A NEW STORY EMERGES

These past several months, I have been speaking regularly with a counselor as I try to process the events in my life that ultimately brought me to the day in 2011 when my youngest daughter took her own life. I had come to believe that at some level, I must be at least partially to blame for what she had done; I believed that if I had done a good job of parenting, Christina would not have been so unhappy to have caused her own death, leaving behind two small children, a man who loved her deeply, siblings who cared about her, and parents who will be forever changed as the result of her death. I looked back over my parenting years and saw one mistake after another, leading me to feel like a failure. This perspective has lead me to have numerous regrets, to like myself less than ever before, and to feel totally jaded and pessimistic about Life itself. If wisdom comes with age, it is a cruel twist of fate; by the time we become wise, it is much too late – the damage has been done.

 

But tonight, I wonder: I wonder if that is all there is to the story of my life. As I look back, searching for perhaps a new perspective, I am finding that there is much more to the story. My life is not the story of repeated failure, but the story of never-ending determination. It is the story of having the inner strength and motivation to pick myself up off the floor every time I had been knocked down. It is the story of survival.

 

I survived and recovered from being molested by my father. I survived and recovered from poverty. I survived, walked away from, and recovered from extremist religion. I survived and recovered from mental illness. I survived, walked away from, and recovered from an emotionally wounding marriage relationship. I survived and recovered from a severe car accident that nearly killed me and by all rights, should have left me brain injured beyond recognition. I survived and walked away from marijuana addiction, cocaine use, and alcohol use.

 

Mine is a story of continued motivation: The motivation to be educated: about childbirth, about nutrition, about health in general. About history, about mythology, about religion and spirituality. About elementary education, about psychology, and now about professional counseling. Always motivated to learn more, to know more, to become more capable. In spite of criticism and in spite of doubt, I persisted. Yes, there were times when I felt broken. There were times when I retreated to lick my wounds. And yes, there were even times when I gave up…temporarily…because in the end, I always, always got back up, sucked up the tears, turned my back on those who said I couldn’t (or shouldn’t), and said, “To hell with you all – I’m going after what I want.” In the end, my inner motivation pushed me forward – in spite of obstacles, roadblocks, and brick walls. In spite of Life’s innate hardships. I kept going.

 

More importantly, I believe this story could be equally applied to my children, but it is a story they have yet to hear. Currently, my children continue to live out the story of being doomed to failure when in fact, they are survivors…survivors who are motivated to reach for more rather than to settle for less. Many would have given up by now; Christina certainly did. But my other five children refuse to settle and continue to strive for bigger, better, faster, more…and it makes me so proud!! Why? Because I have been their example. They have seen me repeatedly struck down, and repeatedly I have gotten back up. They have seen me trapped by countless brick walls, and they have seen me scale those walls, or plough right through them when I had to. Whether it was insisting on learning to drive a car, filling out applications for financial aid to go to school, walking away – loudly – from a set of religious beliefs that were destroying us, or simply saying out loud, “No, I want more. I want better than this. I can do it. I deserve it.” They’ve seen me do it – and whether they realize it yet or not, they have learned from me to do what others have told them is impossible. Whether they realize it or not, they already know how to beat the odds and to never give up. And whether they realize it yet or not, they will achieve great things.

A HALLOWEEN VISIT - FROM THE OTHER SIDE

It's Halloween morning and I just woke up - in tears. I dreamed about her: She came to me in my dreams this Halloween morning - her favorite holiday! I got to SEE her. I got to hear her VOICE! I got to HUG her! My Baby Girl! My Christina!

In the dream, I had been looking for her and had somehow found her - a phone number. I called her. She told me where she was (Florida??) and told me that although she could not come home, that I could come to her...but it would be risky. She was being held, somewhat against her will. She said she was well-cared for, but that it came at a hefty price: she could not leave. So I went to her.

I found her living in a very nice apartment. She looked good. She hugged me, and it felt so good to hug her back; I didn't want to let go. We visited and she told me about her new life: A man was keeping her there. He treated her well, but kept her from leaving. And she had to manage others that he was keeping...others who were often trouble-makers. Drugs?? Illegal behaviors?? But she did it. She had no choice. She could not return. I wanted to stay. I didn't want to leave her there.

The man (boyfriend?) came home. He was young, attractive, but as crafty, powerful, and manipulative as he was charming. He treated me with respect and told me I could stay - but that if I stayed, I would not ever be able to return to the rest of the family. I worried about Ada. Christina told me I should go back home - and to not worry. I didn't want to stay, but I didn't want to leave. I just wanted to take her back home with me. But I couldn't. I HAD to leave. And so I did. I thought I could perhaps find a way to rescue her, but it seemed impossible. We couldn't talk on the phone because he would KNOW; he would find out, and then I'd never see her again.

As I was trying to find my way back home, I changed my mind: I decided to go back to her. But then I couldn't. I couldn't find my way back. I was asking people on the street for directions, but the directions I got were conflicting - and I got the impression the people were intentionally mis-directing me; they were not to be trusted.

I woke up in tears - LOTS of tears. It's what I've needed to do, these past 29 months. I've needed to cry. I've needed to sob uncontrollably. And that's exactly what I did. I miss her. It hurts. But, even if just in my dreams, I got to be with her. I got to see her. I got to hear her voice. And I got to HUG her!

DAWN IS A FEELING

Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
Removes the colours from our sight,
Red is gray and yellow white,
But we decide which is right.
And which is an illusion?
Pinprick holes in a colourless sky,
Let insipid figures of light pass by,
The mighty light of ten thousand suns,
Challenges infinity and is soon gone.
Night time, to some a brief interlude,
To others the fear of solitude.
Brave Helios wake up your steads,
Bring the warmth the countryside needs. 


It's been a long, dark night but I think I finally see light emerging on the horizon of my life.

It's been over 2 years since the darkness of night fell upon me. That Morning - when Christina died - I was thrust into a darkness that I had never experienced before: a dark night of the soul. I've been wandering around in the dark, alone, in a foreign land.

Since That Morning, I have often stated that when Christina died, she took a part of me with her. More specifically, I felt like she took my spiritual self with her. Prior to losing Christina, I was a spiritual person. In fact, from my earliest years I have been spiritually aware. But when she died, that all seemed to change. That day - from the moment we released her from that noose until 18 hours later when the coroner took her - I looked for her...for her Spirit. I remember I kept lifting her eyelids and looking into her eyes - looking for her - but she was not there. Her body was empty. She was gone. But gone where?? As a mother, I needed desperately to know where she had gone.

Spiritually, and at a very deep subconscious level, I expected to be able to sense her presence. I remember looking up to the ceiling as if I would see her spirit floating above us; I saw and sensed nothing. And I think that is when my beliefs in an afterlife began to deflate: Christina was dead. No part of her remained. She was simply...gone.

Still, I continued to look for her. I spoke to her via the Tarot the day or so after her funeral - and it seemed like perhaps she responded, but there was no "magical" feeling of her presence. I needed more. I needed proof that she still existed.

I remembered her promise to me and Mary: "Well all I know is that if I die before any of you, and it's possible to communicate with the living from the other side, you can be sure I will haunt all of you!" That's what she said. Just weeks before she left us, she said that to Mary and I while we were discussing the paranormal; we all agreed to do the same. I began to hold her to her promise and over these past two years, I have both begged her and dared her to haunt me! But she has not. Nothing.

It's been a long, dark, night.

In desperation, I got a Ouiji board and once again begged and dared her to make herself known. But she did not. I got nothing.

My jaded pessimism deepened. I felt ripped off: Religion and spirituality are simply the lies we tell ourselves to make things like death more palatable. "Your baby girl is in Heaven now, looking down upon you, watching over you." Oh yeah? Prove it! "She's in a better place." Really? And where exactly might that be? "God needed her more than we did." GOD needed her more than her KIDS needed her?? THAT's fucked up!

I expected to experience Death in a more spiritually profound way, prior to losing Christina. I expected Death to be as deeply profound as Birth. I expected to feel it in my soul. When Christina died, I experienced it emotionally; it hurt like hell; but I didn't feel it spiritually, supernaturally, or paranormally - and that is why I felt so abandoned and betrayed by my former spiritual beliefs.

Yesterday however, a glimmer of light appeared on the horizon. Yesterday, I was brought to a realization that I DID sense her Spirit Energy when she died. And Stone did too. We felt it That Morning. We just didn't know it at the time.

That Morning. The morning she died. That morning there was a 40 minute window of time that passed from the moment we last saw her alive to the moment we discovered her lifeless body. And it was during those 40 minutes that we sensed her presence without realizing that's what it was we were feeling. It was during those 40 minutes when Stone was sitting in his room and I was sitting in my room with Ada that we both experienced what we have described as the loudest quiet we had ever heard. We both struggled with the heavy feeling that "something" was different. There was a feeling, an energy, an urging to get up and go to her...always coupled by the logically retort of "no, she'll be fine." We both wrestled with the need to get up and go to her but at the same time, we were both immobilized, unable to move. I now believe what we felt that morning was Christina. Her spiritual energy loomed over us and around us. She was there. We felt her presence. We just didn't recognize her. Maybe we knew. Maybe we didn't WANT to know. But we felt her. She didn't die in the hospital while on life support; she died hanging from that damn beam. Her spirit wasn't in the hospital; her spirit lingered in the house with us, with her kids. And THAT is why Ada asked Brian about Cheryl That Morning before Brian found Christina: Cheryl was there too that morning...

Realizing all of this has brought with it a glimmer of light; my Dark Night is coming to an end. We ARE more than just physical bodies: at our core, we are spiritual energy - very loud silent energies. And that energy survives the death of the body. The body may die, but the spirit is eternal. And for that, I am truly grateful.

WHAT LITTLE REMAINS

In the nearly two years since my Christina died, I have so often stated that since her death I feel a spiritual void. Life has lost its magical qualities. I have become jaded and my hypervigilence keeps me in a state of fearful anticipation of Life's worst possible outcomes. Optimism has been uprooted and skepticism has taken its place.

Yet, every once in awhile, I notice my former ability to see Life with wonder shine through. What happened today is an example. Yesterday, Brian took Christina's little Ada with him while he did some errands. While they were out, they got some flowers and brought them to the cemetery for both Christina and Cheryl. Ada handles the experience in a matter-of-fact way. But then today, she found a black feather outside which really excited her. SHE sees the magic in Nature. Full of ecstasy with her new feather, she showed it to me, beaming with delight. And then MY former magical way of thinking kicked in: Was that feather a gift from Mommy to daughter? Christina loved black feathers! And I told Ada, "Maybe it was a special present from Mommy!" Her face lit up even more; she agreed, seeing the magic.

True, my skepticism kicked in automatically, after stating my intuitive observation: No. It's just a feather. Most likely evidence that a feral cat caught lunch in a nearby nest. And then the magic dissipated. It's just a feather. Christina is gone. She can't send gifts. But did I sense her presence, even for just that one magical moment?

Someone suggested that I should simply begin to act "as if." Act as if my faith still existed. Read the cards again. Look for the magic in life and tell my skepticism to shut the fuck up. Stop listening to those daunting-yet-rational voices in my head. But I can't. Not yet. I continue to obsessively watch all those silly paranormal shows, wanting proof, but finding none. And let's face it: If there WERE proof, it would've been discovered long ago. Still, I want it. I want evidence. I want to know where she is.

I think of that promise she made, only a month or two before she died. She promised if she died before any of us, and if she could reach us from "the other side," she would. In fact, she said if it were possible, she would haunt the hell out of us! So why hasn't she? Is it because she still exists but communication from the other side is not possible? Or is it because she no longer exists? THAT is the question that torments me.

In my former, more spiritual days, I would have been relatively certain that she, like all people who have passed, still exists. My relative certainty was enough; I didn't need more than that. I knew it was speculation, but I accepted that some things are unknowable. I would've believed that the dead sometimes remain connected to the living (hauntings), but that most move on to a reincarnated life. I still believe that reincarnation is the most likely after-death experience. And I still believe that hauntings are possible. I am open to the possibility. Hopeful even. And that vague suspicion is adequate when I think of those who have passed in general; but it is not adequate when I think of Christina. Christina was my daughter and the mom in me needs to know where/if she is.

So I continue to beg her to haunt me. But not with feathers that can be easily explained away. I want something profound to happen: I want to see her, hear her voice, feel her touch. I want her to move something right before my eyes. I want something to happen that I cannot explain or rationalize. But so far, that has not happened. So far, it has all been bird feathers. No mystery. No unexplainable, irrefutable experiences. I don't care if it scares me; I don't care if it makes me cry. I just want her to reach out and haunt me.

DISCLAIMER

I've been thinking about my lifelong history of writing and specifically, about all the times I was interrogated about my written accounts. I've been asked to qualify, explain, and even retract words I have written. And so, I feel I must add a formal disclaimer so that my readers will fully understand the context in which I write.

My written essays are based on my thoughts and feelings at that given moment in which an essay was composed. It is important for the reader to understand that my thoughts and feelings belong to me and I share them for others to consider. Yet, the reader must understand that even words are often inadequate. As they are read by the reader, the reader injects verbal intonations - which may or may not echo my own. Written words are tricky that way.

Because my written words represent my thoughts and feelings in a specific time, they may not remain forever true; thoughts and feelings change. Keep this in mind.

As Steven Tyler lyrically pointed out, "Life's a journey, not a destination." My words reflect my journey and therefore reflect where I am at a given time. While some of my thoughts and feelings remain relatively constant throughout the journey, some do not.

I remember getting into quite a bit of trouble for having written that I had "slept with my boyfriend." I was only thirteen. The parents demanded an explanation. Yes, I had slept with him...as in "we took a nap together in the same bed." Imagine their laughter when they realized their erroneous interpretation of my words. Imagine my humiliation.

So perhaps it is the fear of future humiliation that I post this disclaimer. I am mortal and will not always be here to qualify, quantify, and otherwise explain what I have written. But my words will linger. Because I will not always be here to defend what I have written, I place this disclaimer: You, the reader, may not always fully understand what I have written. You, the reader, may not always comprehend the context in which I composed an essay. You, the reader, may not have known me well enough to formulate an accurate conclusion about who I am or the thoughts and feelings I once possessed.

As my children and I are quick to point out: Don't jump to conclusions!!

ETERNALLY TWENTY-THREE

Today she would've been twenty-five. Instead, she remains twenty-three. Forever twenty-three. Life has not stood still and the rest of us continue to age, without her. It's simple and incomprehensible all at the same time. Paradoxical.

Less than two years since her departure and still I wrestle with the unsolvable mystery of it all. Who was she? Why was her life destined to be so short? Was it destiny, or was it preventable? Was it premeditated or was it impulsive? Did she leave as an act of selfless love to spare her kids the inevitable trauma of growing up with a borderlined, bipolar mother? Or did she leave in spite of her kids? And who can I blame? Can I blame the people she called friends? Can I blame genetics for having assaulted her from both sides? Can I blame myself for being so unaware, so self-absorbed, so medicated all her life? Or, is there some sort of lifescript that we must all succumb to? Was it, in fact, the final chapter in Christina's lifescript to take her own life?

Today, my tears are fresh, but sharp like shards of broken glass. I cry the tears I held so tightly in those minutes, hours, days, and weeks after she died. I was in shock and I was in denial. The paradoxical blending of disbelief and acknowledgement tightly wrapped in trauma kept me in a state of other-worldness. I...had become...comfortably numb. But today, Monday, January 7, 2013, what would've been her 25th birthday, the psychic anesthesia has worn off and I cry for her. I want her back. I want this craziness to be over. I want to wake from this nightmare. I want her to be alive again and I want to make her let us love her. Why wouldn't / couldn't she let us in?

Today, she would've been twenty-five. But she's not. Instead, she is now my twenty-five year old twenty-three year old daughter.

Why, Christina? WHY???

LIVIN' ON THE EDGE

After what happened in Newtown, Connecticut on Friday, December 14, 2012, I believe we are livin' on the edge. Change is inevitable; our nation has been shaken - but will we wake up? It seems to me we will go in either of two possible directions.

If we are smart and begin to apply all that we know, we will make two critical changes. First, we will begin to educate the public about mental health and mental illness and we will begin to educate the public about warning signs that indicate potential mental health emergencies. We will speak boldly about the often preventable causes of mental illness and we will stop creating the situations that cause extreme psychological unhappiness. That means we will no longer value and glamorize violence. Hurtful behavior will be defined and will be heavily frowned upon. Mental health services will become more readily available. Emergency mental health centers will be available in all communities, just as medical emergency rooms are readily available. And we will use these services as a gateway to recovery and health.

If we are smart, we will finally begin to strictly regulate weapons, but we will also downplay their appeal. Firearms will be associated with old, outdated, less-educated perspectives. We will pride ourselves on our progressive, educated, and peace-loving values, rather than our ability to inflict carnage. We will value safety, happiness, peace, and the ability to get along. Instead of looking out for number one, we will value the integrity of the community. Prisons will not be used to warehouse the mentally ill. Prisons will be use to rehabilitate those who are salvageable, leaving only the most severely damaged and irreparable individuals to be kept separate.

But my fear is that we will take the other direction. My fear is that we as a nation still value the Wild West mindset and disregard all that we have learned about human development. My fear is that rather than strive toward rational living, we will instead create locked and gated schools and communities and will consider arming everyone so that those with the biggest weapons and the most artillery will reign supreme. Strength and domination will be more valued than intelligent humanity.

So we are at a crossroads, it seems. Will we be smart enough to walk away from the old, outdated, inferior ways of the past, and return to an age of Darkness? Or will we finally begin to take a step into a new way, a better way, a more peaceful, loving and humane way? Will we gather the courage to lead the world toward a more intelligible way of life and make history? Or will the history we create involved more episodes of unspeakable violence against innocent people and children?

Twenty children died Friday and many more witnessed what no one should ever have to see. How are we, as Americans, any better than other countries in the world that we criticize when events like what happened in Connecticut happen simply because we have created an environment that values violence and that chooses to remain uninformed about the causes and treatments for mental illnesses? How dare we think ourselves to be superior when in fact, our culture is becoming more barbaric every day? We have the power to draw the line and collectively shout out "enough" - and then set about creating and valuing something so much better.

So I propose this: America, what do we want? What kind of world do we want to create for our children? And then, how do we set about putting those ideals into actual practice. We CAN do it. We can lead the way and rise above this outdated system that overlooks our poor, that ignores all we have learned, and that continues to value violence over compassion and we can instead begin to value compassion, unity, education, and strong communities. We can begin to value both physical and mental health. And most of all, we can walk away from what no longer serves us. It is, after all, the 21st century.

EXISTENTIAL ANGST

I really thought I was done with the existential issues that we all wrestle with. As I approached my forties, I felt comfortable with mortality. I did not fear death - just a premature or traumatic death. I viewed death as a magical mystery that we all must fact, and felt comfortable knowing that someday, I would be...finished.

Now, not so much. In fact, when Christina left, I feel like she took my magical view of Life with her. Suddenly, the magic was gone and I was left with a fear of death. Now, I fear my own death, and I fear everyone else's death too. I fear it and I am angered by it. I resent mortality. One lifetime is not nearly long enough, and death is so final, so absolute, and so...unpredictable. There is no way to know when it will arrive. And worst of all, there is no way to confirm what happens...after.

It took so long after Christina died to fully comprehend that she would not be coming back. Even now, it doesn't seem quite real. And I find myself wondering where she is...IF she is. And I think of my grandmother - and how the untimely death of her mother kept her grieving her whole life. I understand now how a tragic death can cause a person to be forever changed. Like a pedal note, the pain lingers...

I don't think there is a day that goes by that I don't contemplate my own mortality. I wonder, with much sadness and anxiety, what will become of my belonging or how my children will cope without me. I think about my mom, as I see her aging, and fear the day she takes her last breath. Death. It's not right. It's not fair.

I am angry too that I cannot do what most people do and take comfort in unproven beliefs. I WANT to believe that I will see Christina again. I desperately WANT to believe that my grandmother was reunited with her mother when my grandmother died. I wish I could take comfort in thinking that when I die, I will be with those who have gone before me and that as time passes, my surviving loved ones will join me. But I can't. I just can't. I have no proof and it seems so unlikely. Why can't I just believe the stories? Why can't I take that leap of faith and then revel in the comfort and security that eternity can and will be blissful? I want to...but it escapes me. I just can't. Death is the end. That's what I've seen. Christina was here - and now she's not. She promised: She said that if it were possible to communicate from the other side, she would. And that has not happened. So, either that means that it is not possible to communicate from beyond death, or she has chosen to NOT communicate to me, or it could mean that she simply does not exist any more. Really, any of those potential reasons are equally likely I suppose. But the one that stands out to me is that Christina gone. She was here and now she is not. And that angers me.

EXISTENTIAL REFLECTIONS

Since the day my youngest daughter took her life nearly 17 months ago, I have struggled with the "WHY" of it all. Clinically and intellectually, I know why: untreated mental illness - probably bipolar and/or borderline personality disorder - but never formally diagnosed or treated. Today I was reading Viktor Frankl's book, "Man's Search for Meaning," and he quoted Nietzsche: "He who has a WHY to live for can bear with almost any HOW." It struck me painfully to think that my baby girl had "no WHY to live for": Not me, not her father, not her siblings, not her partner, not her own goals...but most of all, not her then 3 and 4 year old children. How could that be??

I posted that tonite in a Facebook group for suicide survivors. It's an agonizing realization, that even her own children were not enough to keep her here.

I realize her mental illness resulted in cognitive distortions, but it still hurts to think that she preferred a permanent vacation to a lifetime with her children. It hurts to think that she must've thought they'd be better off without her - an excruciating thought for a mother to have. But most of all, I hurt on behalf of her children who will one day pose the same question: "Wasn't I enough to keep you here, Mom?"

There were times in my life when I felt so completely overwhelmed that ending my own life crossed my mind; but just as quickly, I thought of my kids...and thinking of them kept me here. I can't comprehend her level of detachment...except that perhaps the fourteen months she spent in CCDOC is to blame for that detachment. Still, when I think of the night she returned home, I felt convinced that she'd never leave those kids again; I felt convinced that all would be well...but a year later, she was gone. A year later, she CHOSE to be gone. And that hurts. It hurts knowing that she made that choice, whether it was planned or impulsive (and we'll never know for sure which it was), she left without giving a second thought to her kids.

Seventeen months later, and I still cry as if it just happened. I still cry because I empathically feel a portion of what she must have felt; and I cry empathically for the emotional pain her children will face as they continue to understand more and more of who their mother was and what she did.

Yes, it is my children and my grandchildren, and HER children that give me the "why" I need to continue with my life. They are not my only "why's" but they are the primary reason why I want to be here.

NIGHTS LIKE THIS

August, September, and October are my favorite months of the year here in the Midwest. Summer has reached its abundance and already the Sun is beginning to shift. The crickets chirp throughout the night and nights are often cool enough for open windows. The sounds of the crickets and the occasional freight train in the distance stirs memories and feelings of my earliest years. The nostalgic part of me revels in in. And yet...

And yet, all of Nature's whispers from the past haunt me. I am reminded of my mortality, and I resent it. I fear it. I fear death. I feel like I am running out of time, and indeed I am.

Still, I treasure the night...the silence and the solitude. It is the only time I feel like I have arrived into the time of my life I once looked forward to: my kids are grown; my time is my own.

Twist of fate. Since Christina died, I feel more compelled to mother: my grown children AND my grandchildren. But then the paradoxical desire for solitude. I want my solitude so that I can enjoy each of my grandchildren, one at a time, so that I can indulge in their unique individuality. Instead, I get them in bunches where they become, in my eyes, "the kids." And that's not fair. It's not fair to them and it's not fair to me. But with two grandchildren living in my household (or, do I live in their household), I am never afforded the privilege of experiencing them at my discretion, one at a time. And I resent that.

And another freight train blows its whistle as it approaches and I am reminded, painfully, that life is short. There is no time for resentment, frustration, and sadness. And yet, tonight (and lately), I am consumed by those three Fates.

Tonight, I struggle with the profound sadness of losing Christina and unsuccessfully fight back the tears. I don't want to repeat mistakes and build regrets. I want to enjoy the moments of life. But I can't. Instead, I see just the demands: dishes that need to be done, towels that need to be washed - and then folded and put away, and all the other endless mundane stuff associated with maintaining an orderly home environment. My resentment...it's also about wanting to play. I just want to play. I want to feel the way I did when I was a child...when there were minimal demands on my time. Each day was a journey of spontaneous activities. Today, each day begins with a To-Do List...and fatigue.

Tonight I feel the anxious pain of dissatisfaction. I love the people in my life...my family, my tribe, my clan. But I resent my lack of solitude, my lack of quiet, my lack of personal space. Surely they must all sense that.

I am running out of time. Still, as I have for decades, I continue to fantasize about a sacred place, all my own. I continue to long for something that is uniquely mine. And I fear going to my grave having never achieved it.

So tonight, I remind myself that above all, I must be firm in my authenticity. I must simply give in to being who I am, rather than feel compelled to meet everyone else's needs and wants. So what, that I sleep throughout the day and am most awake through the night hours? So what?! It's who I am, right now. I cannot be what I am not. I have learned to trust my gut, but lately I've been ignoring that inner voice. More frustration and resentment results. So tonight, I remind myself and encourage myself to just BE. This is ME, like it or not.

ONE LIFE TO LIVE?

I have spent this past year resenting mortality. I resent its finality. I resent its uncertainty: What happens after? Where do we go? Is death the end of the road? Or, is there more? If there's more, why don't we have proof? And most of all, why does life have to be so incredibly short??

Yet, I recently discovered through therapy that while life may be short and, as far as we know, we have but one life to live, I have lived numerous lifetimes in just this one.

I started my adult life way ahead of my peers, becoming a teen mom just a few months prior to my sixteenth birthday. I felt proud. I was ahead of the gang, and I was ready for the Real World. Except that I wasn't being real. I didn't know who I really was yet!

So I did the teen mom thing. And I loved it. And I was good at mothering, considering my age.

Before I knew it, I became Mrs. Gibson. I lived in the city. I gained some sophistication. But then, just as quickly, I was a single mom of two in the suburbs. I had my own apartment. I loved that place and still miss it! It was during that time that I battled with drugs and alcohol, but came clean. Just as I came clean and began to learn who I really was, I became distracted; I fell in love and became Mrs. Stone.

During my years as Mrs. Stone, I lived many lifetimes. I was the Earth Mama, giving birth at home, breastfeeding on demand, and reached out to my peers by starting a mother's group for other like-minded Earth Mommies. And then, succumbing to peer pressure, I found Jesus and became a Church Lady.

My Church Lady years were probably the most dysfunctional of my whole life because it kept me from authenticity. It dictated everything about me - and it all conflicted with my truest nature: self-righteousness, political conservatism, wifely submission, and worst of all, it encouraged horribly abusive parenting. I made mistakes I can never make up for. But somehow, I broke free.

Casting aside my church attire and walking away from the dysfunction was good, but it left me sitting alone with myself and I felt empty. Who was I, really? With all the garbage hauled out to the curb, what was left inside of me?? Just a scared little girl in a grown-up world...and a houseful of children who were no longer babies.

So I became reflective...and then self-absorbed. I was on a quest toward self-actualization. I went back to school. But, along with these efforts toward self-improvement, I was also homeschooling my kids - and not very effectively - and struggling daily to define myself in a marriage that was nearing its shelf life. I had chosen a man so much like my father - though I didn't realize it at the time - and was spending precious time and energy resolving my childhood issues of subordination and submission to tyranny; I was learning where to find my voice and how to use it.

I went to school to become a nurse, but then realized that although I had an interest and ability in the field, I would be more authentically myself as a middle school teacher. So I switched gears. By now, we were deep into poverty and the house was going into foreclosure. With only a year to complete before becoming a teacher, I had to drop out. It would have to wait...apparently for another lifetime.

We lost the house. We lived with my daughter for a year. And then one day, I walked out of the marriage. I walked into the nothingness and the everythingness of the Unknown; but I walked out and didn't look back.

I was homeless, but for less than a night; my daughter Christina found me and brought me home to her place. And then a new life began to unfold.

Or was it new? I was still a dependent. I was still a housekeeper. There were still little kids in the household. It was different, and yet it was the same: same job, different boss. Certainly a kinder, more generous boss, but I was still "just a wife."

Back to school, but change in major - again. The car accident left my vision damaged; I wouldn't be able to manage a classroom of adolescents. Instead, I will pursue a Bachelor's degree in psychology - and then a master's degree in community counseling and clinical mental health.

My own mental health improved after quitting my position as Mrs. Stone. School is going well. I will be a great mental health professional. But, just after getting accepted to the Master's degree program, my youngest daughter took her life. The old me disappears in grief; a new me emerges: I am a suicide survivor, a grieving mother, and am forever changed.

I continue to work on my Master's degree as I rush to play Beat the Clock. I may have begun life way ahead of my peers, but right now, I feel as though I have missed the boat. I know myself better than I ever have and have learned that the older I get, the more like myself I become. I am still in a role that keeps me from living in a fully authentic way, but it is functional and it is, as I have learned, all about survival, based upon the choices I have previously made.

I am older, and wiser; but I am wise enough to know that much of my wisdom comes too late; the damage has been done.

So here I am at age fifty, eager to create a career for myself. Seems almost ludicrous at my age. But at the same time, what else have I got going for me? I've reconstructed myself so many times, I think I can do it once more.

One life to live? Yeah, but look how many I've crammed into that one single life!!

FIGHTING STAGNATION AND DESPAIR

I was recently asked what stage of life I feel like I am currently in, and I responded by saying that I feel like I am in the "Where Is That Empty Nest I Was Promised" Stage. Yet, upon further contemplation, it occurred to me that while I was studying Lifespan Development, I identified with Erik Erikson's 2 final stages of development, even though I'm not quite old enough to be in his final stage.

As a refresher, Erikson's seventh stage - Generativity vs. Stagnation - is generally experienced at some point between the ages of twenty-five and sixty-four. If I felt like I had been a success in my life, I would have developed generativity and would be concerned with the next generation; I would've established the virtue of care. But instead, I feel like I instead developed stagnation.

Then, Erikson's eighth and final stage is Ego Integrity vs. Despair and generally applies to people aged sixty-five and older. I also identify with this stage. I feel like I am already facing the end of my life and am quickly running out of time to accomplish my goals. Instead of developing a sense of wisdom, I feel despair. I am playing Beat-the-Clock, trying desperately to be successful at something.

I wondered why this might be. Why would I be so reclusive, selfish, and self-absorbed? But then it seemed so obvious: When I review my life, it seems I lived through more Life Experiences from my teen years into my forties (when I first became reclusive and self-absorbed) than most people do in a single lifetime. Think about it: being molested at eleven, pregnant at fifteen, divorced by eighteen, remarried by twenty-one. Then, during my childbearing years, being Earth Mama, and then converting to Christian Fundamentalism; then leaving Fundamentalism and recovering my self through introspection, coming out of the closet as being bisexual, and returning to school. Then there was the struggle with a bad marriage, home schooling, and children about to come of age. We lost the house, and my marriage ended. Then I met Jim, got in the car accident, and nearly lost my life. And now, here I am, racing against Time to become a counselor. And of course, losing Christina last year, leaving me forever changed. Okay, so that's more living than most people experience in two lifetimes. So is it any wonder then, that I would most identify with Erikson's final two stages of Life?

Looking at my life through Erikson-lenses tells me that I will absolutely HAVE to accomplish my goal of becoming a licensed counselor and then succeed in my profession for at least ten years to properly resolve the Eriksonian conflict I currently feel. I think it is possible; I hope it is likely. Getting both of my books published before I die would be icing on the cake.

And I am reminded of the Little Engine That Could: "I THINK I can...I THINK I can...I THINK I can..."

SERENDIPITOUS ENCOUNTER

A few days ago, I unexpectedly found myself in the emergency room...the same emergency room where Christina was taken. It triggered pain. I kept looking in the room where she had been, as if I might still see her, as if she might still be there. But no. The room was empty. All I could hear was the now-familiar question that ruminates in my mind: "WHY?"

When I was released, I went into the ER waiting room to text family members for a ride home. I peripherally noticed that I was alone in the waiting area except for a young man who, by his appearance, was a heavy metal fan. His multiple links of heavy chain jewelry and colored bandana reminded me of my own metal-head kids, but I was too self-absorbed to be concerned with his presence.

The TV was on in the waiting area but it was just a distant familiar noise of news that no one cares about featuring the usual issues of non-importance. Yet, a snippet of a story bled through to my awareness: An athlete claiming to be a Christian and boasting about his prayers to God to help him and his team win. I shook my head unconsciously to the athlete's arrogance and at the same time, the young metal-head said, "Well Hail Satan!" I was instantly charmed!

We both spontaneously recognized our mutually shared perspective on the news story - and perhaps on religion in general and faster than the speed of a sound byte, we shared our irritations with the common religious assumptions in our culture and we found ourselves in agreement with our conclusions about That Which is Unknown. He identified as a Taoist and talked about the paradox of the chaotic order in the world and in the Universe at large. While we differed in our chronological maturity, we were kindred spirit.

I thought about Christina. She would've LOVED this guy...a peer who, like Christina, still capitalized on shock value. I remembered the images I took from Christina's Facebook page of religious criticisms, observations, and humor, and I began to show them to this young man. He loved them, as I knew he would. I told him they were my taken from my daughter's Facebook page and he commented about how he'd like to meet my daughter. My joy quickly departed and I told him that she took her life just ten months ago. He too became solemnly quiet and expressed his condolences. I told him she was bipolar and struggled for many years with her internal emotional pain. I told him briefly about the brutal reality of having to help my son and son-in-law take her down from the beam from which she hung herself. And then, without saying a word, he pushed back his sleeves exposing multiple sights of self-injury and even a recent suicide attempt. My eyes met his and I told him, "I understand."

He said he was schizophrenic and that no medication has helped him so in an effort to self-medicate, he has turned to alcohol and now struggled with mental illness AND alcoholism. He confided that he has wrestled with suicidal ideation for a long, long time and even made several attempts. At other times, the desire was there, but the courage to follow through was not. He looked into the barrel of a gun - more than once - but lost his nerve. He had once written his farewell, gathered razor blades and filled a tub, but again could not follow through. Currently, his ideation involved stepping out in front of an oncoming semi or freight train.

I asked him if he had family or friends who loved him. He said he did. I asked him if he loved them. He said he did. So then I said, "All that spiritual stuff we just talked about...do you believe that our paths crossed today on accident?" He looked startled. "No, I don't. I believe everything happens for a reason." So I agreed with him. I said, as if I were thinking outloud, "So then, I wonder WHY...WHY would our paths cross? I'm grieving the suicidal death of my daughter, and you are here because of your emotional pain and desire to end your life. What are we supposed to learn from each other?"

He asked me if my Christina had family members and friends who loved her. "More than she ever imagined," I told him. I told him about Christina and Mary. I told him about her children. I told him that we will never be the same without her and that our pain will never go away. At best, we must simply learn how to live with the pain of losing her.

Silence.

Then I told him, "I know why our paths crossed. I am here to tell you this: I know your pain is great. Death would bring relief, for you. I know that. I understand. You would leave your pain behind. But it would be magnified and left for the ones who love you most to carry. I am asking you if you can promise me that you will reconsider and make a commitment to stay alive." He wasn't certain he could agree to that. I didn't expect him to be able to agree, really. "Ok," I said, "then will you consider this: IF you reach a point where you are determined to end your life, will you do it in such a way that your body will not be so damaged as to further increase the pain and trauma your loved ones will experience? They will want to - NEED to - see you, touch you, kiss you, hold you, one...last...time."

He gave me total eye contact and said, "I never thought of it like that before. I mean, I never thought about what would happen after I..." I told him I understood. I told him that I believed that the reason our paths crossed was so that I could beg him to stay, so that he could see what it is like for someone to lose a loved one by suicide...to expand his comprehension of the situation. "If I leave you with one thought," I told him, "it would be to NOT take your own life, in spite of the pain...and to never forget the pain you see in my eyes."

At that point, my ride arrived and I told him I had to leave. He asked my name and told me his. He put out his hand to shake. As I took his hand, I looked him in the eyes and said, "It was a pleasure to meet you. I thank the Universe for arranging this serendipitous moment. I will never forget you."

He said he would never forget either. I pray his memory lasts a lifetime...a very long lifetime of survival, recovery, and newfound happiness. Is that too much to ask, considering God apparently helps athletes and sports teams win, upon request??

THE OLDER I GET, THE MORE LIKE MYSELF I BECOME

I recently had to write a paper for school about ten events that most made me who I am today. While I will not recompose that essay (the original was eighteen pages long), I will summarize it here.

The Ten Events:

1. Being a child of the 1960s and 1970s.  Generally speaking, growing up during those years exposed me to many things my children never experienced. Civil rights, the fight for Equal Rights for Women, Roe v. Wade (and life before Roe v. Wade), and the Vietnam War made me very much aware that Life is not always fair and that while MY life might be comfortable, there are people who are marginalized and who are never validated by the dominant culture. Being the oldest child and grandchild meant that I was always surrounded by adults. As a result, I vicariously saw the world around me through the lenses of the generation just above me. My mom was young when I was born; a teen mom. I remember her 20th birthday! As she and her brother came of age in the mid sixties, I was right there beside them. I grew up singing along with Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Judy Collins, and Donovan long before adolescence hit and I fell in love with Donny Osmond.

2. Being molested as a child. Without going into too much detail, I will say that this experience taught me - in the long run, not initially - that abusers were often once abused themselves. I learned that familial history often repeats itself. I also learned to trust my gut and that very little is unforgiveable.

3. Getting involved in a toxic faith system. This experience taught me that dysfunction attracts dysfunction. Fundamentalism appeals to those who desperately need a clean slate and a fresh start. It offers power to the powerless. "Plant a seed, send your money, and get a miracle." Who doesn't want to buy a miracle? Yeah, this experience taught me that patriarchy is messed up, that man created god in his own dysfunctional image, and that peer pressure can extend beyond childhood.

4. Leaving a toxic faith system. Walking away from fundamentalism taught me that I had more strength and intelligence than I had ever known. It taught me to think for myself and to stand up for what I know is right. It taught me that no one owns The Truth.

5. Spending about ten years of my life in deep introspection and self-exploration. After leaving the church, I spent a lot of time in self-reflection. I began to keep journals. I started reading about everything: history, religion, philosophy, feminism, sociology, psychology, anthropology. I wrestled with sexuality, poverty, family dsyfunctions, my role as a woman. I started, finally, to get to know myself.

6. Giving birth at home. Giving birth at home taught me about female strength. It taught me to rely on the medical profession only when necessary (trauma and surgery primarily - it is when doctors and medical science are at their finest). I learned that the body is miraculous. I learned that birth is a natural process. My experiences with birthing at home made me feel powerful, capable, and strong. It made me feel connected to all women throughout all time.

7. Having children who are now adults. To see my six children become such wonderful adults, in spite of all they lived through, and in spite of my dysfunctions, has made me realize just how much parents need to remain conscious that every moment is a potential memory for a child and it makes me ask: Are you creating a good memory or a bad memory for your child right now? As much as I'd like to take the credit for who my children have become, I cannot. The things they are now accomplishing and achieving are all in spite of me. Seeing my children become adults has taught me that kids are resilient (thankfully) and that when they are first born, and during their growing up years, we as parents are often clueless about who those kids really are.

8. My second marriage.  My second marriage, no longer intact, taught me a lot about standing my ground. It taught me about boundaries and the importance of remaining in the driver's seat of my life. My marriage taught me that life is too short for power struggles. It taught me that sometimes we are attracted to people for the psychological resolve we will achieve as a couple. He gave me the exact lessons I needed to learn, however dysfunctional our relationship was. He was controlling; rather, I LET him be controlling. He treated me like a child; rather, I ACTED like a child and allowed him to treat me like one. Until I learned otherwise.

9. Living below the federal poverty line. This experience taught me that there IS a war against the poor. It taught me that some of the most interesting and dynamic people can be found in Welfare lines. It taught me that most people do not want to be on public aid or standing in line at a food pantry. Living poor also taught me to value having enough. It taught me that most people live way too large. I learned that we are a wasteful society, but our collective garbage is what dumpster-divers bank on.

10. Christina's suicide.  Losing Christina the way I did is so recent that my lessons from this experience continue to unfold. So far,  I learned to NEVER AGAIN equate suicidal ideation with being "a drama queen." I have learned that losing a child this way creates a grief very different from the expected and anticipated loss and grieving from losing a parent or grandparent due to old age. I have also learned that my former sense of existential peace was fleeting and insecure; I wrestle once more with the unknowable; I resent mortality. On a more practical level, I have learned that embalming is unnecessary and disfiguring; I will NEVER agree to that again. I have also become even more convinced that we need to bring death (like birth) back home. We need to go back to caring for and waking our own dead. That whole day in the hospital with Christina on Life Support (as if she were alive) was the greatest insult - to Christina AND her family. If I could do that day over, I would not have called 911 and I would have waked her here at home.

All of these events - some good, some tragic - have made me more fully who I am. They sharpened my inclination to become more fully myself, closer to self-actualization, and more authentically ME, and for that I am grateful.

CONSERVATION OF ENERGY

It's been almost a year since Christina died. Since her death, I feel spiritually void. The beliefs that once gave me comfort and inspiration now feel like magical thinking designed to reduce existential angst. I wonder if she took that part of me with her. I wish (it would be so much easier) I could simply believe that she is floating around in a Heaven somewhere, looking down upon us with an angelic smile and an eternal sense of bliss. But I cannot.

I have found myself feeling jealous of Christians (imagine THAT!) who can rest easy, "knowing" that they will someday be reunited with their loved ones in the Hereafter. I WANT to put my head in the sand because Ignorance IS Bliss!! Instead, I feel like I have been left with the harsh, clinical reality that death is simply The End. Like the Monty Python skit, Christina has "ceased to exist."

But I must digress. I must explain. Prior to losing Christina, I felt spiritual. Sometimes I even felt profoundly spiritual. Yet, I always admitted that my beliefs (like everyone's) were without proof or validation. In fact, I could readily admit that the spiritual images and stories that inspired me were simply myths and symbols that served to make the abstract Unknowable more concrete and user-friendly. I envisioned the Divine as distinctly female as the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone and while I recognized male attributes in the Divine, I identified most closely with the Feminine aspects. The agricultural Wheel of the Year deepened my connection with the Sacredness of Nature and allowed me to live the entire circle of Birth-Life-Death-Rebirth with each passing season. Spring was a time of Birth and Life. Summer was a time of Life and coming into fullness. Fall and Winter were about dying and death until Spring would arrive and along with it, a sense of rebirth.

But now...not so much. Now, I struggle with the scientific rationality of Life and Death and sense nothing beyond the cold, hard facts that define each. I suspect that seeing Christina's dead body and handling her body after she passed...those experiences took from me the Divine Mystery of death and replaced it with a very medical, clinical, scientific, harshness. The difference between Life and Death appears to boil down to brain waves, heart rhythms, and involuntary reflexes. And the eyes...the emptiness in the eyes. When we took her down from the beam that Wednesday morning in May, before I ever checked for her pulse or respirations, I lifted her eyelids and recognized that it was Death looking back at me and not my Baby Girl.

And yet...

And yet, with the help of some grief counseling, I was reminded of the Law of Conservation of Energy in Physics...and it has created a spark that just might rekindle the flame of my faith. When I held Christina in my arms that morning - and all throughout that day while she remained on Life Support - what was missing?? If her heart was beating (only because the machinery made it beat) and if her body was breathing (only because the machinery made her breathe), and I still sensed she was not really alive, then what was missing? It was Christina that was gone...her Spirit...her energy.

So, then, if at some level we possess Energy (and we do, don't we??), and if Energy can be neither created nor destroyed (according to the law of the Conservation of Energy), then her Energy must continue to exist - somewhere...at some level...for all eternity. And looking at it like that (still somewhat clinical and still scientifically), a spiritual spark within me ignited! And then I thought, "Christina is not completely gone! Her body lies but still she roams!!" 

I still have not returned to my former, simplistic, even child-like spiritual revelry; in fact, I doubt that I will ever feel like that again. But that's not to say I will never be spiritual; it just means that my spirituality will likely re-emerge in a new, rekindled, evolved, reincarnated format. It seems possible.

My mom says my Spirit has been in shock. I'm always amazed at her ability to summarize the complex murky depths of my soul with such consise simplicity. But she's right: My Spirit - my soul - has been in a traumatized state of shock these past ten months (in fact, ten months today). And I realize the shock is just beginning to dissipate because while I still find myself saying, "I can't believe she's gone," I also find myself both believing and knowing that she really IS gone. With the slow acceptance of the reality of her passing comes more pain...and perhaps the beginning of true grieving. This past year, tears have been shed, but the disbelief overshadowed it all. Now, as the disbelief fades, the reality encroaches and brings new, fresh, profound pain and sorrow...so much so I am amazed that I can hold it and still live. Again, ignorance is bliss.

But for now, I hold my focus on that simple law of Physics: Energy can be neither created nor destroyed. And I take comfort in it. I cannot conceptualize further...yet. Her energy may no longer be Christina-Energy. Her energy may have simply returned to the Universe at large. Or, perhaps not. Perhaps somewhere, out there, she travels. Perhaps this time, she really did go to the Dark Side of the Moon.

REDUNDANCY

I suppose there are only so many times that I can write about how much I miss Christina and how the grief has effected me before it becomes truly redundant; yet, here I am with a strong sense of hypertypergraphia - a need for the catharsis that comes from putting it into words.

Last week, it would've been her 24th birthday; this week will mark the 8th month since she's been gone. We - all but one of her 5 siblings, most of her nieces and nephews, her two children, her partner, one of her brothers-in-law, two of her sisters-in-law, me and Jim - went to her grave. Her kids wanted to sing Happy Birthday to her...bring her birthday cake. So we gathered there and did that. We released 24 red and black balloons (her favorite colors). I worried that we are giving her kids a mixed message about death: If we leave things on her grave (cupcakes, cans of pop, candy, cigarettes, flowers, stuffed animals), do they think she is somehow still around, able to get what we leave for her?? Yet, I sense it is cathartic for them to participate in this ritual, just as it is for us.

Personally, I would've preferred an afternoon of solitude at her grave. Had I been afforded that option, I would have cried and yelled and screamed. I still carry the biggest "WHY??" imaginable, for which there will never be an answer that satisfies. There will never be a response that triggers an, "OH! Yes, of course. Okay, NOW I understand." And I've tried; I've tried to justify it. I remember her saying that her kids would be better off without her - and I see that at some level, she was right: her bipolar mood swings were so intense and so unfair to Damien and Ada - and in truth, there is more peace and stability without her. That hurts. We've also come to the mutual agreement that her actions that morning were firmly rooted in impulse; she didn't REALLY plan to hang herself. That hurts too, knowing had she just taken a deep breath, practiced some cognitive restructuring, thought stopping, and shifted her attention elsewhere, she'd likely still be here.

I struggle with disbelief and shattered faith. All that spiritual stuff that I embraced about the seasons and cycles of Life seem empty and meaningless; just a different brand of magical thinking. Death is the end; without proof of an afterlife, nothingness is all I have. And still I find myself in a state of disbelief, as if all these images of her death are remnants of a nightmare; surely if I walk back into her room right now I will find her sitting at her computer. But no. I must always correct myself; she's really, really, dead. She's not coming back, ever. Apparently, my final act as her mother - going to the funeral parlor to fix her hair and makeup - was not enough to confirm the brutal facts. Handling her embalmed body was not enough to shake the doubt. Why? Because I was not fully present for any of it. I functioned on automatic pilot, never taking a moment to take a breath and SEE what I was doing. I simply DID it. I felt the heavy stiffness of her overly-embalmed body; I saw my Christina under the rigid expression of death; but I didn't accept it, as blatant as it was.

I've also come to realize that my sense of grief is primarily on behalf of her children. As her mom and especially as a mental health counselor, I realize the years of bipolar depression took its toll and that she could not have been expected to carry that psychological load forever; I find relief in knowing she found an end to her chronic pain. But for her kids, I cry. My tears are THEIR tears. But also my grandmother's tears; she too lost a mother when she was only a child (a car accident, according to the family story, but recent generations have suspected possible suicide). My grandmother mourned the loss of her mother until her own passing. My tears are also a return of the tears I cried when my own mother came within minutes of dying when her appendix ruptured. I was not even 9 years old, but I overheard how close she came to dying - and I was profoundly traumatized by the experience and by the realization of the fragility of life. Here one moment, gone the next. A lot for a child to ponder. And, my tears are also for my paternal grandmother who lost a son. His death was brutal and preventable; it was the result of repeated incestuous rape and subsequent colon perforation and hemorrhage. And since Christina died, my tears are also for every sad story I hear: suicides as a direct outcome of bullying; missing children; murdered children. My former optimism is fading.

And then the paradox: Even while I struggle with these issues daily, internally, and often subconsciously, I am functioning. I have redecorated, turning this house into more of a home. What was a living room unused is now a freshly painted and redecorated office complete with new bookshelves and desk. What was formerly just the-room-with-the-pool-table has become the freshly painted living room with new laminate flooring, a flat screen tv and console soon to be delivered, and new sofa/sectional soon to be purchased. And it fills me with joy to successfully complete a creative project like these. And then there's school. Another semester begins in just a few days and I am eager: textbooks are purchased, new folders have been labeled, and I found a great deal on a lambskin leather briefcase that I'm absolutely smitten with! In spite of the tears and often along side the grief, Life moves forward. I find moments of happiness, joy, satisfaction, and love. Perhaps they are not QUITE as grand as they once were; perhaps they are more fleeting or are tempered by the underlying pain...but they're there.

So I unload the pain with my words and sigh with the relief that comes with purging, with telling the story, with redundancy, and wish it could've been that easy for Christina to find HER relief.

OH WHAT A YEAR

Now that we have officially entered into a new calendar year, I've been thinking a lot about last year. Last year will be forever marred by Christina's suicide. So, when I think about 2011 and the Life Lessons I have learned, it all revolves around what losing Christina has taught me.

I suppose the biggest lesson learned is that bad things happen and no one is immune. Prior to losing Christina, I was very optimistic. I believed the statistics favored me; I would likely get through life without ever being a victim of crime or losing a child. In spite of the odds, I was touched by tragedy, leaving me forever changed, much more paranoid, and by far less optimistic.

I learned other things too. While I realize that what Christina did is not directly MY fault, I also know that there are things I should have done and things I shouldn't have done all throughout her life that just might have made a difference. The most important lesson I learned is that a mother should always, always, always put her children first. I failed in that respect; I allowed myself to get sucked into my own inner world of daily survival, marital discord, and self-improvement. I became too self-absorbed and was often oblivious to what my children were experiencing. I can't change that; all I can do is experience the regret and sorrow for having made such an alarming error. A mother is is the hub in the web that is her family. What happens to the mother happens to the children. Or, as so many have said, "If Mommy isn't happy, no one is happy." I was not happy for a long time and MY sadness, MY discontent, MY depression and confusion all had detrimental effects on my children.

I learned just how serious mental illness can be. I learned to never become complacent about a person's threats to end their life. In so many ways, Christina was like the Boy Who Cried Wolf. She verbalized suicidal ideation often enough that I became complacent. Wrong! Wrong response! All I can do is beg her forgiveness and hope that she exists in the Spirit realm, if there is one, and that she has forgiven me.

I learned also just how fragile spirituality can be. My faith and my beliefs have been shattered. I want proof of where she is...IF she is...and there is none.

Still, in spite of me learning all of these various Life Lessons, I still question it all. Why?? Why did I need these lessons, and why like this?? I am still unsure of the answer to all that. It seems unnecessary. And it's not just me, but our whole family: Why do WE need to face these lessons? Why do WE need to grieve a loss like this?? I was fond of saying that "everything is as it should be," but is it, really?? THIS should not be. I cannot accept that losing Christina was in everyone's best interest. I'm not convinced that it was in HER best interest either. People have said that her pain was so big, so overwhelming, so intense, that at least she is at peace now, released from her emotional and psychological trauma. Perhaps. Perhaps my wish that she could still be here is selfish. I will need to think about that more because right now, I just want her back.

So, a new year begins. The lessons are never over; there is always more to learn. Last year, I had to learn how to cope with her death. This year, I will need to learn how to cope with her absence.

THE LONGEST NIGHT

The Winter Solstice. The longest night. How very appropriate, to end this calendar year honoring the longest night and the darkest half of the year. Since losing Christina, I have been wandering in a darkness - a place I've never been before. Oh I've been in dark places, but not THIS dark place.

To those on the outside, looking in, I must seem fine. You know: Well-adjusted, coping with the loss, managing the tragedy. But inside...in the basement of my soul...there lies the scream, the tears, the guilt, the agony, and the little girl who - like Christina - wants her mommy. How ironic: by taking her life, she left ME hanging.

And it's been a long night. A long, restless, sleepless night. Sure, I still accomplish things: the house is clean, a semester has been successfully completed, I periodically wash the gray right out of my hair; but have I accomplished my grief??

So I wander through this darkness, searching desperately for the Light that I once held as if I owned it. Searching, as I wander, for a sign. And inviting, tempting, daring, the paranormal. I get nothing. Void. Empty spaces.

"Christina, where ARE you?!" My voice echoes in the emptiness. Nothingness. I conclude that it's all a fabrication; since the beginning of time we have collectively struggled with the not-knowing. What happens when we die?? And so we've fabricated stories to make ourselves feel better. "She's an angel in heaven now." Or so I've been told in loving, consoling tones. "God has her now." Really?? Why did he take her in the first place? No. When we die, there is nothing, and thus the empty spaces. No reply.

I've been told to be patient; she'll contact me from the other side, eventually. I've been advised to notice the small things...little signs, like a song I hear or a scent that suddenly appears. Really? And if I step on a crack, will I break my mother's back? Should I cross my fingers, just for luck? And what about that rabbit's foot and my silver dice...if I carry those around, maybe THAT will help too.

It's been suggested that perhaps my shattered sense of all-things-spiritual is actually Christina and that she is telling me, from the other side, that my former beliefs were wrong. Really?? Why wouldn't God just tell me directly? He's done it before...supposedly.

The Longest Night.

I try to hold on to the scientific fact that the longest night is followed by the slow return of the Light and attempt to apply it philosophically to my own Dark Night: after a time, the Light will return and warm me once again. Rebirth always follows the dead/dark time. I long to be reborn. I want to come back to life. But it is not time, yet. This continues to be a time of Dark Rumination for me. The record must be played and played and played until the grooves are well-worn and deeply engraved and I know the lyrics by heart. And so, like a needle on a LP, I continue to wander in circles, digging deeper each time around, creating static, and entrenching myself, but all the while, still hanging there, as she was on That Morning: warm, but lifeless and yet, resolved in her exit.

And my first response remains: "WHY Baby Girl?? WHY??"

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.