intentions, illusions and integration

nine years.
nine years of holding memory as if it is the only thing connecting us.
nine years of worrying memories one after another like beads
this year i am trying something different
this year i am trying to make something out of this month, this day
this year i am trying to allow myself to heal in some of the places i have not even dared acknowledge
this year i am trying to create a space for movement

i have no illusions about closure
but i have illusions about possibility, and the possibility of transformation
i cannot make this not have happened
i cannot un-lose you
but i can choose to remember differently
instead of thinking first of all of the things that cause me pain, i can try like hell to get myself out of that loop and think of something else, something that is not about you or me, but instead about a moment when we laughed until we cried, a surprise for both of us, something somehow outside of us that connected us more deeply than so many scripted moments

i can try like hell just to love you, to send love to you over all these miles and days
to send the pure light of love to you
but this time, instead of wishing and wanting that love to somehow heal you
this time, i will try to be open to the possibility that the very fact of that love may begin to heal those places that are still so raw and filled with disbelief, that are still so raw with regret, still so heavy with responsibility and powerlessness

today marks the 9th anniversary of your last full evening alive.
and maybe, it marks the moment when i finally decide that it is time to welcome home some of the fearful and wounded parts of myself, held so carefully and so closely and so secretly for such a long long time.

admitting there is still so much healing to do is daunting and makes me feel small and vulnerable.
but admitting that there is still so much healing to do is freeing too.
it is hard to keep such a big secret. it takes effort, even if that effort is one i hardly notice for what it is anymore. i know i trip myself up with it over and over and over again, disguised maybe as fear of failure. fear of making mistakes. fear of connecting. fear of hope.

so today, i will try to open my heart to the wounded parts of myself. those i have been shoving down and ignoring with such fervor, with such an intense desire to make them just go away. all of those pieces i have wished were no longer broken, but are. those that are still filled with shame. those that are filled with regret.

mosaic

if you are here because you have lost someone to suicide,
i want to say this:
you are not alone.

processing this, surviving this, happens one breath at a time.

at first you will not mark time, you will be trying to breathe
your body shuts down
you need to go into self protective mode, and your body takes care of that with shock that wears off very slowly
soon you may find you mark the time, most literally, looking at the clock each day thinking "now, now is when" and your heart will be bruised and broken with the thought
and then, it will be days-- one day since, two days since,  three days since...
and then it will be a week, and every sunday you will think of them
and then it will turn to months, where every 11th comes with grief laden anticipation
and then, somehow, a year will pass, and you will not believe it could be possible

i want to say this about grief:
grief stays more raw than you will like, but the waves will come less frequently... over time you will feel this. but it stays close, and things will trigger you when you least expect it.
it is very hard to be out in the world, feeling so broken, and looking, well, astonishingly normal.  it is impossible to imagine you can look normal, that you can act normal, that you can, for all intents and purposes, be normal for stretches of time.
tears will come when they are least welcome.  look up at the ceiling with your eyes only, breathe out forcefully, using your belly, if your mind is playing horrible video tapes, right outloud stay Stop.... i lived through whole days that way, eyes turned upwards, blinking fast, blowing breath, saying Stop.

i want to say this about surviving:
we are stronger than we could ever imagine.
a loved one's suicide is not something simple. it goes against everything we know to be true in ourselves (the absolute ground truth of wanting to do anything possible to ensure our own survival), and it shakes our confidence. what if we're not as strong as we thought?
we are. we're stronger even. we are more resilient than we can believe.  your job, now, is survival.  understanding may not ever come. acceptance is intermittent.   yes, this is our truth... but it is not the whole truth.
remember every day that the good memories are real.  that the good parts of your days now are real.  that the good feelings we have are real.  that all of this complex mosaic is our truth.  the shit and the bliss.

hold yourself gently and with deep compassion. return to this self-compassion as often as you can.
ask for help. ask again.
breathe, blink, blow breath, and know that you are not alone.

3159

jeff was born on 3-1-59.
i only saw a few baby photos, but those big brown eyes, so direct, so intense even then.
i cannot help but to think of that innocence, that beginning, that moment when he arrived out here in the world. i cannot help but think of all of the paths his life could have taken. all of that talent. all of that intellect. all of that intensity. all of that idealism. all that passion.

i never could know who he had been, and never could know, truly, his path, his struggles, his brokenness.

once he died, i questioned whether i ever even knew him at all. it was a struggle to come to grips with the difference between this immense capability and all of the good i saw and the deep pain that he felt, just being in the world.

i realize now that i knew parts of him. some great parts. some devastating. some devastated. some so great: we laughed until we cried over an article in scientific american. some so romantic. some so focused. some so wonderful. and so much broken.

jeff would have turned 53 today.

dreams

you come to me in dreams
after years and years of absence
i see the side of your face as you turn away, your profile as familiar as my skin
and i reach out sometimes
but i am always too late, you always go
and i wake wondering what would have happened if only you'd stayed.