Wading Through High Waters

It took a while to slog through my dad's anniversary. Actually, I think I'm still wading through some sadness.

Hubby and I are on speaking terms again. He's been more helpful than usual, so I'm thinking that, at least for the time being, we're on almost the same page. Being on the same page is a bit much to ask, but having him on a quarter of the page I'm on is a huge improvement.

Crazy Land has been chewing up all of my discretionary, write in my blog time. While IT Boy was on his honeymoon, I was the only recourse for Loathsome when his email went berserk. He stalked into my office and asked me if I had a computer. That is so Loathsome. I made him cut to the chase and tell me what was happening. You can't imagine what a huge task it was to just get the basic facts out of him. I was exhausted before I began.

I spent two days working on his computer, then I abandoned all hope. I set his email up on another computer so Loathsome could function while we waited for the return of IT Boy. A week into using that computer, it stopped running the accounting software. Of course, everybody blamed Loathsome for the troubles.

IT Boy got back this past Monday and devoted three days to Loathsome's email. I understand that, as of yesterday afternoon, virtual memory has been restored and it's stopped shutting itself down or freezing up. I had correctly pinpointed the problem and I take some pride in the fact that IT Boy wasn't able to waltz in and fix the problem immediately.

Yesterday I invited my Crazy Land cohorts to join me for a belated birthday celebration/thank you party. Two days after issuing the invitation, I suddenly remembered that I've had several birthday parties when no one showed up. Yes, it was a sad, sad childhood. Nothing like setting yourself up to be hurt and disappointed...again.

Everyone but Golf Pro showed up, though, and I was able to thank everyone for helping me get through three years of breast cancer hell. It was actually better that Golf Pro was MIA. Everyone is even more furious at him than usual.

I'm so happy to have 15 minutes to keep track of what's going on, even if it's on a very minimal basis. I have to try to find a way to work this into my days, which continue to be far too busy. I'm inventive. I'll just put me on my daily schedule.

Alone In the Ice and Snow

Hubby and I are at an impasse today. Last night, I lost patience with him when I told him I was having therapy today and he seemed to be exasperated with the endless nature of my medical/psychological needs.

I told him that I resent the fact that he contributes so little to our relationship. He doesn't work, he doesn't do anything around the house except wash the dishes and clean (the inside of) the bathtub. (I have made him responsible for walking and feeding the dogs. He does a middling job of both.) I told him that I'm so resentful, in fat, that it's affecting our intimate relationship. I told him I feel burdened by his lethargy...or whatever. I said that I feel more like his mother than his wife.

I demanded that he tell me what he does with the 8 hours a day I'm at work. I mean, really. Couldn't he just sweep the floor? Dust? Something? He admitted that he wastes a lot of time, but then implied that's just the way he is. I'd love to waste time. I don't have time to waste time.

Well, needless to say, he was very hurt and probably very angry. He disappeared upstairs, came back down a couple of times to deal with the dogs and went directly back up. I didn't like that reaction. It made me angry.

Great timing. Now I will probably have to spend the weekend in silence. Hubby tends to use the Freeze Out (passive-aggressive) response to conflict. Tomorrow is the anniversary of my dad's suicide. Excellent timing on my part.

Today I'm tired and sad. I'm not good at recognizing it, but if I had to bet, I'd say I'm probably really anxious. I feel so alone. The Superhighway says that our respective husbands use guilt to control us. My mom says that, too. I'm sure Therapist will agree.

They're all correct, of course. That doesn't make me less unhappy. Worse yet, I feel shamed by my neediness. Of course, I might not feel so needy if tomorrow were a different day, not an anniversary.

I'm certain that I'll try to ease the tension between us. I wish I wouldn't. I wish he would try to see things from my point of view. I wish, I wish, I wish.... Things are what they are, though.

Boy, do I need therapy.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow.


From Survivors of Suicide

Helping A Survivor Heal

Historian Arnold Toynbee once wrote, "There are always two parties to a death; the person who dies and the survivors who are bereaved." Unfortunately, many survivors of suicide suffer alone and in silence. The silence that surrounds them often complicates the healing that comes from being encouraged to mourn.

Because of the social stigma surrounding suicide, survivors feel the pain of the loss, yet may not know how, or where, or if, they should express it. Yet, the only way to heal is to mourn. Just like other bereaved persons grieving the loss of someone loved, suicide survivors need to talk, to cry, sometimes to scream, in order to heal.

As a result of fear and misunderstanding, survivors of suicide deaths are often left with a feeling of abandonment at a time when they desperately need unconditional support and understanding. Without a doubt, suicide survivors suffer in a variety of ways: one, because they need to mourn the loss of someone who has died; two, because they have experienced a sudden, typically unexpected traumatic death; and three, because they are often shunned by a society unwilling to enter into the pain of their grief.

How Can You Help?
A friend or family member has experienced the death of someone loved from suicide. You want to help, but you are not sure how to go about it. This page will guide you in ways to turn your cares and concerns into positive action.

Accept The Intensity Of The Grief
Grief following a suicide is always complex. Survivors don't "get over it." Instead, with support and understanding they can come to reconcile themselves to its reality. Don't be surprised by the intensity of their feelings. Sometimes, when they least suspect it, they may be overwhelmed by feelings of grief. Accept that survivors may be struggling with explosive emotions, guilt, fear and shame, well beyond the limits experienced in other types of deaths. Be patient, compassionate and understanding.

Listen With Your Heart
Assisting suicide survivors means you must break down the terribly costly silence. Helping begins with your ability to be an active listener. Your physical presence and desire to listen without judgment are critical helping tools. Willingness to listen is the best way to offer help to someone who needs to talk.

Thoughts and feelings inside the survivor may be frightening and difficult to acknowledge. Don't worry so much about what you will say. Just concentrate on the words that are being shared with you.

Your friend may relate the same story about the death over and over again. Listen attentively each time. Realize this repetition is part of your friend's healing process. Simply listen and understand. And, remember, you don't have to have the answer.

Avoid Simplistic Explanations and Clichés
Words, particularly clichés, can be extremely painful for a suicide survivor. Clichés are trite comments often intended to diminish the loss by providing simple solutions to difficult realities. Comments like, "You are holding up so well," "Time will heal all wounds," "Think of what you still have to be thankful for" or "You have to be strong for others" are not constructive. Instead, they hurt and make a friend's journey through grief more difficult.

Be certain to avoid passing judgment or providing simplistic explanations of the suicide. Don't make the mistake of saying the person who suicided was "out of his or her mind." Informing a survivor that someone they loved was "crazy or insane" typically only complicates the situation. Suicide survivors need help in coming to their own search for understanding of what has happened. In the end, their personal search for meaning and understanding of the death is what is really important.

Be Compassionate
Give your friend permission to express his or her feelings without fear of criticism. Learn from your friend. Don't instruct or set explanations about how he or she should respond. Never say "I know just how you feel." You don't. Think about your helping role as someone who "walks with," not "behind" or "in front of" the one who is bereaved.

Familiarize yourself with the wide spectrum of emotions that many survivors of suicide experience. Allow your friend to experience all the hurt, sorrow and pain that he or she is feeling at the time. And recognize tears are a natural and appropriate expression of the pain associated with the loss.

Respect The Need To Grieve
Often ignored in their grief are the parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, spouses and children of persons who have suicided. Why? Because of the nature of the death, it is sometimes kept a secret. If the death cannot be talked about openly, the wounds of grief will go unhealed.

As a caring friend, you may be the only one willing to be with the survivors. Your physical presence and permissive listening create a foundation for the healing process. Allow the survivors to talk, but don't push them. Sometimes you may get a cue to back off and wait. If you get a signal that this is what is needed, let them know you are ready to listen if, and when, they want to share their thoughts and feelings.

Understand The Uniqueness Of Suicide Grief
Keep in mind that the grief of suicide survivors is unique. No one will respond to the death of someone loved in exactly the same way. While it may be possible to talk about similar phases shared by survivors, everyone is different and shaped by experiences in his or her life.

Because the grief experience is unique, be patient. The process of grief takes a long time, so allow your friend to process the grief at his or her own pace. Don't criticize what is inappropriate behavior. Remember the death of someone to suicide is a shattering experience. As a result of this death, your friend's life is under reconstruction.

Be Aware Of Holidays And Anniversaries
Survivors of suicide may have a difficult time during special occasions like holidays and anniversaries. These events emphasize the absence of the person who has died. Respect the pain as a natural expression of the grief process. Learn from it. And, most importantly, never try to take the hurt away.

Use the name of the person who has died when talking to survivors. Hearing the name can be comforting and it confirms that you have not forgotten this important person who was so much a part of their lives.

Be Aware Of Support Groups
Support groups are one of the best ways to help survivors of suicide. In a group, survivors can connect with other people who share the commonality of the experience. They are allowed and encouraged to tell their stories as much, and as often, as they like. You may be able to help survivors locate such a group. This practical effort on your part will be appreciated. (See Directory of SOS Support Groups on main page)

Respect Faith And Spirituality
If you allow them, a survivor will "teach you" about their feelings regarding faith and spirituality. If faith is part of their lives, let them express it in ways that seem appropriate. If they are mad at God, encourage them to talk about it. Remember, having anger at God speaks of having a relationship with God. Don't be a judge, be a loving friend.

Survivors may also need to explore how religion may have complicated their grief. They may have been taught that persons who take their own lives are doomed to hell. Your task is not to explain theology, but to listen and learn. Whatever the situation, your presence and desire to listen without judging are critical helping tools.

Work Together As Helpers
Friends and family who experience the death of someone to suicide must no longer suffer alone and in silence. As helpers, you need to join with other caring persons to provide support and acceptance for survivors who need to grieve in healthy ways.

To experience grief is the result of having loved. Suicide survivors must be guaranteed this necessity. While the above guidelines on this page will be helpful, it is important to recognize that helping a suicide survivor heal will not be an easy task. You may have to give more concern, time and love than you ever knew you had. But this effort will be more than worth it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dr. Alan D. Wolfelt is a noted author, educator and practicing thanatologist. He serves as Director of the Center for Loss and Life Transition in Fort Collins, Colorado and is on the faculty at the University of Colorado Medical School in the Department of Family Medicine.
As a leading authority in the field of thanatology, Dr. Wolfelt is known internationally for his outstanding work in the areas of adult and childhood grief. Among his publications are the books, Death and Grief; A Guide For Clergy, Helping Children Cope With Grief and Interpersonal Skills Training: A Handbook for Funeral Home Staffs. In addition, he is the editor of the "Children and Grief" department of Bereavement magazine and is a regular contributor to the journal Thanatos.

Understanding Suicide: Common Elements

From Survivors of Suicide

(Note from Ggirl: Please pay special attention to element #10.)

Understanding Suicide - Common Elements

No single explanation can account for all self-destructive behavior. Edwin Shneidman, a clinical psychologist who is a leading authority on suicide, described ten characteristics that are commonly associated with completed suicide. Schneidman's list includes features that occur most frequently and may help us understand many cases of suicide.

1. The common purpose of suicide is to seek a solution.
Suicide is not a pointless or random act. To people who think about ending their own lives, suicide represents an answer to an otherwise insoluble problem or a way out of some unbearable dilemma. It is a choice that is somehow preferable to another set of dreaded circumstances, emotional distress, or disability, which the person fears more than death.
Attraction to suicide as a potential solution may be increased by a family history of similar behavior. If someone else whom the person admired or cared for has committed suicide, then the person is more likely to do so.

2. The common goal of suicide is cessation of consciousness.
People who commit suicide seek the end of the conscious experience, which to them has become an endless stream of distressing thoughts with which they are preoccupied. Suicide offers oblivion.

3. The common stimulus (or information input) in suicide is intolerable psychological pain.
Excruciating negative emotions - including shame, guilt, anger, fear, and sadness - frequently serve as the foundation for self-destructive behavior. These emotions may arise from any number of sources.

4. The common stressor in suicide is frustrated psychological needs.
People with high standards and expectations are especially vulnerable to ideas of suicide when progress toward these goals is suddenly frustrated. People who attribute failure or disappointment to their own shortcomings may come to view themselves as worthless, incompetent or unlovable. Family turmoil is an especially important source of frustration to adolescents. Occupational and interpersonal difficulties frequently precipitate suicide among adults. For example, rates of suicide increase during periods of high unemployment (Yang et al.,1992).

5. The common emotion in suicide is hopelessness-helplessness.
A pervasive sense of hopelessness, defined in terms of pessimistic expectations about the future, is even more important than other forms of negative emotion, such as anger and depression, in predicting suicidal behavior (Weishaar & Beck, 1992). The suicidal person is convinced that absolutely nothing can be done to improve his or her situation; no one else can help.

6. The common internal attitude in suicide is ambivalence.
Most people who contemplate suicide, including those who eventually kill themselves, have ambivalent feelings about this decision. They are sincere in their desire to die, but they simultaneously wish that they could find another way out of their dilemma.

7. The common cognitive state in suicide is constriction.
Suicidal thoughts and plans are frequently associated with a rigid and narrow pattern of cognitive activity that is comparable to tunnel vision. The suicidal person is temporarily unable or unwilling to engage in effective problem-solving behaviors and may see his or her options in extreme, all or nothing terms. As Shneidman points out, slogans such as "death before dishonor" may have a certain emotional appeal, but they do not provide a sensible basis for making decisions about how to lead your life.

8. The common action in suicide is escape.
Suicide provides a definitive way to escape from intolerable circumstances, which include painful self-awareness (Baumeister, 1990).

9. The common interpersonal act in suicide is communication of intention.
One of the most harmful myths about suicide is the notion that people who really want to kill themselves don't talk about it. Most people who commit suicide have told other people about their plans. Many have made previous suicidal gestures. Schneidman estimates that in at least 80 percent of completed suicides, the people provide verbal or behavioral clues that indicate clearly their lethal intentions.

10. The common consistency in suicide is with life-long coping patterns. During crisis that precipitate suicidal thoughts, people generally employ the same response patterns that they have used throughout their lives. For example, people who have refused to ask for help in the past are likely to persist in that pattern, increasing their sense of isolation.

SOURCE: Thomas F. Oltmanns, Robert E. Emery
University of Virginia

Loathsome, A Unique Brand of Distraction

This is the second day in a row that I've devoted almost entirely to Loathsome's computer. IT Boy is on his two-week honeymoon, which leaves us without any computer support.

Surprise. I am not IT Ggirl. Error message said not enough virtual memory. I created more virtual memory. I cleaned up the disk and eliminated hundreds of files. Then error message said Microsoft Outlook should be reinstalled because a .dll file is missing. I'm not reinstalling anything, Loathsome. It seems to me that there are systemic problems.

As I tried to understand and work through the many problems, Loathsome required a blow-by-blow explanation of what I was doing and why. Kill me, please. I might as well be speaking Swahili. Loathsome is relentless, as if by telling him, he might be prepared to deal with future problems himself. He's either deluded or he's trying to impress me with his commitment to grasping the workings of Microsoft Windows. Not impressed, as you might imagine.

Up side? Not much time to think about suicide. The baffling thing is that this year is so unbearably sad for me. I've spent at least the last five years being enraged at my father. Even aside from the suicide, I have plenty to be angry about. Most people have trouble understanding how I could have any emotional connection with him at all after he made my life a slow motion, eternal train wreck.

Again, the universe has offered up Loathsome as a distraction. I'm moderately happy to take it.

four days

Suicide: National Statistics

From the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

(Note from ggirl: From my extensive reading about suicide, I've learned that people who wish to kill themselves badly enough will find a way. It's impossible to watch someone 24 hours a day, guarding them from their own demons. Furthermore, hospitalization is by no means a sure thing. My own father was hospitalized several weeks before he shot himself. Some statistics cite a precipitous upswing in suicides immediately following hospitalization.

We must do whatever we can to prevent the suicide of the people we love (or those we don't), but my point is that it is never our fault that someone else succeeds in checking out. There's always plenty of guilt over the survivors' sense of responsibility for not stopping it. If you've lost someone to self homicide, please check into groups like Survivors of Suicide where you can get support from those who walk in your shoes.)

Facts and Figures

National Statistics

General

• Over 32,000 people in the United States die by suicide every year.
• In 2005 (latest available data), there were 32,637 reported suicide deaths.
• Suicide is fourth leading cause of death for adults between the ages of 18 and 65 years in the U.S., with approximately 26,500 suicides.
• Currently, suicide is the 11th leading cause of death in the United States.
• A person dies by suicide about every 16 minutes in the United States. An attempt is estimated to be made once every minute.
• Ninety percent of all people who die by suicide have a diagnosable psychiatric disorder at the time of their death.
• There are four male suicides for every female suicide, but twice as many females as males attempt suicide.
• Every day, approximately 80 Americans take their own life, and 1,500 more attempt to do so.

Youth

• Suicide is the fifth leading cause of death among those 5-14 years old.
• Suicide is the third leading cause of death among those 15-24 years old.
• Between the mid-1950s and the late 1970s, the suicide rate among U.S. males aged 15-24 more than tripled (from 6.3 per 100,000 in 1955 to 21.3 in 1977). Among females aged 15-24, the rate more than doubled during this period (from 2.0 to 5.2). The youth suicide rate generally leveled off during the 1980s and early 1990s, and since the mid-1990s has been steadily decreasing.
• Among young people aged 10-14 years, the rate has doubled in the last two decades.
• Between 1980-1996, the suicide rate for African-American males aged 15-19 has also doubled.
• Risk factors for suicide among the young include suicidal thoughts, psychiatric disorders (such as depression, impulsive aggressive behavior, bipolar disorder, certain anxiety disorders), drug and/or alcohol abuse and previous suicide attempts, with the risk increased if there is situational stress and access to firearms.

Older People

• The suicide rates for men rise with age, most significantly after age 65.
• The rate of suicide in men 65+ is seven times that of females who are 65+.
• The suicide rates for women peak between the ages of 45-54 years old, and again after age 75.
• About 60 percent of elderly patients who take their own lives see their primary care physician within a few months of their death.
• Six to 9 percent of older Americans who are in a primary care setting suffer from major depression.
• More than 30 percent of patients suffering from major depression report suicidal ideation.
• Risk factors for suicide among the elderly include: a previous attempt, the presence of a mental illness, the presence of a physical illness, social isolation (some studies have shown this is especially so in older males who are recently widowed) and access to means, such as the availability of firearms in the home.

Depression

• Over 60 percent of all people who die by suicide suffer from major depression. If one includes alcoholics who are depressed, this figure rises to over 75 percent.
• Depression affects nearly 10 percent of Americans ages 18 and over in a given year, or more than 19 million people.
• More Americans suffer from depression than coronary heart disease (12 million), cancer (10 million) and HIV/AIDS (1 million).
• About 15 percent of the population will suffer from clinical depression at some time during their lifetime. Thirty percent of all clinically depressed patients attempt suicide; half of them ultimately die by suicide.
• Depression is among the most treatable of psychiatric illnesses. Between 80 percent and 90 percent of people with depression respond positively to treatment, and almost all patients gain some relief from their symptoms. But first, depression has to be recognized.

Alcohol and Suicide

• Ninety-six percent of alcoholics who die by suicide continue their substance abuse up to the end of their lives.
• Alcoholism is a factor in about 30 percent of all completed suicides.
• Approximately 7 percent of those with alcohol dependence will die by suicide.

Firearms and Suicide

• Although most gun owners reportedly keep a firearm in their home for "protection" or "self defense," 83 percent of gun-related deaths in these homes are the result of a suicide, often by someone other than the gun owner.
• Firearms are used in more suicides than homicides.
• Death by firearms is the fastest growing method of suicide.
• Firearms account for 52 percent of all suicides.

Medical Illness and Suicide

• Patients who desire an early death during a serious or terminal illness are usually suffering from a treatable depressive condition.
• People with AIDS have a suicide risk up to 20 times that of the general population.

Studies indicate that the best way to prevent suicide is through the early recognition and treatment of depression and other psychiatric illnesses.

^{Figures from the National Center for Health Statistics for the year 2005.}

Remembering the Dragon

Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are but princes that are waiting to see us act just once with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest essence, something helpless that needs our love.
-Rainer Maria Rilke

5 days

Log On 60%

Mr. Moneybags called on the intercom to tell me he was going to shut the server down and reset it.

Two minutes later, someone knocked on my door. Guess who? Loathsome.

"What did your computer do this morning?"

"You mean what's it doing now?"

Loathsome looks confused now that I've posed that question. Try again.

"What's the problem with it?"

It was doing things he'd never seen before and wouldn't allow him to log on. I suggested that he wait a few minutes until Bags reset the server and try again.

"No, that's not it. I've already done that three times, " he said.

I tried to explain why he should try one more time. Sometimes Loathsome gets this look on his face that's part confusion, part frustration, part dumb suffering. If he were a horse, I'd shoot him to end his misery. Instead, I proceeded to his office. I restarted and it got stuck. We did this four times and finally I restartedt in safe mode. At least that way Loathsome could look at his email and surf the net for whatever hugely important tasks must be accomplished today.

I went back to my office and finished up some work on my computer, then went to make some copies in the foyer in our suite of offices. While I was copying, I noticed Loathsome's shadow like carrion ready to lunch on dead meat. Dead meat. That would be me.

"Did you get an email from me?"

I had no idea.

"I don't know. Why?"

"It's not working," he said. I was about to go back to his office when Moneybags appeared at the printer right next to the copier I was using. Bags told Loathsome to log on again.

"Huh?" The famous Loathsome response to everyone, generally repeated 3 times before you can move on to the next sentence.

Moneybags said, "Log on again. Log on again."

Loathsome looked at me like I was his life line. "All the way?"

No, I did not tell him to log on 60%, but you know I wanted to.


Nine days.

Anniversary

Ten days until the 11th anniversary of my father's suicide.

Grief never ends.

Why My Dad Made The Decision, Part 2

"I believe that more unhappiness comes from this source than from any other--I mean from the attempt to prolong family connections unduly and to make people hang together artificially who would never naturally do so." ~ Samuel Butler

I didn't see my dad for about a year before he died. He'd been married before he met my mom and had a son from that marriage. They never had a relationship while his son (Shannon) was growing up. My father liked to cry and feel sorry for himself about it every once in a while.

I spoke with my parents for an hour every day after I moved out of their house. A year before Dad checked out, he started calling me a couple of times every day, haranguing me to get in touch with Shannon. It was critical to the development of their relationship. My father had always made me feel that he'd sacrificed having a boy to provide financially for me. When I was a little girl, I believed it was my fault. It made me angry. It bruised my soul.

I've never had any interest in getting to know Shannon. I resented him, the Golden Child left behind. I do not feel connected to him. For me, sharing a genetic link doesn't imply a relationship, although it's likely that Shannon is possessed by the same madness that infected my father and everyone else in his family. Why would I invite that into my life? It's a terrifying possibility.

Furthermore, I thought my father used his blossoming relationship with his son to carry on with his first wife. Before he started nagging me about it, my father had gone to the state where his son and ex lived (and where virtually all of my father's family lived) for a visit. He stayed at his ex-wife's house and my mom stayed at my aunt's house. When I found out about that, I was enraged. I didn't want to do anything that would encourage that kind of behavior.

My dad didn't have a lot of good things to say about Shannon, most notably, that he had a drinking problem. I've had a rule since I was a teenager: I don't have relationships with addicts who aren't in recovery. I was very ill at the time and the thought of receiving some of those 3:00 a.m. phone calls that alcoholics like to make ratcheted up my already-high anxiety level.

Nonetheless, I finally gave in. I called Shannon and left a message.

Reasons Why He Made The Decision, Part 1

"I believe that we are solely responsible for our choices, and we have to accept the consequences of every deed, word, and thought throughout our lifetime." ~ Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

Ten years before my father's suicide, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He had watched the disease ravage one of his brothers, ultimately leaving him paralyzed and at the mercy of other people whom he'd mistreated for years. My uncle's family apparently repaid him in kind and his long deterioration was accompanied by cruelty, I've been told.

My father was successfully treated for his cancer, but he was never able or willing to let go of the fear that he, too, would one day find himself unable to move, unable to think and completely dependent on others. No one, not the oncologists, not my mother, not I could make him see past his delusion. Of course, when my Mom had thyroid cancer, my dad was convinced she would die, too. Ever the optimist, my dad.

This was the beginning of the end for him.

Anniversary

" As anyone who has been close to someone that has committed suicide knows, there is no other pain like that felt after the incident. " ~ Peter Green

Ten years ago today, my dad grabbed a shotgun and went to a neighbor's house. He knocked on the door and asked the neighbor if he could borrow a bullet to kill a snake. My father took the bullet, walked out into the front yard and made the decision.

Better and Worse

"The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love and to be greater than our suffering." ~ Ben Okri

Better today. I took a nap yesterday and got 6 hours of sleep last night. It's stopped raining, the sun is shining. Though it's certainly not as frigid as my photograph would indicate, it feels that cold to me. I think the temperature is somewhere around 45 degrees. Anything under 60 degrees is cold to me.

We had sad news yesterday in Crazy Land. Crazy Employee's mom died of a heart attack Friday night. My co-worker and her youngest daughter were visiting her mom for the weekend. They'd had dinner together, along with some other family members in town for the Rose Festival weekend. I hate to refer to her as "Crazy Employee" under these circumstances, but that's the name I always use. She was really close to her mom and I know these are terrible days for her. Please say a prayer or keep a good thought for her and her family.

I wonder if my long-term sleep deprivation is related to the anniversary of my dad's death. That occurred to me a couple of weeks ago, but we're inching up to that black day, so I guess I'll find out soon. This morning I was thinking about the months and months when not a thought passed through my head. The mind was still. The only thing I had to focus on was the most immense pain I've ever experienced. An hour could seem like six. I was stuck, waiting for the pain to become more bearable. I had to wait a very, very long time.

I didn't mean to veer off into sadness and, as a matter of fact, I thought of an entertaining cluster of Crazy Land stories to share. The sunlight shining through my windows reminded me of that time. For the moment, I'm flooded with memories.

It must be time to work on my database. I'll try to get back to Crazy Land nonsense a little later today when I'm more settled.

Lonely

" The most I ever did for you was to outlive you. But that is much." ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

For almost a year after my father killed himself, images repeatedly flashed in my head of myself pointing a pistol at my temple. They're back. My father's weapon of choice was a shotgun. I guess my brain can't wrap itself around that vision. After all, I have long legs, but short arms. I could have shot myself with my feet, maybe, but toe dexterity would have probably been insufficient to the task.
I don't find the images as disturbing as I once did, but I'm cataloging the advent of the ten year anniversary of his death. So here it is.

I've been struggling to find some good memories, something positive in our relationship. It seems more critical this year than any other. I always come up empty. My therapist wonders why it's so important to me, why I'm so queasy about admitting to the "hate" part of my love-hate feelings about him. The answer is simple: I wish there were something positive, I long for the simplicity of love without dire complexity.

I have compassion for him, forgiveness in some large measure, I pity him for his desperate childhood and his desolate mental illnesses. But then I have those flashbacks and all I can feel is rage, contempt and despair. How might my life have been had his been different?

It would certainly have been less labyrinthine. I have the ability to see every side to every issue, to find goodness in people when it's buried under layer upon layer of hatred and anger. These are good things, right? On the whole, I think they are, but they leave me perpetually sitting on the fence, unable to find clarity about people and events. It's all complicated to me.

And I'm a very complex, very hidden person. If you don't know the events that shaped me, how can you understand my beliefs and behavior? How can you understand my choice of solitude at all costs? I choose to keep my secrets. They're fantastical. They're incomprehensible. They're an open invitation to judge me and where I came from. They make me very lonely.








Crazy Employee and Memories of My Father.

Update 0n Crazy Employee. No, she did not get fired. She's still not a salaried employee, though. She told Information Superhighway (who, by the way, is a friend of mine) that she thought Superhighway is "mean" to her and "picks on her." Hello? Are you five? In her defense, the Superhighway is probably the most rational and fair person in Crazy Land.

Not only was she not fired, but she retained her vacation and sick leave time, despite missing more than her allotted days for the year. I've missed an enormous amount of time, too, so there's not much I can say about that except that it seems to me she's been rewarded in a sense for being psycho. Ah, Crazy Land.

Memories keep on coming. This morning, out of the blue, I remembered my father running away from home. His wife (two years older than I) had finally had enough of his abuse and escaped, leaving their daughter behind. My dad, whom had never admitted to me that, (a) they were married and (b) the child was his daughter, had to confess.

He called me into his bedroom. That, in itself, was a surprise. All big news, punishment, and a fair amount of the verbal abuse that he inflicted on me was meted out in the bathroom. His entire family had a thing about bathrooms (which I've mentioned in much earlier posts). The confession was delivered as he sat on his bed, getting ready to leave.

My father told me he had to hold onto his child and that he was going on the run. That meant, of course, back to his Mom who could be counted on to support all of her adult male children no matter what. (She had a major preference for boys.) Had he not been so self-absorbed, he might have noticed the rage and contempt on my face. I think my (appropriate) fear of him kept me from saying much. Besides, I was focused on how much I hated him at that moment. I not only hated him for the destruction all of this had wreaked on my life, but also the fact that he thought I was stupid enough not to know what was going on. They were sleeping in the same bed, for God's sake.

So off he went with child in tow. I was glad. I never wanted him to come back. My mom and I continued to live in the house for about a week until one night when his wife, her sister and brother showed up in the middle of the night. They broke into our house. It was the only moment in my life when I've felt capable of killing someone. If my dad's gun had been handy, I might still be in prison because I most surely would have killed this person whom I felt had ruined my life. I was only 18 at the time. As an adult, I'm very clear about who ruined my life and it was not she.

My mother and I left, went to the police station and were treated like scum. I suppose we must have seemed like it when we informed them that all of us were still living together: my dad, his wife and kid, my mom and me. We were told to go away.

When we returned home the next day, the contents of the house were all gone. My bedroom furniture, my books (my books!), all gone. I was devastated and enraged. Once again, my father's actions had stripped me of something else. Specifically, they had taken my intellectual identity, which was really the only identity I was allowed to develop and hold onto.

After that, they showed up at my high school for a couple of weeks, waiting for me to come out. They surrounded me and verbally assaulted me and threatened me with violence. I'm sure my dad knew about it, because he spoke with my mom regularly. Did he give a damn? Well, no.

I'm not up for recounting the rest of the story today...and it's mind-numbingly long. The memory spoke to why my father killed himself. He always solved his problems by running away from them. The only real difference was that last time, he decided to run away forever.

Having Watched the River Flow

"You must love the crust of the earth on which you dwell more than the sweet crust of any bread or cake. You must be able to extract nutriment out of a sand-heap. You must have so good an appetite as this, else you will live in vain." ~ Henry David Thoreau

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?" ~ Kahlil Gibran

The three days away were absolutely blissful. The sound of the Guadalupe River, high and fast-moving these days, soothed my soul. Time away from Crazy Land and from the hurtful hands of medical professionals was a joyous reminder of how things could be.

Then, on Saturday, a major water main break left us without water until Sunday at 5:00 p.m. It's funny how attached you become to bathing regularly. Fortunately, my mom is generous with her shower.

Aside from that, we're rapidly approaching the ten year anniversary of my dad's suicide. He decided to check out nine days before my birthday. I've always wondered how he could have done that to me. Oh wait, silly me.

My father was a deeply disturbed man who spread misery of all kinds wherever he went. Physical, emotional, spiritual: It was all fair game for him. He saved a large measure of it for me. Nonetheless, he was my one and only father. I loved him, even though I didn't like him, and his suicide was devastating.

These days, memories come unbidden as I watch television or do the dishes or any of a thousand mundane acts. Sometimes, it's as simple as the word "Daddy" echoing in my head. The ironic thing about that is that I stopped referring to him by that name when I was very, very young. The horrors of my very own childhood concentration camp washed that name out of my vocabulary. I guess it's those tiny-child memories that take hold deep within our subconscious, springing up to surprise us when our guards are down. Shortly after his suicide, I remember sitting in the bathtub, with my head absolutely empty of thoughts, which were blasted away by the holocaust of his gun shot. "My daddy's gone." It felt unbearable. The silence that preceded and followed that thought stretched on like nuclear winter for what seemed an eternity.

Ten years later, I've come to terms with it, as much as one ever can. The reality of his self-murder, the anguish of not being able to penetrate his self-destructiveness and delusion have been tempered by time. I'm angry with him still. I pity him still. I still wish he had been capable of love. I still live with the wounds he inflicted on me, before his death and after. I'll continue to talk about his death as the month grinds on, because that's what I do, that's all that I can do.

Life seems to be an intricate maze in search of reconciliation between the child I was, the adult I thought I might become, the person I am and the one I'm becoming. I'm trying to recreate the inner narrative by which I define myself. The stories we tell ourselves about ourselves are critical to human beings; they are, in essence, that which denotes our individuality. I'm a composite of events, cataloged and assigned personal symbolic meaning, separate and apart from others' remembrance of the personality they once knew or their perception of me now.

We are all many things to many different people in this journey. Our brains hold our histories, keeping track of songs long-since forgotten, tiny moments that are unavailable to us in conscious memory. I struggle to meld together the things I remember all too clearly and the puzzle of what comes now, allowing those deep, hidden roots of memory to nourish me in silence and darkness.

It's not an altogether dark exploration, though. The Guadalupe River is high. There's a squirrel napping on a limb outside my window. The mystery of the cosmos takes my breath away.

Flashback Rage

Important note: If you are a survivor of child or spousal abuse, please know this post may trigger flashbacks.

Today is my father's birthday. He would be 72, had he not committed suicide 9 years ago (10 in October). I chose to cope by occupying my mind with frivolities. Then I went home for my afternoon rest. I knew today's episode of Dr. Phil would most certainly cause me to have flashbacks and yet I watched, anyway. I've learned to be disciplined about what I see or hear, but sometimes I'm unable to look away. The show was about a woman who has three children. Her parents called Child Protective Services because they were afraid that he would not only kill or injure their daughter, but perhaps their grandchildren.

Despite the fact that her husband has hit her, choked her, held her with a knife to her throat, stepped on her head, among other outrages, despite the fact that her children saw these attacks, she chose to take her children back to live with her husband. In defiance of an order of protection. At least one of her children has been injured by the man and at least one of her children was injured while trying to protect her mom.

Anyone who has read the early archives knows that my father was terrifying. (Note: not all archives have been published on this site after being transferred from another site.) He assaulted my mother on a regular basis until he found other women to assault after he had moved them into our house while my mom and I still lived there. My father assaulted me. (Note that I do not use the words "domestic abuse" or "child abuse." I think those are ridiculous phrases, demeaning to the people who live through them.)

I was terrified of him for years. Maybe I was always terrified of him, but there came a time after I was an adult, when I stood up to my father. Terror is the word I keep using. Terror is the word I mean. My father was a pedophile and used me as bait. My father subjected me to sexual abuse of such an unusual nature that I was well into my thirties before I even recognized that it was abuse. He did not protect me from his brother, who sexually abused me in more typical ways. I could write forever and not be able to catalog the offenses of which my father was guilty.

After my father killed himself, I went through about five years of feeling sorry for him. He had a tough childhood, filled with abuse. He was mentally ill. He was most certainly chronically psychotic for most of my life. I found it difficult to separate out the things he was in control of and the things he had no control over. This is why I view every situation as complex. I grew up with extraordinary complexity. It can be a safe haven, a means of avoiding the frightful truth.

Five years after his death, I began to finally experience my own rage. At first, it was rage that he had chosen to leave this world in such a devastating manner. I was enraged that he chose to shoot himself nine days before my birthday. It was still all about the dying.

These days, I'm still enraged. Now it's about my entire life. It's about the long, long shadow his violence still casts in my life. There was never a time when I was innocent, never a time when I didn't know violence up close and personal. I can't begin to say how angry it makes me and how profoundly sad it makes me for the child I was, the woman I am now.

This is my birthday card to you, dad. Wherever you are, may you understand fully what you did and what harm it caused. Happy birthday.

I Can Survive Anything

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next." ~ Gilda Radner

I've been catching up with blog friends I haven't been able to read lately. I need to stop for a moment to talk about yesterday. It was a bad, bad day and it took me until late in the afternoon to realize it. Realization should have started when my mom told me a couple of times early in the day to stop beating up on myself.

On the way home, she was talking about the 4th of July and it immediately reminded me that July 6, 2006 was my last day of radiation. Then I recalled that March 28 was my last chemo day. But then I wasn't sure...was it March 26 or March 28? I became obsessed (oh yeah, I never do that ) with verifying the date. Around 7;00 p.m. last night, I finally managed to find some written evidence that the date was correct.

Then it suddenly hit me. A year. As someone on my breast cancer message board told me, I've been through a lot. It made for a sad and somber evening. It's okay...just a part of coming to terms with it all. I allowed myself to grieve for the relinquishment of wholeness. I remembered it all. The diagnosis--in three stages. The mastectomy. The chemo. The radiation. It was all unbearable, so I chose not to bear it.

I haven't only changed physically. I know now, with complete certainty, that I can get through anything. Maybe my father's suicide should have enlightened me on my transcendent abilities. Now I know. It seems to have created a greater reserve in myself, a distancing from the hard events of life. I am inviolable.

It seems I've permanently retreated into myself to shield myself against misfortune and pain. That doesn't mean I'm emotionally unreachable; as a matter of fact, I may be more open to love (in a general, nonspecific way) than ever before. I can survive love and loss. That knowledge liberates me, but it leaves me with an openness to love primarily on a non-specific basis. I have good will towards everyone. Close personal relationships seem even more unreachable. If you care about everyone equally, do you really care about no one? I don't think so. I hope not.

How have I changed? How have I changed? It's a question that's rather haunting and not fully answered still. There's a lot more grieving to be done, a lot more suffering to be worked through. I can survive it, though. I can survive anything.

Pain is Inevitable

"Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state." ~ George Eliot

Except for the fact that the sun is shining through my office windows and there are lots of foraging birds and squirrels, it's another grim Monday. I'm not even sure at this point exactly what it is that makes me dread another week at work. Really, every day is pretty much like every other day. I've pushed myself physically in order to be here when no one expected me to show up. I don't even have to be here today. Or tomorrow, probably. Office became a haven from whatever form of breast cancer torture I was trying to get through for the past 18 months. Maybe my reluctance to be here is related to actually feeling better.

I lost another kitty this past week. Mom Kitty, the grandmother of all who came after, disappeared several days ago. She was looking shiny and a little tubby, so I thought it would be a while before I had to endure another loss. I have no idea what happened. It's possible that some other kitty in the colony made her leave. She's been having problems with Ring Tail Kitty for a while now. Mom Kitty used to be able to quell any big ideas by doing her incomparable hateful-kitty look. As she got older, hateful-kitty wasn't as effective. She may have been taken by a predator. The problem with being older and a little chubby is that you just can't move as quickly as you once did.

I'm hoping she's not living here anymore, but still dropping by for food after the rush hour when all the other cats are vying for food. Not that there's any food shortage, but the crowd can probably be a little intimidating.

If I've told myself once, I've told myself a million times that this is just how life is. "Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional." The Buddhist approach to life. I guess I'm opting for suffering these days. I still have my beloved Mr. Swagger, the cowardly Black and White Kitty and his improbable pal Ring Tail Kitty. I now have a large grey and white male who's been recuperating from a foot accident here in the relative safety of the patio. Crazy Cat Lady (aka me) made sure he had access to food nearby so he could stay off the foot as much as possible. I have Mom Kitty's Daughter, she of the beautiful blue eyes and the stand-offish attitude. They looked just alike except for Mom Kitty's white tipped tail. I have four baby kitties (that I need to catch and get fixed). I'm face to face with the inevitable lately. The inevitable never gets easier, no matter how many beings abandon me for death.

I finished up Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides yesterday. It took me forever to get through it. For some reason, reading about people almost dying on the side of mountains has seemed more compelling to me. Celebrating survival, I suppose. A week ago or so, I got really committed to finishing Middlesex. It was worth the struggle to concentrate.

Last night, I started reading a biography of Primo Levy. I became familiar with his work, The Periodic Table not too long after my dad died. For several years after that, I became obsessed with suicide. I read everything I could find. (Although that's just another manifestation of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, to some extent.) I'm not sure how I became aware of Primo Levy, but he fascinated me. He survived Auschwitz, lived another couple of decades and then, inexplicably, threw himself down the stairwell of his apartment building. He did not survive the fall. How could it be that someone could summon the will to get through a concentration camp only to lose the will when life seemed to be on a even keel?

The answer is clear in some ways. Auschwitz doesn't end for survivors. It just keeps on playing in their heads. More than one therapist has told me that my early life was just as difficult to survive as a concentration camp. If that's true, then I know for a fact that it never ends. Even on my best days, when life seemed full of wonderful possibilities, the past nonetheless cast a deep shadow.

That's just my interpretation, though. It doesn't explain Levy's choice necessarily. It's another one of those enormous tomes that will take a while to wade through, but he was a fascinating man in more ways than that which he chose to end his life. Like every other life, there's plenty to celebrate in addition to the sadness.

Now what was it I'm grateful for today? Right. Just being present. The opportunities to love. Those two are enough to get me through a lot of suffering. Which, by the way, is optional.

The End of My Father

even though the sun is finally shining, i'm having a terrible day. last night i was watching a television program (without a trace) when they unexpectedly started talking about one of the characters' mother who committed suicide. sometimes it's too difficult for me to hear, even when i know suicide is going to be discussed. the character felt responsible for his mom's death because he had concealed an earlier attempt from his father. i've been watching a trial on courttv live in which a battered woman is being tried for the hatchet death of her husband. i just listened to lenore walker testifying about battered women and their children who grow up in violent homes. very triggering.my own father's death has been on my mind recently. he'd been actively psychotic for some time prior to his death. he saw several different psychiatrists before his death, but they were not medicating him sufficiently. just before he died, he was only taking paxil, which is completely ineffective for psychosis. my mom said that shortly before his death, she had found him standing on the front porch with a butcher knife in his hand. she asked him what he was doing and he said he wasn't doing anything. he came inside and laid the knife on the corner of the kitchen counter. the day he died, she had gotten a phone call from her sister and was trying to get her off the phone without being rude. she heard my dad in the living room making animal noises. this is a detail which haunts me still. by the time she got off the phone, he was gone. he went to a neighbor's house and asked for some bullets because my mom had hidden the bullets which were in their house. he still had the gun. he told the neighbor that he wanted some bullets to kill some cats with. they gave him some. he walked out of their house, opened the passenger door and blew himself away. my mom got off the phone, noticed he was gone and went to look for him. she saw his truck parked at the neighbor's house. by the time she got there, he was already gone. she said he was still warm when she got there. the neighbor who gave him the bullets came out and asked if he should call 911. my mom stayed with my dad.when the police got there, they actually performed a gun powder residue test on her hands. that was the end of my father, the beginning of five years of living in hell for me. maybe more later. this is very hard to talk about. i need to try to calm myself down.