Archives for category: loss

What Grief Giveth & What Grief Taketh Away…

December 30, 2015 //

So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love. (E.A. Bucchianeri)

Dear Grief,

As 2016 approaches, it is hard not to reflect upon this eight months we have spent together. You, my constant companion since my father’s suicide. Some days you lay dormant, content to give me room to breathe, to laugh, to celebrate and to be reminded of my capacity to live, truly live. Other days, you are feisty and disruptive, unwilling to be ignored or pushed aside. You demand that I tend to you, turn to you, pay attention to you and feel you in all of your fury, in all of your sadness. If I were to choose, surely I would choose the former version of you, but it seems that you are the narrator of our story, it is you who often sets the scene, the tone of our days.

Grief, at times I am reminded of what you have cost me. The person that I was before you came crashing into my world, I don’t recognize her anymore. Yes eight months later, I get periodic glimpses of my former self, reminders that the best parts of me still remain, hidden among the wreckage. I still have the ability to love fully and wholly. I still remain a person of compassion & kindness. In truth Grief, those parts of me are perhaps even more heightened than they were before. I know suffering. I know hurt. I know sadness. I know helplessness. I know you Grief. And through my knowing, I feel a kinship to those around me who have come to know all of these things too. Perhaps that is the light that seeps through the broken parts of me, shining through the cracks, warming my wounded soul. Perhaps that is what you have given me.

And then there are the friends, not all to be sure, but some. Those who have quietly drifted away. I understand it, I do. Traveling through each day with you is hard enough for me. So it makes sense that for some, sharing in this journey, day in and day out, would simply prove to be too much. How strange it must be to look at me, looking the same on the outside as I did before; and yet to continuously meet this whole other person. It is almost like watching a friend become a stranger. At least that is what I imagine it is like. It makes sense to push for the old me to return, to move on, to simply get over this traumatic loss. If I could snap my fingers and make it so, I would. But I can’t. Life goes on; shiva ends, shloshim ends, and slowly but surely, the texts, the check ins, the words of support lessen and so begins the divide. Not simply with the me I was before, but the friend I was.. the friends I had. I’m not angry. It’s no one’s fault. But it does make me sad. Because loss seems at times to unwittingly open the door for more loss, goodbyes of one kind, lead to goodbyes of another. That is what you do at times Grief. It is the cost of knowing you so intimately.

And yet as the ground shifted beneath my feet, the tsunami of my father’s death so closely followed by a move across the country, something deeply beautiful happened. In this new place, in this new home, in this community of strangers, I found acceptance. I encountered new friends willing to step into the muck & mud, the messiness that you Grief brought into my life. With open arms and hearts full of compassion, they embraced me in all of my brokenness and have accompanied me on this long, arduous, complex journey of loss and healing. They met me where I was at, when you brought me to my knees, and they have loved me, nurtured me and allowed me to trust in them. And even more, there are those who once were on the periphery of my world, perhaps living in the same place, but traveling in different circles, or strangers whom I had never met at all. And through this place we call social media, our lives began to intersect in a more intimate and personal way. Friendships were forged across computer screens, strengthened by common experiences, loss and struggles. My pain, honesty and compassion touching them. Their pain, honesty and compassion touching me in return. That is a lesson you have taught me Grief, to use my suffering, my pain, as a bridge. And I am grateful to the friends of old who have walked across it, and the new friends who bravely stepped onto it.

Oh Grief. If I could wake up tomorrow and outrun you, I think that I would. But I know that instead, I will have to walk with you for some time to come. In truth, I believe that you will always be a part of me, etched into my heart, imprinted upon my soul. But in time I know you will fade into the background, that each step that I take will not share a footprint with you. In time it will happen.

You have made me a different person Grief. I am a different wife, a different mother, a different daughter & a different friend. There are many days that I lament that fact. I don’t want my children to look back and say that their grandpa died and took the best of their mother with him. But I do hope that they have gained a better understanding of what it is to love and to lose. I hope Grief that I’ve taught them not to fear you or run from you, but instead to feel you, to honor you and to journey with you towards healing and wholeness. I hope that my husband won’t tire of carrying me when you leave me feeling weak, or picking me up, when you cause me to crumble. I hope he’ll keep reaching for my hand, pulling me ever upward, walking every step forward and backward with me. I hope that in the end, who we are as a couple will be strengthened by the time that we shared in your presence.

Grief, you took so much from me. Soon the ball will drop and the year of 2015 will draw to an end. The very last year that I shared with my father in life will be a thing of the past. Yes part of me wants to wish that year away and never look back at all that you cost me, all that I’ve lost. But to do that would be to lose sight of the gifts that you have given me as well.

And so I approach this New Year with ambivalence. The bitter and the sweet converge. I do not have resolutions to offer, only prayers. Ironic since it seems that you Grief have made even that hard to grasp on to, at a time when I need it the most. And yet…

In this new year, I pray for continued healing so that I can look backward with fondness and forward with hope. I pray that some of the pain will be left behind, making more room for joy and laughter. I pray that the love that I lost will remind me to savor & cherish the love that still remains and the new love that I have found. I pray that I will come to remember my father in life and images of his death will no longer haunt me. I pray for his peace, as well as my own. And I pray that I can learn from the time that I have spent with you Grief. You have taught me some of the hardest and most painful lessons a human being can learn. I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t want them. But you offered them nonetheless. I pray that I can carry them with me, in this new version of self that I must now create. Grief you have both shattered and shaped me. You have weakened and empowered me. You change, as I change. We are bound together not only by death and loss, but a greater and deeper appreciation for life. You giveth and you taketh away. You are the reminder & the price that I pay for having loved & been loved. How can I possibly wish all of that away?

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, loss, mental health, Reflections

How do I talk to you God?

December 18, 2015 //

Dear God,

It’s almost eight months since my father’s suicide. Eight long months of stumbling through the grief, every agonizing stage of it. And I’m tired, the kind of tired you feel deep in your bones. Perhaps weary is the better word. I don’t know. Does it matter?

It’s Shabbat. But you already know that don’t you? My husband is leading services, our daughters are with him at schul. Me? I’m home, again. Eight months later God, I don’t know how to talk to you. And it feels like the anger that I feel has put such a barrier between us.

I know that you couldn’t have stopped him. Well, part of me knows that. You are not the all powerful and intervening God that is reflected in the liturgy. And yet, why not a bolt of thunder that would have shaken him out of that dark and awful place that he was in? A loud crash that would have opened his eyes to all he had left to live for. I know, it’s not what you do. But it doesn’t stop me from being angry. It doesn’t stop me from wishing it were so. But it’s futile.

God, don’t get me wrong. I still believe in you. I still want to feel and know you. But talking to you was once so easy. And now… it’s not. I don’t know what to say that I haven’t said a million times before. I stand in synagogue and still, eight months later, I cry when I pray the Shema, I cry as I sing Mi Shebeirach, and oh how the tears still flow when I recite the Mourner’s Kaddish. And then there’s the rest of it.. all of that liturgy that speaks to you as the intervening God, I can’t believe in. I try to tune it out, because I can’t recite such words. How can I affirm something that would feed into the notion that you could have acted to save my father, but you didn’t. But even as I turn inward, the words reverberate as they are recited around me. Words carried on the prayers of my community, voices in unison speaking to you. Communal prayer used to bring me comfort. It made me feel a part of something, something bigger than myself. It connected me to my people, my traditions, the very roots of my faith. But now, now I feel like an outsider looking in. Words I cannot utter surround me. And nothing that I feel or face is reflected in them.

And when I turn inward, what do I ask for? Strength, comfort, a renewed sense of faith, of belief, of wholeness. I pray for healing. And I work so damn hard to achieve all of it. I am putting all that I have into facing this loss head on. But I long to feel you accompanying me on this path, this arduous, difficult, long and winding road called grief. Why can’t I feel you? Why do I feel so alone in your presence? And how do I find my way back to you?

It once was so easy for me to talk to you God. But standing in your house, your sacred space, the sanctuary where that eternal flame is meant to remind me of your ongoing presence and light, I feel like a stranger in a strange land. And it’s lonely. It leaves me sad and lonely. So it feels easier to stay at home, to not be reminded of how estranged I feel from you. Is that a cop out? I don’t know. Perhaps.

It seems that no matter the gender neutral language we have adapted over the years, somehow that childhood image of you, God, as a comforting, fatherly, paternal presence remains somewhere within me. Only, it doesn’t bring me comfort right now. I lived through a long and painful estrangement with my own father. And now, I feel it again, with you. Loss upon loss, layer after layer it all seems to collide. And my soul is simply overwhelmed.

God, I really do pray that, just as I did with my father, I will find room to forgive you. I don’t know, maybe right now I just need to hold some entity accountable for such a senseless & meaningless loss. And you God, have unwittingly assumed that role. It might be unfair. But isn’t this whole damn mess?

For right now God, I don’t have the strength and wherewithal to figure out how to stand in that sanctuary, surrounded by community and not feel alone. How to pray from the heart without feeling the liturgy piercing me with some false sense of your all mighty power. I’m too worn down to be reminded in such a stark way, of what once came to me so easily, but is now so very hard. My faith is shaken and there is an abyss that divides us. I want to cross it God, I want to reach you again. But I’m just too angry right now, too hurt, too devastated by the chaos that was left behind when my father left us and came to you. I’m sorry.

I hope you won’t give up on me. I know you won’t. And I won’t give up on you. But I need to find some more healing. And sometimes it is simply kinder to myself not to have to grapple with faith, after I’ve grappled all week with the work that grief, traumatic grief, entails. For right now that is the sense of shalom, of peace, that I need on the Sabbath. My own quiet way of marking another week, another day, another first, another step forward or back. I just want to sit in peace, rest my eyes and try to let go of all of it, for just a little while.

So, the candles will be lit. The blessings will be said. The Sabbath table will still be a place where we honor you as a family. Where I honor you, in my home, in my way… for now. And when I’m ready, I trust the door will always be open, in your sacred space. And we will find a new normal, you and me. Until then, take care of my Dad. His soul is in your care now. And I suppose, in some manner of speaking God, so is mine. Handle it with compassion, nurture it. It is the compass that will help me turn toward you once again.So we can begin anew…

Deborah

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, loss, Nourishing Self

Chutes and Ladders ~ Light and Forgiveness ~ And a Chanukah Candle

December 11, 2015 //

Forgiveness is the final form of love.
― Reinhold Niebuhr

Dear Dad,

Soon it’ll be eight months since we lost you. Eight months since I heard your voice. Eight months since I heard you say, “I love you.”

I miss you Dad.

Grieving your loss, your suicide, has been hard. It’s a complicated journey, not at all linear like those stages of grief would have you believe. Leora gave a great analogy of the grieving process. It’s like the game Chutes and Ladders. Every day, you get up out of bed, you roll the dice and you move along the game board. Square by square, step by step you move ever so slowly ahead. Sometimes you land on a ladder and you get to advance even faster, headed towards the finish line. But just as easily, you can land on a chute, and find yourself sliding backward, and starting all over again. And so it is with grief. One step forward, two steps back. The times when the ladder allows you to move days, even weeks, through the loss with pain that is less palpable and ever present. Those are the days that remind you that joy, happiness, even a sense of peace, are possible. They tell you healing is happening. And then there are the days when triggers abound; holidays, remembrances, a television show, a book, something that opens the gate and allows the sadness, the pain, the loss, the missing… to find it’s way back onto center stage. Yes, I do believe that Leora got it right. Chutes and Ladders is the perfect analogy to the grieving process.

Dad, I’ve been angry at you for a while. It didn’t happen right away. Those early days, weeks and months were simply filled with shock, sadness, guilt and a tragic sense of disbelief. But somewhere along the way, I got angry. Suicide, if I’m being honest, feels like a choice sometimes. No, I wouldn’t dare allow someone who is not a survivor of suicide loss to say such a thing. But, as the survivors, the ones left behind, it feels like abandonment. We can say it, because we are living it. I’m the daughter, and you’re the dad. And dads aren’t supposed to just leave their children.

I’ve railed at you, yelled and screamed at the top of my lungs, until my voice was gone. I’ve pounded on and hit things until my knuckles were bloody and my fingers were swollen. I’ve thrown and shattered things. None of these are constructive acts, but sometimes anger simply wants, needs, to get out. And always, when I’m done, there is some relief, there is exhaustion and there is sadness.

But I don’t want to be angry at you anymore Dad. You must have been in such unimaginable pain to do what you did. Mom said something that truly resonated with me. When she stands at your grave, even if she is angry, she realizes that of all of us, no matter how hard our journey, it was you who got the worst end of this deal. Because we will find healing, we will laugh again, celebrate again and make new memories. But you, you will never again get to be a part of that. That is the ultimate consequence and cost of suicide isn’t it?

So Daddy, I forgive you. You would never have done this if you had the slightest sense of clarity in that moment. And I know you would never have wanted to cause us so much pain. I close my eyes and I hear you tell me you are sorry. Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on me; wishful thinking. Or maybe, in the still and quiet moments, you are with me. I hope that you are.

I miss you Dad. It’s Chanukah. Tonight, we will light the sixth light on the Hannukiyah. Remember our first Chanukah, after we reconciled? I do. We lit the candles together via Skype. You had used flashlights and tape to turn yourself into a human menorah. And on another night, you created an alter ego, dressed in full rap attire, you became Jew-Z-Big.

You had that silly and playful side in you. You had joy within you, and joyful moments that made up your life’s story. But you had your fair share of demons too. You were not a resilient man, and change was never easy for you. Optimism didn’t come readily to you, nor did faith in the unknown. You were a pragmatist, and a worrier. And when depression and anxiety came this time around, I do believe they played on these parts of you, and they grew far too powerful for you to bear. Through the cracks in your armor, they got inside and poisoned your sense of self, until all you were left with was a vision of being a burden, of being worthless, of somehow failing us. The pain that took hold in that dark room, on that dark night must’ve simply been unbearable. And all that you wanted, was for the pain and suffering to end. You didn’t choose to leave us. You could no longer see us, our love for you was obscured, clouded by suffering. And that will always break my heart.

So when I light the candles tonight Daddy, through my tears, I will devote tonight’s candle to you.
For the light of forgiveness that I offer to you
And for the light of forgiveness we found when we reconciled four years ago
For the light of memories that mark happier days
For the light I hope to shine on that which took you from us; mental illness & suicide
For the light that will guide me through the Chutes and Ladders of grief
For the light, the Divine Spark that you carried within, even though you couldn’t always feel it and struggled to trust in it
For the ember of you, that I carry within me and pass on to my children
For the light of love that we were blessed to know, in all of it’s complicated, messy and awesome glory
And in the warm glow of the candles, and in the stars up above, I will look for you… always. And the light of my love, I pray, will reach you.

I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars.
― Og Mandino

Categories A Slice of Life, Coping with Suicide, family, loss

A Survivor’s Prayer

November 19, 2015 //

A reflection for International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day (Saturday, 11/21/15)

Yael and her grandpa

Oh God, I search for you.
Amidst the fragments, the shattered pieces, the mess that was left behind.
This journey through the valley of the shadows feels so dark, so long, so unfamiliar.
I wonder.
Are you with me God?
I search and I yearn, but I do not feel you.
I long to be enveloped in your loving arms.
I long to know that my father is in your care.
I long to know that he is at peace.
I long to know that one day I will be too.
Adonai, I am tired & I am weary.
I feel weak. I do not feel like me anymore.
One moment in time.
One impulsive act to end his pain.
His suicide, has forever altered my world.
I pray to you God for the strength to keep moving through the myriad of complex and painful layers that come with suicide loss.
I pray for the ability to forgive my father for leaving me.
I will never understand.
The question of why, will never be fully answered.
I will never know if we could have stopped him.
Allow me to learn to surrender to the nevers, to learn to live with them, though I will never make peace with them.
Adonai, be my compass.
Help me to reach towards life, towards hope, towards renewal.
Help me to begin again.
Hear my cries.
Comfort me oh God.
Comfort me as a parent, for I am a child in pain.
Help me to see you, to feel you, to know your presence.
Day by day I collect and gather the pieces of the me that was.
Day by day I strive to put them together.
A mosaic, comprised of what was, what is & what will be.
Help me to believe that the Divine Spirit, the light that dwelled within me has not left.
To know that the embers still glow, and with each piece that I put together, the flame will grow stronger, brighter and even more resilient.
Help me to see the cracks, the scars that remain as symbols of strength, of courage and of fortitude.

Tell him I love him God.
Tell him that I miss him.
And one day I pray, that I will think of him and smile. Perhaps still with a tear, but without so much pain.

Be with me God on this journey.
Carry me, comfort me, strengthen me and love me through it.
Because surviving his suicide is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

“Yea, through I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for You are with me.”

Leora & her grandpa

To learn more about International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day, please click on this link.
International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, loss, Nourishing hope

What a FB post about suicide awareness is missing–the nuances of grief

October 21, 2015 //

I’m sure you’ve all seen it by now. The following post that is circulating on Facebook. It reads:

Many people think that a suicide attempt is a selfish move because the person just does not care about the people left behind. I can tell you that when a person gets to that point, they truly believe that their loved ones will be much better off with them gone.This is mental illness not selfishness. TRUTH: Depression is a terrible disease and seems relentless. A lot of us have been close to that edge, or dealt with family members in a crisis, and some have lost friends and loved ones. Let’s look out for each other and stop sweeping mental illness under the rug. If I don’t see your name, I’ll understand. May I ask my family and friends wherever you might be, to kindly copy and paste this status for one hour to give a moment of support to all those who have family problems, health struggles, job issues, worries of any kind and just need to know that someone cares. Do it for all of us, for nobody is immune. Hope to see this on the walls of all my family and friends just for moral support. I know some will!!! I did it for a friend and you can too. You have to copy and paste this one, no sharing. thank you…

First let me say, I applaud the intention behind this post. We do need to be talking about mental illness and we do need to let those who are struggling know that they are not alone. Sweeping mental illness under the rug costs too many lives and feeds into shame & stigma. And it is so very true, nobody, not one single person or family, is immune.

So you may be wondering, why I myself haven’t posted this piece or why I struggle to click the “like” button on the pages of friends who do. I will answer you. It is because there is one line in this post that cuts me to my very core.

I can tell you that when a person gets to that point, they truly believe that their loved ones will be much better off with them gone.

One of the absolute hardest and most profoundly painful aspects of losing my father to suicide is the knowledge that at the end of his life he felt worthless. In those early morning hours, alone in a dark room, he was unable to see how much he was loved; even in his most broken state. He actually believed that in choosing death, in choosing to leave us, our worlds would be better, happier, freer. He died sad. He died believing he was of no value to those who loved him most. A tumor, a malignancy to be cut away. He died believing that he was a burden.

And I can tell you that knowing someone you loved, left this world with those beliefs about themselves, about their family, about you; is an absolutely devastating thing to carry. And it is one of the loneliest aspects of grieving a suicide loss, because how on earth can you explain to someone who hasn’t been through it, what it feels like to carry that knowledge day in & day out. You can’t. You can try, but the sadness that it imparts deep in your soul, is not so readily seen or understood.

The post is right, that lack of self-worth, that sense of seeing oneself only as a burden, a cancerous tumor to be cut away, is one of the most insidious parts of mental illness. But what it misses, what it doesn’t get right, is acknowledging that regardless of the illness, the burden of pain that survivors of suicide loss carry simply in the knowing of those feelings, and in the inability to challenge those horrible assumptions when it mattered the most, in those final moments between life & death, hope & despair, succumbing or surviving; hurts like hell. And when that is not a part of the dialog this FB post seeks to create, we as survivors feel further isolated, more alone in our grief, and more entrenched in that sense that people don’t truly understand what we are living with day in & day out. And shouldn’t we be part of that conversation? Shouldn’t our pain be acknowledged too?

I appreciate any and all attempts to start a dialog about mental health and suicide awareness. I’ll stand and shout things from the rooftop if it will save lives. But I’ve also had a far more intimate view of this issue. And I can tell you this as well…

It is what you do after you cut and paste this to your status that matters the most.
It is in the reaching out to a friend or loved one, neighbor or colleague in crisis.
It is in educating yourself to really learn the signs of someone who is not only living with mental illness, but at risk of harming themselves.
It is in asking the hard questions. Questions like:
Have you had thoughts of hurting yourself?
Have you had suicidal thoughts?
It is in knowing where to direct someone in crisis.
Knowing how to assess whether they have access to firearms or other means to hurt themselves.
It is in demanding better mental health coverage and support from legislators.
It is in demanding better support and access to suicide prevention programs in our schools, our hospitals & our houses of worship.
It is speaking out loud, not in whispered tones and quiet hushes about mental illness.
It is in asking, “How are you?” And it is in listening as they share their truths.

I appreciate a starting point, an introduction to this vital issue on Facebook. I do.

But not only is it not enough…

For some, like me, journeying through the grief of suicide loss, it misses a very big part of the conversation. It misses us…. At least that is the way I feel.

Categories Coping with Suicide, loss, mental health

Dear Dad, I am so angry…

October 20, 2015 //

Death is harder on those who are left behind.
― Robert La Fosse, Nothing To Hide

Dear Dad,

Today marks six months since your death. A half a year has gone by since you were here. In some ways it feels like just yesterday and in other ways, it feels like a lifetime…

Here’s the thing Dad, I want to be clear. I’m in a really angry stage of grief right now. I’m angry at you, I’m angry at God and I don’t know what to do with it all. I mean you are not here. If you were, damn it I would sit you down and yell at you. I would scream at you. I would demand that you fix the fucking mess that you left behind. But you’re not, and I can’t.

Yesterday, as I sat in my therapist’s office, she suggested that I tell you how I feel. Write a letter, put it out there. Tell your father everything…

I don’t know. It’s not quite the same. I mean, I want to yell. I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I want you to look me in the eye. I want you to see, really see, the pain that you have caused.

I’ve apologized to you a million times Daddy. A million times I’ve shared my regret, the missed signs, the things I could have done, should have seen. Sometimes my shoulders are so heavy with that burden that I can barely walk. But what about you? Where the hell is your sorry, where the hell is your regret?

Do you have any idea of the damage you have done?
In one single moment, you forever altered the course of our family. You set off a grenade, loaded with shrapnel, into the center of our worlds. And while you are gone, we are left picking up the fucking pieces of our shattered hearts, our wounded souls, our very selves. And where are you? You’re gone! You’re just fucking gone!

I get it, on that very cerebral level, I understand that it was an illness. I can step back and see that you were suffering, and that you saw death as the only way to end your pain. But it doesn’t resonate on an emotional level. There, it simply feels like you left us, you abandoned us, you chose death over those who loved you most. I mean shit Dad, mom was in the house, I was just a phone call away. You were not alone. You were not fucking alone!!!

Fathers are not supposed to just willingly leave their children! How did you not remember that? We were estranged for six years Dad. We promised one another that never again would we let anything get in the way of our relationship. We would not let resentment or anger simmer, we would not let molehills become insurmountable mountains, we would not leave each other again. We had a deal and you fucking broke it!!!

I want to know why!
Why?!
WHy?!!
WHY?!!!

You died for nothing Dad! Do you hear me?! For nothing!! You were not terminal. Perhaps chronic, chronic anxiety, chronic depression but you had just begun treatment. You didn’t even give it a chance to work!

I remember a conversation we had only a few weeks before you died. We talked about that serious bout of depression you had gone through when I was a kid. You had left your job. You had a wife, two kids and instant regret at the choice that you had made. I would wake up at night and hear you crying, shouting at the top of your lungs…

God, I want to die.
I want to kill myself.
Why?
What did I do?
I want to die!
I want to die!

You would berate yourself. I would go off to school and wonder if you would be alive when I got home. I remember asking mommy so many times if you were going to kill yourself? I was terrified.

We talked about all of this and you, after all of these years, apologized for the first time. You acknowledged the pain, fear and anguish you must have caused for your children. How frightening it must have been. How deeply sorry you were for ever causing such hurt. I told you that I forgave you long ago. I reminded you that you got through that dark period. That you could get through this one too. You just had to tread water. You had to let us help to keep you afloat. You had to embrace real help, therapy, medication, whatever it would take. You had to be willing to peel back the layers and, once and for all, come to know and understand yourself. You said that you knew that.
You said that you would do that.

You lied! At least that is how it feels. How could you fucking apologize to me for the words and still end up taking your own life anyway. How could you do that!!!

I am so angry Dad. I can’t even access you in life right now. I look at pictures and I can’t feel fond remembrances, I can’t touch the sweet, it is so overpowered by bitter right now. I can’t remember you, feel you, reflect on you in life because it is all so clouded in your death. How did suicide become the final footnote in your story?

I want to tell you all of these things. I can’t scream on a keyboard, I can’t capture the tears that are flowing as I right this. The rage that coincides with my grief! There are not enough exclamation points to contain my visceral anguish!

I’m angry.
I’m so fucking angry Daddy.
Why would you do this?
Why, why, why, why???
It is the unanswerable question that we have to learn to live with.

I sit in therapy.
I do the grief work.
I muddle through it day in and day out.
I have good days and bad.
Today is a bad one.

I miss you.
I’m so mad at you.
You shouldn’t have done this Daddy!
You deserved better.
We deserved better.

I don’t feel better after writing this. It’s not cathartic this time. Who am I kidding? You aren’t logging in to read my latest blog post. But I have to believe that you see…

You see the tears.
You see the pain.
You see the struggles.
You see your family picking up the pieces.
In one desperate moment, you forever altered us.
You left.
We are here.
Do you see us Daddy.
Are you sorry?
Do you weep?
Do you ask us for forgiveness?
I wonder…

I want you to fix it Dad.
I’m like a child, stomping my feet, tantruming, desperate to make myself seen…
It’s your damn mess.
So why are we the ones left cleaning it up?
Why Daddy?!
I’m screaming, I’m crying, I’m reviling, I’m missing all at once.
It’s exhausting!
I’m tired Dad.
As I sink back into the quietness that follows the anger, I revert back to those childlike words.
It’s not fair.
It’s just not fair.
You shouldn’t have done it Dad.
And I want you to fix it.
But you can’t.
So I must.
Like Humpty Dumpty after the fall.
I am picking up the pieces.
The pieces you left behind.

I will do it. I will endure it. I will get through it. I will rebuild. Even if it takes everything I’ve got. Even when grief hits me like a sledgehammer. I’ll get back up. I’ll keep fighting. Because I deserve it. Because I am loved. Because the best parts of me will be better and I will learn from this.
I will bear the scars.
I will find my way to healing and to wholeness.
I won’t give up.
You shouldn’t have either!
And I’m so angry that you did Dad.
You should have chosen life.
You should have fought.
Fuck all of the cerebral understanding.
Do you hear me?
Fuck it!
Because the truth is it feels far more personal than that.
Can other people say it?
Hell, no!!
Not unless they’re living with the aftermath.
Not unless they’ve lost a loved one to suicide.
But I can say it.
Because I’m living it.
I’m living with it.
I’m living with this new identity that feels so fucking foreign.
I am now a Survivor of Suicide Loss.

I’ll tell you something Dad…
God’s honest truth.
Some days it feels like you took the easy way out.
And I’m fighting like hell to forgive you for that.

Your Daughter…

There would have been time for such a word. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
― Wiliam Shakspeare

Categories Coping with Suicide, family, loss

Standing Outside of the Sukkah

September 30, 2015 //

Our sukkah is up. This holiday, the Jewish festival of Sukkot, was one of my favorite Jewish holidays. Decorating the sukkah, welcoming the autumn leaves, sitting with my family sharing meals as we looked up at the sky. Sukkot, so colorful & festive, the only Jewish holiday where we are commanded to rejoice.

commanded to rejoice

The sukkah is up, and I can’t bring myself to sit in it.

As I scrolled through Facebook this morning, I came across Rabbi David Wolpe’s status. “A sukkah is a metaphor for life: fragile and fleeting, but one must be able to see the stars.”

Three days prior, in an article that he wrote, Rabbi Wolpe shared that, “The sukkah is a symbol of impermanence. If a sukkah is built so that it is too sturdy it is not a kosher sukkah. We must sit in something that is fragile, fleeting, sure to disappear tomorrow, for that is our fate as well.”

Here is the thing. Five months after my father’s suicide, I need no metaphors for the fragile and fleeting nature of life. I am living with that notion each and every day. It is palpable, it is raw, it lies just beneath the surface. I wear it, like a layer of clothing that no one can see, and only I can feel. I don’t want to sit in a structure that further reminds me of what I know all too well.

And then there is the word, “disappear.” It’s quite something how loaded and burdensome language can become in the aftermath of suicide loss. You see, on a Sunday I had a father. He was struggling, he was lost, he was not the man he wanted to be. But he was fighting. He was here. We thought he still had hope. On a Monday morning, everything changed, and he was gone. He was just gone. There was no note, there was no goodbye. And so much of the time it feels like he just… disappeared. The structure & the symbolism of the sukkah, are physical reminders of what is no more. He was here, then he was not. Life, fragile and fleeting, the end that awaits all of us, fated to disappear… I simply can’t enter it. It is like having those words wrap themselves around me, anchoring me to a pain that I seek respite from. Come in and dwell, the structure beckons, be both commanded to rejoice and reminded of what is at the very heart of your grief & your pain.

The sukkah, if it is to be kosher, cannot have a closed roof. We must be able to see the stars, they are the reminder of God’s eternal presence.

But as I shared on my post about the High Holy Days, I am struggling with God. I am grappling with my own anger, but it is more than that. I am struggling with the idea of where my father is now. Where is his soul? I want to be able to envision him somewhere. I want to close my eyes and see him somewhere he is whole, smiling, feeling safe and loved. I know he is with God. But I don’t know what I think that looks like. I am struggling to piece together what I believe. I envy those faiths that have such vivid imagery about what heaven is like. I want that. I want to envision God’s loving embrace surrounding and holding my father close. I hope I will find that image, that notion, that comforting idea in time. But for now, I can’t.

I can picture him only in his final minutes of despair and hopelessness, in his coffin and in a grave. My mind, clouded by trauma, cannot access the happier memories, the sound of his laughter, the comfort of his embrace, even the struggles that we endured along the way. I can’t access the essence of my father, the complex man that I loved. The man with whom I shared great joys and abundant sorrows. The man with whom I traveled a road that was not always easy, far from it at times. We had incredible highs and heartbreaking lows, we hurt one another, and we healed. We lost one another and then found each other again. He was my father. I was his daughter. In time, we grew to be friends. When he left, we were closer than we had ever been. I loved him. He loved me. And yet, I cannot access any of it. I look at the stars and search for something that will give me peace. I haven’t found it yet. I’ll keep searching. I have to.

But in the meantime, the sukkah stands decorated and open. And this year, I will not step inside of it. I hope that next year, and in the years to come, I will once again find the joy I have felt for this holiday. That I will not need to be commanded to rejoice, it will simply be a reflection of what I truly feel.

But right now, in this place, at this time… it is not. So I stand on the outside of the sukkah looking in.

I looked up the word fragile.
When describing an object, it means easily broken or damaged.
When describing a person, it means not strong or sturdy; delicate and vulnerable.
The sukkah is the object.
The person is my father.
One I can’t bring myself to step into.
The other I’d give anything to bring back.

Sukkot 2014

A sukkah is a booth in which Jews are commanded to dwell during the festival of Tabernacles [Sukkot], as stated in the book of Leviticus (23:42‑5): “You shall live in booths [sukkot] seven days; all citizens in Israel shall live in booths, in order that future generations may know that I made the Israelite people live in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt, I am the Lord your God.” (My Jewish Learning)

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, loss, mental health

Recipe for Healing ~ Whisking Through The Quicksand of Grief

September 28, 2015 //

Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food. Hippocrates

Last Monday, as I sat in my therapist’s office, I was feeling impatient. Five months after my father’s suicide, I don’t feel better. It is like trudging through quicksand, day by day, this journey through grief. Don’t get me wrong, I laugh, I smile, I spend my days in the land of the living. But my heart, my soul, what lies beneath the surface, is still riddled with pain.

I try to follow the loving advice I am given. I do.
“Be kind to yourself.”
“Be patient with yourself.’
Not easy, since anyone who knows me, knows that patience is often not a virtue I possess in great quantity. Still, I do try.

It’s hard, I tell my therapist. I don’t feel like me. At least I don’t feel like the me I was before.
Before the call.
Before the words.
Before my father’s suicide.
I do know that I will never be that person again. When trauma storms into your life and leaves behind an epic and chaotic aftermath of pain, shock, overwhelming grief, destruction and despair, you can’t emerge from it unscathed, unchanged, unaltered. Like the images of wreckage we see on our television screens, when Mother Nature unleashes her fury, so to it is with suicide.

It is hard, uncomfortable, challenging, when who we are in the world is not who we want to be. It’s like wearing clothes that are two sizes too big, or shoes that are too small. It doesn’t fit.

What I want is to feel better, to not hurt anymore, to not feel like there is a brick that lays upon my heart each and every day. I want to fast forward to the part where healing takes place. Where I can emerge as a me that doesn’t hurt on a daily basis. I want to sprint ahead to the finish line, even though I know no such line even exists. There is no endpoint to this process. The journey will change, the ebb and flow of the tide will, I pray, dull the edges of the pain. But, as my very wise therapist said to me, you never make peace with this kind of loss. You will never accept it. You will never be okay with it. How could you? She’s right. No, one day, she tells me, you simply learn how to live with it.

It gives me comfort too when she puts my loss into a perspective that I can better understand. She calls it, turning the crystal. Traumatic loss is like oil and water, she explains to me. The water, the under layer, is the sense of sadness, loss and grief that you would feel no matter the circumstances. If my father had lived to a ripe old age and died of natural causes, I would still miss him, cry for him, yearn for his presence on earth, mourn his absence and struggle with the finality of his being gone. But suicide loss, puts a top layer of trauma, oil over the grief. That is the layer that demands your attention in the aftermath. That is the layer that keeps you up at night, pulls and pushes at you, taking all of your energy, weighing you down with the unanswerable questions, the regret, the inability to make sense out of something so utterly senseless. Five months in, she tells me, I am still dealing with that top layer. That is a long and hard journey. We’ve not even begun to get deep into it after five months. No, we are still skimming the surface, and we’ve surely not even begun to permeate the grief that I must grapple with as well.

This journey, where I stand now in the acute stages of traumatic loss, is the hardest one I’ve ever had to take. And I feel like I follow a frustrating rhythm…
One step forward
Two steps back
I feel like I am stuck, despite my best efforts to keep on moving.

And so my therapist asked me a simple question. What is one thing you were not able to do when your father died, that you are now able to do again? I thought for a moment, and the answer came; cooking.

Prior to my father’s death, my Facebook page was often filled with the healthy, delicious, culinary adventures of my time in the kitchen. I loved to cook. I did it with great passion, allowing my creativity to flow, deeply immersed in the meditative process that cooking is to me. Serving up healthy, wholesome and tasty food to those that I love most in this world, filled me up.

But when my father died, that changed. I walked through most days in a fog. I ate what people put in front of me, but I didn’t really taste anything. I ate, because I knew that I needed to; no more and no less. The meals prepared by others were a godsend to my family. And when they stopped, I stood in the kitchen and looked at my folders full of recipes, the books that lined my shelf, the pantry full of ingredients and I felt overwhelmed. I cried. I couldn’t do it. It felt too hard.

After a few weeks had passed, I began to try again. Before I could produce a four course meal with ease, but now I aimed simply to complete one recipe. One recipe that would allow me to feed my precious family. But I felt no joy in it. I cooked from necessity, and because I needed to. I took no photos, shared no recipes, took no pride in what I put on the plate. Cooking, something once so full of passion for me, became simply a means to an end.

So, as I contemplated that question, I thought about arriving in Colorado. Once again, so blessed to be fed by others in our new community. I was now doubly overwhelmed, dealing in the midst of such profound trauma & grief, with a move across the country. But a few weeks later, when my children arrived in Colorado; the dishes all unpacked, the meals no longer being delivered, the cooking once again resumed.

It still felt robotic. The utensils felt heavy in my hand, the recipes felt strange to me. The confidence I once had in my ability to tweak, change or adapt a recipe was gone. If I could not follow it line by line, I did not cook it. On top of that, I had new elements to contend with; the altitude and the electric oven only furthered my reluctance.

But here’s the thing….

Now, five months after my father’s suicide, I have rekindled my passion for food & cooking. My Facebook page is filled with photos of what I’ve created, recipes I’ve tweaked and healthy, wholesome tips that I offer to my friends. I’ve mastered the electric oven, adapted for altitude, and I have rediscovered the, “Joy of Cooking.” I don’t know exactly when it happened. I don’t know the turning point. I guess I simply didn’t notice the shift when it took place.

That was her very point, my very wise therapist. Sometimes we don’t notice the small healing moments that take place. Perhaps we don’t even feel them when they happen. But, she helped me to see, they are happening.

The bigger elements of healing, simply put, those are going to take a lot longer. Trudging through the quicksand of suicide loss is not going to get easier anytime soon. And, as with any recipe, you can’t skip steps or omit the important and necessary ingredients. The recipe for healing is no different. Though I wish there were a shortcut.

But in the meantime, I left knowing that some part of me had returned in these past five months. Who I will be when I emerge from this, I do not know. I pray I will be stronger, that I will find purpose & meaning in the scars I now bear. I hope the best parts of me will remain, and perhaps even be heightened by my loss. I hope one day I won’t carry so much heaviness, that I will make be able to stop asking the unanswerable questions. I hope I’ll be able to forgive God, my father, myself. I hope I’ll be able to think about my father and smile.

But for now, I’ll take some solace in the creativity of the spirit, the culinary meditation that I find in my kitchen. And I’ll be grateful for the flavor, color and ability to savor a sweet bite, that it brings to my days. Sometimes I cook with joy, sometimes I cook with tears, sometimes with wild abandon & others with controlled precision. Sometimes I cook to lose myself, sometimes I cook to find myself. Sometimes I taste the salt in my tears, sometimes I forget the bitterness. I whisk, I fold, I mix, I knead and in it, I find some healing… even if I don’t know it.

All sorrows are less with bread. Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Categories Coping with Suicide, loss, Nourishing hope, Nourishing Self

Why I Went to High Holiday Services & Why I Stayed Home

September 24, 2015 //

High Holiday services were brutal for me. Unusual for the wife of the rabbi to say out loud, I know. But there it is. Five months after my father’s suicide, the liturgy of the holidays felt like a vat of salt was being poured into my still open wounds.

We recite Unetanah Tokef….
On Rosh Hashanah it is inscribed,
And on Yom Kippur it is sealed.
How many shall pass away and how many shall be born,
Who shall live and who shall die,
Who shall reach the end of his days and who shall not,
Who shall perish by water and who by fire,
Who by sword and who by wild beast,
Who by famine and who by thirst,
Who by earthquake and who by plague,
Who by strangulation and who by stoning,
Who shall have rest and who shall wander,
Who shall be at peace and who shall be pursued,
Who shall be at rest and who shall be tormented,
Who shall be exalted and who shall be brought low,
Who shall become rich and who shall be impoverished.
But repentance, prayer and righteousness avert the severe decree.

As a still very new, and grieving survivor of suicide loss I cannot possibly utter these words. Though I do not believe in an all powerful God, an intervening God, the words, the liturgy of these Holy Days reverberates with that kind of Divine Image. Recited around me, carried to the heavens in the voice of a congregation, I feel angry at God, betrayed, let down. I am unable to pray. I simply stand and cry, and at other times I leave the sanctuary overcome by grief.

Five months ago my father took his own life. There are no words to describe the pain his death, his choice, has left behind. On a cerebral level, I can recognize that it was his illness, the depression & anxiety that had taken hold of his soul, that led him to his death. On an emotional level I feel abandoned, angry, traumatized, profoundly sad and grappling with the many complex layers of this loss.

I want to know if God watched him do it.
I want to know if God, or the angels cried out.
When Abraham was about to sacrifice Isaac, God’s Angels cried out to stop him.
Where were they when my father died alone, in the basement of the home I grew up in?
I want to know why my father felt unworthy of inscription in
The Book of Life.
His story was not done.
Surely this could not be God’s
decree.

U’fros Aleinu Sukkat Sh’omecha
Spread Over Us Your Shelter of Peace
How many times have I prayed these words?
Mi shebeirach imoteinu
M’kor habracha l’avoteinu
Bless those in need of healing with refuah sh’leimah
The renewal of body, the renewal of spirit
And how many times did I pray these words, thinking of my father’s struggles and wanting so desperately to help him once again find peace.

And now, the holiest of days in our Jewish calendar. A time of reflection, atonement, renewal. A time to meet God with openness, with honesty, with confession and with grace. And I can’t.

We are in this complex dance right now God and I. As I lash out in anger and bewilderment, I beg for peace and comfort. Like picking the flowers off of the petal.

I need you
I need you not
I forgive you
I forgive you not
I pray to you
I pray to you not
I turn to you
I turn to you not

It would have been easier not to go. It was offered to me. Friends, family, even my beloved husband offered me the out. If it is too hard, if it hurts, if you are suffering, do not come to services this year. It’s okay. God understands. That is what I was told. So much love and concern surrounding me. So many wanting to hold me up. So many wanting to minimize the pain I’m enduring. It would be okay this year to do “Jewish lite.”

But I wanted to be with my family.
I wanted to support my husband on his first High Holy Days here in Colorado.
It made sense, right?
But it wasn’t really what drew me to go.
At least not in full.

I couldn’t name it, this other pull. I then I read an article that a friend had shared with me. In it there was a poem by Aaron Zeitlin.

Praise me, says God, and I will know that you love me.
Curse me, says God, and I will know that you love me.
Praise me or curse me
And I will know that you love me.

Sing out my graces, says God,
Raise your fist against me and revile, says God.
Sing out graces or revile,
Reviling is also a kind of praise,
says God.

But if you sit fenced off in your apathy,
says God,
If you sit entrenched in: “I don’t give a hang,” says God,
If you look at the stars and yawn,
If you see suffering and don’t cry out,
If you don’t praise and you don’t revile,
Then I created you in vain, says God.

And there it was.
I went to sevices on Rosh Hashanah and on the evening of Yom Kippur to show God that I was still in this relationship. I showed up to offer God the truest and most authentic prayer I had, my tears; and in that regard I prayed without end. I showed up to deliver this message.

I am angry at you God.
Perhaps it is unfair, misguided anger, but I need a place to put it.
My father’s end is unjust, unacceptable.
It feels like an abomination.
And I want to know where you were.
Where was your compassion?
Where was his peace?
And I want to know why my own prayers for comfort do so little to ease my own pain?
I want to know so many things. I want to yell and I want to cry. I want to speak and I want to remain silent. I want to turn away from you and I want to turn towards you.
But I’m here, in your house.
I’ve lived through estrangement before.
I will not do it again.

In “Vayishiah” Jacob wrestles with the angel. His name is changed to Israel
which means
to struggle with God.

I could not do it all. I went to services on erev Rosh Hashanah and on the first day. I could not bear to stand through the liturgy, or run from it another day. And I went to services on Kol Nidre, but I could not return for the remainder of the holiday. But the point of it all is this…

I showed up.
Though my knees threatened to buckle and my feet carried me to and from the sanctuary and back more times than I can count; I showed up.
In my silence and through my tears, tissue after tissue; I reviled and admonished God.
In my pain and in my anguish, in the sobs that felt as if they came from my soul; I forced myself to turn towards God.
I struggled.

To stay home for it all would have been easier.
To turn my back would have been easier.

But God and I have a long journey ahead of us.
And we’ve shared a long journey past.
And I don’t know much right now.
The answers I seek escape me.
But I do know this…

I showed up.
Because I want God in my life.
Faith is my anchor, even when I feel lost at sea.
God’s love is steadfast
Even when I find it hard to receive.
I love God.
And in my anger & my pain;
deep in my soul
I know God loves me.
And I know God loved my father.
My father is with God now.
And my most fervent prayer
is that he is at peace.

Categories Coping with Suicide, Faith, family, loss, mental health, Nourishing hope, Nourishing Self

Remembrance

September 2, 2015 //

First, Mommy asked us all to think of two lines that would tell something about your life
Words that might encapsulate who you were even beyond the beloved husband, father and grandfather
I pictured you sitting outside, your head turned toward the sun
Oh how you loved to bask in the warmth
And then I pictured you surrounded by your family, your greatest blessings and the source of your deepest joy
And through my tears
The words came to me

Then, it was the image of your footstone
A drawing of what it would look like
It was such a stark and abrasive sense of finality
There was your name
The date of your birth
And the date of your death
A beginning and an ending
And the words that I had come up with
Well now, they were actually there
On a stone
A stone for your grave
It took my breath away
And I dropped to my knees
Tears just kept flowing

And now The High Holy Days
First, Rosh Hashanah
Then, Yom Kippur
The Yizkor Book of Remembrance
Your name will be in it
The form sits in front of me
I fill in the information
I need to share something more about you
I want to share something more about you
But it makes me weep that once again
I cannot share it in life
This is a book of Remembrance
For those who have died
And you Daddy
You are in it

It all just makes me weep…
Because I want you here
I want one more day Daddy
I want you to fight

These remembrances are the tangible reminders
That you are not coming back
That you are gone
That you could not fight even one day more

That you chose death
Or death chose you
I don’t know
I don’t care
I hate it all
It all just makes me weep Daddy
It all just makes me weep