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.
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