Here We Go Again

This weekend is my birthday on Saturday and Easter on Sunday...double whammy for the "holidays make us sad" club.

In my mind, I am perfectly fine.  I am not worried about being sad.  I don't feel apprehensive or worried.  The weekend is filled with fun plans to the brim.  I am even planning on getting a birthday present from my boyfriend...my first birthday present from a man since my divorce!

But all week long, I have been dragging around...with a myriad of excuses as to why I am not in a good mood...I am tired (always a favorite), I have a headache, I am worried about my dad, I am worried about my friend, I miss my friend who passed away, it's the end of winter blues...and so on.

My sister keeps asking how I am.  My sister who knows me too well.  My sister who should be completely focused on her family's vacation and not worrying about how I will be for Easter.

At the same time, I cannot deny the increase in my thoughts of Erik.  Those visual flashbacks.  The feeling like he's floating around in the car while I'm driving.

The wondering why anyone has to die in the first place.  Why didn't God just put us all on earth at the same time, and leave us all here forever?  I mean, if we believe in eternity, why not make this eternity?  And if there are too many souls, just spread us around the planets and galaxies. 

And worst of all, the loss of all defenses, with such a strong urge to be able to hug him one more time surging through my body so it hurts, and for a split second I am sure I can change time and he'll be there.

However, I am well, I am doing fine, I journey on just as I have promised I will.  Still, it's just a  little harder this week.  I feel my heart inside of me...even though we are not supposed to "feel" the presence of our internal organs.  I know I have to be on guard for surprise meltdowns.  I can only do my best.

So we will see how it goes.  At least I am making plans and know I will enjoy being with my family.  At least I am not skipping Easter altogether because I don't want to talk about Easter eggs and chocolate bunnies.  At least it is not my first birthday after he died, knowing I had told him I was getting too old to "do this anymore", and feeling so guilty it was almost unbearable.

Maybe I will even color a few Easter eggs...we'll see.

 

 

 

Silver Lining Playbook

I promise this blog will not turn into an entertainment review, but thinking about seeing "Next to Normal" reminded me that I also recently saw the movie,  "Silver Lining Playbook".  I think about these things, because it is one more part of the suicide survivors' existence, always being ambushed by a surprise attack of a reminder.  For example, if you have lost a loved one to suicide, how many times since have you been with someone who is being dramatic and says, "I could kill myself", or "I felt like jumping off a bridge", and a split second later they look at you with either mild discomfort or pure horror, either just a little embarrassed or terribly worried they offended you or made you sad.  Then you end up being the one who has to comfort the other person,  because your situaiton is making them uncomfortable.

It would be really nice if we could eliminate every reminder in the world of the ugliness of suicide and the sadness it brings, but of course, that would be impossible.  Or, we survivors could hide in the house for the rest of our lives, to make sure nothing upsets us unnecessarily, or more than we already are.

But hopefully, sooner or later, we must brave the real world, with news media, entertainment, and social conversations that depict or talk about topics that hit way too close to home for us, and yes, hurt us more than most people.  I'm not sure why I wanted to see a movie and a play about bipolar disorder and mental illness.  I hate to say it but I think it was part morbid curiosity, along with wanting to see what others had to "say" about it, and perhaps even "compare notes"... most of the reasons probably aren't very altruistic.  I guess I liked the idea that I at least was in control of the decision to go see them, or  maybe I was testing my limits a little.

When I went to see "Silver Linings" I walked in knowing it was about a young man with bipolar disorder, and that it got good reviews, and that the acting was going to be good.  I had no way to know how many times in that two hours I would be watching scenes that jogged too many memories.  The wonderful man who went to the movie with me began shifting in his seat five minutes into it, urgently whispering "do you want to leave", to which I of course stubbornly said "No".  A few minutes later he asked me again, so I assured him I was okay, and if "something horrible" happened, then I would ask him to get me out of there!!!

The young man in the movie totally reminded me of my son, same coloring and height, same intense blue eyes.  He had been in rehab and brought home by his mother, to his father whose best way to handle the situation was to ignore him.  And then the scenes began: the visits to the psychiatrist, the not taking the meds, the taking the meds, the outbursts in the middle of the night, physical altercations between father and son, the difficulty handling social situations, and on and on.  Some of the things truly did make me uncomfortable, especially the depiction of the stuggle with meds making people feel worse than the illness, and of course the family arguments. 

However, the story was so intriguing and compelling, that I was willing to get through those moments and enjoyed the movie, so happy that I had chosen to stay.  Granted that I am a bit of a movie fanatic, and for me it is worth it to be uncomfortable for a bit and not miss a truly great movie, while many people would wonder why even take a chance of being upset, just for the sake of seeing a movie.  I get that.  But for me, I'm glad I did it.

And looking back, I have to confess, maybe I was hoping that if I stayed I would get to see a happy ending for someone with bipolar disorder...and I did...it was a great ending.  It was the movies after all.

"Next to Normal"

“NEXT TO NORMAL”

A musical about bipolar disorder…sounds like such a contradiction, almost offensive to those of us whose lives have been devastated by living with the havoc brought to family members of those who have mental illness.  But, when approached by a friend who invited me to see this play, I figured “why not”, I survived the real thing, let’s see how someone can turn this nightmare into entertainment!

 

The friend who invited me has a daughter who has bipolar disorder, who had made a number of suicide attempts.  I had a son with bipolar disorder, who I actually lost to his successful suicide attempt nearly three years ago.  So we agreed to go, for who knows what reasons.

The theatrical performance was at a very small theatre with a small cast.  I had no idea what to expect even in terms of the logistics and theatrics of the performance itself, and hadn’t realized it was going to be a musical until it started.   

From the moment the lights went up, I was completely spellbound and mesmerized.  The storyline of the mother/wife of the family having the mental disorder of bipolarism, was different from my personal experience, yet the challenges and heartbreaks of mental illness are pretty universal, and always a “family affair”. 

            It was a memorable performance by six actors, so extremely talented, one person’s voice more beautiful than the next.  And the biggest surprise of all? Not only was the play a musical, there were many lines that were laugh-out-loud-funny.  How several hours of time could present so many thoughts about the travesty of mental illness, in a way that I am sure stayed with the audience for a long time after they left the theatre, and entertain and educate at the same time, left me in awe and so grateful I had been there.

           The script left no stone unturned: the influence this mother’s illness had on her children, the combination of the children’s own struggles made worse by the mother’s illness - the son had committed suicide and the daughter struggled with illegal drug addiction, the frustration of trying to find medications which didn’t make the patient feel worse than the illness, the stress of never knowing what each new day may bring, and finally in the end, the husband’s inability to accept his wife’s decision not to take meds, and the dissolution of their marriage.  Also, the anger on the part of the daughter for her father in his attempts to hold the family together, which in the end resolved, hit close to home for me.

            I have a feeling that probably most of the audience were people who had some first hand knowledge of living with bipolar disorder.  The theatre company actually held an informational program after the play, which we did not stay for.  However, I feel hopeful that this performance is an indication of increased awareness of mental health disorders, and the need for us to be able to look at them full on in the face.

            Ironically, although my friend was worried about my reactions to sitting through the performance, in the end, it was my arm around her as she was weeping and thinking of all the sadness in her life as she worries and helps her daughter with her struggles.  But I am glad we went, and that we were there together.

 

           

The Beach at Night

 

 

 

The Beach at Night

by Mary Ann Kirisits

 

Told to choose just one small spot

To live out all my days;

I didn’t ask for miles of land

Or any paradise…

I only asked for room to lie

Beneath the solemn midnight sky,

With darkness for my comfort,

And stars to give me hope,

And the whisper of the constant waves,

To know I’m not alone.

The sand would be my cushion,

The salty air my high,

Excluding all the distant lights

Of time that must pass by.

 

Existing in my chosen world

Of solitude and peace,

You’d be there, present, all the while,

In heart, and mind, and soul…

For love is but a dream,

And dreams are not untold.

 



My Friend Marilyn

My Friend Marilyn

Four months after Erik died, one of my dearest friends Marilyn lost her very long battle with cancer.  She was one of those people who faced her illness the same way she lived her entire life, with great courage and grace, with little complaining, and always embracing and appreciating the beautiful and important things in life.  She herself was a beautiful woman, always meticulous in her appearance, soft-spoken, with a laugh that was like chimes in the wind and totally contagious.

Marilyn was one of those people in my life who I actually met twice.  The first time I met her, she was bringing her daughter as an infant to be seen for Occupational Therapy at our children’s rehab center in Buffalo.  They would come to the OT department, and we would all be on a mat on the floor, with myself gently moving Christine through her exercises and experimenting with positions that might encourage her to move to her next stage of gross motor development or more readily hold her toys.  Marilyn would stay throughout the session, as a comfort to Christine, and to learn how to do the movements and exercises at home.  I don’t remember how long we kept these once a week sessions, I know it was a long time…maybe a year.

 

In that time, we formed a convivial friendship and I always looked forward to the days they were coming.  What I especially remember, is that during that time I became pregnant with my first son Jason, and when Marilyn and Christine came for their last session, Marilyn walked in with a huge gift box.  I was so startled and pleasantly surprised that she would do this, and still remember the beautiful pastel blanket and sweater set she had crocheted for my son.  We hugged goodbye and wished each other well.

 

Then, ten years later, I began a new job at a small school for children with disabilities.  I quickly came to find out that Marilyn was working there as one of the nurses, and we were able to resume our friendship where we left off.  She was pregnant with her third child at the time, and I was returning from the birth of my second son, Erik.

 

The rest is history, as they say, and we became fast friends.  Marilyn was one of those friends who I not only had so much fun spending time with, but who I respected and admired so much, and was the first person I would go to when needing advice.

 

When we both moved on to our next passages of our lives, different jobs, different cities, her getting married and me getting divorced, we always stayed in touch and got together when we could.  Those last years before 2010, we were both facing challenges, her with her diagnosis, and myself trying to stay afloat after my divorce and helping Erik.

 

The last time I saw her, she hosted a gathering of friends at her home just before Christmas.  We had a great time as always, Marilyn was the consummate hostess, and had thought of all the little details to make it a fun afternoon, including Santa hats for all. 

 

I remember that it was clear it was a tiring day for her, and there were a few struggles and teary eyes, all of us wondering if we would be together the next Christmas.  I have always treasured that afternoon, it was the last time I saw Marilyn.

 

It was about three weeks later that Erik died.  There were so many times I wanted to see Marilyn one more time, or help out somehow, but I was barely getting through some of my days, and I never made it to see her again. 

 

She left us in May, four months after I lost Erik.

 

The reason this is in the forefront of my mind now, is that I was invited to go to her home with her best friend, Lynn, and visit with her husband and look at some of her jewelry, to choose a piece to have for myself.  Since the day Lynn asked me to go, I have been plunged into an ongoing soul-searching of how I felt about losing Marilyn.  Just the thought of going to her house brought tears to my eyes and made me so uncomfortable…what the heck was wrong with me, it has been nearly three years.

 

Then suddenly I realized, I had never truly faced the fact that she was gone, that she had died.  I remember standing at her coffin and looking at her beautiful face, with no emotion registering at all.  And throughout the morning of her funeral and breakfast, my eyes remained dry as everyone commemorated this beautiful woman, wonderful wife, mother, and friend, asking how could it be that she had been taken too soon in life, when she still had so much to give and receive.

 

Four months after Erik.  I thought I was acting very “normal”.  I thought I was appropriately sad, but able to be strong enough to go through my first funeral after Erik’s.  I wanted and needed to be there.  I am so glad that I went, to pay my respects and honor her life.

 

But now I realize I was like a zombie just going through my paces and pretending I was participating in the moment.  I wasn’t.  I wasn’t even there.  And this comes under the heading of those times I have talked about being in shock, or only having energy at first to breath and get through the normal aspects of everyday life. 

 

I guess our brains only let our hearts feel so much pain at a time.  Marilyn had been just about one of the best people I knew.  She spent the majority of her "kids growing up years" as a single mom, working full time, taking care of three children including one with special needs, but always making time and having energy for her friends.  I should have spent that week in May crying my eyes out for her, and shaking my fist at the universe, asking how dare  she be taken away too soon.  But I didn’t.

 

So now it’s three years later and I feel sad…really sad.  Weepy-eyed sad.  There is so much to remember and think about.  Some regrets I didn’t see her more that last year.

 

I didn’t go to her house…

 

But I want her to know I miss her, I loved her, and I think of her often.  I remember her advice and the times we laughed so hard.  And I’m so sorry it took me so long to face all this, but am glad I have let it all in now.  Because even though Erik has permanent residence in my heart at all times, there is room for her there too…and I just smiled thinking about her.

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                



Homeostasis

 

A few days ago, somehow, somewhere, I heard the word homeostasis.  For some reason, it now has taken up lodging in my brain, and will not go away…sort of like one of those jingles you hear on the radio or TV commercials, and then it plays over and over in your head for the rest of the day.

I have decided I like the word very much…hoooo…meeeeo…stasis…just for the way it sort of rolls off your tongue.  (or the tongue in your brain if you are saying it to yourself.)  But as a person who loves to play armchair psychologist, I realize that there must be some other reason why I am now a little obsessed with the word homeostasis.

I have a vague memory of using the word in science courses in high school, (was I ever that young?), so have some idea of what it means.  I figure maybe I like the word because I would like to think my life, and me in the center of my life, have finally achieved some sort of…homeostasis.  But really, the word means something that has been there all the while.

When I decided to look up definitions of the word…these are some of the phrases or definitions that are used to explain what homeostasis is:  “a relatively constant internal environment , despite changes in the external environment;  “the tendency of a system to maintain internal stability, owing to the coordinated response of its parts to any situation or stimulus that would tend to disturb its normal condition or function”; and “a process in which the body’s internal environment is kept stable.”

Reading further, it seems that this is a condition of all living things, that there are inherent mechanisms in all things from amoebas to us, to thrive and live, in spite of changes outside of themselves. 

So now I know why I like the word homeostasis. 

It helps me understand how the heck I have kept on going after all that has happened in the last eight years of my life, including the loss of my dear son.

When it states that it is what happens to the organism in response to “any situation or stimulus that would tend to disturb its normal condition or function”…I had a bit of an aha moment about the word.   Could any situation be more disturbing than finding out your loved one has committed suicide?  Could anything be more likely to disturb our “normal condition or function”? 

I am thinking we would all agree that our normal conditions and ability to function were severely disturbed when we lost out loved ones.  I am sure that all of us had moments when we thought we could not keep going or survive.  Sometimes I catch myself looking back or remembering and wonder…How did I get through that part...How did I get through that day?  

And while there were a multitude of ways we got through, and strategies we used, and support systems that came our way, I have to think that part of the drive to use them, the deep down gut work that had to be done to keep on going, was part of our homeostasis.

So I am glad the universe has provided us with homeostasis…I think I will use it as a “buzz word” for myself if I start to falter.  “Mary Ann, you can get through this…you have…homeostasis”. 

 

 

 

 

Words I Hate

I hate these words:  “Suicide is a long term solution to a short term problem”…or…”Suicide is a quick solution to a temporary problem.”

Granted, my perspective of having watched my son’s obvious downward spiral into mental illness over a span of well over five years, closer to seven, is not always the norm. I watched Erik fight and fought with him to battle his illness and try to get better, day after day, year after year.  The heartbreak of watching your child go through this is difficult to describe.  It seemed like it lasted decades, not years, and the despair and loneliness of someone with schizophrenia is beyond description. 

I think the above words were only said in my presence two or three times, but those times took every modicum of restraint for me to not lash out at the person, and scream at them that they had no idea what they were talking about.

To be fair, I understand that from the outside there may suicides committed by a seemingly successful or at least well functioning person, in response to what may be seen as a typical life circumstance.  However, the fact that suicide is their response means that there are realms of information we don’t have about that situation, and quite frankly, people need to not say the victims took an easy way out!

Using my guideline of “logical”, if someone commits suicide, the logical thought should be that something fierce and horrible was going on in their minds. 

On another page in this blog, “The Enigma of Suicide”, I wrote a long time ago about this, but it always bothers me.  If the instinct for survival is so strong in the “normal” person, that people survive being lost in a blizzard for a week or sustain difficult treatments when battling cancer, or continue on after severe injuries of losing limbs or being paralyzed, then clearly our reflexes, as well as our desires, tell us to go on living at all costs, and provide us with the motivation and stamina to do so.

The flip side of this then, at least to me, is that if someone is able to actually take the significant action of putting a gun to their heads or a noose around their neck knowing they are taking their last breaths of life, how dark and deep is that despair within them that they are able to complete this act?

How many times have all of us felt like “giving up” or that it just “isn’t it worth it all”, yet as horrible, sad, or depressed we may feel, never come even close to truly trying to end our lives?  How much worse then, how much pain then, do these poor souls have who feel the only way out is give up their very lives?

What I also hate about these attitudes or these expressions is that there is an inherent suggestion that we are somehow better than those who “took the easy way out”.  We are not better than them.  There was no better person than my son.  He was kind and sweet and provided me years of joy by being my son.  He was dealt a horrible hand of having mental illness which snuck up on us in his late teens.  He tried so many doctors, counselors, rehabs, and medications that I lost count, and every time it seemed he gained ground, he relapsed into a more progressive stage of the disease.

So I would beg of everyone, let’s not allow ourselves to think that this is just a ruthless act of a lazy or inconsiderate person.  This is the act of a person who knows more sadness, despair, and sheer pain than we could possibly imagine.  And once we try to imagine it, or imagine trying to walk a mile in their shoes, forgiveness becomes so very easy for how can we be angry that they could no longer endure such pain? 

So let’s let go of our judgments, let’s let go of our anger, and let’s let go of our guilt.  The person we lost took the only action that seemed possible to them at the moment, and could not bear another minute of excruciating mental and emotional pain. 

We are still here to forgive, love, and embrace life because we are fortunate enough to have that indomitable will to live, in spite of our sadness.  We can breathe for those we lost, and with them.  And we will.

 

 

 

 

Love

Valentine's Day

 

 

Letter From Heaven

 

When tomorrow starts without me,

and I'm not here to see,

if the sun should rise and find your

eyes filled with tears for me.

 

I wish so much you wouldn't cry,

the way you did today

while thinking of the many things

we didn't get to say.

 

I know how much you love me-

as much as I love you,

and each time you think of me,

I know you'll miss me too.

 

When tomorrow starts without me,

don't think we're far apart

for every time you think of me,

I'm right there in your heart.



Sadness - A Normal Emotion

For someone who has lost their loved one to suicide after a prolonged mental illness, there is a unique situation where one intense emotion is “traded in” for another.  The trade-off for me was that the last few years before Erik’s death, my days were filled with constant stress of when and what the next crisis would be.  Not if the next crisis would come, but rather when would it come, and what would it be. Would I arrive home and he would be threatening to kill himself? Would the local police department be calling me because he was there saying they should arrest the employees at Time-Warner TV service because they were collaborating with the CIA to spy on us? Would my ex-husband be calling to say Erik was planning on climbing on our roof to dismantle the power lines? So on and so forth. 

As the days and months rolled out after his death, I began realizing that while I was feeling extraordinary grief and sadness, there was also an absence of a group of emotions that had taunted me while he was alive, those emotions amounting to an incredible level of stress, consisting of anxiety, fear, apprehension, loathing to go home and find out what was going on, and sometimes anger.  These feelings became a daily way of life, and allowed little room for or leftover energy for the other tasks of my life.  They were exhausting and draining.  So while the grief process was so very difficult, I also had an extreme sense of relief to not have to feel so much fear and anxiety. 

This would have been great news, except for one thing.  Using my logical brain, I quickly began to realize that it was a relief to not have these circumstances as part of my daily life, and that Erik realized that, and therefore how much of his motivation to leave this world was to relieve me of the stress he caused me? 

For those who have survived suicide loss, you know this means one thing…GUILT. 

To make it worse, the more time goes on, the more I realize how difficult things had become, how much less stress I have now, and therefore…I have more guilt. 

It seems that I should be able to accept my sadness as a good penance for not handling Erik’s illness better, as a punishment for getting so stressed out and letting him see how hard it was to live with him at times, but that thought doesn’t seem to help.

I think that’s because if I had to choose between sadness and stress, sadness is actually in some ways easier to function with.  I have thought about this a lot, and decided that when you come down to it, sadness is a “normal” emotion.  No matter what life style someone lives, or what kind of person they are, they will experience sadness because it is a normal part of life.  I am assuming the even the cave men felt sadness when someone died.  Sadness is a normal part of life.

But mental illness in a strict sense of the word, is not a normal part of life.  We don’t expect it to happen to us or our family.  It does not present us with situations that are readily handled.  And most frustrating of all, there often seems to be no end in sight, nor any way to “fix” the situation.  Money, work, effort, caring, and even medicines, don’t help.  Just when hopes are raised that the situation may be getting better, it gets worse.  And it is relentless.

There is so much knowledge now about how detrimental intense stress is to our minds and bodies, and I think it is because our stress is often man-made or because of unusual circumstances.  Well, I suppose the cave-men were probably stressed if a dinosaur was chasing them, but that would be short-lived. Either he killed them and they didn’t have to worry about it, or they killed the dinosaur, and they had extra meat for the winter. 

So, I guess the daily stress of trying so hard to carry on in a normal fashion when someone we love just isn’t acting “normal”, is an aberration of human functioning.  I think there were a lot of times I didn’t handle it well, but I did my best.  Because I am no longer in the middle of it, I feel like there were so many things I could have done better.  I generally work hard to keep my brain off this yellow brick road to the land of guilt, but it sneaks in every now and again.  My initial thought in writing this was to be positive and say that because sadness is a normal emotion, it is possible to be sad and still function fairly well.  I am able to attend to the work and play of my life so much better now.  I am used to being happy and sad at the same time.

 

Sometimes I wish Erik was here again so I could try to do a better job.  But he isn’t.  So I’ll just be sad.  At least that’s normal, and I can be happy at the same time.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

My First Grade Catechism

New Age Spirituality and my first grade catechism are one and the same!  How can that be?  I have taken so much pride in, and been so self-satisfied with all of my reading and communicating with others, to learn about the new spirituality that has caught fire. Then, a “moment of clarity”.  I suddenly realize that the tenets of the spiritualists and those who study afterlife are exactly what the nuns in first grade were telling me more than 50 years ago!

Where is God?  God is everywhere.  So said the first sentence of the Baltimore catechism.  I remember it like it was yesterday, second only to:  See John; See John run; and so forth.  And now, in the 21^st century, as described and pondered by so many spiritualists, mediums, and healers, I have learned that God, although called or named many different things, is…everywhere. 

Those who believe in a higher spiritual being no longer envision a nice elderly man with long, wavy gray hair, shepherd staff in hand and flowing robes, hands held out to heal us.  They envision a powerful energy force or light force, which permeates all of creation and the universe, including our innermost selves, which is God, goodness, love, whatever name you choose to feel comfortable with, and it is…everywhere.  The irony does not escape me that it has taken me two to three years of fairly intense study and mindful consideration, to come to the same conclusion as what I was told in three words as a first grader. 

The difference is, of course, that at the age of six, in the good old days or happy days of the fifties, in conventional Catholic schools everywhere, we were told something, and we were to believe it.  Sisters and priests, as well as parents (amazing thought), could expect to say something and be heard and believed.  So, I did, although I think even back then I was skeptical and found it puzzling that this gray-haired man could be everywhere.  How could he be everywhere?  If he was with me, why didn’t I see him?  And, how did he float around up in the air, and how many millions of miles away was he? 

On the other hand, in my new studies which espouse that the universe is fathered and governed by a force of energy and goodness, this all makes so much sense, I wonder how others can not believe it.  Of course, the world, universe, and people consist of energy.  No one seems to dispute that.  But while there are all forms of energy studied and explained by physicists, astronomers, chemists, and doctors of many disciplines, I agree with those who believe there is also a core energy that is our mind and spirit, the driving force of life so to speak.  Taking it a step further, we are all part of this same force, either within our bodies, or, after carnal death, outside of our bodies.  And, taking the final step, it is this that connects us all, living and dead, and I think is what the Baltimore catechism called God.

 What is God?  God is love.  Of course!  I knew that.  Why have we humans been trying to explain love, define love, find love, curse love, from the beginning of time?  Easy answer is, we got it mixed up with lust…that really confused everything.  Taking lust and sex out of the equation, what does love consist of?  It is an intangible force, is not created by human hands, and once present cannot be destroyed by human hands.  It does not begin or end, it just “is”.  It connects all who embrace it, and the more it is embraced and believed in, the more it envelops our existence.  It supersedes every aspect of the human condition, often felt more strongly and believed in more fiercely in the darkest of earthly situations.  It is often understood so much better by the youngest children than the most educated scholars.  It does not require physical presence, or proof of being.  It is what makes us human, and seems to be what makes life worthwhile. 

Taken within the context of romantic love, true romantic love, it promotes us to our “best selves”.  Our best selves being someone who is giving, honest, sincere, and totally unselfish, maybe the one time when we feel almost “godlike” because of the ethereal feelings inside us, and the confidence that there is something so good about being alive.  The other love that is so tangible and irrefutable, is of course a parent’s love for their child.  Again, mere humans are transformed into beings that embrace a passion they have never felt before.  There are numerous “moments of awareness”, of a parent’s emotionality, love, caring, in which someone can say, “aah, this is what life is all about”.  So, I think, the final analysis of this three word answer, is simply that God, being love, is our humanity, our reason for living.

Who is God?  God is the Supreme Being who made us in His image and likeness.  What could be more simple?  Now, again, this becomes complicated if you are trying to think that our bodies were molded from clay or some poor man’s rib, so we could resemble the gray haired guy with the robe and shepherd staff.  I had to take it at face value when I was a kid.   But, following my beliefs in energy/light/ positive force, it’s not so hard to think about me having at least potential or some small part of this god persona within me. 

I don’t really care if my body has evolved from apes or some sort of primate, or somehow formed as part of a cataclysmic explosion which transformed energy into matter, my body is what it is, and will eventually be gone. But the thought of my soul being a reflection of something good,

Letting Go - Part II

I am very suddenly, very harshly, jolted out of a deep sleep. 

I hear Erik say, “Hi”.

I know it is him, even though, bizarrely, the voice sounds like one of those electronic voices.  The kind they use on TV when they are interviewing someone and black out their faces and make them talk through a voice synthesizer, or whatever they call it.  Yet I know it is him.

I am frozen into my fetal, sleep on my side position in bed.  My heart is pounding so hard and I feel terrified.  Darn you Erik, you scared the living daylights out of me!

I cannot bring myself to turn around toward the sound of the voice, and am upset with myself.  Why am I so scared?  I had hoped something like this would happen.  Now I can’t deal with it...

So I stay huddled under the covers, my eyes trying to look through the back of my head, and listening.  There is nothing.  NOTHING.

Still, I am convinced it was Erik, and he said hi in the electronic voice.  I decide he realized he frightened me so badly, he figured he better leave again.  I am disappointed and angry at myself, thinking that maybe if I hadn’t gotten so upset, he would have stuck around and said more.

I don’t think I fell back to sleep after that.  It was as if I could feel every nerve ending in my body, like I was wired at 80,000 volts.  Also, I think I was hoping he might come back, now that I had composed myself.  But to no avail, and the morning came, another regular day.

As I went about my routine on this day, I could not stop thinking about my little tiny message.  Why had he just said hi?  What was he going to tell me if he hadn’t left so quickly?  What the heck was this all about?

Ironically, I had no problem quickly devising a logical explanation for the electronic voice.  I often think of our spiritual selves as energy.  Our thoughts are electronic impulses from our nerves, and our hearts beat on electric impulses.  Modern medicine can even keep our hearts going with electronic devices – pacemakers.

When debating afterlife with non-believers, I sometimes resort to this fact.  You must believe in electricity, I tell people.  And it is a first law of physics, energy cannot be created or destroyed…so, where do you think the energy of our hearts and minds go after bodily death?  I just love when something is so logical.

So I had no issue with the sound of Erik’s voice, in spite of my chagrin that he left so quickly.  Leave it to Erik to aggravate me from the afterlife!

Then the light bulb went off in my head, and I decided I would call Peter when I got home from work.  He would have something profound to say I was sure.

It was actually such a brief story, that Peter didn’t have a lot to say, it seemed.  He was very quiet on the other end of the phone.  Certainly he agreed that it was Erik, but it’s pretty difficult to put great meaning into the word “Hi.”  So we talked for a while, and it was good to be able to tell someone who first of all believed me, and secondly, understood so well. (And of course, didn’t think I was loony.)

I went to bed hoping for another visit, but of course it didn’t happen.

The next day, I was starting my car, and looked down at the pink change purse.  Lightning bolt.  Erik came to me the night I had hidden his picture.  Two small moments, but both had taken my breath away.  Was he trying to tell me he wasn’t mad at me?

When I got home, I bolted for the phone and called Peter.  I told him I had figured something out, but couldn’t quite put my finger on what it meant.  And so, I told him, very carefully, about holding Erik’s picture, weighing my decision so heavily, and how I had remembered our conversations about letting go.  He told me he had thought a lot about the visitation too.  He told me that he had thought of something about the contact, not being confident of what he was thinking.  But then he said that with my story of putting the picture in a different place, away from my everyday sight, he felt that he may have the answer to Erik’s visit, but didn’t want me to be upset. 

With my promise to not get upset with him, and that I would deal with whatever he said, he told me his very simple and brief explanation.

He said:  “Mary Ann, I think you didn’t hear Erik exactly right.  I think he didn’t say ‘hi’.  Mary Ann, he was saying ‘bye’, because he was at peace and able to crossover…you helped him when you changed the picture.”

I have that picture in that hidden spot still.  I never moved it further.  It always makes me smile when I look at it.  And it is always with me, just like Erik.  And I know Erik is his usual, twinkly eyed, smirky self, beaming down on us all.

 

 

A Story of Letting Go - Part I

Letting Go  (part one) 

I’m sitting in the driver seat of my car, like always.  I’m holding the keys to start the ignition, like always.  I am staring down at my favorite picture of the son I lost to the monster of mental illness and suicide, like I have done so many times in the past six months. 

Suddenly with the stab of pain that literally pierces my heart, I think, maybe I need to change this.  Maybe this just isn’t working any more.  And I stare out the windshield toward the gloomy weather.

I had put this picture of Erik in the plastic window of my worn out pink change purse, attached to my keys.  It is his last picture from high school.  It’s my favorite because...