Just a Little Morning Rant

There's a story on the New York Post Web site today about a "fashionista" who committed suicide. I don't know why I even clicked on it.

OK. Yes I do.

Anyway, the story begins by talking about this young woman's contentious relationship with five "frenemies." It talks of her erratic behavior. It names names. It discusses how this woman left a suicide note barring the women from her funeral. It shares the Facebook message of one "frenemy" who told the woman to "Go try to kill yourself on Xanax again, you unstable loser."

And, then, it is not until the seventh paragraph - the SEVENTH paragraph - that the story says the victim's bag, which held the note, also held prescription drugs such as Adderall and Klonopin. 

Is anyone ever going to start discussing prescription drugs and the toll they are taking on this country? Ever? 

You know what was found in my ex-husband's car after his erratic behavior and his death, a death that was preceded by punishing words to someone who was his friend and who he suddenly deemed his enemy? 

Klonopin. 

Do you know what I found in his car's glove compartment after every instance of frightening behavior, violent outbursts, stumbles, falls, financial devastation, cruel behavior? 

Klonopin. 

Maybe doctors should start thinking about what they're prescribing. Just a thought. I'm not a medical professional, but I'm pretty tired of people acting like prescription drug abuse isn't a horrible scourge that is increasing every day. I'm pretty sick of doctors who say, "Oh, you have restless leg syndrome? Here you go, buddy, fill this prescription and then come back for more." 

And maybe people should start thinking about what they're putting into their bodies. Maybe just because something is legal doesn't mean it's completely safe for you to sit around "eating" pills like fucking Pac-Man. 

Goddammit. 

Do you think my ex-husband killed himself because he was mad at me for answering my telephone that night? 

Or, just maybe, was his mind completely fucked from regular and consistent abuse of something you can get from every Doc in the Box in America? 

Yeah, I'm pretty sure it was that one fucking phone call. 

While I certainly understand that many people benefit from the use of prescription drugs, I also doubt everybody and their damn dog needs to be taking sedatives and anti-anxiety medications. 

I also know for a fact that even trained professional in rehab facilities seem to downplay the toll it can take. 

Instead of rewriting this incident about one of the several times I drove my ex-husband to rehab, here's a little excerpt from my book: 


           I answered questions about Charles’ pill abuse and its effect on us. Then the woman said something to us that I will never forget. 


“Well, it really sounds like he just needs to learn to say ‘No,’” she said.
I was stunned into silence. “No DUH,” I wanted to scream at this woman. I didn’t. I rarely screamed the things I wanted to scream. What I did was nod. Maybe I hadn’t told my side of the story well enough. Maybe my aversion to drama and self-pity made it all seem less serious than it was. 

Did she put us off our intended course because it was a Sunday evening and the facility couldn’t confirm our insurance? The woman gave Charles a number to call so he could sign up for an out-patient program. She sent us on our way and we walked back out to the parking lot, defeated. Charles tossed his duffel bag into the back seat and we drove to Birmingham in near silence. We were like would-be vacationers full of adrenaline and good intentions who had arrived at the airport only to find that our flight had been canceled. 

Charles never did go to the out-patient program. On that Sunday, he was a man who recognized that he was powerless in the face of his addiction. And by the time the sun rose on Monday he was just a guy who needed to say “no,” and how hard could that be? He could do it on his own. No big deal. We would simply remain on the road we’d been traveling all along.

Maybe all of this could be that woman’s fault. I could drive out to that place and deliver this tragedy to her. I could watch her stagger under the weight of it while I tell her that she is a complete and utter failure and she should find a new line of work.



Wake the fuck up, people. 

/end rant


Related links: 
GWB jumper’s 'frenemies’ say she was unstable and started online feuds

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Not Haunted - Turn on the Lights

Today I clicked on a story with this headline: Woman Sues Over Home's Dark Secret. I clicked on it knowing what I was likely to read about, and I was right.

A Pennsylvania homeowner is suing the people who sold her the house because they did not disclose to her that the previous owner shot his wife and then himself inside the home.

I'll admit that I have a fascination with this topic and with people's reactions to it. Whether that fascination is healthy or not, I couldn't really say. I'm just a girl clicking around on the Internet trying to figure stuff out.

There is no doubt people have strong feelings about this topic. Last year, Apartment Therapy posted a question from a reader who wanted to know if she should purchase a house with a "dark history."

"The owner's young wife recently committed suicide in the house. Now we are second-guessing our choice. I want to ask other AT readers: does your home have a past? How does a home's dark past affect how you feel about it?"

That post elicited 233 comments. If you browse Apartment Therapy, you'll see that most posts don't get that many comments. A popular story might have 50. It might have 10. It might have four or three or zero. Very few have 233.

The responses were mixed. Most of the people with actual real-life experience with suicide and its effects said buy the house and make it a happy place. People with no experience and strong opinions tended to say, "No way! I'd never buy that house."

Should places where tragic things have occurred be torn down? That seems silly. The planet is quite old and tragedies happen every day. If we start avoiding places where bad things occurred, we're going to have nowhere to go.

I often say this when people express fear about a place where someone died: Did you give birth to your child in a hospital? Because thousands of people have died there. I mean, seriously, why are hospitals never haunted?

If you want my opinion, houses are not haunted. Movies have convinced you that they are, but those are just movies. Movies have also convinced you that Prince Charming will save you at just the right moment, that love conquers all, and that high-speed car chases involving gunfire are a totally reasonable response to every crime. Movies have convinced you that after sex, the same bed sheet magically leaves the man's chest visible while covering the woman's breasts.

Houses aren't haunted. People are. Last winter I wrote about my fixation on The Shining. It kept coming up in conversation for some reason. And I wrote this about Stephen King: "Sure, he's telling you a story that, on the surface, sounds like a ghost story about a haunted hotel, but it's really about people and how people are haunted. The monster you're afraid of is within."

A tragic event happened in my home. My ex-husband, Charles, committed suicide in the garage. I'll be frank. If some stranger came here and acted like it affected him or her, or that it had anything to do with his or her life, I might laugh in that person's face. No, more than laugh. I would scoff. Excuse me, but my tragic event has nothing to do with your life. Get over yourself. Buy the house or don't, but don't act like someone else's tragedy has anything to do with you.

And that is wrong. I do understand that some people feel weird about a thing like that. I realize that I have had 3 and a half years to fight the fear that comes after a tragic event. My brother visited a few months ago for the first time in several years and, when we pulled into the garage, he said his first thought was about how this was the place where Charles died.

It is not my first thought anymore. It's not even a daily thought when I go to and from the grocery store or I chauffeur children around town. And that is an amazing thing. That is called healing.

My opinion of this homeowner in Pennsylvania is that she was fine in the house before she knew what had happened there. She should accept that it has nothing to do with her and live her life. Of course, everything is about money. Will it affect the price of the home in the future? She wants money to make up for the fact that it might be harder to sell the house with the "dark history."

If I sell my home one day, am I required to disclose to strangers the worst thing that ever happened to my family? What if, every time you sold a home, you had to tell every prospective buyer the worst thing that happened to you in that place?

When the time comes, I will disclose the information if it's necessary. I have no problem with that. I can disclose how I had someone come in and burn sage. I can disclose how I painted the door that leads from the kitchen to the garage a bright and shiny shade called Raincoat Yellow.

But, honestly, I kind of have the same feeling about that disclosure and someone's reaction to it as I do about people who walk into a house and complain about the paint colors. YOU CAN PAINT IT ANOTHER COLOR, DUMMY!

And you can live very happily in a home where something tragic happened to someone else.

Do you know how I know this?

Because you can live happily in a home where something tragic happened to you. My children and I do it every day.

Here was my answer to the person on Apartment Therapy last year (posted under the name Clooney Girl, of course). I'll share it here because I think I said pretty well what I wanted to say.

"My ex-husband committed suicide in my home two years ago. My children weren't here but I was. It was the most traumatic thing I will probably ever experience. Yet we still live in our home. Every day we laugh together and love and hug each other. Every day we remember this man and how much we loved him and how much he loved us. Every day I go into the garage where it happened. At first it had power over me but each day that space loses a little more of its hold on me and becomes what it is, a place to park a car. The house you are looking at, with its "dark history", probably has a lot of light history too, days when one person told another one "I love you," days when children laughed and chased each other, days when people sang off-key while they cleaned the bathrooms, days when people cried themselves to sleep and then, more importantly, got up the next day to keep living, keep loving, keep moving forward. The days when those things happen far outnumber that heartbreaking day when someone lost his battle with a devastating disease. Give THOSE days weight as well. They are just as important. I hope this helps. I know if I ever sell this home I would love the idea of a happy family moving in and filling it with their own light."

Other things we do in this house? Randomly sing the lyrics to the Farmer's Insurance song. Give each other hugs. Have ten-second dance parties in the kitchen. Sit on the back patio and listen to music. Yell out quotes from Breaking Bad. "I am the one who knocks!" "I am not in danger. I am THE DANGER!" "This is my own private domicile and I will not be harassed...bitch!"

No matter what has happened to you in your life, ask yourself this: Why does the hurt always seem to matter more than the healing? Why does the dark matter more than the light?

Simply put: It doesn't.

This is my own private domicile and I will not be harassed, bitch.

Related links:
The Shining - Notes from the Overlook Hotel

This is my own private domicile

Woman Sues Over Home's Dark Secret

Apartment Therapy: Would You Buy a House with a Dark History

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Clooney Tuesday - Brain Dump Edition

The Weekend in Review 
Friday night, we saw Louis C.K. in Athens. He was just as good as I expected him to be. He scraps his old act at the end of a tour and starts over, so everything we heard was new. That was great since I'm pretty sure I've watched every single clip of him on YouTube.

When we took our seats, I said, "Jacob, you sit over there by Uncle Tim. When Louis C.K. starts making jokes about masturbation, you're going to want a buffer zone between you and your mother."

About midway through the show, some dumb bitch sitting near us yelled out, "Fuck you."

What? No, ma'am, you do not heckle Louis C.K. Hell, that's not even heckling, that's just stupidity.

It felt like the entire audience gasped in one huge intake of breath. Someone near the front turned and yelled out, "You bitch!"

Louis said, "No, you're not helping. Who said that? No, never mind." He carried on.

You could feel it in the place though, how the energy changed for a bit, how everyone was nervous this idiot would yell out something else rude and disruptive. I also thought, "No! Look what you did! Now he's not going to like us! I want him to like us!"

Thankfully, she didn't yell out again and, when the show ended, she bolted for the door. Louis went on with the show and quickly recaptured the joyful, relaxed vibe. On his way off the stage, though, he said, "And fuck you, too, lady."

This brings up something that bugs me: People who get wasted to attend concerts and shows. Why do people do this? Do they not want to remember the show they have paid good money to see? How about you stay home instead?

We had several drunk folks sitting in the row in front of us. The woman directly in front of me was with a date and she spent a lot of time rubbing his hair and looking at him. She was looking at him in that intense way people do when they're trying to get you to look back. Not a glance here and there but staring. WTF? You're at a show. Your date wants to see the show. Leave him alone.

People are weird.

Luckily, these folks did not ruin our enjoyment of a truly great comedy show. My brother and I spent the next two days saying to one another, "Oh! Remember when he said..." and "I forgot that! That was hilarious!"

It's good evidence of just how dense a Louis C.K. show is. There aren't just a few jokes that stand out. Every minute is filled with something funny or worth remembering.

For instance, he was discussing his looks and getting older. He said it's tough to look like this at 20, but by 45, it's OK. You have a way better shot with women because their "circumstances start to match your looks." So true.

He's going to film an HBO special during this tour (I'm glad it wasn't during our show because of that dumb, drunk woman.) The special will air sometime next year. Louis C. K. announced on Twitter that after this new special is shown on HBO, it will be sold a few months later as a $5 download at his Web site, louisck.net. I can't wait to see it.

One of the main reasons I love Louis C.K. is that I love hearing someone else who thinks about things in the same warped way, who uses humor to make sense of this messed up world. It's reassuring to hear someone speaking your language.

Sunday night, I went to Workplay to see Duncan Sheik. The audience was small so we had a table near the stage. It's been awhile since I've been to a show in an intimate venue like that. Duncan Sheik has an easy, relaxed manner on stage. I love pretty much everything he does, so it doesn't matter to me if he sings old stuff or new stuff. I thought the set list was a pretty good mix of both, plus a couple of covers of songs by Depeche Mode and Tears for Fears.

Are you too young to know who Depeche Mode and Tears for Fears are?


Afterward, there was a meet and greet. We chatted with one of the opening acts, Courrier, a band from Austin. They were great, full of energy and major stage presence. They're adorable and look young enough to be my children. I FEEL OLD. They have a new album coming out in the new year. I'm planning to buy it since I suspect it would make good writing music.



Unfortunately, the weekend also included the awful news of Jovan Belcher murdering his girlfriend and then committing suicide in front of other people.

Unfortunately, I have read the news stories and the endlessly ignorant comments underneath.

Unfortunately, I have heard people getting worked up about having their gun rights taken away.

There's just too much "unfortunately" going on up in here.

Here is the sort of gun control I endorse and wish people would consider: If you live with someone who is struggling with depression, get rid of the guns. If you live with someone who has a substance abuse problem, get rid of the guns. Get them out of your house. Lock them up somewhere. Put them in storage.

Yes, certainly, if someone really wants to die they will find a way to do it. What is also true is that not all acts of violence against others or oneself are planned out. They are impulsive. They happen in an instant. And, trust me, it's much easier to follow through with that impulse if you have a gun around.  So consider your personal situation. Consider whether or not you need easy access to a gun in your home.

This gun owner paranoia happens every time there is a violent news story like this. I wish that people would get worked up and rant about the fact that this country does a piss-poor job of discussing mental illness, domestic violence, and substance abuse.

I suspect people like to go through life thinking they're above all that, that they'll never have to face any of those issues, so maybe that's why they ignore it and stigmatize anyone who seeks help for such things.

Recently, Donald Trump posted some dumb tweet (OK, he posts some dumb tweet about five times a day, at least) about how he's never sought therapy.

No shit, dude.

The implication was that if you do seek therapy, you're a loser.

Loser is his favorite word. God, does he ever suck.

Louis C.K. actually did a bit in his act Friday night about doing comedy shows at casinos and how little old ladies give their quarters to Donald Trump. They give him their money because he needs it more than they do.

Louis said (and I'm paraphrasing), "Donald Trump needs a billion dollars. He needs it. He has a billion-dollar deficit in his soul he needs to fill."

We need to remove the stigma from seeking help for mental illness. YOUR BRAIN IS PART OF YOUR BODY. Sorry to go all-caps on you. But I just wonder how ignorant people are that they don't think mental health is just as important as physical health.

MENTAL HEALTH IS PHYSICAL HEALTH.

I remember once a few years ago, when I first started going to counseling, I ran into a coworker on her way into the office as I was walking out. She asked where I was headed and I said, "I have an appointment with my counselor."

She acted like I shouldn't have said it out loud. Please, give me a break. After Charles's death, I'd have been embarrassed if I didn't go to counseling.

Also, I have so little tolerance for people and their bullshit embarrassment about stuff. Embarrassment is for suckers.

Seek help if you need it. Don't shame people who seek help. Encourage your children to express themselves using their words. Don't shame them for crying or for expressing emotion. Make sure they know that they can talk to someone other than you if they need to.

And, yes, having a gun is your right. Good for you, Mr. and Mrs. America. But simply because you can have something in your home, should you? I'm not saying yes or no. I don't have an opinion about it really. I don't think making guns illegal is reasonable. I don't think it would make much difference.

I'm only saying think about it. Consider what is best for you and your family.

I, personally, will never live with a gun in my home again. I can imagine no scenario in which I will change my mind. If the zombie apocalypse begins, I will use a badass sword like Michonne. But to each his own. You fight zombies your way, I'll fight them my way.

It's only that I have seen firsthand just how quickly and easily a gun can change your life and the lives of everyone you love. Might Charles have died anyway, at some point? Certainly he might have. But his suicide wasn't some planned-out thing. It was decided in a heartbeat. Might he have made this decision again later, driven by an impulse that would come again and again? I don't know. I will never know.


Tina has been unpacking boxes that were in storage for a bit. She sent me this photo she found.

This photo warms my heart and breaks it all at the same time. They're so beautiful, the three of them, and I know that I was the person they were smiling at.

It's Kate's tiny hand wrapped around Charles's finger that just tears me up inside.

It's Kate's tiny hand wrapped around Charles's finger that makes me so determined to shed light on dark topics. Things can go terribly wrong. We are human beings and we are not perfect. We are beaten up by this world in which, frankly, we do not seem to truly belong. Sometimes it seems like we don't come fully equipped for all that will befall us.

Admitting that is not shameful. Seeking help to get through the hard times is not shameful. Speaking out about mental and emotional health is not shameful. Discussing tragic events without using the words "loser" and "asshole" is not shameful. Offering love and compassion to those who falter is not shameful.

That is why we are here, isn't it? To love one another?

If not, then it's hard for me to see the point.

If you're here to spread ignorance about all the losers in the world via Twitter, then Louis C.K. is right. You have a billion-dollar deficit you need to fill.

Here's a quarter to help you get started.



Perfume commercials are ridiculous

If someone in real life acted the way celebrities do in perfume commercials, you would say:

A) "Where the hell are you running to all the time?"

B) "Why the fuck are you lying around rubbing a perfume bottle all over yourself?"

C) "Um, so you can't take your necklace off like a normal person?"

How to Have a Stress-Free Christmas

For Christmas, Jacob has asked that we see The Hobbit that day.

On Reddit, I saw this take on those Facebook posts about bullying and it made me laugh:

"The hobbit you just called fat? He's skipping 2nd breakfast. The dwarf woman you called ugly? She spends hours braiding her beard so you can differentiate her from a dwarf man. The Uruk-Hai you just killed? He's been abused by Saruman. See that Gollum creature with the gangly limbs & large eyes? For 500 years the Ring poisoned his mind. That Elf you just made fun of for crying? She just lost her wizard friend to a Balrog. Put this as your status if you're against bullying in Middle-Earth."

I also want to see Les Miserables and we both want to see Django Unchained.


Last year, we relaxed at home all Christmas Day. For dinner that night, I picked up takeout from the Chinese restaurant one Interstate exit down from ours. Best Christmas Ever.

I think we'll do the same this year but with a trip to the movie theater that afternoon. I know I feel more grateful for all the gifts the world has to offer when I'm living in the moment with my two favorite people.

Clooney Tuesday

I almost forgot that it's Clooney Tuesday. Here's a clip of George on the Merv Griffin Show. That outfit...Oh man, the total 80s-ness of that outfit.

If he was wearing this outfit today, I would still jump his bones. Yep, totally.

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Friday's Random Thoughts - A Letter to the Universe

“It isn't for the moment you are struck that you need courage, but for that long uphill climb back to sanity and faith and security.” ― Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Dear Universe,

Things have been tough for me the past several years. I'm sure you know this since you have been so busy dropping steaming piles of dog poop on my front porch, setting them on fire, and running away. Hardy har har. You're hilarious. 

I thank you for those piles. I have learned a lot putting out flames and cleaning up messes. 

Unfortunately, I have gotten into a habit of waiting for you to deliver something great to me to make up for all the crap. 

I suspect a lot of people do this. It's a pretty common tactic to deal with daily life. We like to believe in balance. Something horribly bad happens. We want to believe that something amazing will happen to make the bad thing seem like it happened for a reason. 

SHOW ME THE REASON. 

Yes, I'm yelling at you. Don't get all offended. I know you can take it. You are notoriously indifferent. You're like that hot guy with whom we keep sleeping and from whom we accept phone calls and texts even though we know he is the absolute worst, most selfish jerk on the planet. 

Universe, is it that you're just not that into me? 

The other day I was telling Tina about a scene in The Pursuit of Happyness, the Will Smith movie about a real man who went from homelessness to huge success. She said she hadn't seen it, because she knew it might be too much to take. 

"Oh yeah, it's definitely 'misfortune porn,'" I said. 

Misfortune porn is a movie in which the main character just keeps getting screwed nonstop until the very end. Then the main character gets his or her reward. 

The scene I was talking about was when Will Smith goes to his friend to ask that he repay the money Will loaned him. The friend doesn't have it and Will yells at him. It's a small amount, maybe $8. I can't remember. It is an amount so small that there are thousands of people in this world who would say, "What's the big deal?" 

Tina works for a company that often sends out checks to folks. She sometimes gets frantic phone calls from people wondering where their checks are. Some of those checks are for $42. 

Yesterday, on Facebook, a friend posted an update about how a new set of tires for some ridiculous car would cost $17,000, but if you can afford this car, a $1.2 million vehicle, then it would barely be worth your time to bend over and pick up $20,000 if you dropped it. 

That's hard to imagine. 

It's interesting how perspective changes as income does. 

I once watched an episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show during which Oprah expressed shock that a guest on the show didn't change her bedsheets every day. EVERY DAY. That is the shock of someone who obviously employs household staff and does not change or launder her own sheets. That is the shock of someone whose perspective has changed. 

I don't know what my point is other than that $20,000 is a lot of money. $42 is a lot of money. $8 can be the difference between eating a meal that night or going to bed hungry. And changing your bedsheets every day is ridiculous. 

There are a lot of people who think they have more money than other people because they deserve it, that the universe is rewarding them for how good they are. 

Incidentally, I believe this fallacy is the fire that fuels much of America's hatred for its poor. I believe this is why Donald Trump has a platform for his disgusting point of view while so many others are silenced. I believe this is why there is a such a snide attitude toward people who struggle financially. It makes me sad, not for the poverty-stricken, but for the people who are so full of hate for their fellow man. I bet all that hate gives them heartburn. They should try chewing on some perspective. 

This belief that the universe rewards and punishes based on goodness is what fuels the mistaken opinion that a victim was "asking for it," that a person has "gotten what was coming to him." 

This widespread belief that the universe rewards and punishes us justly is proof that most of us haven't learned much in our short time on this planet. 

It's interesting how perspective changes as circumstances do. 

The problem with looking to the universe for a reason is that, if you aren't being rewarded in some manner, you start to wonder what you are doing wrong, what you are failing to learn. 

This can lead a person to believe she is being punished. Then she must question why. She will do this at night when her defenses are down. 

Looking for a reason, waiting for it to be revealed in some dramatic flourish, might work for some people, but it is not healthy for me. I have learned this much at least. 

I have also realized that I am unnecessarily cruel to myself. 

Yesterday evening, I worked out for the first time in two months. That two-month span is the longest I have gone without working out in more than four years. I couldn't tell you why I stopped. One day, I didn't want to do it and then I kept not wanting to do it. I didn't even make excuses. I only said to myself, "No, I don't want to." 

So, when I worked out last night, I should have been happy with myself for doing so. I should have given myself a pat on the back. Instead, I kept thinking how much I hated myself for getting out of shape, for gasping during the workout, for having to chug water every few minutes. 

I am constantly stunned by the awful things I will say to myself, things I would never say to or believe about another person. 

Tomorrow is the 14th Annual International Survivors of Suicide Day. This is not about people who have survived suicide attempts. It is for those who have survived a loss by suicide. They call it "a day of healing for bereavement after suicide." 

Sometimes I wonder if I should stop writing about this, as if my time should be up on trying to figure out what the fuck just happened here. 

That's how it feels. There is no better way to express it. It happened. Days and years can go by, and there is still part of me that is standing in my garage thinking, "What the fuck just happened here?" 

Sometimes I have to physically shake my head, to attempt to shake off these memories that haunt me. 

God, I hate that kind of talk. Memories that haunt me. Blech. Shut the fuck up, Amy. 

The term "suicide survivor" seems odd and not quite right for those left behind. When someone dies in a car crash, his family is not referred to as car crash survivors. But I guess there is no other way to say it really. 

And it is, no doubt, a work of survival. On a daily basis, you must find a way to breath when the question of why, when the searching for a reason, threatens to drown you in its salty depths. 

The reason why will never be enough, no matter what it is. That is the problem. I have read enough from other survivors to know that some of them are in pain because the person left a note and some of them are in pain because there was no note. Some of them are in pain because the reason is obvious. Some of them are in pain because they cannot figure out the reason. 

(Maybe the reason is lack of reason.) 

Charles left a suicide note. Not many people know that, actually. The police didn't find it. It was on the kitchen counter. Even when the cleaning crew came in, even when a friend of mine followed behind to clean again, it was not discovered. They might have seen it, but they simply did not recognize it for what it was. 

When I came back to my house after more than a week away, I went through a stack of papers someone had cleaned off the kitchen counter. One of them was the receipt from Kate's school registration. 

It was no wonder no one noticed the note on it. 

It was only two short lines at the bottom of the print-out. It was written in what I always called Charles's "rock-star handwriting" because his signature was an illegible autograph scrawled in haste.

Maybe it was only right that a mustached man in a uniform didn't find it. Charles meant for me to see it, much like everything else that happened that night. 

I called the detective who'd come the night Charles died and told him about the note. He came by the house to pick it up. He asked how I was, if everyone had been kind to me at the funeral. Yes, of course, I told him. 

"It's not always that way," he said. 

He took the note back to the station to make a copy. He kept the original. He said this was in case anyone ever questioned the circumstances of Charles's death. 

Can you imagine this, that your life might unfold (unravel?) in such a way that someone could conjure up this  maybe, this possibly, this what if? 

What the fuck just happened here?

What am I to do with this note? Look to it for answers? Memorize it? Tuck it away in a box? 

The reason is lack of perspective. 

I seek perspective. I crave it. I fight daily for it. 

After I worked out and berated myself for my oh-so-many failings, I texted Tina and told her that it is clear to me that I got lost somewhere along the way since 2009. I can handle this, I said to myself and to those who love me. But then I fell in a sinkhole of my own disappointment.

I catch myself wishing to be the person I was before, working it over in my mind how I can get there again. I find myself listing silly things about the me of before: I ate oatmeal for breakfast every day. I drank Diet Coke. I ate a half a turkey sandwich for lunch almost every day. I worked out every afternoon at 4:30. I did yoga. What if I did all those things again? Could I go back to being the person who, let's face it, I have romanticized into some "golden days" version of who I really was.

Now I tell myself this: I cannot keep sitting around waiting for the universe to bring me some great thing that will make it all seem OK. I cannot keep wallowing in my disappointment. 

"We're going to have to take matters into our own hands," I told Tina.

Do you hear me?

I am determined to start moving again.

I am determined to be kinder to myself.

I am determined to stop focusing on my self-perceived failures. 

I am determined to have perspective. 

I am determined to see the greatness and beauty that surrounds me every day. 

I am determined to be grateful every day for all I have that money could never buy. 

What I believe I must do in the process is release my tight grip on the book I have written and what I see as its failure to matter. I have attached too much significance to it, as if it will be the way I redeem myself for failing to save someone from his own destruction. 

I know enough to know that I could not save him. I don't seem to know enough yet to feel that I could not save him. 

I must attempt to, as the wonderful Todd Childs likes to say, "Give that shit to Jesus." 

There is a balance between feeling like someone who is giving up and someone who is letting go, and I am determined to find it.

I am not giving up on my book. I must only give up the idea that the monetary value of something I have written is indicative of the value of my life, of my worth as a person, or that it is the trick to earning forgiveness for myself.

This is how one survives, I think.

On days of bereavement.

On days of healing.

On days when the sun is shining and the fall color outside my window is so stunning that it makes me want to cry. 

"I'm so sorry. This is very hard."

That is what he wrote. 

That is all. 

It is an answer. It is a truth. 

It is why I write and write and write and never come to the end, to the grand and glorious reckoning I so foolishly desire. 

I have written thousands upon thousands of words, and it occurs to me again and again that all I have written is only another way of saying, "I'm so sorry. This is very hard."

As the leaves fall from the trees, I can see above and beyond the houses across the street from me. I can see the wide expanse of peaks and valleys that is invisible to me when everything is in bloom. 

I can see so clearly the gorgeousness that happens when things end, when the ending is really only something beginning again. 

I cry and rant and lock myself in the prison of asking why. 

But then I shake it off. I look outside. I fight for my own freedom. I keep moving. I attempt to accept with gratitude what the universe brings me. 

I begin again. 

“The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same nor would you want to.” ― Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler

Survivors

International Survivors of Suicide Day
On Saturday, November 17, survivors of suicide loss gather together in locations around the world to feel a sense of community, to promote healing, and to connect with others like them.

For more information or to find a gathering near you, click here to visit the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention website.

If you are in crisis, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255). 

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Advice in a Time of Loss

Two days ago a friend reached out to me for advice on talking to her child about suicide. A friend, the mother of one of her son's classmates, died this week.

My friend was in shock and reeling. It's the kind of death that leaves too many unanswered questions, regrets, anger.

It will leave so many people in nearly unbearable pain. My heart aches for them, because I know that this is only the beginning. In fact, the beginning is almost easy compared to the rest, because your body and mind go into shock. It is a protection that doesn't last long, but while it does you can do what must be done. You can follow the steps that we, as a society, have chosen to follow when confronted with death. Visitations and funerals and easy dinners in casserole dishes.

Sometimes I feel as if I am someone waking up from a long coma. And maybe that's something I would say to people: Stay still for a bit. Breathe in and out.

My heart hurts for everyone who has to go through this.

My heart hurts when people say, "How could she do this to her children?" or "I would never do this to my children."

I need people to stop saying that. I don't just mean that I want it or it would be nice. I need it. I need it like a heart needs to beat and lungs need air.

So this is always my first piece of advice: Don't say those things.

I know you want to and I understand it. Of course, I do. But here is what I know for a fact: This statement only tells those children and the world that their parent didn't love them enough. And that is simply not true. It tells the child that if his father had only loved him enough, he would have stayed alive. This statement makes the child believe that he was not enough. Imagine how children blame themselves for their parents' divorces and how much that hurts them. Now imagine what they might do when you say, "I would never..." and they take on the weight of blame for their own parent's death.

My ex-husband loved his children with all his heart. He once posted a photo album online titled "My Life" and it was all photos of our two children. When he wasn't with them, he called them every single day to say, "I love you." He never once forgot.

So you can think it. Of course, you will think it. In private, in the dark, at night when the lights are out and you are wondering how this could happen. You will need a way to reassure yourself that this could never happen to you. And that statement - I would never - does the job. Hang onto it.

But it isn't really true.

In the years since Charles's death, I have been to the depths of my spirit. I have struggled with depression. During a really bad patch, I thought these words every single day: "I could kill myself." I would push it away, but it was there, this knowledge of something that might end my pain. I'm not really sure how I got through it. I think the line between those of us who make it and those who don't is much thinner than any of us want to believe.

That's how depression works. It lies to you. It whispers in your ear. It tells you that the world and everyone you love and know would be better off without you. It tells you that this pain will never go away. It tells you that life could go on for everyone else and that you could just rest. Because you are exhausted. You are emotionally bereft. You are lost in a darkness so black and unending that there is no "light at the end of the tunnel."

You can't just snap out of it. (More advice: Don't say that to someone who is struggling.) There is no perspective. (More advice: Don't say, "It could be worse." When you tell someone that their problem isn't that bad, that person will only feel worse for being so unbearably upset over something that's "not that bad.")

There is no thinking straight.

And so this is the other thing I share with people. When you talk to your children about someone's death by suicide, you must tell them that the person was ill. Because they were.

No one seems to want to talk about mental illness but it is no less important an issue and no less dangerous to the body than cancer.

When I told my children that their father had died - and please have no doubt that this was the hardest thing I have ever had to do - I told them that Daddy wasn't thinking straight. He was sick in his head and he was in pain. I said to them that he never would have done this if he had been in his right mind.

If you stop for a moment and think about it, you will know this is true. And you can find a way to explain it to children in this way. Your friend's mommy was in pain. She was lost. She was sick. Sometimes people make a decision that they never would have made otherwise.

I definitely understand the anger that comes when something like this happens. I spent so many nights wanting to scream at Charles. I would drive alone and, at the top of my lungs, I would yell, "Fuck you." Sometimes I would whisper it. Sometimes it still comes back at me, like a charging bull.

Speak about happy times to the children of those who die by suicide. Share your good memories. One of my favorite things is to suddenly be reminded of a funny story about Charles and to share it with my kids. It can be as small as Ice Ice Baby coming on the iPod and us laughing about how their dad used to dance to it, poorly and without rhythm.

It is with these stories that, while you cannot keep your lost friend alive, you can keep the LOVE of that friend alive. You can show that child that his or her parent was important and cherished.

Even when he was lost in a forest so dark it swallowed all hope, your parent never stopped loving you.

And if your child wants to talk about the sadness, let them. Take them to counseling and let them know that they can go back whenever they want to talk about things. Go to counseling yourself and say all the things out loud that you have been whispering to yourself at night. Let your counselor tell you that the night is full of lies. Believe her.

Christopher Hitchens once wrote of Francisco Goya's Los Caprichos, a series of etchings that included one "where a man in defenseless slumber is hag-ridden by bats, owls, and other haunters of the darkness." El sueno de la razon produce monstrous. "The sleep of reason brings forth monsters."

You must shine a light on the dark things that will attack you at night when your defenses are down.

Seek out friends who will listen. Do your own fair share of listening, too.

I try not to focus too much on all the things Charles is missing and will miss, but that doesn't mean the truth of it, the charging bull, doesn't knock me off my feet sometimes. That doesn't mean I don't wish every day that I could change the past. 

But mostly I think of Charles with love and forgiveness and understanding. And part of why I must do that is because I need kind of desperately to offer myself those same things. 

So that's my other piece of advice I give people when they ask. Don't look for ways to blame each other for what has happened. 

Forgive the person you have lost because you must do this in order to forgive yourself.

Love one another.

If you are in Shreveport October 20, please join us for the Out of the Darkness Walk to benefit the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. You don't need money or to train for a 5k. Click here to join our team. 

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Out of the Darkness

2009

This fall, cities across America will host Out of the Darkness Community Walks to raise funds and awareness for The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention’s research and education programs, increasing national awareness about depression and suicide, and assisting survivors of suicide loss.

I hope you'll think about joining us, wherever you live, to walk in memory of those we have lost and in an effort to help other families avoid this type of devastating loss.

Last year, we walked in Birmingham (read about our experience here: A Life Well-Laughed), but this year we'll travel to Shreveport to walk in the city where Charles was born and raised and where so many of his beloved friends and family still live.

I hope you'll join our team. Register here for the walk, to be held at 9 am October 20 at LSU-Shreveport. Visit our team page, For Charles, to join or donate.

Last year, I wrote an essay about why we were walking. I thought I'd share it again here. Thanks so much to all our family and friends for their support and love.

For Charles

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
- W.S. Merwin

When I was a newspaper reporter ten years ago, I interviewed an elderly gentleman whose wife had passed away from Alzheimer’s. We met at a community center and he invited me to sit down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, in gray metal folding chairs at a long table. He opened a thick photo album and slid it along the table so that it rested between us, one page in front of him, the other in front of me.

The album held a series of photographs slid into place behind protective plastic. He’d put it together after his wife’s death and he’d placed the pictures in order, beginning with snapshots from the time when they first met.

His wife was lovely in that way that all people are in photos from their youth. She had light hair that lay in soft waves around her face. She had a generous and wide smile. There is something magical about the passage of time that makes us forget to criticize and point out imperfections. I challenge you to pull out old photos of your grandparents or your parents. Just look at them. They were the most beautiful people on earth, weren’t they? You can see it, can’t you? The way we twist ourselves up into knots over our flaws, our fat thighs and our big noses and our frizzy hair. Yet, these things are magically invisible when you look at the past. Is it perhaps because they were never real to begin with?

For several pages, the images of the man’s wife were full of life and spirit, her eyes bright. Next to a Christmas tree. Beside a brand new car. Surrounded by children. She grew older. Wrinkles appeared around her eyes. But you could still see them, the eyes of the happy girl from the early pages of the album.

Eventually, her smile disappeared. Her eyes were not joyful but merely confused as though she was asking a question that no one could answer. She became lost, somewhere in the maze of her mind, and her eyes were empty.

The last photo was of her sitting in an armchair and the image itself was fuzzy as though the camera could not focus anymore either.

“Can you see?” he asked me. “Do you see how she faded away?”

He needed to tell his story so that someone else could see what he saw. Lately, I have begun to wonder if this is what we humans, so screwed up and breathtakingly beautiful, need most of all. To be heard. Certainly we need love but love is more than a noun. Love is a verb. It is an action word. That act is, in large part, listening.

2008

When Charles, my ex-husband and the father of my two children, committed suicide two years ago, maybe he was only trying to get someone (me) to listen. We look for answers, we who are left behind, and we compile albums full of images from the past. The albums reside on shelves in our minds and they are thick and heavy and water-logged (it rains a lot in here). The shelves are built along twisting pathways in the brains’ labyrinth of cells and neurons. The shelves sag beneath the weight of messages that have yet to be decoded.

It’s so fitting that a labyrinth, that structure from Greek mythology, looks like something you might draw if someone handed you a sharpened pencil and a piece of paper and asked you to draw a brain. Daedalus built the maze for King Minos to house the Minotaur, a creature that was half-man and half-bull and to whom seven young men and seven young women were sacrificed every nine years. Even Daedalus couldn’t find his way out of the structure he’d designed without a clue, a long length of thread provided by Ariadne that would lead him out again.

When you go wandering through the labyrinth of your memories, you need something to tether you to the world beyond yourself. You need something to pull you out again before the Minotaur finds you. He’s in there waiting, pacing the curving paths, his breath so hot and heavy that you can feel it on your bare skin as you run. His name is Regret. His name is Guilt. His name is Anger. He’ll trap you inside if you let him.

After Charles died, I thought of the elderly man and his photo album. He’d lost his wife long before she died. “Do you see her here in this picture? See how she wandered away?” So I looked at photos of Charles to see if he had started to fade away, too. When had it happened? I couldn’t see it. His smile was wide and bright in the photos from the summer of 2009 before his death on August 3. He had shaved his head and it was smooth and he had grown out his red beard and it was scruffy. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular.

My memories, though, are like that old man’s photo album. I flipped through them identifying the places where Charles became less and less himself, when the Minotaur had him in its grasp.
See, I lost him long before he died, too. I lost him to drugs. I lost him to divorce. When he had no place else to go, I let him stay in my house and yet I can see now that he was no longer really there.

Afterward, I lost myself for a time. I felt the Minotaur’s hot breath on my neck.

“It’s hard to fight an enemy who has outposts in your head.” Sally Kempton, a former journalist who now teaches meditation, said this. It is one of those things that is TRUE in all capital letters. I keep it written on a list of things that I do not have to question. These things are on a piece of paper in an album on a shelf in my head. Above this Truth Shelf is a sign that reminds me of the truest thing: This too shall pass.

I am like that old man. I want to take my album off the shelf and show it to you.

Here we are when our son is born. He is 9 lbs, 10 ozs. He is the whole world cradled in our arms. Can you see him? It is 13 years before Charles’s death. Here we are when our daughter is born. She is petite and soft. She is the whole world cradled in our arms. See how full of life she is? It is 9 years before Charles’s death.

Here’s an image of me and Charles in my kitchen watching the crotchety old lady next door throw leaves and sticks from her yard into mine. Here’s us waiting for her to disappear into her house and then we’re running outside in the dark, picking up huge armloads of dried leaves and dumping them over the fence back into her yard. Here’s us running inside and laughing so hard we are clutching our sides and gasping for breath. Do you see us? It is 10 months before Charles’s death.

I strive each day to give these happy images as much weight as the others, the ones that are at the end of the album. When Charles lost his battle with a monster. When he said he wanted to die and then he did.

I talk about him to our children. Remember how Dad sang this goofy song to wake us up? Remember how Dad always fell asleep in movies? Remember how he called every day and said I love you? You have his nose. You have his eyes. You are beautiful. You have his heart.

I’ve been told more than once that suicide is a taboo subject in this country. The people who have told me this may be right, but they are wrong in assuming that this will stop me from telling my story or looking for others who need to tell theirs. Something is only taboo if we allow it to be. We are silenced only if we agree to be silent.

I need to speak aloud the name of someone I will always love. I need to raise my children in the light of truth, in a place where they have permission to cry and laugh and remember. Where they know that they are heard.

Each day I forgive myself anew for not listening and loving as well as I wish I had. By listening now, I can keep the Minotaur at bay. None of us has to be alone in the maze.

My children and I will walk for someone we love but we also will walk for others. You really don’t have to look too hard for the meaning of life. It is simple and it is this: We are here to love one another. We are here to listen.

We would love for you to walk with us. If you are beside us, we will match our pace to yours. If you have a story you need to tell, we will listen. Here, reach out your hand. Take the end of this thread. Hold fast to it. We can show each other the way out.

Related links:
A Life Well-Laughed
For Charles - Fundraising and Team Page
Why I Gave Up Football
The American - In Which George Clooney Mortifies My Son
Making Peace With Hemingway

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A Speech About Grief & Loss

This is a beautiful, heartfelt speech Vice President Joe Biden recently gave to family members of fallen military heroes. He is candid about his struggles after the deaths of his wife and daughter, about depression and just how low it can take you. The speech is amazingly touching and a must-listen for anyone who has experienced grief. It is worth your time. 

"I probably shouldn't say this to the press here...but...no, but it's more important. You're more important..."

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An Enormous Green Rage Monster

"That's my secret, Captain. I'm always angry."
- Bruce Banner, The Avengers

I was reminded again this morning why I gave up watching Today. I found, on a regular basis, the morning program was making me angry or sad or simply irritated by this country's fixation on the stupid and shallow. If it's not Joy Bauer telling me, for the zillionth time, not to drink diet soda, it's Ann Curry making me uncomfortable with her overly earnest questioning style.

This morning, I turned it on just in time to hear a report on Mary Richardson Kennedy, the late wife of Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. Mary committed suicide last week. By all accounts, she suffered with depression and addiction for years. She and RFK Jr have been separated and RFK filed for divorce in December 2010.

"Mary suffered from depression. Her whole life she was battling, battling those demons," a friend of hers was saying, when I first turned on the TV.

Then this from the reporter: "Kennedy watchers say the Richardson family feels Robert Kennedy didn't do enough to help Mary. And photos like this of Kennedy and actress Cheryl Hines, the two reportedly dating, didn't help."

Oh my God, seriously? Cheryl Hines, this is not your fault. Don't let any assholes on Today make you think otherwise.

Then some old man, whose name they didn't bother putting on the screen, said, "Mary's sisters say if Mary hadn't met Robert Kennedy, she would probably still be alive."

If you "google" stories about the funeral, which Robert Kennedy did not attend, you find quotes from unnamed sources saying Mary didn't have a history of depression, that this is Robert's fault, that "we didn't know her that way."

And here's the thing, "friends": No, you didn't know her that way. And you don't know when she would have died had she not met Robert Kennedy. It could have been sooner. Playing the "what if" game gets you nowhere. I tried it. What if I hadn't met Charles? We wouldn't have our children and how can I now imagine a world without them? What if I'd left him at the right time? When would that have been? What if I'd driven him to rehab just one more time, third time's the charm? What if I'd never been born?

People constantly shock me with their insistence that everything there is to know about a person is right on the surface, always on display for the world to see. Or that they know what goes on behind closed doors between two people in a marriage.

I can say, for a fact, that innumerable people were shocked when my ex-husband committed suicide. "Was he depressed?" people asked me.

He was a drug addict. He'd been fired from his job. He didn't have a place to live. He was broke and in debt. Yes, he was having a hard time.

Oh, he made you laugh? He seemed OK when you ran into him at the gas station?

Well, sure, that's all you need to know then.

After Charles died, someone messaged me and said, "I've been thinking about you. I looked on Facebook and I'm glad to see you're doing OK."

Really? I looked OK on Facebook? I'm so glad because at night I was imagining myself committing suicide in the garage where Charles died. Oh, you didn't see that status update? Because why the fuck would I put that as my status update?

I know I sound angry. I've been going through a phase lately. I think, perhaps, it's the way I mentally pull myself out of a depression. It gives me a boost of energy, even if it's the energy of a green-skinned beast. Recently, someone made a comment about me making peace with Charles's death. Underneath this comment, there was the sound of a ticking clock. I know people who can't make peace with insignificant bull shit that happened to them in high school twenty years ago, but somehow I should be completely at peace with something that happened less than three years ago in the place where I live.

The complicated truth of the matter is that when my children celebrate their birthdays each May, I feel angry that their father isn't here. I feel sad that Charles doesn't get to take Jacob to get his driver's license. I feel happy that I am here to give the driving lessons, to see Kate and Jacob grow into amazing people. And I also accept it. I can feel all those things simultaneously.

Emotion is a one-stop shop. You can toss all of the available products into your basket at once: a loaf of sadness, a jar of denial, a can of whoop-ass.

Anger is part of the grieving process. It comes and goes. No one likes it. They want to shame you for it.

According to their chatty friends, Mary Kennedy's family is angry. I don't want to shame them for it. It's natural. Some of that anger may help them get through this horrible time. Anger has energy. It is nearly impossible to lie in bed and cry when you are angry.

The difference between us is probably only that my favorite target for my anger is myself and a dead man and a God I'm not sure I believe in. I am the RFK of this situation, the one who didn't do enough, who left an addict who couldn't sober up, who selfishly tried to move on with her life, who committed the serious crime of wanting to be happy.

What people need to know is that the five stages of grief are not stages. Everyone should stop believing that lie. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross who came up with this theory even said that these stages are not complete or chronological. They do not happen in a nice, neat order. I'm in denial. Now I'm angry. Now I'm bargaining. Now I'm depressed. Now I accept it all. Yea me. I sure hope I did all this in a time frame acceptable to society at large.

If you don't really understand grief, just understand this: Stop putting those sort of crap expectations on your friends.

Your friend might be angry today and then tomorrow she might be depressed and the next day she might be fine, happily going about her chores. That one day of being fine does not mean she gives up her right to express outrage over what is undeniably the most horrendous, unfair tragedy of her and her children's lives.

A friend posted this to her Facebook page today and it beautifully expresses what is at the heart of the expectations we place on people. We love them and we want them to be happy and we wish desperately we could repair the damage they have suffered: "When you can't mend what is broken at the center of a friend's life, you learn a deeper truth; how to accept the unacceptable and, however slowly, move along together." ~ Catherine Calver

When I first went to counseling, I talked about something cruel someone said to me. My counselor said, "If you need a mental punching bag for awhile, let it be her."

Sometimes that's what you need. Sometimes you need a small player who does not matter at all in your life story to be the target of your rage.

You figure out pretty quickly who you give a damn about and who can suck it. You also figure out who you can call (for me it's my mom) when you need to cry about something you've cried about a hundred times already or you need to rant about the fools and assholes of the world. Because you can accept the wound, certainly you can, but it doesn't mean that wound doesn't still bleed.

I think it's terribly sad that there is a reported rift between these two families because there are children involved. It will do those children no good whatsoever to have half their family members blaming their father for something that is not his fault.

I'm always amazed when people blame a husband or wife of an addict and say he or she didn't do enough to help the person. Seriously? I'd love to meet all these people who have the secret for helping addicts. I sometimes want to ask these self-righteous folks to imagine what they could do that would make them deserve the weight of blame for someone else's suicide. Cheating? Yikes, watch out. There's a ton of cheaters out there. Lying? Spending too much money?

What if your worst crime is leaving someone who uses drugs and won't stop? Being incapable of working the magic spell that makes an addict sober? Moving on with your life after years of a painful marriage? How dare you do things to save yourself from being the one who chose the Hemingway solution. You should have done more to help this other person.

But it's not true. You can do all you can, but you also must put the oxygen mask on yourself first.

I hope that Mary's family will grow to understand that one man cannot carry the weight of that blame. It's a tragedy. Mary, like her friend on Today said, was battling demons. Sometimes those demons win.

You can get good and pissed off about it. You should because it's awful and wrong. You can be angry that your thousands upon thousands of prayers weren't answered. But try to direct your anger at things and people who don't matter a bit in the grand scheme of things, like the Kardashians or Snooki's literary agent.

Try to offer love and forgiveness to the people who are working their way through this new, broken world with you, the people who actually do matter.

On good days, you will wake up and feel less like an enormous, discolored version of yourself knocking airplanes out of the sky. You will feel mild-mannered and your demeanor will be socially acceptable. You will be Bruce Banner. You can accomplish great things.

And no one really has to know that beneath your calm surface, there is an enormous green rage monster waiting to get out.

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This Is How It's Done

I don't have any secrets for getting through the loss of a loved one to suicide. I wish I did. I only know that you don't get through it and dock successfully on the other side of a stormy lake to find blue skies and calm waters.

You must live with it. I'm only just now figuring that out.

But here's one thing I do know. You can live with it with grace and kindness.

This is a post my mother wrote on Charles's page about two weeks ago.

We could choose anger.
We could choose to become pawns in a devil's game of blame and resentment, a game no one can win.

Or we can choose to remember the lovely moments. We can choose joy and light.

While I'm busy learning lessons about things that don't end, about things that stay with you forever, I'm also busy learning this:

The thing that makes the loss of someone bearable is the fact that you can still love that person, that love doesn't end either.

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Zombies Come With Trigger Warnings

Note: This is a warning. Sometimes I need to write about certain topics, such as the suicide of a loved one and post-traumatic stress. Not everyone needs to read about them. 

On the Web site Jezebel.com, a lot of the comments beneath a post come with a "trigger warning." The term comes up often on stories about rape. The site is targeted at women and it makes sense, I guess, that the site's audience is sensitive to the issue of violent assault or eating disorders or post-traumatic stress. Sometimes there are comments criticizing the author for failing to provide a "trigger warning" at the top of the post. (Jezebel doesn't use trigger warnings.)

I actually don't have an opinion one way or the other about the use of these "warnings" (though, apparently, it's the topic of some debate). Frankly, I do not expect others to be responsible for what might or might not upset me. I'm a big girl.

I often wonder if people, knowing what their triggers are, ever stop reading the story once they see the warning. Or do they take a deep breath and wade into the danger zone. Maybe they do this knowing they might get knocked down by a wave, but they take the chance because they also might find an answer to a question they can't stop asking.

This song should come with a trigger warning. 

There are no such warnings on stories about suicide.

I don't suppose that it would really matter. A "trigger warning" would not stop me from reading. I usually jump right into those stories, even knowing that the comments below probably will set me off. That I will see the word "selfish" typed out a hundred times. That I will grow tense and my hands will tremble with anger when I read this phrase: "I would never do that to my children."

I can easily spot the people who have never actually experienced the loss of a loved one to suicide. They are the ones who don't know what they're talking about. They are the ones who demonstrate a marked ignorance about depression or addiction or the reality that what could happen to you in your lifetime has nothing to do with your self-perceived superiority.

I have to stop myself from diving into the comment thread and ranting about how I'd like to banish that particular phrase, the one that tells children of suicides that they do not have their mother or father with them because their parent just didn't love them enough to bother staying alive. That it's too bad they didn't have these perfect parents who would never do anything to hurt their families, these know-it-all jackholes who are probably screwing people other than their spouses and shoving their fat faces with artery-clogging crap and drinking and smoking and driving too fast and feeling smug about how selfless they are.

See? That's what happens. I start muttering my new favorite phrase from the book I'm reading right now. "Everyone is a motherfucker. Everyone."

So, yeah, maybe a warning would be helpful.

But probably not.

In truth, I am prepared for all that when I see a story about suicide. I know what lies ahead.

Recently, Todd said that he thought my ability to watch The Walking Dead (and my enthusiasm in discussing the zombie apocalypse) was a sign that I was getting better. Because we all know there's only one way to kill a zombie.

And he could be right. I should confess, though, that I do watch certain parts of the show with my hands over my eyes. I have my guard up. I'm ready. I know how zombies must die.

There are no trigger warnings on movies that include suicide because that would be a spoiler. There are no trigger warnings on movies in which someone is killed with a shotgun. Again, that would be a spoiler.

Spoilers ahead...

When Jacob and I went to see Inception a couple of years ago, neither of us could have known that Leonardo DiCaprio's character would witness his wife's suicide. The worst part was that I could feel Jacob glancing over at me repeatedly. I could feel his worry, thick in the air of the darkened movie theater. I think I can accept a lot of the bull shit that happens in this world, but I can not accept that my 14-year-old had to worry about his mother's response to a movie scene. He should only have had to sit there and watch his favorite actor. He should have had to do nothing more than try to figure out what in the holy hell was happening in whichever dream within a dream we were currently lost.

Several months ago, when Todd and I went to see Drive, the movie starring Ryan Gosling as a stunt car driver, I was prepared for the typical action movie violence. I was not prepared for Christina Hendricks' head to get blown off with a shotgun. I was not prepared to think about all the things I knew that the other moviegoers might not. Like how it would smell. (Unfortunately, Todd has to know this particular thing, too.) I had to leave the movie theater. I had to pace back and forth in the hall for a few minutes.

That has happened before, this need to immediately stand up and walk back and forth with no destination. It is the perfect example of the impotence of the fight-or-flight response when the threat that requires fleeing or fighting is in your past and not your present.

But even these situations are not completely unexpected. I watch the trailers. I know there will be guns and violence.

It's the truly unexpected places that really get me.

This is why I can watch The Walking Dead, but I can no longer watch Cougar Town. It seems insane, doesn't it, that a silly sitcom could be bothersome, but it is. One of their favorite comedic moves is the suicide gesture, the I'm-so-bored-and/or-you're-so-stupid-I-could-die move. I'd gotten used to that.

When the new (and, I suspect, the last) season started recently, one of the episodes included a storyline about how one of the couples poses for photographs depicting the wife killing the husband with various and violent methods. The photographs were gruesome. I failed to see the humor. I didn't even try.

Not long after, my mom mentioned to me that she had stopped watching the show because of that episode. "I kept thinking about you and I decided not to watch it anymore."

It was obviously more difficult in the beginning, after Charles first died. For months, my guard was up constantly. You don't actually realize this is the case until you reach a magical moment when your guard is down, when your body is not tense and ready for danger like some soldier on night duty. Suddenly, you recognize the state you have been in. You see just how much effort you have been exerting to protect your broken brain.

I imagine this is only a tiny fraction of what actual soldiers must feel when they come home from war. When, restless and tense, they must pace back and forth through quiet and ordinary days.

One day I watched an episode of Mad Men in which one of the secretaries riding a lawn mower ran over a man's foot. Blood splattered up onto the shocked faces of those standing nearby.

The scene was played for laughs. It is often cited as one of the show's funnier moments.

I burst into tears and cried painfully for several minutes.

That was the fall of 2009 and it was the first time I realized that it wasn't just shotguns going off or suicides that could get me. It was blood splatter.

Hell, eventually I realized it's not just blood splatter. I hate that Ocean Spray commercial where the young, dumb guy turns on the blender with the lid off and cranberry flies everywhere. How ridiculous is that?

One day not very long ago, I was putting away groceries and I dropped a jar of spaghetti sauce. The glass shattered and red sauce spread across the white tile floor between the refrigerator and the door leading to the garage.

I knelt down and I cleaned it with paper towels and I thought about how stupid it all is and I remembered.

"You can remember..." That is what he said to me before he did it.

Then I went to my bedroom and shut the door and I cried while things that should have been in the freezer defrosted in puddles on the kitchen counter.

In an attempt to protect myself, I feel like I am constantly trying to prepare myself for something that has already happened, something for which no one could possibly ever be prepared. I worry because I am not prepared for the next bad thing, whatever it might be.

Lately, I have had to face the knowledge that I thought I would be a lot better by now. That life would be a lot better, i.e. easier. That I was owed easier and the universe has failed to deliver.

There must be a room along the brain's twisting pathways and the sign on the door reads "Department of Naive Optimism." This room is where the brain employs all the drooling morons, holding oversized rainbow suckers and helium-filled balloons, and wearing tiny red beanie hats with yellow propellers on top. I think all the workers in that department look like that dumb kid with the flat top haircut and the striped shirt from The Far Side.

It is these drooling fools who trick you into thinking something impossible will be easy.

When my mom told me about her Cougar Town boycott, I told her about the "trigger warnings" that I often see on those stories about rape. How I need that warning on these stupid comedy shows in case I have my guard down.

I said, "Trigger warning. Ha! The perfect term.

"Even the warning is a trigger."

I think that, despite my zombie fangirl status and my eagerness to discuss how the apocalypse will go down, I would never actually be on the front lines, holding a gun (much less shooting one) and protecting my brain.

I would probably follow the advice of my spirit animal, Tina Fey.

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