I had an awesome day yesterday with Sally. It was so special, she made it so special. SHE is so special. (I'll elaborate on our day soon.)
I have a four day weekend now which I am very excited about.
I'm off tomorrow to my friend's wedding and I'm so excited. I get teary just thinking about it all...so I hope by going over early to help them get ready that I'll get the teariness out of the way. :o) Happy tears...of course. I'm so thrilled for her and her almost-hubby. How can you not get teary when you see two hearts joining together?
Then I'm off early on Saturday...going out of town to see some family...then my best bud's wedding shower is on Sunday. Monday is a holiday - yay! - and I have no plans.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
In other news...
I'm spending the day tomorrowwww....wittthhhh...Sally! Woohoo!
I have a list of things I want to discuss with her. I really should write it down. But, I'm pretty freakin' excited...as you can tell.
And tonight is my buddy's bachelorette party! Yahoo!!!
I have a list of things I want to discuss with her. I really should write it down. But, I'm pretty freakin' excited...as you can tell.
And tonight is my buddy's bachelorette party! Yahoo!!!
The aftermath...
After the chaos of yesterday, I went home and just felt very ‘off’. I couldn’t quite pinpoint where it was coming from…but when I sat down on my bed…the tears just came…and I couldn’t stop them…
I wish I had been able to help Emily, my friend, who took her life 21 months ago (I’m still counting). I wish I had been able to save her. I know this wish is shared among everyone that was touched by Emily…her friends, colleagues and more importantly, her family. She was so adored and needed. She still is.
The impact of losing a loved one to suicide is never ending. It’s constant. The pain NEVER goes away. The magnitude of losing Emily never goes away. There will always be that potential she held for everything she could have (and should have) achieved. I do know that she still holds potential now…even though she’s no longer in a physical form. I know that in her loss, she has saved lives. Quite literally…by being an organ donor.
I just…wish…I could have called for police and medics, for HER, like I did for the man yesterday. And in my tears, I thought, “Emily, I wish it was you I had saved for this day…instead of him.” Not that this man’s life is any less…because it isn’t and my actions show how I feel about this. But if I could have…yesterday…I would have picked her.
Her loss doesn’t hurt any less today than it did the moment I got the call and my life changed. The pain changes, but it never goes away.
Please, my readers, if you are thinking about suicide and/or know someone else who is…please, get help. Reach out. Talk to someone. Call a helpline, go and see your doctor, or if necessary, go to your local ER. If you’re in Canada, call 1-800-668-6868 (Kid’s Help Phone – although anyone can call if you need suicide resources in your area). If you’re in the USA, call 1-800-SUICIDE. Or visit www.hopeline.com
I wish I had been able to help Emily, my friend, who took her life 21 months ago (I’m still counting). I wish I had been able to save her. I know this wish is shared among everyone that was touched by Emily…her friends, colleagues and more importantly, her family. She was so adored and needed. She still is.
The impact of losing a loved one to suicide is never ending. It’s constant. The pain NEVER goes away. The magnitude of losing Emily never goes away. There will always be that potential she held for everything she could have (and should have) achieved. I do know that she still holds potential now…even though she’s no longer in a physical form. I know that in her loss, she has saved lives. Quite literally…by being an organ donor.
I just…wish…I could have called for police and medics, for HER, like I did for the man yesterday. And in my tears, I thought, “Emily, I wish it was you I had saved for this day…instead of him.” Not that this man’s life is any less…because it isn’t and my actions show how I feel about this. But if I could have…yesterday…I would have picked her.
Her loss doesn’t hurt any less today than it did the moment I got the call and my life changed. The pain changes, but it never goes away.
Please, my readers, if you are thinking about suicide and/or know someone else who is…please, get help. Reach out. Talk to someone. Call a helpline, go and see your doctor, or if necessary, go to your local ER. If you’re in Canada, call 1-800-668-6868 (Kid’s Help Phone – although anyone can call if you need suicide resources in your area). If you’re in the USA, call 1-800-SUICIDE. Or visit www.hopeline.com
Monday, July 28, 2008
Calling 911
Last year I was trained in ASIST – which stands for Applied Suicide Intervention Training Skills. It was a two day workshop that was super intensive, information-packed and amazing. This program was developed by LivingWorks and is just, well, amazing. I believe that every doctor, therapist, nurse and professional that is a first responder should be required to take this course. ASIST is, simply, amazing.
This morning after doing a bit of work, I logged on to MSN, which I basically do on a daily basis. I keep my window open and normally my best bud, CP, and I keep a window open all day and just banter back and forth at some breaks and stuff. Now, our banter can be serious…and it quite often is. We don’t usually filter our thoughts and words…and it’s often quite funny, too. We’re pretty damn funny actually…but that’s not my point today. So, I log on and immediately get, “I need you – NOW!”
CP works with an organization that basically works with low-income people. Often individuals who are having difficulties (emotional, mental, financial, etc.) contact her organization for assistance. Sometimes people are in crisis when they use their services…but not all. Today…there was a person who was definitely in crisis. CP was on the phone with him. She was also completely alone in the office. This is where I came in.
CP gave me the scoop: the man was in crisis, did not sound like himself, he was crying, admittedly had (and/or taken) nine different medications and was not ‘himself’. He had some issues in his previous history that would lead one to assume he had a mental illness which increased concern that he was suicidal and reaching out. He also did a few key things that showed he was at risk and this was crisis mode.
All of that said, CP couldn’t get off of the phone with him and she had no one else in her office to help. We talked about it a bit…I was looking to make sure this was a crisis (I trusted CP, but calling anyone to intervene is a huge step/risk). We have a local group that is made up of a doctor, police officer and a professional who can assess a mental health crisis and can go to the person who needs the help. I called them first. They were with another person and after hearing the details and asking questions, they said it would be best to keep the man on the phone and also call 911.
After talking with CP and explaining all of this, it was decided that 911 would be the necessary next step. Now…think about this folks. Maybe this man was just drunk…or maybe he was just sad…maybe he didn’t realize that his conversation could bring the police and medics to his front step. He did tell CP that she could go over or ‘send a friend’. He also then unlocked his front door.
So I made the call. I’ve called 911 twice in my life – today being the second time – and it’s daunting to hear someone answer on the other end with, “911, what’s your emergency?” I gave the necessary info, they dispatched the police immediately, then I went through to medical and then they dispatched the medics and ambulance. Meanwhile, CP was to stay on the phone until they arrived and not hang up.
The police and medics arrived. I really don’t know what happened then…other than it was noted by police that he had cut himself and needed to be taken to the hospital. We didn’t know that he had cut himself. When I heard that (although I already felt like it was the right thing to do) it cemented that we did do the correct thing by calling for help.
I don’t know this man. I don’t know his name. I don’t know what difficulties are in his life. I don’t know what the pain was…that led him to this point.
I do know what it’s like to be there though. Reaching out. Having hope enough to reach out, but sadness enough to harm yourself or want to harm yourself.
I just hope and pray that somehow this man can get the help he needs. And, more importantly, the help he so deserves.
So, if you’re so inclined…please say a prayer for him… That his heart is touched and that he knows – and feels – his worth in this world.
After all, when it comes down to it, isn’t that what we all want?
This morning after doing a bit of work, I logged on to MSN, which I basically do on a daily basis. I keep my window open and normally my best bud, CP, and I keep a window open all day and just banter back and forth at some breaks and stuff. Now, our banter can be serious…and it quite often is. We don’t usually filter our thoughts and words…and it’s often quite funny, too. We’re pretty damn funny actually…but that’s not my point today. So, I log on and immediately get, “I need you – NOW!”
CP works with an organization that basically works with low-income people. Often individuals who are having difficulties (emotional, mental, financial, etc.) contact her organization for assistance. Sometimes people are in crisis when they use their services…but not all. Today…there was a person who was definitely in crisis. CP was on the phone with him. She was also completely alone in the office. This is where I came in.
CP gave me the scoop: the man was in crisis, did not sound like himself, he was crying, admittedly had (and/or taken) nine different medications and was not ‘himself’. He had some issues in his previous history that would lead one to assume he had a mental illness which increased concern that he was suicidal and reaching out. He also did a few key things that showed he was at risk and this was crisis mode.
All of that said, CP couldn’t get off of the phone with him and she had no one else in her office to help. We talked about it a bit…I was looking to make sure this was a crisis (I trusted CP, but calling anyone to intervene is a huge step/risk). We have a local group that is made up of a doctor, police officer and a professional who can assess a mental health crisis and can go to the person who needs the help. I called them first. They were with another person and after hearing the details and asking questions, they said it would be best to keep the man on the phone and also call 911.
After talking with CP and explaining all of this, it was decided that 911 would be the necessary next step. Now…think about this folks. Maybe this man was just drunk…or maybe he was just sad…maybe he didn’t realize that his conversation could bring the police and medics to his front step. He did tell CP that she could go over or ‘send a friend’. He also then unlocked his front door.
So I made the call. I’ve called 911 twice in my life – today being the second time – and it’s daunting to hear someone answer on the other end with, “911, what’s your emergency?” I gave the necessary info, they dispatched the police immediately, then I went through to medical and then they dispatched the medics and ambulance. Meanwhile, CP was to stay on the phone until they arrived and not hang up.
The police and medics arrived. I really don’t know what happened then…other than it was noted by police that he had cut himself and needed to be taken to the hospital. We didn’t know that he had cut himself. When I heard that (although I already felt like it was the right thing to do) it cemented that we did do the correct thing by calling for help.
I don’t know this man. I don’t know his name. I don’t know what difficulties are in his life. I don’t know what the pain was…that led him to this point.
I do know what it’s like to be there though. Reaching out. Having hope enough to reach out, but sadness enough to harm yourself or want to harm yourself.
I just hope and pray that somehow this man can get the help he needs. And, more importantly, the help he so deserves.
So, if you’re so inclined…please say a prayer for him… That his heart is touched and that he knows – and feels – his worth in this world.
After all, when it comes down to it, isn’t that what we all want?
Saturday, July 26, 2008
As the (adoption) world turns...
So...an update on my adoption world.
Things were difficult for about a month after I met with M at the beginning of June. I've realized that this particular issue has the ability to throw me completely for a loop. It's like I go back to age 10 and am completely powerless. I lose my words, my positive spirit and everything hurts. It has the ability to turn my world upside down, and man, that can be one fugly world.
The good news? I recognize it now. I'm very proud of myself, for this. Now - I can do something about it.
I realized that this issue has so NOT been dealt with. It was always pushed away, because it hurt and because I let myself be powerless with it all. You live and you learn...and thankfully, I'm in an awesome spot to deal with this now.
Is it easy? Heck no. Is it possible? Absolutely. One step at a time.
The only way to the other side is to go through it. I don't know how long that will take and that is ok. I am a person who likes to deal and move on...but I recognize that this is a lifelong issue. I know that it runs so very deep and is tangled with so many emotions, thoughts and experiences. But because I "get" IT now - I know that I can take my time...and that it will be ok.
It's hard to stay in it. And when I say in it...it's very hard not to run away from this issue. It's hard NOT to call M and tell her that I wish her a great life and goodbye. Now, I don't want to do this often...but in moments of grief and emotions, I certainly get the urge to run. I am forcing myself to stay...and remind myself that this is the most healthy thing I can do for myself. I'm the only one who can do this for me. No one is going to save me (not that I need to be saved). I have to do this for myself.
Last Tuesday afternoon I called M from work just to say hi. The conversation is often awkward and quiet...and there is talk about the weather...what we both had for lunch...etc. Then...we discovered a common interest. Get ready....buckle your seatbelts...what is it? Dog the Bounty Hunter!!!! I LOVE Dog...and have been a fan since the beginning (not to mention I met him and Beth last summer). I know...you're thinking, are you kidding me?! Nope.
So we discussed Dog and his visit here...what he and Beth were like and about the show in general and the drama about his use of some really vulgar language (which to me was completely unacceptable). We then discovered our mutual love of the A&E channel.
Then a more important/difficult subject...our relationship. I told her that I had supper with Sally during the show...and that Sally wanted to hear about our first meeting. I think M is rather interested in Sally, she seems to kinda perk up when I talk about our discussions. So, I told M about Sally asking if M might be willing to meet her if she were to come along for lunch/tea when we meet next. This is the conversation between M and I when I brought this up...
Me: So, do you think you would be ok if Sally came along? She said she'd like to meet you.
M: Hmmm...well...
Me: Remember that Sally is a seasoned professional adoption-wise and she worked for years and years with all sides of the adoption table.
M: Well, has she read the non-identifying info?
Me: (I was kinda caught off guard.) Ummmm...actually, no, I never really thought about showing her, although...
M: *cuts me off* You know most of it is lies.
Me: Yes, I know you said that before and that's fair enough and we can talk about it, no one is making judgements. Is it ok if I show Sally? Maybe she can answer some of your questions?
M: Well... *silence*
Me: M, listen, you know how Sally came back into my life. I have to tell you that she's been a huge blessing to me. I trust her completely, she always has kept her word and I know she doesn't judge. I was surprised when she said she'd like to meet you...but maybe she has something to offer you in this situation? Maybe she has something to offer us together.
M: Ok...sure, we could meet for lunch, the three of us. Will she have read the non-id info?
Me: I can give it to her before then and I'm sure she would read it.
M: Ok.
Now...I have to find that info. I don't know where I put it...and honestly, I don't want to read it. I know what's in it. And, that is enough. Again...it can turn my world upside down...and I need to focus on the truth and the present and future.
M then said that she's glad our relationship is 'so good' now. I said that I, too, am glad we're communicating, but that I feel like our relationship is on rocky ground. And it is. For me, we're just at the beginning. Bless her for hanging in there though...sheesh. I know that for her, it is good. She has me in her life...my door is open...and she loves to hear from me and see me. That's all she really needs for things to be 'so good'.
Because of that...I realize that my feelings/issues are not hers. I do want/need to have some difficult conversations with her at some point...but my 'shit', is not necessarily hers. There's a lot I need to deal with...on my own, in regard to adoption. What I first thought might be necessary to tell her...is probably not necessary. It's my junk. It's not OUR junk.
I'm relieved that I'm at this point. It's progress...and it's good progress. One day at a time.
Tomorrow I'm going to church with Sally...and my best bud, Cornpop, is coming too. I can't wait to see Sally. And we're hanging sometime this week, too. Then I'm meeting another friend in the afternoon for a quick tea and some conversation. THEN, I'm going to a retro-hat-tea-party-wedding-shower in the late afternoon. I'm excited for all of it.
Things were difficult for about a month after I met with M at the beginning of June. I've realized that this particular issue has the ability to throw me completely for a loop. It's like I go back to age 10 and am completely powerless. I lose my words, my positive spirit and everything hurts. It has the ability to turn my world upside down, and man, that can be one fugly world.
The good news? I recognize it now. I'm very proud of myself, for this. Now - I can do something about it.
I realized that this issue has so NOT been dealt with. It was always pushed away, because it hurt and because I let myself be powerless with it all. You live and you learn...and thankfully, I'm in an awesome spot to deal with this now.
Is it easy? Heck no. Is it possible? Absolutely. One step at a time.
The only way to the other side is to go through it. I don't know how long that will take and that is ok. I am a person who likes to deal and move on...but I recognize that this is a lifelong issue. I know that it runs so very deep and is tangled with so many emotions, thoughts and experiences. But because I "get" IT now - I know that I can take my time...and that it will be ok.
It's hard to stay in it. And when I say in it...it's very hard not to run away from this issue. It's hard NOT to call M and tell her that I wish her a great life and goodbye. Now, I don't want to do this often...but in moments of grief and emotions, I certainly get the urge to run. I am forcing myself to stay...and remind myself that this is the most healthy thing I can do for myself. I'm the only one who can do this for me. No one is going to save me (not that I need to be saved). I have to do this for myself.
Last Tuesday afternoon I called M from work just to say hi. The conversation is often awkward and quiet...and there is talk about the weather...what we both had for lunch...etc. Then...we discovered a common interest. Get ready....buckle your seatbelts...what is it? Dog the Bounty Hunter!!!! I LOVE Dog...and have been a fan since the beginning (not to mention I met him and Beth last summer). I know...you're thinking, are you kidding me?! Nope.
So we discussed Dog and his visit here...what he and Beth were like and about the show in general and the drama about his use of some really vulgar language (which to me was completely unacceptable). We then discovered our mutual love of the A&E channel.
Then a more important/difficult subject...our relationship. I told her that I had supper with Sally during the show...and that Sally wanted to hear about our first meeting. I think M is rather interested in Sally, she seems to kinda perk up when I talk about our discussions. So, I told M about Sally asking if M might be willing to meet her if she were to come along for lunch/tea when we meet next. This is the conversation between M and I when I brought this up...
Me: So, do you think you would be ok if Sally came along? She said she'd like to meet you.
M: Hmmm...well...
Me: Remember that Sally is a seasoned professional adoption-wise and she worked for years and years with all sides of the adoption table.
M: Well, has she read the non-identifying info?
Me: (I was kinda caught off guard.) Ummmm...actually, no, I never really thought about showing her, although...
M: *cuts me off* You know most of it is lies.
Me: Yes, I know you said that before and that's fair enough and we can talk about it, no one is making judgements. Is it ok if I show Sally? Maybe she can answer some of your questions?
M: Well... *silence*
Me: M, listen, you know how Sally came back into my life. I have to tell you that she's been a huge blessing to me. I trust her completely, she always has kept her word and I know she doesn't judge. I was surprised when she said she'd like to meet you...but maybe she has something to offer you in this situation? Maybe she has something to offer us together.
M: Ok...sure, we could meet for lunch, the three of us. Will she have read the non-id info?
Me: I can give it to her before then and I'm sure she would read it.
M: Ok.
Now...I have to find that info. I don't know where I put it...and honestly, I don't want to read it. I know what's in it. And, that is enough. Again...it can turn my world upside down...and I need to focus on the truth and the present and future.
M then said that she's glad our relationship is 'so good' now. I said that I, too, am glad we're communicating, but that I feel like our relationship is on rocky ground. And it is. For me, we're just at the beginning. Bless her for hanging in there though...sheesh. I know that for her, it is good. She has me in her life...my door is open...and she loves to hear from me and see me. That's all she really needs for things to be 'so good'.
Because of that...I realize that my feelings/issues are not hers. I do want/need to have some difficult conversations with her at some point...but my 'shit', is not necessarily hers. There's a lot I need to deal with...on my own, in regard to adoption. What I first thought might be necessary to tell her...is probably not necessary. It's my junk. It's not OUR junk.
I'm relieved that I'm at this point. It's progress...and it's good progress. One day at a time.
Tomorrow I'm going to church with Sally...and my best bud, Cornpop, is coming too. I can't wait to see Sally. And we're hanging sometime this week, too. Then I'm meeting another friend in the afternoon for a quick tea and some conversation. THEN, I'm going to a retro-hat-tea-party-wedding-shower in the late afternoon. I'm excited for all of it.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Odd...
This has been a strange week.
On Monday, the office was closed because the power was going to be off for the day due to construction. That was great. Tuesday, work was complete chaos because my boss seems to be losing it. Turns out the work wasn't done on the building due to lightning the day before, so it was to be done on Wednesday. One would think the office would be closed...seeing as our building is an old house...and somewhat dark. But nope. The boss decided to make it (as sarcastically described by one of my colleagues) a 'morale building' day where we worked in the dark. Her words..."You all have a pen and paper, don't you?" I can't tell you the number of things I tripped over and how damn hot it was w/out AC and fans.
No one was happy. I'm still bitter. If we were on a reality tv show, I know who I'd vote off.
This week has been very stressful at the office. I've written about it in previous posts...but I've been contemplating a job change. I think it would be a stupid move on my part right now, but it's just been a very negative environment (although I'm blessed with awesome colleagues for the most part!). But, this week has been so odd and has felt like two weeks in one.
My close friend just flew home today with her man...they are getting married next Friday! I'm so thrilled and excited. I love her so so so much and am so thankful she found the right one. I was picking out a card the other day and started tearing up. I'm doing a reading at the wedding and will have to focus on not tearing up. I just love her to bits and miss her so much since she's moved away. Can't wait to see her!
I spoke with Sally today...and we're gonna hang for a day next week. She's on vacation, so we're going to decide what day and what activity, depending on the weather, on Sunday. I'll take a day off...and it's pretty flexible to do so on my end. Needless to say...I'm mega psyched to have q-time with Sally. She invited me to church for this Sunday, too...but I haven't decided yet if I'll go.
I'm not proofing this blog entry...so if there are mistakes...that's why. Oh, I also spoke with M last week...and I'll update more on that tomorrow.
On Monday, the office was closed because the power was going to be off for the day due to construction. That was great. Tuesday, work was complete chaos because my boss seems to be losing it. Turns out the work wasn't done on the building due to lightning the day before, so it was to be done on Wednesday. One would think the office would be closed...seeing as our building is an old house...and somewhat dark. But nope. The boss decided to make it (as sarcastically described by one of my colleagues) a 'morale building' day where we worked in the dark. Her words..."You all have a pen and paper, don't you?" I can't tell you the number of things I tripped over and how damn hot it was w/out AC and fans.
No one was happy. I'm still bitter. If we were on a reality tv show, I know who I'd vote off.
This week has been very stressful at the office. I've written about it in previous posts...but I've been contemplating a job change. I think it would be a stupid move on my part right now, but it's just been a very negative environment (although I'm blessed with awesome colleagues for the most part!). But, this week has been so odd and has felt like two weeks in one.
My close friend just flew home today with her man...they are getting married next Friday! I'm so thrilled and excited. I love her so so so much and am so thankful she found the right one. I was picking out a card the other day and started tearing up. I'm doing a reading at the wedding and will have to focus on not tearing up. I just love her to bits and miss her so much since she's moved away. Can't wait to see her!
I spoke with Sally today...and we're gonna hang for a day next week. She's on vacation, so we're going to decide what day and what activity, depending on the weather, on Sunday. I'll take a day off...and it's pretty flexible to do so on my end. Needless to say...I'm mega psyched to have q-time with Sally. She invited me to church for this Sunday, too...but I haven't decided yet if I'll go.
I'm not proofing this blog entry...so if there are mistakes...that's why. Oh, I also spoke with M last week...and I'll update more on that tomorrow.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Optimism - pass it on!
If you watch TV at all, I'm sure you've seen the ads from "The Foundation For A Better Life". They're a little bit like those sugary sweet commercials from Hallmark (which I love and admittedly have teared up at a few). They're feel good 30 second spots.
Last night, while watching some Cheerleading show on CMT, one of the ads from FBL came on. It featured a little blonde boy holding a baseball bat and a ball and was clunking the chain link metal fence with the bat, walking to the entrance of the baseball field. He was alone. He set himself up at Home Base, held the ball up (to toss it up for himself to hit), held on to his bat and yelled, "I'm the greatest hitter in the world!" He then threw up the ball and swung for it, completely missing it. He said, "Strike one." He picked up the ball, held his bat and again yelled, "I'm the greatest hitter in the world!" He again threw up the ball and swung for it and again missed it. He said, "Strike two."
He focused hard this time, turned his baseball hat around, spat in his hand, held the ball and his bat. He yelled for the third time, "I'm the greatest hitter in the worrrlllld!" He threw himself the ball, took a big swing and missed it. He dropped his bat, looking a bit upset...looking out to the field. Then his expression changed and a grin spread across his little face and he looked a bit surprised. He then yelled, "I'm the best pitcher in the world!"
We have so many of these same opportunities throughout our day. Opportunities to view circumstances in a different - possibly more positive - light. I love this.
You can view the tv spot by visiting the following link - click on the link, scroll down a bit and click on the square ad titled 'The Greatest', which is on the first row, top left. It will then play on that page.
http://www.forbetterlife.org/be-inspired/tv.asp?id=3204
Last night, while watching some Cheerleading show on CMT, one of the ads from FBL came on. It featured a little blonde boy holding a baseball bat and a ball and was clunking the chain link metal fence with the bat, walking to the entrance of the baseball field. He was alone. He set himself up at Home Base, held the ball up (to toss it up for himself to hit), held on to his bat and yelled, "I'm the greatest hitter in the world!" He then threw up the ball and swung for it, completely missing it. He said, "Strike one." He picked up the ball, held his bat and again yelled, "I'm the greatest hitter in the world!" He again threw up the ball and swung for it and again missed it. He said, "Strike two."
He focused hard this time, turned his baseball hat around, spat in his hand, held the ball and his bat. He yelled for the third time, "I'm the greatest hitter in the worrrlllld!" He threw himself the ball, took a big swing and missed it. He dropped his bat, looking a bit upset...looking out to the field. Then his expression changed and a grin spread across his little face and he looked a bit surprised. He then yelled, "I'm the best pitcher in the world!"
We have so many of these same opportunities throughout our day. Opportunities to view circumstances in a different - possibly more positive - light. I love this.
You can view the tv spot by visiting the following link - click on the link, scroll down a bit and click on the square ad titled 'The Greatest', which is on the first row, top left. It will then play on that page.
http://www.forbetterlife.org/be-inspired/tv.asp?id=3204
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
My Story
(This was written for a local paper in 2006.)
It was after midnight on a foggy summer’s night in July 2005, when I got the call. She was crying on the other end and handed the phone to her mother. “We’re taking her to the hospital,” her mother said with obvious panic in her voice, “she’s been cutting herself again.”
I immediately slipped out of my comfy pyjamas, threw on some jeans, grabbed my purse and hopped in my car. As I drove to the main local hospital, I kept returning in my mind to all the other times I had walked through the ER doors to ask for help – for myself or for someone close to me.
Claire is 23 years old and one of my closest friends. She has struggled with depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts and self-harm since her junior high school years.
Just weeks earlier, I had convinced Claire to seek medical attention for her cutting and suicidal thoughts at the ER. The physician at the time had told Claire her cuts looked fine – not infected. We had asked if she could speak with a professional trained to deal with mental health issues and he had advised us to come back the next morning at eight o’clock. That didn’t happen.
As I parked my car and walked through the revolving doors of the ER, I prayed the outcome of this visit would be different. Claire had been through triage and was sitting in a recliner in the waiting room. She was emotionless, which is not uncommon for those in a clinical depression.
The physician on duty could see the obvious and many gashes in her arms that were slow to heal. He interrogated her for a few minutes: “How much do you sleep? Do you sleep? Do you do drugs? Do you drink alcohol? Are you on meds? Do your hear voices? Do you have a plan to kill yourself? Do you want to die? Do you hurt yourself?” The answer to the last question seemed obvious. Claire gave the expected answers in a monotone voice, avoiding eye contact. He left us alone then and it was after two o’clock in the morning before he came back. Many of the questions that were asked earlier were repeated.
Claire answered in the same flat way but the doctor said it wasn’t worth waking the psychiatric resident that was on duty who was at the moment catching some sleep (Residents tend to work 24 to 48 hour shifts and sleep at the hospital whenever they can). The physician advised Claire to go back home and that he would submit a referral for her to receive a proper psychiatric appointment and assessment. He offered no other suggestions. Her mother, who had rarely entered the world of the ER, was shell shocked, but for me the response was one I knew all too well.
Mental illness affects one in five Canadians at some point during their lifetime. Depression is far more common than one might think and chances are that someone around you is suffering from depression. Most people who suffer from mental illness do not make it public knowledge. Let’s face it, no one wants to admit to being, or having been, clinically depressed – the stigma attached to the word depression is enough in itself to keep one quiet and holding their experiences inside.
I know the stigma of depression and the lack of resources for mental illness in my province. I was first diagnosed as a teenager with clinical depression in 1998 and went through many ups and downs, in and out of clinical depression for several years.
Like Claire, my depression took me to the ER at the local hospital. In fact, I visited the ER for depression on several occasions. Each time I went, I was faced with the frustration that encompasses most mental health resources in our province. The rough questioning from insensitive doctors and nurses, the same questions asked over and over again by the same professional and my favourite - the confused face of that professional who tried to figure out how an intelligent university student could possibly be depressed and suicidal. I would leave the ER in more desperation than when I walked in.
Last year, when I really hit bottom, I had no choice but to go back and this time with my therapist, Shirley, for support. It was at nine o’clock on a Monday morning. We were quickly sent down to the area in the ER where mental health services are and I was separated from Shirley for questioning, even though I requested several times that I wanted her in the room.
The psychiatric nurse, Margaret, that I met with first was condescending, abrasive and insensitive and I burst into tears, which was very uncharacteristic of me and Margaret showed no compassion. I was treated as though my distress and feelings were of no concern. This wasn’t surprising, as I’ve encountered many professionals in this field who have absolutely no bedside manner, but those who have tried to seek care for a mental illness will understand when I say that there are a lot of Margarets who turn into one brick wall after the other.
I was admitted to the mental health lock down unit only after Shirley practically begged for a proper assessment and when I was seen by several more professionals in an uncomfortable setting where very personal questions were being asked while we were constantly interrupted by phone calls, knocks on the door and other people walking through our conversations. I wondered if I had arrived at the ER with other health issues like a broken arm or heart problems, if my circumstances would have been given more discretion and sensitivity. I’m confident that a patient with diabetes wouldn’t have to undergo the process I did to prove that they needed help.
Walking from the ER to the psych unit – the building that houses mental health in-patient services in my city – I felt a little bit like a mouse in a maze, trying to find the cheese, except I wasn’t looking for cheese. I was looking for the help I needed to heal my pain and depression. We followed the blue and orange footprints that showed the way through miles of corridors. We turned right, then right again, another right, then a left and then we stopped at the elevator. A security guard accompanied us on the journey and pressed the up button. As we waited for the elevator he complimented my therapist’s choice of brown pants with a pink shirt, as if he was a security guard by day and fashion critic by night. Despite the depression and hopelessness that I was feeling, I was still able to make witty observations.
Once we arrived on the 7th floor, we walked into the lock down unit (LDU). It was enough to make anyone want to run down the stairs to the exit on Memorial Street. That was impossible, though. This was a LDU – you can get in, but you can’t easily get out.
As soon as the doors closed, my nose was filled with the nauseating hospital smell and my ears with the screaming of a lady who was locked in a room, yelling words that I couldn’t make sense of. Shirley, on her first visit to the LDU looked around and said, “This can’t be it.” I said nothing. For once my usual wit and humour failed me. All of my experiences in the land of the ER could not prepare me for this. The lock-down unit was a whole new level of hell.
The floor was half filled with hard rubber-covered beds that were hidden behind flimsy pink and off-white curtains. Also behind these curtains that allowed for zero privacy was a small cabinet and a window – which, of course, was nailed shut. The other half of the floor was filled with patient rooms that housed up to five beds per room and some rooms where a patient could be locked in alone.
A nurse searched my bag and I was shown which curtain I would be living behind for the next few days. I was so overwhelmed and sat on my bed and cried. Shirley sat by my side, taking everything in but was feeling obviously hopeless too. Here I was, wanting help and begging for help, but I felt like I had done something terribly wrong, escorted by a security guard, being in a locked unit, on a bed that felt like a cement block and surrounded by noise, chaos and absolutely no privacy. I had voluntarily checked myself in. Shirley left after the nurse told her I’d meet with a treatment team the next day.
I encountered the head psychiatric nurse, Sue, at seven o’clock the next morning. I smelled her before I saw her; she must have bathed in Oscar de la Renta. She yanked back my sorry excuse for a door and with a smile on her face she said, “Good morning! Time to get up and eat breakfast – c’mon now!” This became a morning ritual that made me dislike her even more.
I did meet with my treatment team my second day in the LDU. The “team” consisted of seven professionals that asked a lot of questions, but gave little advice and suggestions. During my three days in the LDU, I spent approximately 45 minutes in total with this team who seemed to be thrown by my circumstances. After all, I was an intelligent 26 year old who could function enough to shower, talk and suggest what treatment I felt I needed.
I spent a considerable amount of time in the LDU watching television and chatting with an intelligent and gentle older lady with a sense of humour that kept me laughing. Alice immediately gave me the basic rules of how things ran in the unit and mentioned that she’d be very willing to take any extra milk that came on my food trays. She told me that she was in for insomnia troubles, but by the way she snored every night, I guessed she was probably just lonely and had nowhere else to go. Alice also admitted that only one of her friends knew that she was in the LDU. She said that she would be telling the rest of her friends and her landlord that she had been on a trip and that it was none of their business anyway.
The LDU presented little in the way of emotional care. There wasn’t any music, the woman who had been yelling the day I was admitted was still bellowing and patients with major psychiatric illnesses would walk in circles around the ward, pushing you out of their path if you were to step in it and grabbing your personal items if they were able to reach them.
After three days in the LDU, my parents and therapist knew that being in that environment was making matters worse – the team gave me a referral to an out-patient support group - and I was allowed to sign myself out and went home. Four months later I was called to join the group every Tuesday at the hospital that housed the LDU. My new “team” spent very little time directly with me and dismissed my suggestions about what treatment I felt I needed and wanted. After spending eight weeks with this group, I decided to leave because it felt so useless. My central reason for leaving the group was because one of the professionals kept falling asleep during group time and this was a regular occurrence. Weeks after I left, my family physician received a letter from the clinic that suggested several diagnosis about me, but no mention about the fact that the psychiatrist in the clinic had never met with me alone and of course, it wasn’t mentioned that one member of the team took regular naps in group.
It was at this point that I realized if I were to win my battle with depression, I wouldn’t be able to depend on the minimal resources offered in my city. I would have to support myself with the continuing guidance of Shirley and care from my family and friends who loved me.
Not everyone can do it on their own.
Every year in Canada, over 3500 people kill themselves. In 2001, 3,692 people committed suicide. Doug and Martha Barry’s son, Derek, 24, was one of the people who took their lives during this year. The Barrys, who live in City, Province, never viewed Derek as a depressed person, although he had mentioned in passing during a particularly rough time that he had thought of jumping off a bridge into the river. Derek held the pain inside, not letting it out until his suicide note when it was too late to get him help. The Barrys were devastated – Derek was their only child.
Two years after Derek died, the Barrys used their courage and experience to begin The Derek Project – Suicide Awareness as a way to remember their son and educate the public and professionals about suicide. Martha says, “Derek’s death may help someone else’s child find a way back from that deep dark hole that people go to when they believe there is no way out.” She believes that suicide is not a selfish act, but one of desperation. “People who commit suicide believe that those they leave behind will be better off without them. They are wrong. Our lives are changed forever.” The Barrys do not want Derek’s death to be in vain.
In September of 2005, the city news media reported that a young man had attempted to seek treatment at the local emergency room multiple times after being taken from the local Bridge, threatening to jump off. This man was released from the hospital each time and immediately went back to the bridge where he did end up taking his life.
After our frustration with the mental health system, Claire and I contacted a local news station and agreed to do an on-camera interview, in response to this man’s death and our experiences at the hospital. Unfortunately, after this man’s father decided to not speak on camera, the station decided not to air our interview. We both assumed that two live people with such experiences at the ER weren’t as dramatic as two live people with these issues and one person who committed suicide.
Dr. Scott, a general practitioner in City recently spoke with The Medical Post about mental health care in Canada and agrees that the long waits for psychiatric care in the province can be frustrating and says, “It’s very bad; it’s difficult to get a patient assessed here. I think everybody is doing some psychotherapy. We end up looking after patients who need the help of a psychiatrist. It would be better if we could even just consult with someone to check if we have the right diagnosis and see that we are on track with treatment.”
The resources for mental illness in this province are pathetic. It is unacceptable that anyone should have to deal with professionals like Claire and I encountered at the hospital. It’s intolerable that Claire should have to “come back the next day, because the resident psychiatrist is resting”. I believe that some professionals do care, but are simply untrained about mental illness and do not understand the urgent need for assistance when people are in crisis. The changes that could be made are really quite simple. More support in the ER, perhaps volunteers who have dealt with depression themselves. Having properly trained physicians and nurses with a sensitive and compassionate bedside manner would be a great start.
The physician that saw Claire that July night in 2005 said that it wasn’t worth waking the psychiatric resident that was on duty. He advised for Claire to go back home and that he would submit a referral for her to receive a proper psychiatric appointment and assessment. He offered no other suggestions.
Almost a year later, Claire has never heard back regarding the psychiatric referral that was supposedly submitted by the ER physician on that foggy summer’s night.
Claire started cutting again last week.
It was after midnight on a foggy summer’s night in July 2005, when I got the call. She was crying on the other end and handed the phone to her mother. “We’re taking her to the hospital,” her mother said with obvious panic in her voice, “she’s been cutting herself again.”
I immediately slipped out of my comfy pyjamas, threw on some jeans, grabbed my purse and hopped in my car. As I drove to the main local hospital, I kept returning in my mind to all the other times I had walked through the ER doors to ask for help – for myself or for someone close to me.
Claire is 23 years old and one of my closest friends. She has struggled with depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts and self-harm since her junior high school years.
Just weeks earlier, I had convinced Claire to seek medical attention for her cutting and suicidal thoughts at the ER. The physician at the time had told Claire her cuts looked fine – not infected. We had asked if she could speak with a professional trained to deal with mental health issues and he had advised us to come back the next morning at eight o’clock. That didn’t happen.
As I parked my car and walked through the revolving doors of the ER, I prayed the outcome of this visit would be different. Claire had been through triage and was sitting in a recliner in the waiting room. She was emotionless, which is not uncommon for those in a clinical depression.
The physician on duty could see the obvious and many gashes in her arms that were slow to heal. He interrogated her for a few minutes: “How much do you sleep? Do you sleep? Do you do drugs? Do you drink alcohol? Are you on meds? Do your hear voices? Do you have a plan to kill yourself? Do you want to die? Do you hurt yourself?” The answer to the last question seemed obvious. Claire gave the expected answers in a monotone voice, avoiding eye contact. He left us alone then and it was after two o’clock in the morning before he came back. Many of the questions that were asked earlier were repeated.
Claire answered in the same flat way but the doctor said it wasn’t worth waking the psychiatric resident that was on duty who was at the moment catching some sleep (Residents tend to work 24 to 48 hour shifts and sleep at the hospital whenever they can). The physician advised Claire to go back home and that he would submit a referral for her to receive a proper psychiatric appointment and assessment. He offered no other suggestions. Her mother, who had rarely entered the world of the ER, was shell shocked, but for me the response was one I knew all too well.
Mental illness affects one in five Canadians at some point during their lifetime. Depression is far more common than one might think and chances are that someone around you is suffering from depression. Most people who suffer from mental illness do not make it public knowledge. Let’s face it, no one wants to admit to being, or having been, clinically depressed – the stigma attached to the word depression is enough in itself to keep one quiet and holding their experiences inside.
I know the stigma of depression and the lack of resources for mental illness in my province. I was first diagnosed as a teenager with clinical depression in 1998 and went through many ups and downs, in and out of clinical depression for several years.
Like Claire, my depression took me to the ER at the local hospital. In fact, I visited the ER for depression on several occasions. Each time I went, I was faced with the frustration that encompasses most mental health resources in our province. The rough questioning from insensitive doctors and nurses, the same questions asked over and over again by the same professional and my favourite - the confused face of that professional who tried to figure out how an intelligent university student could possibly be depressed and suicidal. I would leave the ER in more desperation than when I walked in.
Last year, when I really hit bottom, I had no choice but to go back and this time with my therapist, Shirley, for support. It was at nine o’clock on a Monday morning. We were quickly sent down to the area in the ER where mental health services are and I was separated from Shirley for questioning, even though I requested several times that I wanted her in the room.
The psychiatric nurse, Margaret, that I met with first was condescending, abrasive and insensitive and I burst into tears, which was very uncharacteristic of me and Margaret showed no compassion. I was treated as though my distress and feelings were of no concern. This wasn’t surprising, as I’ve encountered many professionals in this field who have absolutely no bedside manner, but those who have tried to seek care for a mental illness will understand when I say that there are a lot of Margarets who turn into one brick wall after the other.
I was admitted to the mental health lock down unit only after Shirley practically begged for a proper assessment and when I was seen by several more professionals in an uncomfortable setting where very personal questions were being asked while we were constantly interrupted by phone calls, knocks on the door and other people walking through our conversations. I wondered if I had arrived at the ER with other health issues like a broken arm or heart problems, if my circumstances would have been given more discretion and sensitivity. I’m confident that a patient with diabetes wouldn’t have to undergo the process I did to prove that they needed help.
Walking from the ER to the psych unit – the building that houses mental health in-patient services in my city – I felt a little bit like a mouse in a maze, trying to find the cheese, except I wasn’t looking for cheese. I was looking for the help I needed to heal my pain and depression. We followed the blue and orange footprints that showed the way through miles of corridors. We turned right, then right again, another right, then a left and then we stopped at the elevator. A security guard accompanied us on the journey and pressed the up button. As we waited for the elevator he complimented my therapist’s choice of brown pants with a pink shirt, as if he was a security guard by day and fashion critic by night. Despite the depression and hopelessness that I was feeling, I was still able to make witty observations.
Once we arrived on the 7th floor, we walked into the lock down unit (LDU). It was enough to make anyone want to run down the stairs to the exit on Memorial Street. That was impossible, though. This was a LDU – you can get in, but you can’t easily get out.
As soon as the doors closed, my nose was filled with the nauseating hospital smell and my ears with the screaming of a lady who was locked in a room, yelling words that I couldn’t make sense of. Shirley, on her first visit to the LDU looked around and said, “This can’t be it.” I said nothing. For once my usual wit and humour failed me. All of my experiences in the land of the ER could not prepare me for this. The lock-down unit was a whole new level of hell.
The floor was half filled with hard rubber-covered beds that were hidden behind flimsy pink and off-white curtains. Also behind these curtains that allowed for zero privacy was a small cabinet and a window – which, of course, was nailed shut. The other half of the floor was filled with patient rooms that housed up to five beds per room and some rooms where a patient could be locked in alone.
A nurse searched my bag and I was shown which curtain I would be living behind for the next few days. I was so overwhelmed and sat on my bed and cried. Shirley sat by my side, taking everything in but was feeling obviously hopeless too. Here I was, wanting help and begging for help, but I felt like I had done something terribly wrong, escorted by a security guard, being in a locked unit, on a bed that felt like a cement block and surrounded by noise, chaos and absolutely no privacy. I had voluntarily checked myself in. Shirley left after the nurse told her I’d meet with a treatment team the next day.
I encountered the head psychiatric nurse, Sue, at seven o’clock the next morning. I smelled her before I saw her; she must have bathed in Oscar de la Renta. She yanked back my sorry excuse for a door and with a smile on her face she said, “Good morning! Time to get up and eat breakfast – c’mon now!” This became a morning ritual that made me dislike her even more.
I did meet with my treatment team my second day in the LDU. The “team” consisted of seven professionals that asked a lot of questions, but gave little advice and suggestions. During my three days in the LDU, I spent approximately 45 minutes in total with this team who seemed to be thrown by my circumstances. After all, I was an intelligent 26 year old who could function enough to shower, talk and suggest what treatment I felt I needed.
I spent a considerable amount of time in the LDU watching television and chatting with an intelligent and gentle older lady with a sense of humour that kept me laughing. Alice immediately gave me the basic rules of how things ran in the unit and mentioned that she’d be very willing to take any extra milk that came on my food trays. She told me that she was in for insomnia troubles, but by the way she snored every night, I guessed she was probably just lonely and had nowhere else to go. Alice also admitted that only one of her friends knew that she was in the LDU. She said that she would be telling the rest of her friends and her landlord that she had been on a trip and that it was none of their business anyway.
The LDU presented little in the way of emotional care. There wasn’t any music, the woman who had been yelling the day I was admitted was still bellowing and patients with major psychiatric illnesses would walk in circles around the ward, pushing you out of their path if you were to step in it and grabbing your personal items if they were able to reach them.
After three days in the LDU, my parents and therapist knew that being in that environment was making matters worse – the team gave me a referral to an out-patient support group - and I was allowed to sign myself out and went home. Four months later I was called to join the group every Tuesday at the hospital that housed the LDU. My new “team” spent very little time directly with me and dismissed my suggestions about what treatment I felt I needed and wanted. After spending eight weeks with this group, I decided to leave because it felt so useless. My central reason for leaving the group was because one of the professionals kept falling asleep during group time and this was a regular occurrence. Weeks after I left, my family physician received a letter from the clinic that suggested several diagnosis about me, but no mention about the fact that the psychiatrist in the clinic had never met with me alone and of course, it wasn’t mentioned that one member of the team took regular naps in group.
It was at this point that I realized if I were to win my battle with depression, I wouldn’t be able to depend on the minimal resources offered in my city. I would have to support myself with the continuing guidance of Shirley and care from my family and friends who loved me.
Not everyone can do it on their own.
Every year in Canada, over 3500 people kill themselves. In 2001, 3,692 people committed suicide. Doug and Martha Barry’s son, Derek, 24, was one of the people who took their lives during this year. The Barrys, who live in City, Province, never viewed Derek as a depressed person, although he had mentioned in passing during a particularly rough time that he had thought of jumping off a bridge into the river. Derek held the pain inside, not letting it out until his suicide note when it was too late to get him help. The Barrys were devastated – Derek was their only child.
Two years after Derek died, the Barrys used their courage and experience to begin The Derek Project – Suicide Awareness as a way to remember their son and educate the public and professionals about suicide. Martha says, “Derek’s death may help someone else’s child find a way back from that deep dark hole that people go to when they believe there is no way out.” She believes that suicide is not a selfish act, but one of desperation. “People who commit suicide believe that those they leave behind will be better off without them. They are wrong. Our lives are changed forever.” The Barrys do not want Derek’s death to be in vain.
In September of 2005, the city news media reported that a young man had attempted to seek treatment at the local emergency room multiple times after being taken from the local Bridge, threatening to jump off. This man was released from the hospital each time and immediately went back to the bridge where he did end up taking his life.
After our frustration with the mental health system, Claire and I contacted a local news station and agreed to do an on-camera interview, in response to this man’s death and our experiences at the hospital. Unfortunately, after this man’s father decided to not speak on camera, the station decided not to air our interview. We both assumed that two live people with such experiences at the ER weren’t as dramatic as two live people with these issues and one person who committed suicide.
Dr. Scott, a general practitioner in City recently spoke with The Medical Post about mental health care in Canada and agrees that the long waits for psychiatric care in the province can be frustrating and says, “It’s very bad; it’s difficult to get a patient assessed here. I think everybody is doing some psychotherapy. We end up looking after patients who need the help of a psychiatrist. It would be better if we could even just consult with someone to check if we have the right diagnosis and see that we are on track with treatment.”
The resources for mental illness in this province are pathetic. It is unacceptable that anyone should have to deal with professionals like Claire and I encountered at the hospital. It’s intolerable that Claire should have to “come back the next day, because the resident psychiatrist is resting”. I believe that some professionals do care, but are simply untrained about mental illness and do not understand the urgent need for assistance when people are in crisis. The changes that could be made are really quite simple. More support in the ER, perhaps volunteers who have dealt with depression themselves. Having properly trained physicians and nurses with a sensitive and compassionate bedside manner would be a great start.
The physician that saw Claire that July night in 2005 said that it wasn’t worth waking the psychiatric resident that was on duty. He advised for Claire to go back home and that he would submit a referral for her to receive a proper psychiatric appointment and assessment. He offered no other suggestions.
Almost a year later, Claire has never heard back regarding the psychiatric referral that was supposedly submitted by the ER physician on that foggy summer’s night.
Claire started cutting again last week.
The Walk
Last September, I organized the first ever walk for World Suicide Prevention Day in our city. I did this for numerous reasons…some very personal and some not. But, what most people don’t know…is that I didn’t do it because I SO WANTED to… I did it because I felt like I had to do so. I felt something bigger than myself pulling me to do it. I can’t explain it in any other way. I take this issue personally…and if I see any opportunity to talk about suicide and suicide prevention, then I feel the responsibility to do so.
The walk was successful and supported by over 160 walkers that day, including support from the police and city. It was an amazing day.
This year, I feel the same pull. I had words with my Mom last night about this. I was talking about the walk date/event and she said, “Why are you doing that again?” I said, “Are you seriously asking me that question?”
I would need a lot of paper to put down all of the reasons why I’m doing this again. The question made me angry (and maybe it wasn’t meant to) because the answer seems incredibly obvious. If there are people dying by suicide…and families dealing with losing their loved one by suicide and people willing to talk about the issue, how could I NOT do the walk again?
I’m still pretty fired up today about it all. I get that my family isn’t very comfortable with me admitting to the fact that I was very suicidal at one point in my life. However, if someone wants to pass judgement on me because of that…then they can have at it. I’m not going to hide and I’ve worked really hard to get to where I am today. I’m going to keep telling my story…and keep sharing my friend, Emily’s story, who died by suicide in 2006…and keep encouraging others to share their own stories. I’m not shutting up. It’s the one thing I won’t shut up about.
And, I’m going to post on here an article I wrote for the local paper back in 2006, about my experience the year before. I have changed names and any identifying information (I did not initially change any details for the article that was published, but am doing so on here for privacy reasons).
The walk was successful and supported by over 160 walkers that day, including support from the police and city. It was an amazing day.
This year, I feel the same pull. I had words with my Mom last night about this. I was talking about the walk date/event and she said, “Why are you doing that again?” I said, “Are you seriously asking me that question?”
I would need a lot of paper to put down all of the reasons why I’m doing this again. The question made me angry (and maybe it wasn’t meant to) because the answer seems incredibly obvious. If there are people dying by suicide…and families dealing with losing their loved one by suicide and people willing to talk about the issue, how could I NOT do the walk again?
I’m still pretty fired up today about it all. I get that my family isn’t very comfortable with me admitting to the fact that I was very suicidal at one point in my life. However, if someone wants to pass judgement on me because of that…then they can have at it. I’m not going to hide and I’ve worked really hard to get to where I am today. I’m going to keep telling my story…and keep sharing my friend, Emily’s story, who died by suicide in 2006…and keep encouraging others to share their own stories. I’m not shutting up. It’s the one thing I won’t shut up about.
And, I’m going to post on here an article I wrote for the local paper back in 2006, about my experience the year before. I have changed names and any identifying information (I did not initially change any details for the article that was published, but am doing so on here for privacy reasons).
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Work & Stuff
Tonight is the last night for the run of the show…and I’m happy. It’s been a great show this year and our audiences have been amazing – but I am tired. I’ve been working 21 days straight now…for about 16 hours a day or more. I’m ready for a break.
I love my job. I love the show. I work for the best production in the entire world. I love the people I work with. However, it’s been a weird/stressful time. I’ve had my patience really tested by certain people and have felt a bit bullied/targeted at times. With one person (ultimately my boss), it was almost as if I couldn’t do anything right. If I made a mistake (which I didn’t, really…I’ve done my job well) it was like it erased everything I DID do. It’s odd.
I think that ultimately, it’s my decision how I let words from others affect how I feel about myself. This is a lesson for me. I do have a choice in the matter. I’ve never been one to really give a rat’s @ss what anyone thinks of me. I’ve always been fairly confident and secure in being who I am and telling it like it is. But, I’m not immune to second guessing myself and doubting my abilities. I’m human. I have doubted myself these past 21 days. I’ve thought about looking for a new job. I’ve even cried (which is a mixture of stress, lack of sleep and chaos that goes with this production). It has all made me think about my path in life and where I’m going and where I want to go.
I am excited to have some more ‘me’ time coming up. I have a list of books I want to read before the summer is over. They include: Eat, Pray, Love; The Five People You Meet in Heaven; Water for Elephants; Sheer Abandon and Chasing Daylight. I have all in hand except for the last one. I love a great book. It’s like stepping out of your life and into someone else’s for a moment. If you’re a big reader, I suggest you add the following books to your reading list: The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb and Fruit by Brian Francis.
I saw Sally on Saturday briefly…I gave her some tickets to the show for her and her boys. We were going to hang for a few tonight, but something else came up…which is kinda good…’cuz I want to watch most of the show tonight if I can.
Anyhoo...we're going to do something 'fun' in a couple of weeks...perhaps go and hang at the beach or something. I'm very excited.
I love my job. I love the show. I work for the best production in the entire world. I love the people I work with. However, it’s been a weird/stressful time. I’ve had my patience really tested by certain people and have felt a bit bullied/targeted at times. With one person (ultimately my boss), it was almost as if I couldn’t do anything right. If I made a mistake (which I didn’t, really…I’ve done my job well) it was like it erased everything I DID do. It’s odd.
I think that ultimately, it’s my decision how I let words from others affect how I feel about myself. This is a lesson for me. I do have a choice in the matter. I’ve never been one to really give a rat’s @ss what anyone thinks of me. I’ve always been fairly confident and secure in being who I am and telling it like it is. But, I’m not immune to second guessing myself and doubting my abilities. I’m human. I have doubted myself these past 21 days. I’ve thought about looking for a new job. I’ve even cried (which is a mixture of stress, lack of sleep and chaos that goes with this production). It has all made me think about my path in life and where I’m going and where I want to go.
I am excited to have some more ‘me’ time coming up. I have a list of books I want to read before the summer is over. They include: Eat, Pray, Love; The Five People You Meet in Heaven; Water for Elephants; Sheer Abandon and Chasing Daylight. I have all in hand except for the last one. I love a great book. It’s like stepping out of your life and into someone else’s for a moment. If you’re a big reader, I suggest you add the following books to your reading list: The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb and Fruit by Brian Francis.
I saw Sally on Saturday briefly…I gave her some tickets to the show for her and her boys. We were going to hang for a few tonight, but something else came up…which is kinda good…’cuz I want to watch most of the show tonight if I can.
Anyhoo...we're going to do something 'fun' in a couple of weeks...perhaps go and hang at the beach or something. I'm very excited.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Being fearless...
Ok, so if you're unfamiliar with Rhonda Britten and the Fearless Living Institute (her blog is linked on the right side of this page), you have to check it out. I'd suggest you pick up her first book called Fearless Living, because it's amazing. I'd also recommend her other books, too! The website for the FLI is below.
Anyhoo, they send out Fearless Tips and I've been reading the following one a lot lately...it just feels like it's part of what I'm trying to do. It's from Rhonda's book called Fearless Loving. It reads:
When you forgive, you do it not for the other person but for yourself. The act of forgiveness allows you to make peace with the people or situation that has been tormenting you. It comes down to a willingness to get over what you think should have happened and accept the reality of the present moment.
Anyhoo, they send out Fearless Tips and I've been reading the following one a lot lately...it just feels like it's part of what I'm trying to do. It's from Rhonda's book called Fearless Loving. It reads:
When you forgive, you do it not for the other person but for yourself. The act of forgiveness allows you to make peace with the people or situation that has been tormenting you. It comes down to a willingness to get over what you think should have happened and accept the reality of the present moment.
I know I need to make peace with my adoption situation...and I think specifically with myself. I need to forgive M. I need to forgive my birthfather...and I think I even need to forgive myself.
I'm trying to be willing to 'get over' the way things have played out...because I know and admit that I wish it had all played out differently. I wish my birthfather wasn't an alcoholic drug addict. I wish M had wanted to keep me more (even though I'm grateful I am adopted) and had pushed for me more. I wish for a lot of things that didn't happen...and that WON'T happen.
I know I have to get over what is not reality. I need to accept the present reality...and when I can do that, then I really think I'll be able to forgive and move on. It's just really difficult. But, I'm more aware of this, so I feel like I'm making ground.
Visit Fearless Living at www.fearlessliving.org
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Say What?
Rosie O'Donnell has a section on her Blog (www.rosie.com) called 'Say What?' Basically she asks a question, her blogger friends submit answers, and she posts some of them. Her latest question was: What happens after death? I found some of the bloggers answers interesting and insightful...so here are some of the answers to the question of - What happens after death?
LeeAnn Writes:
We shed our heavy skins, step out in our real bodies and think "what a long, strange trip it's been".
Missy Writes:
Absolutely nothing. That is the end.
Lucy Writes:
We finally see ourselves as GOD sees us: as loved and worthy and cherised and welcomed! And we get to finish/have all the conversations we never got to on earth. No more sorrow, pain.
Peggy Writes:
we return to the Source. No differences no religion no right no wrong, only awareness. same same same
Pam Writes:
I truly hope I am reunited with loved ones and there is a Rainbow Bridge so I can see my 2 little dogs again..and there is eternal peace...TRUE YELLOW...Nice thought !!
joan Writes:
everyone you've ever known who has died comes to get you and escorts you to heaven
angela Writes:
I don't believe in life after death.
Mary Everts Writes:
Life begins
What do I believe? I don't know. I know what I'd like to believe in...but I'm not completely solid in that belief.
I enjoy Lucy's response and Joan's.
LeeAnn Writes:
We shed our heavy skins, step out in our real bodies and think "what a long, strange trip it's been".
Missy Writes:
Absolutely nothing. That is the end.
Lucy Writes:
We finally see ourselves as GOD sees us: as loved and worthy and cherised and welcomed! And we get to finish/have all the conversations we never got to on earth. No more sorrow, pain.
Peggy Writes:
we return to the Source. No differences no religion no right no wrong, only awareness. same same same
Pam Writes:
I truly hope I am reunited with loved ones and there is a Rainbow Bridge so I can see my 2 little dogs again..and there is eternal peace...TRUE YELLOW...Nice thought !!
joan Writes:
everyone you've ever known who has died comes to get you and escorts you to heaven
angela Writes:
I don't believe in life after death.
Mary Everts Writes:
Life begins
What do I believe? I don't know. I know what I'd like to believe in...but I'm not completely solid in that belief.
I enjoy Lucy's response and Joan's.
Quick Update
I’m feeling a bit brighter the past few days. Work is still crazy busy and I’m exhausted from working very long hours, but the countdown is on and there’s only about seven more sleeps until my life starts to go back to normal. I have about nine bruises on my legs/knees from bumping into things in the dark at work…but that’s fairly normal at this time of the year.
I did go to church with Sally on Sunday and it was really powerful, overwhelming and nice. The service at this particular church wasn’t that far off from my own, although it was much louder, more vocal and on a higher level than I’m used to. I was pretty quiet (normally I’m pretty talkative) before, during and after, just taking it in and feeling it out. I did LOVE the music – they were totally rocking out, which I enjoyed…since music has always basically been my life.
The day before I met M, I was visiting Sally in her office and she lent me her really pretty silver cross so I could have ‘her’ with me. I was really touched, on many levels. And I wore it everyday since she put it on me.
When we met at the church on Sunday, I noticed she had a bigger silver cross on…but that was it…it just kinda passed through my mind and I thought it was pretty. After the service she said we were going to trade and she took off her cross and put it on me and vice versa. Then she said that this one I could keep. I love it (and her).
I found it really difficult to leave Sally on Sunday. It was a weird feeling…I almost felt a bit clingy, which is not normally my thing. She just really touches my heart.
I have not heard back from M, yet.
I did go to church with Sally on Sunday and it was really powerful, overwhelming and nice. The service at this particular church wasn’t that far off from my own, although it was much louder, more vocal and on a higher level than I’m used to. I was pretty quiet (normally I’m pretty talkative) before, during and after, just taking it in and feeling it out. I did LOVE the music – they were totally rocking out, which I enjoyed…since music has always basically been my life.
The day before I met M, I was visiting Sally in her office and she lent me her really pretty silver cross so I could have ‘her’ with me. I was really touched, on many levels. And I wore it everyday since she put it on me.
When we met at the church on Sunday, I noticed she had a bigger silver cross on…but that was it…it just kinda passed through my mind and I thought it was pretty. After the service she said we were going to trade and she took off her cross and put it on me and vice versa. Then she said that this one I could keep. I love it (and her).
I found it really difficult to leave Sally on Sunday. It was a weird feeling…I almost felt a bit clingy, which is not normally my thing. She just really touches my heart.
I have not heard back from M, yet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
