suicide and giving away power

We all hear of people--and maybe you're one of them--who talk about eating shitty food and smoking and drinking and not exercising because they say they'd rather live a short life enjoying these things and being stationary than live a long life of movement and exercise without them. It's a compelling argument, I'll agree, (and I am certainly not without my own vices!) but also an incomplete one. As far as I'm concerned, how long you live is beside the point. The real point is that neglecting our health means we could potentially live just as long, but with far more discomfort. Both my grandmothers and my paternal grandfather serve as prime examples. We're not just taking years off our life so that we just all of a sudden blissfully croak 15 years before we would have otherwise. We're poisoning ourselves, so that our bodies won't function. In neglecting our health, we're living a half life. We're living a debilitated life. We're choosing to live in discomfort, relying more on largely unnecessary medications* than preventative care (i.e. taking actual care of our bodies). Neglecting our wellness isn't just taking life for granted. It's taking our physical AND emotional comfort for granted. Yes. Our lifestyle choices DO, in fact, have an impact on our emotional wellness in various ways. Body and mind: connected, ya'll.


*For the record, I DO believe in the need for medications in some contexts! My point is that we are seriously and pitifully overmedicated for ailments which are largely preventable through lifestyle choices. 


Along these lines, it's not just about us not taking care of ourselves. I also think of people I've known who've attempted suicide. What happens when it's a failed attempt? What happens when the overdose only serves to cripple them, but not kill them? Then, they are at the mercy of the hospitals, which, as we've already discussed, will keep us alive indefinitely. In taking life for granted, they've ultimately given up their power and their option to choose life. 


So, what might we say to someone who is actively suicidal and can't even begin to imagine there is still light behind the clouds? How might we empower that person, rather than condescend and patronize and try to control? Show them their power. Show them their options. If they die or become incapacitated, they take away any and all other options. In trying to gain control by taking life, they actually lose control. In their current situation, show them that death is just one of many options, and it will always be available to them. No one can REALLY stop someone who is set on taking their own life, but maybe we can help them take the time to look at all the options... and in taking time and opening their eyes, they might see that light peek through after all. They might realize their own power and hope. 


I say all this because these stories are close to me. Just about everyone with whom I interact on a daily basis has been inundated with suicidal thoughts at one point or another. One person-- who is one of the most candid, sweet, determined people I've ever met-- find herself blinded to all other options, personal strengths, and coping strategies when faced with major life stressors and symptoms of illness. It takes hard work to fight off that blindness, and I've seen her do it, living to see day after day of laughter and connections. I've seen her and many others, against all odds, find their resilience and continue to pass go with gratitude and strength in their hearts. 


Whether the notions of one's imminent death are active and suicidal or passive and manifest themselves in poor lifestyle decisions, it's all connected, emotionally and physically. Eat better. Do better. Feel better. Pass go. 

not manic....

I'm not writing maniacally. Most of these posts were previously written, cut, pasted, and re-edited for blog purposes. Just sayin'.... The entries will slow down after today.


As for tonight, it's been a good day and it's good to pass go. Sweet dreams, computer. See you tomorrow. 


AH

web memorials

As so many others I have known, I fought it for a while, but many of us—across generations, genders, socioeconomic groups, races, cultures, and subcultures—eventually wind up joining some sort of online social network and/or creating a personal or family web page. For some, it is an additional way to communicate with loved ones, distant and near; for others, it is a way to meet new people and/or network for employment and business; and for many, it is a way to feel a sense of community and to have an opportunity to express themselves and connect with others without the limitations and social constructs and, perhaps, discomfort and awkwardness that in-person communication may indicate. Given the explosion of popularity of online communities, the growing creation of and participation in web memorials and virtual cemeteries as a bereavement ritual comes as no surprise. This relatively new phenomenon not only indicates a circular pattern of grief and its need for a voice in today’s linear and cacophonous society, but it also begets questions regarding social isolationism versus healthy interpersonal relationships in the midst of grief. These are the concepts addressed by Brian de Vries and Judy Rutherford in “Memorializing Loved Ones on the World Wide Web” (2004) and by Pamela Roberts in “The Living and the Dead: Community in the Virtual Cemetery” (2004).

Grief needs a voice. It needs a safe place to be heard—an accepting place and a patient place. Additionally, given the highly mobile culture in which we live, it needs someplace widely accessible. The creation of web memorials and virtual cemeteries as a grieving ritual fits postmodern society like a glove. As discussed by de Vries and Rutherford, unlike the highly communal sense of loss and grief reminiscent of colonial America, grief is now more commonly seen as an individual, personal affliction with a limited window for open expression. The Internet provides a valuable opportunity to grieve within a supportive, highly accessible (albeit virtual) community and process the loss without concern for whether or not the grief fits current social expectations of emotional display, length of grief, who ‘should’ grieve, and who ‘should’ be grieved. Web memorials provide a ritual to address the circular grief that society at large no longer seems necessarily capable of supporting.

The virtual community feeds the need to talk about the loss—even to talk to the lost—and allows the bereaved to process their feelings and participate in catharsis without the sense that they could be burdening others with their grief. Cyberspace is a perfect postmodern venue for maintaining relationships with our deceased loved ones without judgment. It is a “way to stay connected, no matter the distance or time” (p. 65). Evidence also indicates that this new ritual does not generally foster isolationism and is not a manifestation of clinical maladies, but is, instead, another way to remember and honor lost loved ones with the support of other families and individuals. Web memorials are interactive communities where people are able to share stories, ideas, comfort and support in the midst of difficult times.

Cyberspace offers a much-needed community, including the four elements described by McMillan and Chavis that are key to creating a psychological community: membership, influence, integration and fulfillment of needs, and shared emotional connection (1986, as cited by Roberts). Provided online is a place for the disenfranchised mourner, a virtual ear for the stories of the bereaved, and an accessible quiet venue for remembrance. While these communities may not be physical, the psychological and emotional connections that are made are no less real for those who visit them.

Considering disenfranchised mourners, I cannot help but think of my dad as an example. When my former stepmother (they had divorced) passed away in 2003, her body was cremated, the ashes were scattered at Lady Bird Lake (amid a host of poison ivy); and she specifically required that my dad be barred from any of her funeral proceedings. I suppose she was so finished with the idea of my dad that she wanted distance in life and in death. I can only speculate on her reasons, but the end result is the same: my dad’s grief, to this day, has been left stunted. My dad even jokes at the idea that the ashes were intentionally spread in poison ivy as an additional safeguard against visiting the memory of my stepmom! Perhaps, given my dad's pariah status in the community of her ex-wife, grief could be unravelled and processed and supported via website. Maybe Dad could find that there is more support and connection than previously assumed. Maybe the lines of communication stemming from that marital history could be reconnected and healed. “Online communication becomes not a substitute for direct communication, but rather an aid in communicating both on and off line” (p. 72).

References

De Vries, B., Rutherford, J. (2004). Memorializing loved ones on the world wide web. Omega—The Journal of Death and Dying, 49(1), 5-26.

Roberts, P. (2004). The living and the dead: Community in the virtual cemetery. Omega—The Journal of Death and Dying, 49(1), 57-76.

thinking

Would you think I was weird if I told you how often I think about death? Maybe you already picked up on that-- given the content of this blog.... Maybe that's why I started this blog.... because the general public gets all squeamish and uncomfortable.

Sometimes I feel guilty and ashamed of my thoughts because I don't really want to die, and I know there's this social expectation of preserving life at all cost. For example, look at hospitals and retirement homes: keeping people alive through complicated procedures simply out of a fear of liability. Keeping people alive who's bodies are telling us that they are clearly ready to move on from this life, but our system... but we--out of fear or obstinacy or selfishness or whatever it is--insist on keeping people alive, even when they're ready to die. In doing so, we rob death of its dignity, and dignity can be found in death if we allow it. Death is an inescapable, integral part of life. 


So, yes. I think about death. I also say "so" a lot in casual writing. Bear with me. I'm already stunting stream-of-consciousness writing by using appropriate and proper capitalization and it's cramping my pinky fingers. Silly grammar.... Anyhow, I enjoy living, but I think I understand when people tell me they're simply done with it. I get that part. I don't believe death has to be sad or feared by the person who is ready for it. I'm not so much speaking of active suicide, as one with major depression or anxiety disorder might. I simply consider how things might be if I just didn't wake up... or if I got--through no fault of my own-- some fatal illness. The notion doesn't upset me. Granted, I fully acknowledge the possibility that I'm completely, batshit crazy wrong--and the notion of pain doesn't thrill, to say the least, and I don't dare intend to minimize the horror anyone goes through who experiences such illnesses--but right now I feel like I could let go of life as I know it. I wouldn't want to hurt those that love me, but I don't have children so I don't believe that anyone fundamentally depends on me. I just feel like, from my own self-centered, severely limited vantage point--even though I enjoy life and I plan to continue on that same happy trajectory--I could bow out at this high point in my life.


It's not like my thoughts are not limited to when things are "bad" and I'm feeling like the sun will never come out and the grass will never grow. Rather, I think about death pretty consistently. I think about it when things are bad, knowing that bad stuff happens and it's just a phase and things always get better with a little motivation and determination. Then, I think about it when things are good too. I guess it's like fantasizing about quitting while I'm ahead, taking away the chance of failing. Quitting before anything gets bad again. This part is anxiety, I guess. It's not a helplessness hopelessness thing. I am perfectly capable of offering and receiving help and maintaining hope. It's what I do for a living, and I love what I do: helping people develop insight into hope and strengths and meaningful existence. I practice gratitude and I love to love and  I love to experience and feel and share. I love the movement and experience of life.

As I mentioned before, however, the gravity of fatal illness such as cancer and the death of loved ones is not lost on me. Death and loss is sad. It can feel like the very fabric of our soul is being brutally shredded. The universe takes away that which is most important to us. We are stripped of our reality when we lose that which has shaped our lives, that which is most important to us. Our movements change. Our thoughts change. Our routine and our paradigm and our interactions change. Death strikes hard, so I'd like to think that I do not take life for granted. 


I'd like to think that my appreciation of death is the major contributor of my passion for life. We don't have forever, so make the most of NOW. I don't smoke; I eat my veggies and whole grains; I exercise; I work, relax, and have fun. I love people. I strive for balance, and I encourage and mentor others to do the same, but without expecting perfection. My job is all about the facilitation of emotional and physical wellness, and I LOVE my job. I want people to live well and take care of themselves. I want people to enjoy the limited time they have with one another. I want to make the best of everyday, and perhaps that is the point here: making the best and the most of everyday, and living fully and simultaneously within the joy, sorrow, titillation, pain, chaos, order, surprise, and predictability. Living this way could suggest all loose ends are mostly tied at all times. To me, living this way means I don't have to fear death, necessarily. It means I've lived well, whether I live to see the next hour or the next 60 years. It means I'm celebrating life. Of course, all of this is easier said from the nosebleed seats than from the front row, I imagine. At some point, I'll get a closer look and feel and experience, and we'll see where all of these pretentious notions get me when faced with the Reaper, front and center. 

And this is where maybe I'll allow a little more of the feeling from the original draft of this note to peak through. Why not? It's honest. While I already mentioned that these feelings and notions are present through both good and bad days, I originally wrote this without the sense of peace and hope and tranquility that I feel now. It was a bad day. I originally wrote that...(original draft starts here)... perhaps somewhere in me I don't believe that I deserve this life. I don't believe I am capable of living it well. I am ordinary in the midst of the extraordinary. The hobgoblins that anxiously scratch the walls of my mind suggest that I will always let people down or that people will always let me down. Perhaps it's because somewhere in me I don't believe I am worth their enduring attention or love or loyalty. Psych-speak: family of origin stuff, re-enacted throughout life's pre-insight decisions. And, fucking hobgoblins. This all sounds so pathetic.... I'm even ashamed and anxious about my thoughts of being ashamed and anxious.... but that, of course, is simply a part of depression. This is where I have a choice, and my choice will create a new light over a different path. I will remember hope, I will take care of myself and those I love, and I will continue to pass go.

thoughts on Frankl

Reading Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, I feel like my breath has been swept from my lungs.  My heart swells for the unimaginable physical and psychological suffering he witnessed and experienced; and my mind feels like a contortionist, trying to twist and stretch to wrap itself around the whys and the hows of not only those who did or did not survive, but also the whys and the hows of those who were capable of inflicting and maintaining such horrors, and everything and everyone in between. While this may seem a melodramatic introduction to a simple book analysis, it is an honest reflection of the effect Frankl's book had on me. It is a story of external torment and internal escapism; of humanism and dehumanization; of finding hope, power, truth and meaning; and of the will to survive through the most unlikely and seemingly impossible circumstances. 

       The phases of which he speaks, while generally comparable to Kubler-Ross’s widely known five stages of grief, are unique to the prison camp experience—a torturous purgatorial period of neither life nor death.  Initial admittance into this purgatory resulted in, first, shock and an unbearable flood of emotion.  Such was the intensity of these feelings that death could seem a welcome reprieve from the agony of longing, disgust, humiliation, dehumanization and physical anguish.  Secondly, however, and too late for the many who did not survive the first stage of psychological reactions, was the experience of detachment.  Apathy became a very “necessary protective shell” (p. 23) for self-preservation, and inmates regressed to “a more primitive form of mental life” (p. 28) where wants and needs were manifest in dreams and rooted in survival and normalcy rather than luxury or excess.  This is the stage in which Frankl spends the most time relaying his experience. 

I am especially inspired by and taken with the notion of inner escapism during this stage—the notion that truth and meaning for a person is all that is left when everything else has been brutally stripped away.  Some found meaning in life and the will to survive through love.  Some found it in thoughts of family, some in helping ease the suffering of others and responsibility to community, and some in the suffering itself, wearing it as a badge of courage. It was a “spiritual freedom… [an] independence of mind” that kept a small flame of hope burning despite the lack of air.  Meaning in life indicated a reason to live—goals on which to make good.  They indicated a hope for a rebirth out of purgatory and life after their own figurative death.  There is no life without death, no light without dark, no joy without sorrow, and no ease without suffering.  Those who lost sight of the potential other side of their suffering also lost the will to live.  They no longer saw the deeply buried meaning in their life.  Illness was often the clinical cause of death, but it was absolute despondency that frequently allowed the illness to take hold.  With this thought, I am reminded of my grandfather who willed himself to die within weeks of my grandmother’s passing.  Had he the motivation, he could have lived much longer, but he chose to be taken by his illness. Life was not the same without her and he no longer felt the world needed him or him, it.

       Finally, Frankl speaks of liberation: the third stage in the mental process experienced by the prisoners.  I was intrigued to find that my preconceived notions of good and evil (as had also been demonstrated in the actions of some of his inmate counterparts during their incarceration) were wrong.  It serves as a good reminder that there is no simple formula for what makes one person good and one person bad.  Other prisoners could be the most malicious characters in the camp, while Frankl speaks of a Nazi foreman who moved him to tears in offering a small piece of extra bread.  In a place where prisoners are treated as nonentities, to be acknowledged and validated through even the smallest kindness meant the world and fed his soul while his stomach still grumbled.  It is impressive that absolute power and absolute suffering—both sides—can expose both the most brutal nature of an individual as well as his humanity.  “Life in a concentration camp tore open the human soul and exposed its depths” (p. 87), and these depths were left exposed and raw upon being thrust into liberation and freedom. 

Understanding the lingering psychological and social effects of this atrocity on one generation (that experienced it directly), I find myself curious about the likely parallels between this event and the generations of slavery and oppression that are such a relatively recent part of our history.   In both contexts, individuals, groups, families, and communities have been torn apart, brutalized, and dehumanized.  In both contexts, instances of humanity and relative decency can be found even within the offending ranks. In both contexts, there have been lingering misunderstandings, anger, sadness and despondency along with powerful and inspiring acts of heroism and courage.  What can our society, our world, take from these historical lessons?  How can we use these experiences to make a change in the world today?  How can we respond to each other respectfully and with understanding, rather than reacting without considering the teachings of our past? “No group consists entirely of decent or indecent people” (p 86).  We all have the potential for good and evil.  We simply must make a choice between the two, understanding that “True saints are the ones who can absorb the evil done to them, and not pass it on to others” (anonymous).

some thoughts on Morrie...

So many people are terrified of dying. More than that, though, I think people are afraid of living. We seem to get so caught up in living perfectly that we forget that there's no such thing. At any cost, almost, we try to avoid looking silly or being wrong, and in such avoidance we end up missing out on life. Our hearts are closed. We don't call attention to ourselves. We don't want to dance because we might not have rhythm or we may stumble or we don't know the right moves. We don't sing for fear of being off key. We don't try new things because we might not get them right. We are prideful. We don't open ourselves up to all the possibilities the world has to offer. We fight love. We see assistance as an affront to our independence and autonomy. With all that said, if we don't know how to fully live, how are we supposed to know how to die? Then again, Morrie postulates that knowing how to die is the answer to knowing how to live. 


     Morrie’s revelation was born of the fact that he felt like he was lucky. Given his drawn out death sentence, he was grateful to have time to continue learning, to teach what he learned, and to say goodbye. Not everyone gets such an opportunity, which is why the lessons he taught are so profound and pertinent to not just dying well, but to living fully without regrets like pride, vanity, and hardness of heart. In the end, not everyone gets time to forgive themselves or others. He felt lucky to have a chance to atone for some of his regrets, to forgive others, and to forgive himself. This lesson suggests that one of the greatest tragedies in death is the legacy of regret that stains all that is left behind.

       With this in mind, the world is not going to stop. Responsibilities, pride, and social norms will always have pull in the decisions we make—Morrie spoke of the “tension of opposites”—but, in order to live happily, we have to decide on our priorities. “Love is the only rational act.” He suggests that fulfillment and meaning in life can only be manifested through love—love not limited to family, friends, and community; but extended to our lifestyle and actions and how those things reflect back onto ourselves, our family and our community. For example, juxtapose Mitch with his girlfriend. Mitch gives up music for a lucrative career in sports media. He makes work a priority and loses touch with those and that which are actually most important to him. He loses touch with his music, Morrie, his friends, and he almost loses Janeane. Janeane, on the other hand, while her story is not as detailed as Mitch’s, loves to sing, so she makes it a priority. She also loves Mitch, so she tries to make him a priority. She structures her life so that everything that is important to her—everything she loves—has its place. Thus, she has fulfillment through love. Mitch gets his priorities confused in his misconception of what it means to “grow up” and has to relearn that lesson.

      But why does he get confused? Because to love and be loved is frightening. It takes courage to love work that might not be lucrative or successful. It takes courage to love a community that might disappoint you; and it takes courage to love people, knowing that you could lose them at any moment. It takes courage to risk failure. Loving leaves a person raw and exposed to all the emotional elements, and our society is uncomfortable with strong emotion. Thus, there's a lot to be afraid of in fully living and loving. Failure and loss are very real things, but without taking the risk of encountering them, the lives we lead are empty of meaning. We spin our wheels until we die, never having experienced anything of any substance.

            Morrie understood that death was the last journey in life, and he faced it with courage, pizzazz, and dignity. He made his death just as meaningful as his life. He used his life to experience joy, to teach and be taught, and he did the same thing with the process of his death. He filled his life with meaning through relationships, education, experience, laughter, food and dance. He saw life as a journey, and I won't argue with that. Life is our journey. Death, ultimately and without escape, is our destination. The decision rests in our hands with regard to how we experience our journey and, inevitably, how we die. We have the choice to make it a joyful, playful, loving, fulfilling, meaningful, musical, colorful journey. I believe that the more color with which we paint our lives, the more meaningful our death becomes. Morrie’s colorful life became his meaningful journey into death that has, throughout the years, continued to teach and touch those willing to listen. 

      And I'll end with a song that's been in my head, if you'll humor me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTZS3K0xa9I

dying well, living well

Throughout my start in this field--especially while in grad school--friends and family have seen the books that I read, the journals I research, and the projects for which I volunteer. Invariably, they have responded with the notion that this must be the most depressing, difficult career ever; and they would be hard pressed to want to read the things I read or do the activities I do. Actually, I tell them, it’s emotional, it’s profound, and it’s great. While the concepts of loss and death certainly evoke intense grief and various other emotions (which we, as a culture, typically avoid), it is possible to reframe the experience to find meaning. Death does not have to be viewed as a problem, but rather as an integral, natural part of life. Death is not inherently undignified. Additionally, while the experience of loss and grief is unique to each individual, they are normal aspects of life and emotional wellbeing. The most recent book with which my friends have been uncomfortable is Dying Well: Peace and Possibilities at the End of Life by Ira Byock, M.D., and these are some of the issues he addresses via stories of individual experiences with death.


Regarding his own experience, Dr. Byock discusses death being treated in the medical field, unconditionally, as a problem. Efforts are made in almost every situation to prolong the life of the individual admitted to the hospital, and the stories he cites suggest that it is treated this way out of fear of liability. Even at a sickly ninety-two years old, one woman's distant family did not want to withhold intensive treatments to prolong her life because they would then feel responsible for her death. Our society seems to base its treatment of the terminally ill on the misconception that if we do not prolong life (even in atrocious, painful, or near-death contexts), then we are the ones ending it-—we become murderers. Thus, hospitals and nursing homes, as Byock suggests, are stuck in a precarious situation. Even professionally knowing that someone is about to die, due to any cause, these institutions must be able to prove that they did “everything possible” to keep that person alive, lest the family/friends hold them liable for the death. It is not, therefore, death that is the problem, but perhaps our misguided fear of it.

“I wondered what it was permissible to die from…. even passings that should have been peaceful turned gruesome” (p. 27). As it is fear that is the problem, not death, death does not have to be undignified. It seems that our fear of it and our subsequent reaction to its inevitability are what create any perceived indignity. Byock suggests that by allowing people to reflect on their imminent death, and by opening a safe space for them to experience the emotions that accompany it, people may have a dignified, meaningful, and fulfilling end of life experience. They can confront their fears of being burdensome or of suffering—-he stresses that pain can, in fact, be managed—-as well as fears of solitude and family debt. They can take the opportunity to tie up emotional loose ends and find closure on unfinished business. Some examples: Ira was able to care for his father. Anne Marie reconnected with her sister and daughter. Some of Ira’s patients were able to let go of anger and forgive. Others held on to life long enough to achieve meaningful goals, and all that were mentioned were able to transition out of life peacefully and with dignity.

“‘What would be left undone if I died today?’ and ‘How can I live most fully in whatever time is left?’” (p. 34). These are two very simple, important questions. We take so many things for granted in our daily lives-—especially time. There will always be time to mend that relationship, to apologize, to pay off debt, to quit smoking, to climb that mountain, to learn a skill, to laugh, to cry, to express love. Then, at some point, daily life becomes daily death. It is only when the end and the loss of time becomes almost tangible that so many of us realize that we have a lot of frayed, loose ends to tie.


And with that in mind, I continue to enjoy the spectrum of experience and interactions that constitute life. I will continue to pass go. 

getting older

Getting older is inevitable, sure. I'd like to think, though, that sensible shoes and elastic waistbands are not. Nor do I think the potential for questionable decisions and jackassery should necessarily be reserved exclusively for or exhausted in youth. I admire those who live and grow old with pizzazz!

pie and pills

Perfectly baked and rich in good character, humble pie might taste like dry turd on a stale cracker, but I’d rather have that and bitter pills than smoke in my eyes from an overcooked sense of entitlement or toxic slop from undercooked self-esteem—my own, or someone else’s. 

fear and serenity

If I could have a wish, it would be to live life and face death and suffering with grace.... with peace, love, and serenity in my heart. I wish to hold no fear of pain or mortality. Fear resonates throughout life's decisions and its relationships. It withers hope and limits joy. So, to be able to live serenely, without fear of judgement--or any form of emotional or physical suffering-- could enable us to love unconditionally. This does not suggest living without caution or responsibility. It would mean living fully in relationships-- to ourselves, family, friends, community, nature, and the world! It would suggest real connection.

And for me, it could mean I wouldn't have to fear having children. Maybe I could start allowing myself that dream. The world may mistreat them. They may mistreat the world. They may kill or be killed.... But would I exchange all of the joy of family and love for a solitary life based on fear of sadness and suffering? I realize now that this was the reason I didn't want my own biological children for so many years: fear of suffering, fear of a dying world, fear of adding to the pain. But what if we face our fear of dying? What if we accept it as part of life? What if we understand suffering as a lens through which to better understand happiness? Wouldn't we be more likely to enjoy life? What if we didn't fear inconvenience? Wouldn't we be more likely to appreciate simple things? What if we didn't fear judgement? We'd be able to enjoy our genuine selves and we'd be able to openly love and be loved....

loose ends

Back in 2009, I wrote my original "Death Wish" for my Loss & Grief class on my way to getting my master's in counseling. It was one of the best classes I ever took, and I've considered, every year, writing a new one. Things change. Things move. Life is fluid. Granted, the entirety of the original still stands true, but I feel it's now lacking substance. It lacks the last few years. So, here goes....


Loose Ends: I’d just like to say…

If you’re reading or hearing this, the house is empty. I’ve moved out and on. If there’s a way to leave a forwarding address for messages I’ll be sure to get that to you, but the truth is that I have no idea where I’ve gone. Perhaps I’m in heaven. Perhaps not. Maybe my energy will manifest as a plant. Maybe the dirt. Maybe the worm. Or maybe music? Or art? Then again, there are so many people I could happily haunt. My ghost will--BOO--jump out of your Cheerios and giggle when you squirt milk out of your nose. I’m just kidding folks. I won’t hide in your breakfast, but if there’s a way, I’ll visit just to check on you and show you that I’m alright. 

Wherever I am, I sincerely hope you remember me with imperfect fondness. I have decided that I don’t really believe much in perfection. Life’s more interesting and sincere without that weight to bear. However, I hope that people who remember me—as well as those who meet me through your memories—won’t judge me by my tattoos, my poor choices, the many mistakes and wrong turns I made, or my poor spelling (spell check is both a blessing and curse!). I hope that I led a life that made my family and friends proud. I hope that I did something, however small, that spread some good in the world. I also want my friends and family to know that they inspired me to be a better person. They are the super glue that connects everything. They should know that they are responsible for my belief in angels, because they are angels walking the earth. I would start naming you all right now, but that would take way too long. So instead, just look around you and don’t forget to know, deep in your heart, that you’re an angel too. Thank you. I love you.

I did a lot of things while I was alive. To an extent, each stint and experience suggested to some that I was a flake, incapable of committing to anything and, perhaps, unable to find happiness; and, to an extent, there’s some truth to that. I had been a flake and overly noncommittal at times; but I enjoyed sampling what life had to offer. I found happiness in new beginnings. I wanted to try a little of everything, and while, because of this, it took me longer to find a suitable long-term path for myself, I ended up in a great place on a colorful journey. Ironically, P, you helped me learn stability and commitment. I am sincerely thankful to you for that. I’d like to think that all my detours opened my heart and mind, allowing me to love more deeply and live more fully. 

Angelface, I loved the person I thought you were more deeply than I ever thought I could love anyone. It was a gut-wrenching lesson, but thank you for teaching me to love without losing myself and to hurt without hating. Thank you for teaching me to set boundaries and defend myself. I only regret that my boundaries weren't more firm until after you took my trust for granted, familiarizing me with unnecessary shame and fear. That being said, I take with me to my grave many sadnesses about abuse, pain, and withered dreams, but I'm eternally grateful for the the difficult lessons learned. I wish you happiness and healing.

Sunshine, thank you. More than you might ever realize, you helped rebuild trust, hope, and love in the midst of an enormous paradigm shift. Thank you for being so wonderfully, genuinely, lovingly you. 

Chickens, Faces, and Wedgies, words will never be enough to express my gratitude for you. I'm overwhelmed thinking about you all. You are amazing, dynamic, beautiful, inspiring people.

Anyhow, had my life been significantly longer, I’m sure I would’ve taken a few more turns for the better and the worse—I had dreams of someday living sustainably and hosting travelers from all over the world in some kind of inn/hostel/farm—but I’m content with where I left off. I was doing what I loved and I was surrounded by wonderful people. I found joy in friends, family, work, and all of life's abundant adventure and tranquility. When it comes down to it, besides all the losses, setbacks, doubts, mistakes, and pains that are inevitable, life was profoundly good. 

I turned 33 this year. Wow. That’s pretty young to be dead already, huh? Mom, Dad: you’re probably thinking this is all backwards and I wasn’t supposed to go before you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you have to feel all of this hurt and try to make sense of something that will never seem right. If I could have, I would have waited, but, as it is, I couldn’t and I led a really full life. I did my best to live colorfully and fully in the time that I had, so I hope I’ve left you with plenty of memories to make you smile when you think of me—I at least would like to think that the good ones outweigh the not-so-good ones! That was a joke, but only sort of. I know I wasn’t perfect, and I caused you a lot of pain and frustration, and I’m sorry for that. 

Dad and Mom, you both played very significant roles in contributing to who I was and what was important to me. From both of you I learned to value honesty, independence, education, decorum, manners, laughter, positivity, and healthy living. From you, Mom, I learned to value nurturance, stability, responsibility, tact, dependability, commitment, work ethic and loyalty. You were my rock and my safe place, and you scared the crap out of us all last year. Honestly, that was a good kick in the pants not to take you for granted. Dad, you taught me the value of creativity, spontaneity, adventure, and questioning of the status quo. You were my wings. I imagine, had I lived longer, we'd have found a way to work through our differences and speak again. Anyway, thank you both for everything that you are. There was no doubt a lot of overlap in what you each taught me, and I’m so proud to have had you as my parents. 

Q, I’m so proud of you. You were always my hero, and I can't even begin to express to you how much your support meant to me in rough times. I really hope it'll be your beautiful family's Cheerios that I get to hide in. I love your wife. She is definitely family in my little book. And maybe I can be the Monsters' invisible friend!

Now that all that’s said, to whom it may concern, please don’t take up precious land space with what used to be me. I’m not there anymore so please cremate my old body. I obviously don’t need it anymore. Then, throw the ashes in a river, a lake, an ocean, a mountain, to the wind… whatever! Well, maybe not whatever. Not that I think you’d do this, but I’d appreciate not being thrown in the cat box or down the commode. Just saying…. Some kind of little ceremony with some good food and good music to bring people together would be nice. 

Also, with regard to dress code, give me a break on the black. Feel free to wear it—maybe that’s your thing—but throw in something colorful and/or glittery/sequiny/shiny. Something festive or funny. I know you’re grieving right now, and that’s quite all right because, wherever I am, I miss you too. Cry all you want and need to. Anyone who knows me well knows that I’d be crying too. A lot. I’m crying while I write this, for goodness sake! I suppose what I’m saying is this: my death is sad. There’s no reason to treat it like it’s not; but my life was good and fun and colorful. Mourn my death, but please celebrate my life. 

On that note, I encourage you to continue celebrating your own and everyone else’s life too. I can’t work on these things for myself anymore, but I see the value in them, so here you go: Try new things. Quit worrying (like I too often did) so much about getting it wrong. Create. Eat. Hug the people you love. Don’t be stingy with love—it comes in plenty of forms and you never have to run out if you keep your heart and mind open. Easier said than done, I know. Talk to each other. Take care of each other. Be kind and honest and accountable—with others and yourself. Apologize. Forgive. Feel. Play. Sing. Dance! Slow dance, line dance, two step, one step, salsa, merengue, bomba, hand jive, dirty dance, crunk dance, chicken dance, ANY dance. Just dance. Rhythm (or lack there of) is beside the point. Just experience life. I believe you can create profound meaning in the context of how you live. You already did it for me, so keep going.

And I’ll end there, except for this. Here is a little playlist for you. Each of these songs has touched me at some point—made me smile, made me sing, made me dance, or reminded me of people, places, times, or ideas I’ve cared about (or I just thought they’d be cool to play at a memorial service!). There are many more—MANY more, but these seem pretty good to start: 
I’ll fly away (Alison Krauss, Gillian Welch), Threadbare Gypsy Soul (Pat Green), I’m Comin’ Home (Robert Earl Keen), Friends in Low Places (Garth Brooks), Try Me, Get up off of that Thing (James Brown), Video (India Arie), Dublin Blues (Guy Clark, Peter Rowan), Get it Together (Beastie Boys), Waiting on an Angel (Ben Harper), She Talks to Angels (Black Crows), Change (Blind Melon), One Love (Bob Marley), anything from Buena Vista Social Club, On & On (Erykah Badu), That’s Life (Frank Sinatra), Proud Mary, Let the Good Times Roll (Ike and Tina Turner), Waiting on the World to Change, Say (John Mayer), I Hope You Dance (Lee Ann Womack), Ain’t So Lonely (Lucero), Just Fine (Mary J. Blige), Say Hey (Michael Franti & Spearhead & Cherine Anderson), Cancion del Mariachi (Los Lobos & Antonio Banderas), Ya Viene el Sol, Dos Cosas Ciertas (Ozomatli), Trouble (Ray LaMontagne), Into the Mystic (Van Morrison), and Angelface's song.

And now, help yourself to the dessert bar....

the pasta night

I have been a cutter. I previously denied it to myself because I was never consistent with it. In fact, this note originally began with "I am not a cutter." That being said, I have several faded, almost indistinguishable scars that would suggest otherwise. The first is on my hand. In high school I was curious about my pain threshold and how deeply I could allow myself to scratch with an exacto knife. It was not a deep cut, but the result is a tiny, straight, fine remnant of that curiosity. Similarly, on the inside of my right wrist I can still identify where I scratched myself with my own fingernail to the same end--just to scratch. Just to see the skin eventually begin to tear. I honestly never imagined that these self-inflicted and superficial wounds would still be visible 15 plus years later. Additionally, I never imagined that I would remember the specific acts of what can be considered nothing less than mild forms of self-harm. The truth is this: I was afraid of pain and torture-- which could be interpreted emotionally as well as physically-- and I sought, through these meager measures, to feel a sense of control over it. I can also remember, at a very young age, running the bath water too hot and letting myself feel its burn.

So my experiments with withstanding pain began long before my adolescent trials with exacto knives and fingernails, but they were also not limited to such obvious methods. At 15 years I would hit my rough, 80-pound, canvas heavy bag without wrapping my hands or wearing gloves. Then I would gaze, with warped pride at my bloodied, angry knuckles. In play fights with my brother, I would insist, annoyed, that he quit pulling his punches. I wanted to be tough, and I was eager to prove--to myself, I suppose--that I could deal with hurt. Maybe that's why, in middle and high school, I got into piercing. I had always wanted, for strictly esthetic purposes, more earrings and facial adornments, but I think there was more to these body modifications than getting to wear extra jewelry. I pierced my own ears, my own eyebrow, my own nose, and my own navel. Eventually, I continued on these endeavors through professional (and sterilized) means, but I began in front of a mirror with a safety pin and rubbing alcohol.

Why am I writing about this?

There was another time... But I was older. I was well out of high school and I had already graduated from college. I found myself in a situation in which I was the bearer of the loaded, confused, obstinate silence of One and the lonely, dejected, emotional needs of the Other. I played the part of the island near which could be seen the One, quiet, well-guarded vessel anchored, and onto which the Other’s emotional waves kept crashing in the hopes of making contact with the vessel. Home was several countries away and I felt alone, emotionally chaotic, and without resources. So years ago, after a particularly emotional correspondence, I drank a pirate’s ration of rum, then took a knife and began to cut myself. Just like in high school, the scratches were barely visible with the first stroke. I hadn't the courage to plunge right in, or perhaps--more likely--the hesitation was the silent protest of my sanity as my marbles were swimming around in a swirling concoction of emotional turmoil and rum. I continued to scratch--in a trance almost--until I had 4 bleeding, ragged horizontal lines on the inside of my leg, just above the ankle. It felt meditative, and I felt like I'd regained some control over myself. I channeled emotional anxiety into physical pain, which must have felt powerful. The truth, however, is that I'd crumbled. I hadn't gained control. Instead, I had surrendered it to a shadow of myself while the strong, solid, spirited me abandoned post and allowed physical me to pay the price.

After dressing my wounds, I returned to my initial project that night of making pasta for the following day's trip to the beach. Maybe it was the substantial amount of rum coursing through my veins, or maybe it was my vision--and, thus, my ability to eye-ball teaspoons and tablespoons—that was blurred by the subsiding tears from the previous hours spent in self-pity, but either way the results were devastating for the pasta. At the beach, my sweet neighbors had already politely and painfully choked down a few bites of my atrocious potluck offering before I realized, myself, that the amount of ridiculously spicy chile I had added was setting mouths ablaze. Tongues and lips were scorched as a result of my sad, drunken, 2am whirl around the kitchen. This could be the moral to the story, but somehow, I think there's more....

The scars are almost invisible now, so I no longer have to conjure up lame, implausible stories about tripping over rakes or fighting off large, aggressive cats or badgers or trolls, but there are deeper implications regarding this memory. Reading this entry, one might almost think I’m advocating for this sort of coping mechanism, but let me be clear: CUTTING IS NOT A COPING MECHANISM. It does not prove or cultivate strength or control. It was my lack of tools and confused boundaries, combined with my fears that led me to do the things I did. I was consumed by what I couldn’t control—emotional (and physical) pain—and I have scars that attest to my unmanaged chaos.

There have been a few times since the pasta incident where I was tempted to relinquish my sanity in favor of injurious behavior, but (in spite of setbacks) life is too good and too short and there are plenty of alternatives to self harm. In those moments I've journaled or gone dancing or to yoga or watched light hearted movies instead--there's a big soft spot in my heart for anything Pixar--and I've allowed my marbles to be still. In this way, the chaos subsides. In this way, I’ve chosen wellness.

I write this with several friends, acquaintances, and loved ones in mind. There are better answers.