READING, LEARNING, PROCESSING

Throughtout my adult life, when faced with new experiences, I must read about it to fully understand it and process it. When I was in my childbearing years, I read compulsively about pregnancy, giving birth, breastfeeding, and childrearing until I knew much more than the average mom, more than most obstetrical nurses, and even more than some physicians. I was able to birth my babies in the comfort of my own bed, and was even capable of helping a young mom with a very difficult and risky home birth of her own.

When I became a Christian Fundamentalist, it was not enough for me to simply "accept Christ;" I had to read all about what it meant to be "born again." And, when I reached the point that I realized Christian Fundamentalism was a toxic, dysfunctional religion, I again filled my time with reading about religious history, feminine spirituality, mythology, and ancient history until finally I was able to create a functional, healthy, nature-inspired spiritual template that was realistic and psychologically beneficial.

As I began to learn more about who I really am, I began to explore my sexual identity and finally admitted - to myself and others - that I am bisexual. Once again, I had to read coming-out stories, the history of gay culture, and what it meant to love women. In the process, I learned to love and accept myself more fully.

During the cumulative twenty years of homeschooling, I read, learned, and processed how to teach, how to create multi-level, cross-curricular lesson plans, and even reacquainted myself with basic english, mathematics, science, and history.

As I began to reach my forties, I realized that life doesn't last forever and suddenly I felt compelled to understand the funeral industry and how to plan for my own death. It was then that I discovered the Green Funeral Movement and realized through my research and reading that my desire to be buried in a simply, hand-crafted wood box without being embalmed was not unique; there is an entire movement of people who are desiring the same thing.

Then, as I committed to pursuing my Master's degree in counseling and clinical mental health, I began to read about personality disorders, treatment plans, psychopharmacology, psychological assessments, and counseling methods.

And my personal library is a testament to a lifetime of reading, learning, and processing. With just over 500 titles that address everything from Pagan rituals and holy days to whole foods, from mindfulness to caring for the dead, my bookshelves are a tangible expression of who I am, where I've been, and what I've done. There are books about reincarnation, feminism, paleolithic societies, everyday life in early America, the 20th century, and how to interpret Tarot cards. But I never imagined that someday I would need to incorporate a new subject to read about, learn about and process. I never imagined that I would need to accumulate books about suicide, grieving, and losing a child this way.

And yet, it almost seems as if my life has prepared me for this - at least to some degree. It is as if all I have experienced in my life have been prerequisits for this event. I have a deep understanding of the paradoxes of life from all of my prior explorations in religion, philosophy, and spirituality. I long ago gained an appreciation for the complex nature of human psychology and mental health. And, having given birth at home and having recently approached the subject of natural funerals and caring for the deceased, I am at ease with both birthing and dying.

While my exposure to all of these subjects did not necessarily make losing Christina easy, perhaps it has given me a sense of peace and acceptance - even while I struggle to process - for the messy part of Life and for the endless paradoxical nature of the Human experience. On the one hand, I am relieved knowing that Christina is no longer in mental pain and anguish; on the other hand, I cannot fully accept her absence and wish she was still here. Perhaps all of my prior learning has given me an appropriate and suitable foundation on which to bear this loss. Yes, I grieve. I cry, mourn, and feel anguish when I realize I will never see her again, hear her voice, or watch her dance to Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots are Made for Walking!" It hurts. The pain will never end and I must now learn how to live in spite of the pain. I am forever changed, but I am realizing, as I process, that every life experience has left me forever changed.

So my personal library continues to expand, along with my Life experiences. I wish suicide was not a part of my experience, but it is. As I move into the realm of counseling and clinical mental health, I suspect the knowledge that has been thrust upon me when Christina took her life will be an asset; I will have both professional knowledge and personal, first-hand experience with the subject - and this will likely benefit my clients and make me more professionally valuable. A silver lining, perhaps, to an otherwise very dark and dismal black cloud.

TRYING SO HARD TO FIGURE IT ALL OUT

I realize that in Life, some things are just unknowable. Certain aspects forever remain a mystery. Yet, four months after losing Christina, I still wonder. I wonder who she really was. I wonder, considering all the now-apparent foreshadowing, just how much is pre-ordained. I wonder if this truly was all "meant to be" or if there was some way it could've been avoided.

I suspect that Christina often felt like the Black Sheep of the family. She often said that she felt she was my least favorite child. I always disagreed. Christina was never that. But she seemed to identify most strongly with being the unloved child.

I have come to believe that I mis-named her; she was not ever truly Christina. Was she Katherine Elizabeth, as I intended to name her while pregnant? I'm not sure. In fact, I suspect she was not; when she was born and I looked at her, my first thought was that she was not who I expected and she was not, therefore, Katy Beth. But neither was she Christina Danielle. But who was she? Honestly, I do not know, and I fear that I may never know; but the closest I came to properly naming her was when I called her Tani. That is why I want to get a tattoo of an apple with "Tani" inscribed across it. It most truly reflects who she really was. She was my Tani Apple.

So I wonder then: Can mis-naming a child cause such lifelong stress? Can it cause them to struggle with their identity the way Christina struggled with hers? And, if that is possible, then doesn't that imply that when a child is born, they come into this world with an identity and it is up to the parents then to properly name them and recognize who they are??

That's a lot to expect from a new parent.

WHERE ARE YOU??

I miss you Christina and I suppose I am beginning - just beginning - to realize that I will never see you again and that as we all age, you will forever remain twenty-three.

It's been nearly four months - which feels like both a short time and a really, really long time - and still, I mourn losing you like this. Sometimes, I must remind myself: You aren't at CCDOC (because that is what your absence reminds me of); I must actually remind myself that you're not just "not here," you are no longer alive; we laid you to rest. Physically, I was there; but mentally I was gone. I functioned on automatic pilot that first week. I remember your funeral as if it were a bad dream. Perhaps that accounts for the trouble I am having accepting your death: I was not fully present from that moment we found you. And so is it any surprise that I find myself wondering where you are?

I found your journals today and started reading them. The two I read today were from ten years ago. As I read it, I thought, "She seems like she was just a normal adolescent." I didn't read anything that surprised me, although I read a lot of things I didn't know about. And I noticed, for the first time, that your penmanship is a lot like your dad's. In fact, at first I thought he had actually written in your journal, until I realized it was in fact your handwriting.

Yesterday we had guests here and one of the women mentioned liking shoes - especially boots. I showed her some of your collection and wondered if Ada will like them when she's older; there's no way I can part with them because I know how much you liked your shoe collection. Your daughter will inherit them. I wonder what she will think of them.

I've learned a lot since you've been gone, Christina, about things I didn't ever think I'd have to know. I've learned that grieving for someone who took their own life is more difficult than losing someone to natural causes; it's traumatic. I've learned that the grieving process can take a long, long time - several years - when a parent loses one of their own the way I lost you. And I learned that the pain will never go away; I will simply have to learn to live my life in spite of the pain. I believe you took part of me with you That Morning and that I will remain forever changed.