of themselves or anyone else. I think that keeping a promise is important. And keeping this promise will probably be of greater benefit to me than to her. In an effort to be nicer to myself, to retrain my brain, I took screenshots of kind words that I've been told. I made them into a collage and it is now the background on my phone. I look at my phone several times a day. And maybe after some time, I'll be able to say these things to myself, in my own voice, rather than in hers. That is my hope, my goal, my promise. To her AND to me.
I really believe words are powerful. That's part of the reason I write. It's therapeutic to write and to share, both for me and the reader. I would encourage YOU to tell yourself kind things every day. Tell other people kind things every day. The negative things don't help anyone at all. I don't know why the mean things are harder to believe. But I DO KNOW that saying one kind thing to someone can completely change their day and yours. Remind yourself every day that you are great.
If I had to use one word to describe what has impacted my life the most, coincidentally it would be "words."
Words of God. Words of people. Words of friends. Words of enemies. Words of strangers.
Words in poetry. Words in music. Words in books. Words in letters.
Words inside my head. Words said out loud.
Words can be painful. Words can be hurtful.
But among all of the things I love and see as beautiful, the common factor is words.
One of the most powerful images I've ever seen - and you can Google it, I'm sure - is of a small child that is being choked. And while choking a child is bad enough, the adult's arm is put together by words.
Words like these:
You're stupid.
You're worthless.
You're a waste of time.
You'll never amount to anything.
You're bad.
No one likes you.
And the list goes on. Imagine being told these things over and over and over again. Imagine hearing words every single day that are meant to hurt you, meant to tear you down, meant to abuse.
When I was in seventh grade, a classmate asked me "Are you sure you aren't a black girl in a white girl's body? Because that ass is way out there."
When I was in tenth grade, a friend said to me "You are book smart but you really have no common sense."
When I was just out of college, a guy that I hooked up with for one evening, though we'd met several times prior, said to me that it didn't matter that my butt was "plump" because it "made fucking [me] nicer."
When I was in my late twenties, a friend told me she'd kept a list - not sure if it was physical or mental - of all the "bad things" I'd done that she disapproved of.
And just last year, someone told me that the true problem they had with me is my face.
I can tell you exactly where I was when I was told these things. I can name every single one of these people. I won't name them. But whether I do or not doesn't take them away. It doesn't make them unsaid things. After hearing things like this throughout my entire life, it's been so easy to replay them in my head. They've replayed so many times and for so long that I've come to believe that I am stupid. I am only good for one thing. I am a bad person. And some days it is all I can think about. Sure, there are also days when I can sit back and, in a more rational mindset, tell myself that none of them are true. But they aren't completely untrue. I'm curvy. I do stupid things. I've done things people don't approve of. I have resting bitch face. I am aware of all of these things. And anything that someone is saying to me, I can guarantee I've already said to myself a million times. Someone else saying them doesn't help anything.
I also have a lot of people in my life though that say very nice things to me. Unfortunately, those things are harder to believe. And with the exception of a few recent examples, I can't credit any of them to any specific person. I'm that unsure that they're true. And retraining your inner voice to repeat the kind things is a lot tougher than training it to replay the negative things. I've been trying. I made a promise to a friend that I would be kinder to myself. Let's face it - no one wants to be around someone who is constantly speaking poorly of themselves or anyone else. I think that keeping a promise is important. And keeping this promise will probably be of greater benefit to me than to her. In an effort to be nicer to myself, to retrain my brain, I took screenshots of kind words that I've been told. I made them into a collage and it is now the background on my phone. I look at my phone several times a day. And maybe after some time, I'll be able to say these things to myself, in my own voice, rather than in hers. That is my hope, my goal, my promise. To her AND to me.
I really believe words are powerful. That's part of the reason I write. It's therapeutic to write and to share, both for me and the reader. I would encourage YOU to tell yourself kind things every day. Tell other people kind things every day. The negative things don't help anyone at all. I don't know why the mean things are harder to believe. But I DO KNOW that saying one kind thing to someone can completely change their day and yours. Remind yourself every day that you are great.
Saturday, September 8, 2018
The Best Part of the Worst Time of My Life
I've been feeling compelled the last few days to write about my suicide survival and what it's like to live every single day with suicidal thoughts. While this story is tough to tell, and maybe tough to read, it is also very important.
Let me start with a few disclaimers:
1 - This is not a everyone's story. I know that. This is just my experience. My thoughts and feelings are not all encompassing. But I also know they are not exclusive to me.
2 - The point of sharing this story is not to get anyone's sympathy. It's to provide understanding to people who have never had a thought of suicide. It's also to let those who have had these thoughts know that YOU ARE NOT ALONE!
3 - I know I have mental illness. I don't need a diagnosis. And please know this is all my experience. You won't see statistics or expert findings in this blog. Just know, though, that suicide is not an uncommon thing and it occurs in every age range, every race, every gender, etc.
4 - This is a lengthy read.
*****************************************************************
I remember having my first thought of suicide when I was in junior high. I had friends but was not popular. I never had boyfriends - except one boy who was my summer fling for a couple years in a row. That ended when he wanted to have sex with me and I refused. He shoved me off the bed and I fell against the wall. He never spoke to me again. I was involved in band and enjoyed it tremendously but I was not good. I was smart enough to maintain good grades without a lot of effort but not smart enough to be recognized. All of these things, though very different, had one thing in common - being me wasn't good enough. I remember watching a TV show where two boys decided to become blood brothers. Their plan was to sterilize a razor blade by burning it first, and then cutting themselves to swap blood. Now I had a plan. I had access to razor blades and lighters. I was going to kill myself. I was 13 years old and I wanted to die.
Once I hit high school, the same things were true for me, except now I had a job, which also made me feel like I had a purpose. I had a lot of attention from boys, and one in particular seemed to be smitten. His name was Bill and he was my coworker. He was eager to work alongside me, which made work a lot of fun. And finally, I felt like I might be important. With any job, as time went on, the need for someone to be beside me declined. But Bill was still there and always happy to see me. Our work relationship evolved into friendship, and then we grew close enough that he wanted to be more than friends. I did not. He started visiting my work station more frequently, and even started staying after his shifts ended to be with me. He kept trying to goad me into starting a relationship that I'd said repeatedly I did not want. Bill was just another thing I was not good enough for. He wasn't okay with us just being friends. I had no place to just be me. I was uncomfortable everywhere and every day. I finally requested to not work with Bill anymore. I thought that would fix the problem. But he wouldn't leave me alone. He started sitting outside my work place to watch me. And it was easy for him to do because I worked at a drive-thru window! He hadn't actually done anything to me but I still felt unsafe any time he was around. Although we never worked at the same time anymore, I still had to see him at school. We were a year apart in class but had the same lunch hour. Once again, I had to "hide" myself and I began eating lunch in the hallway next to a teacher. I was finally away from him...until he learned of where I was eating. And then he started eating next to me. The only protection I had at this point was the teacher. Again, he hadn't actually DONE anything to me. But I did not feel safe. One day, he was staring at me and wouldn't stop. I finally asked him "what?" He responded to me "if I can't have it, I might as well look at it." I wanted to vomit. And the only way I could imagine he'd ever stop bothering me is if I was dead. I was 17 years old and I wanted to die.
When I started college, I thought I had my chance to make a fresh start - new environment, new routine and new friends. But I was wrong! It was junior high and high school all over again. I didn't have a lot of friends or a boyfriend. I didn't excel at anything. I was in the same place I'd always been - a place I didn't belong. I managed to survive for two full years of college and was about halfway through my third year. I met a boy online and had been able to go visit him twice. When I returned home after the second visit, it was over. Ending the relationship made practical sense - we lived in different states, he was into drugs and alcohol, and I was on a mission to finish college. But in my head, it was one more thing I'd failed at. I'd finally waited until a "real relationship" to surrender myself to someone in a way that cannot be undone. And I still wasn't good enough. There were also other things taking place in my life that I had no control over but had to just deal with. I didn't know how to sort out my feelings. I didn't have anyone to talk to. I was 21 years old and I wanted to die.
And this led to my first suicide attempt. The thoughts had been there for 8 years now. I grabbed a bottle of prescription pills and guess I took about 20. Well, I must have picked the wrong pills because it didn't work. I didn't feel good. I couldn't stop shaking. I couldn't think straight. I certainly couldn't ride a bike - I tried! I talked to my roommate about it and soon after got a call from my hall director. She said she was a mandatory reporter and that she was required to call the police. She took a chance on me though. She gave me an option - I could call my parents or she could turn me in. I chose to call my parents. It was the middle of the night. I didn't get the response I wanted initially. I was told to wait until the next day for them to come and get me. It was at this moment that I never wanted to die more. I was even more pissed off that the pills hadn't worked. A short time later, my parents called to say they were on their way. I sat for the next few hours with friends until they arrived. The next day, I found myself in the living room sitting across from a pastor. A man I'd never met. I listened to him tell me how much I needed Jesus in my life, and then it would all be better.
The next week I started outpatient therapy. And it was no picnic! But I thought again, new environment, new routine and new friends, so why not? After being there a couple of weeks, I'd made friends. I was younger than most people there and a few of the women took me under their wing as their "kid." It felt nice to finally have someone care about me. I never shared much with anyone during group settings; I mostly listened. I kept hearing stories of people who'd been abused, lost jobs because of addiction, had their own kids stripped away. Some days I thought I wasn't in such a bad place after all. And then they told me it was time to be discharged. I didn't want to go because I realized that outside of those walls, I wouldn't be any different than I was before. My life would still be a game of me trying to be good enough for everyone. I was 21 years old still and I wanted to die still. This was my second suicide attempt. I had my own medications and was able to convince a friend to share hers with me. This prescription cocktail got me closer to death than I'd ever been. I remember taking the pills, going outside and walking down a hill. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed. I don't know how long it took me to collapse. I don't know how long it took for someone to find me. I don't know how long it took for an ambulance to arrive. I don't know how long I was unconscious.
I spent the next week in an inpatient facility. When I arrived, they took any and everything I had that could potentially be harmful, including my shoestrings. The only bed they had for me was on the addiction floor so I wasn't even able to sleep. Instead, my nights were spent listening to people beg for drugs. I sat most days in group just listening. Any time I wasn't in group, I was coloring. I'm still not sure how any of this was helpful, but they discharged me from there too.
I don't know when someone attempts suicide and it doesn't work if it's a success or failure. I guess it depends on what happens next...THIS IS THE BEST PART!
I went with my parents, my best friend and her mother to a Pacers game. My favorite player was Travis Best. He was cute. He was young. He was short. And he was a good player, but he wasn't the best. How's that for irony? While we were waiting near the ticket booth, a woman approached me from behind. I was wearing a BEST jersey, and she said "hey, that's my brother." Thinking there is no way I'm seriously meeting Travis's sister, I chatted with her for a minute and then we parted ways. My friend's mom couldn't let it go though. She followed her and verified she was indeed his real sister. She gave her the short version of why I wasn't in college at that time, knowing I just needed one thing to give me a perk. Travis's sister returned to me to tell me she'd arrange a meeting with him after the game. She told me when to leave my seat, where to go and where he would be. I was so surprised. Things didn't go exactly as she had described, but I got to meet him anyway. He signed my jersey and said he had talked with his sister about me. I don't think I quit smiling for a week afterwards. I still have the jersey, framed and in my bedroom. While it's painful to go back to these days, seeing this jersey every morning and every night still makes me smile.
*****************************************************************
My last suicide attempt was the one that landed me in the hospital. While I don't actively try to kill myself anymore, I feel most days like giving up. The thoughts never go away. They're always there.
It's easy for people to say "you have it so good," and "think about all of the blessings you have." Those are very practical and common responses. And being suicidal doesn't mean I discount the good things in my life. I don't forget that things could be worse. But the thoughts don't just turn off. Listing good things doesn't eliminate mental illness.
In the darkest and saddest moments, thinking of how easy it would be to just escape everything comes so easy. It's easy to leave a place, or go where no one else is, to be alone. But there is no way to escape yourself.
Telling people about these thoughts and about these attempts doesn't make me weak. And it's not simply for seeking attention. Yes, I want someone to pay attention because I need to know someone cares. I look for validation anywhere I can get it. One small word or gesture can change things tremendously. But when it doesn't come quickly, the dark thoughts take over. And when it all settles down, I can tell myself how ridiculous some of the thoughts are. But in the moment, they are so big and so difficult to overcome.
Sometimes admitting these things is helpful and sometimes it makes me feel shameful. I don't want to let anyone down because that's what I've been trying to avoid my entire life. This is also why I have a hard time trusting people. I even try to push people away sometimes, or stop them before they get too close, so that it's one less person I have to worry about letting down, and letting me down. I'm happy to say there's a few that won't go away! ☺
No one wants to wake up every day and have these thoughts. And it's not as easy as just saying "today is going to be a great day." I have days where I can't find anything wrong on the exterior, yet nothing seems right on the inside. I've been able to learn coping mechanisms, and ways that I can make myself feel better when no one else is available. It's usually music or writing!
Being suicidal for two thirds of my life has been both a blessing and a burden. The burden part is obvious! The blessing...that's not so obvious. Living with these thoughts forces me daily to find something good and to accept small victories. I am able to tell someone I understand how they feel and know that it's true and not just cliche.
If you or someone you know is thinking about suicide, please reach out to someone, ANYONE!
These are suicide hotline numbers, available 24 hours a day.
United Kingdom 116 123
United States 1-800-273-8255
Canada 1-800-456-4566
Ireland 116 123
Philippines 2919
Australia 131 114
I hope my story helps just one person. And I think of my attempts as successes, not failures!
Let me start with a few disclaimers:
1 - This is not a everyone's story. I know that. This is just my experience. My thoughts and feelings are not all encompassing. But I also know they are not exclusive to me.
2 - The point of sharing this story is not to get anyone's sympathy. It's to provide understanding to people who have never had a thought of suicide. It's also to let those who have had these thoughts know that YOU ARE NOT ALONE!
3 - I know I have mental illness. I don't need a diagnosis. And please know this is all my experience. You won't see statistics or expert findings in this blog. Just know, though, that suicide is not an uncommon thing and it occurs in every age range, every race, every gender, etc.
4 - This is a lengthy read.
*****************************************************************
I remember having my first thought of suicide when I was in junior high. I had friends but was not popular. I never had boyfriends - except one boy who was my summer fling for a couple years in a row. That ended when he wanted to have sex with me and I refused. He shoved me off the bed and I fell against the wall. He never spoke to me again. I was involved in band and enjoyed it tremendously but I was not good. I was smart enough to maintain good grades without a lot of effort but not smart enough to be recognized. All of these things, though very different, had one thing in common - being me wasn't good enough. I remember watching a TV show where two boys decided to become blood brothers. Their plan was to sterilize a razor blade by burning it first, and then cutting themselves to swap blood. Now I had a plan. I had access to razor blades and lighters. I was going to kill myself. I was 13 years old and I wanted to die.
Once I hit high school, the same things were true for me, except now I had a job, which also made me feel like I had a purpose. I had a lot of attention from boys, and one in particular seemed to be smitten. His name was Bill and he was my coworker. He was eager to work alongside me, which made work a lot of fun. And finally, I felt like I might be important. With any job, as time went on, the need for someone to be beside me declined. But Bill was still there and always happy to see me. Our work relationship evolved into friendship, and then we grew close enough that he wanted to be more than friends. I did not. He started visiting my work station more frequently, and even started staying after his shifts ended to be with me. He kept trying to goad me into starting a relationship that I'd said repeatedly I did not want. Bill was just another thing I was not good enough for. He wasn't okay with us just being friends. I had no place to just be me. I was uncomfortable everywhere and every day. I finally requested to not work with Bill anymore. I thought that would fix the problem. But he wouldn't leave me alone. He started sitting outside my work place to watch me. And it was easy for him to do because I worked at a drive-thru window! He hadn't actually done anything to me but I still felt unsafe any time he was around. Although we never worked at the same time anymore, I still had to see him at school. We were a year apart in class but had the same lunch hour. Once again, I had to "hide" myself and I began eating lunch in the hallway next to a teacher. I was finally away from him...until he learned of where I was eating. And then he started eating next to me. The only protection I had at this point was the teacher. Again, he hadn't actually DONE anything to me. But I did not feel safe. One day, he was staring at me and wouldn't stop. I finally asked him "what?" He responded to me "if I can't have it, I might as well look at it." I wanted to vomit. And the only way I could imagine he'd ever stop bothering me is if I was dead. I was 17 years old and I wanted to die.
When I started college, I thought I had my chance to make a fresh start - new environment, new routine and new friends. But I was wrong! It was junior high and high school all over again. I didn't have a lot of friends or a boyfriend. I didn't excel at anything. I was in the same place I'd always been - a place I didn't belong. I managed to survive for two full years of college and was about halfway through my third year. I met a boy online and had been able to go visit him twice. When I returned home after the second visit, it was over. Ending the relationship made practical sense - we lived in different states, he was into drugs and alcohol, and I was on a mission to finish college. But in my head, it was one more thing I'd failed at. I'd finally waited until a "real relationship" to surrender myself to someone in a way that cannot be undone. And I still wasn't good enough. There were also other things taking place in my life that I had no control over but had to just deal with. I didn't know how to sort out my feelings. I didn't have anyone to talk to. I was 21 years old and I wanted to die.
And this led to my first suicide attempt. The thoughts had been there for 8 years now. I grabbed a bottle of prescription pills and guess I took about 20. Well, I must have picked the wrong pills because it didn't work. I didn't feel good. I couldn't stop shaking. I couldn't think straight. I certainly couldn't ride a bike - I tried! I talked to my roommate about it and soon after got a call from my hall director. She said she was a mandatory reporter and that she was required to call the police. She took a chance on me though. She gave me an option - I could call my parents or she could turn me in. I chose to call my parents. It was the middle of the night. I didn't get the response I wanted initially. I was told to wait until the next day for them to come and get me. It was at this moment that I never wanted to die more. I was even more pissed off that the pills hadn't worked. A short time later, my parents called to say they were on their way. I sat for the next few hours with friends until they arrived. The next day, I found myself in the living room sitting across from a pastor. A man I'd never met. I listened to him tell me how much I needed Jesus in my life, and then it would all be better.
The next week I started outpatient therapy. And it was no picnic! But I thought again, new environment, new routine and new friends, so why not? After being there a couple of weeks, I'd made friends. I was younger than most people there and a few of the women took me under their wing as their "kid." It felt nice to finally have someone care about me. I never shared much with anyone during group settings; I mostly listened. I kept hearing stories of people who'd been abused, lost jobs because of addiction, had their own kids stripped away. Some days I thought I wasn't in such a bad place after all. And then they told me it was time to be discharged. I didn't want to go because I realized that outside of those walls, I wouldn't be any different than I was before. My life would still be a game of me trying to be good enough for everyone. I was 21 years old still and I wanted to die still. This was my second suicide attempt. I had my own medications and was able to convince a friend to share hers with me. This prescription cocktail got me closer to death than I'd ever been. I remember taking the pills, going outside and walking down a hill. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed. I don't know how long it took me to collapse. I don't know how long it took for someone to find me. I don't know how long it took for an ambulance to arrive. I don't know how long I was unconscious.
I spent the next week in an inpatient facility. When I arrived, they took any and everything I had that could potentially be harmful, including my shoestrings. The only bed they had for me was on the addiction floor so I wasn't even able to sleep. Instead, my nights were spent listening to people beg for drugs. I sat most days in group just listening. Any time I wasn't in group, I was coloring. I'm still not sure how any of this was helpful, but they discharged me from there too.
I don't know when someone attempts suicide and it doesn't work if it's a success or failure. I guess it depends on what happens next...THIS IS THE BEST PART!
I went with my parents, my best friend and her mother to a Pacers game. My favorite player was Travis Best. He was cute. He was young. He was short. And he was a good player, but he wasn't the best. How's that for irony? While we were waiting near the ticket booth, a woman approached me from behind. I was wearing a BEST jersey, and she said "hey, that's my brother." Thinking there is no way I'm seriously meeting Travis's sister, I chatted with her for a minute and then we parted ways. My friend's mom couldn't let it go though. She followed her and verified she was indeed his real sister. She gave her the short version of why I wasn't in college at that time, knowing I just needed one thing to give me a perk. Travis's sister returned to me to tell me she'd arrange a meeting with him after the game. She told me when to leave my seat, where to go and where he would be. I was so surprised. Things didn't go exactly as she had described, but I got to meet him anyway. He signed my jersey and said he had talked with his sister about me. I don't think I quit smiling for a week afterwards. I still have the jersey, framed and in my bedroom. While it's painful to go back to these days, seeing this jersey every morning and every night still makes me smile.
*****************************************************************
My last suicide attempt was the one that landed me in the hospital. While I don't actively try to kill myself anymore, I feel most days like giving up. The thoughts never go away. They're always there.
It's easy for people to say "you have it so good," and "think about all of the blessings you have." Those are very practical and common responses. And being suicidal doesn't mean I discount the good things in my life. I don't forget that things could be worse. But the thoughts don't just turn off. Listing good things doesn't eliminate mental illness.
In the darkest and saddest moments, thinking of how easy it would be to just escape everything comes so easy. It's easy to leave a place, or go where no one else is, to be alone. But there is no way to escape yourself.
Telling people about these thoughts and about these attempts doesn't make me weak. And it's not simply for seeking attention. Yes, I want someone to pay attention because I need to know someone cares. I look for validation anywhere I can get it. One small word or gesture can change things tremendously. But when it doesn't come quickly, the dark thoughts take over. And when it all settles down, I can tell myself how ridiculous some of the thoughts are. But in the moment, they are so big and so difficult to overcome.
Sometimes admitting these things is helpful and sometimes it makes me feel shameful. I don't want to let anyone down because that's what I've been trying to avoid my entire life. This is also why I have a hard time trusting people. I even try to push people away sometimes, or stop them before they get too close, so that it's one less person I have to worry about letting down, and letting me down. I'm happy to say there's a few that won't go away! ☺
No one wants to wake up every day and have these thoughts. And it's not as easy as just saying "today is going to be a great day." I have days where I can't find anything wrong on the exterior, yet nothing seems right on the inside. I've been able to learn coping mechanisms, and ways that I can make myself feel better when no one else is available. It's usually music or writing!
Being suicidal for two thirds of my life has been both a blessing and a burden. The burden part is obvious! The blessing...that's not so obvious. Living with these thoughts forces me daily to find something good and to accept small victories. I am able to tell someone I understand how they feel and know that it's true and not just cliche.
If you or someone you know is thinking about suicide, please reach out to someone, ANYONE!
These are suicide hotline numbers, available 24 hours a day.
United Kingdom 116 123
United States 1-800-273-8255
Canada 1-800-456-4566
Ireland 116 123
Philippines 2919
Australia 131 114
I hope my story helps just one person. And I think of my attempts as successes, not failures!
Saturday, July 7, 2018
Book review: Triple Cross Killer
Triple Cross Killer is a murder novel written by Rosemarie Aquilina, and is the first book in the State Detective Special Forces Series.
This book introduces us to Nick Archer, a serial killer, who has made it his mission to protect those who cannot protect themselves by serving justice - in the form of murder. His executions are meticulous, making him tough to catch. Knowing who the killer is from the beginning sets apart this book from others in the same genre.
The first murder takes place immediately, allowing us to be thrown quickly into the chaos, and the killing spree continues throughout the book. Aquilina's descriptions of the crime scenes help us create vivid images that reinforce Nick's attention to detail.
Nick's career as a pilot allows him to fly at will between cities, making it even more difficult for anyone to catch him. Abel and Rabbit are searching in Sarasota while David and Jaq are busy in Detroit. The urgency of both teams to solve the murders in their respective cities increases as time goes on and more victims are found. Feeling the frustration of the detectives is easy, especially since they don't know the are both on the hunt for the same man.
When Nick isn't busy killing, he's wooing his new girlfriend Rita Rose. She cannot help but fall for his charm. He's handsome, has a great smile and pays attention to her. Maybe too much attention. He's also a passionate lover. We start to feel sorry for the naive and innocent nature of Rita Rose. The feelings Nick has for her almost seem genuine until we remember who he actually is. But Nick is not the only one keeping secrets. Rita Rose works alongside the medical examiner in Detroit and may hold the key to Nick's demise. One minute we are rooting for their relationship and the next we're hoping she runs quickly in the other direction without looking back.
Once Rita Rose and the two teams discover the killer's identity, it's a race against time to save the next victim. Although this book was difficult to put down after any chapter, this is the moment I found stepping away to be the hardest. Adrenaline completely takes over and you feel like you're right there beside them, ready to serve justice of their own.
Triple Cross Killer is an amazing book and one of the best I've ever read. Rosemarie Aquilina creates characters who value loyalty to their jobs and to each other. They're people you want to have in your life and befriend. The author's history as a lawyer and a judge enhance Nick's desire to bring justice and protection to those less vulnerable.
This book introduces us to Nick Archer, a serial killer, who has made it his mission to protect those who cannot protect themselves by serving justice - in the form of murder. His executions are meticulous, making him tough to catch. Knowing who the killer is from the beginning sets apart this book from others in the same genre.
The first murder takes place immediately, allowing us to be thrown quickly into the chaos, and the killing spree continues throughout the book. Aquilina's descriptions of the crime scenes help us create vivid images that reinforce Nick's attention to detail.
Nick's career as a pilot allows him to fly at will between cities, making it even more difficult for anyone to catch him. Abel and Rabbit are searching in Sarasota while David and Jaq are busy in Detroit. The urgency of both teams to solve the murders in their respective cities increases as time goes on and more victims are found. Feeling the frustration of the detectives is easy, especially since they don't know the are both on the hunt for the same man.
When Nick isn't busy killing, he's wooing his new girlfriend Rita Rose. She cannot help but fall for his charm. He's handsome, has a great smile and pays attention to her. Maybe too much attention. He's also a passionate lover. We start to feel sorry for the naive and innocent nature of Rita Rose. The feelings Nick has for her almost seem genuine until we remember who he actually is. But Nick is not the only one keeping secrets. Rita Rose works alongside the medical examiner in Detroit and may hold the key to Nick's demise. One minute we are rooting for their relationship and the next we're hoping she runs quickly in the other direction without looking back.
Once Rita Rose and the two teams discover the killer's identity, it's a race against time to save the next victim. Although this book was difficult to put down after any chapter, this is the moment I found stepping away to be the hardest. Adrenaline completely takes over and you feel like you're right there beside them, ready to serve justice of their own.
Triple Cross Killer is an amazing book and one of the best I've ever read. Rosemarie Aquilina creates characters who value loyalty to their jobs and to each other. They're people you want to have in your life and befriend. The author's history as a lawyer and a judge enhance Nick's desire to bring justice and protection to those less vulnerable.
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