Small things

Well I survived my suicide intervention training. And I am teaching my first workshop on June 8. I purged myself on tears for two days after that training. I couldn't stop crying. I needed to sit in the filth of suicide for a few days. I'm glad I did that workshop. I'm glad I finally said out loud to other professionals that I am a suicide survivor and that the work we do matters. One of the people in my group was the woman who ran my suicide bereavement group 13 years ago after my Dad died. It was so weird to see her, she knows all my demons, she has watched me cry for 2 two straight hours and barely come up for a breath. I attended that group 2 months after my Dad died and she gave me the right to grieve. She was the first person who told me straight that it was not my fault that my Dad died and that no one had the right to blame me, especially myself. And there she was - sitting in a room as my colleague and learning right along side me. It tripped me out for the first two days and I felt mute in the groups. I thought I could not do it. And yet, it is done and I feel different, bathed in some kind of redemption. I feel like something someone did mattered - and I had forgotten about it and certainly she could not understand her impact. I remembered the small things do matter A LOT.

I'm learning to apply this to my sister. I am not a capable messenger of this yet. I wanted her to see her kids on Mother's Day and we got her presents and got her daughter and it was a bit of a dis-jointed day but it worked. It was small. It mattered to her. But here's the catch. You would think it would provide me with so much joy and love to see this small thing happen. I feel so cold and stale. I feel incapable of joy with my sister despite my yearning to be there - to make it matter. What keeps me up at night is the thought of anyone in my family dying and me standing at the back of the church peeking in - like at my Dad's funeral - not mattering. No one realizing the impact of their life on mine. Just like that - everything that passed between us would be gone. And I would have no way to prove it. My brother and I used to be best friends. Indeed people used to say I was probably the only one that knew anything about him and I knew a fragment at best. I knew he was ill. He has been diagnosed with everything from Schizophrenia to Asbergers. I have no idea what indeed he has but every year he gets worse. I have not spoken to him in a year because he made a speech at my wedding that pissed me off. He made a speech about himself and sprinkled me in there. He mentioned my dead father. He started his speech with "Sorry I missed the wedding, I was drunk". I know my brother - I know he meant it different than it came out. I know he meant it to sting just a little, that he meant for it to be profound and different, something no one had ever heard before and indeed the speech was referred to as "epic" by one person. But I know my brother - the arrogant chameleon that he is, who can blend into the wealthiest and most knowledgeable crowd seamlessly - who has given toasts at wedding that made every woman in the room cry. And this time, he just made me cry. For regret and pain. For the sheer amazement that he made it mingled with his undeterred desire to take the spotlight even when it pains him. He wants to be normal - no scratch that, he wants to be better than normal, he wants to be amazing. If you knew him, you would agree, the man is amazing. There is nothing he can't so - he can paint, draw, sing, dress, design, build, sculpt, write, flatter and delight. He is a Jack of all trades. Trapped in a mind that has no idea how fabulous he really is. Welcome to the mental illness that has plagued my family. Prodigies in straight jackets. 

And so I have been the interpretor for my family - of a language that no one understands, that frankly annoys people after awhile. I have interpreted their fears and pains, their joys and talents so that other people could appreciate them, accept them and love them. Much to their detriment and mine, it has been a labour of sorrow that never seems to fully grow into its purpose. I have abandoned lovers because they could not see. My rose colored glasses destined to be mine alone. And now, I will do anything not to put them back on. They seem so heavy, so weighted. I don't want to see the beauty because it means I have to see the ugly truth at some point. You keep pulling and pushing and begging the powers that be to give them something, to make them ok. For small periods of time, they hold something precious, they become someone different and more competant. But it is always lost. It is always temporary and it has completely stolen my faith. And even I have trouble seeing it - squinting in the light of their successes. The small things that matter make me angry and bitter. But frankly, it would be hard to get out of bed otherwise. 

I'm letting it go for now. 

I pray everday that they don't die until I get stronger.

That almost sounds like faith doesn't it?

Stumbling blocks

There is quiet.

My sister has been pretty stable at her new place and it has been very quiet. There have been a few hiccups but I have backed off and let her handle them on her own. I have tried not to worry. It is a strange feeling to supress worry and despair and just live in stagnation and status quo. I concentrate so hard on getting up, getting dressed and getting on with it that it has seriously taking every ounce of energy I have. I have been busy - perhaps contrived by my unconscious to keep me from fretting every minute away. I decided to accept a position to teach suicide intervention. The training started today - it is long and exhaustive and I cried during my introduction today. I tried really hard not to and the tears barely leaked out. They asked us how we had been affected by suicde both personally and professionally. I tried to make a joke and be strong but saying it out loud was just too much. My voice wavered and I felt the sorrow overtake me. So many times I have been in the hospital waiting room wondering if my sister was alive. So relieved when she was and so goddam mad when she was. How can you be relieved and volcanic in your anger at the same time? I wondered if I would ever be able to stand in front of a class and teach this? I think my group did today too. I hate being weak when I talk about suicide because mostly I have become so cold about it. I have faced it's reality with my family so many times. My dad completed, my brothers and sisters through multiple attempts and my mom living her life like she was already dead. Suicide is in my family like Sunday dinner is to others. It always sits at the table. You never know when it will stop by for a visit. I wish I could be flippant about it, talk about it like it doesn't hurt but once again in my effort to be bigger than mental illness, I have been toppled. You would think I would learn.

On the bright side, I have started to run again. I want it to be positive this time. I want to run like I'm running for my life. Sometimes I think I am. I want to outrun mental illness and what it has done to my family. I want to sneer at it and say you haven't won. I wish it didn't feel like my feet were molded in cement. I wish I was running towards something in stead of running away. But hey, at least I'm running again. And it's quiet. 

I'll take the quiet.