So, you may have noticed (or not, it’s ok) that I went out, changed the look of my blog, announced it, and then let it sit. Is anyone really surprised by this? Yeah, me either. It’s kind of on point for my spotty writing over the last eight years.

But today I decided to take my “idea” rolodex (a carnival ride for mini paper files, for those not in the know) for another spin in the hopes something would fall out on my desk, do a little jig, and say, “me! I’m the one you want!” That didn’t quite happen. I mean, I have few ideas, some have legs, but I don’t quite have the structure solidified in my head just yet.

Storeytelling

As you know, the majority of my stories/posts focus on me – my adventures, my triumphs, my woes, and some pretty solid faceplants. (Fact: I’ve said it before, but hey you could be new here, so it’s worth repeating: I live in an ongoing I Love Lucy episode). However, I don’t have a “hook” for the blog other than the “me” thing and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who is that into me. As for my audience, they consist of friends and family. It’s because of my very niche story focus (me) and because I don’t have a bigger or more interesting story to tell that I tend to hover at around 10 dedicated followers. (Hi, you guys! Air kiss!) Err, make that seven since I lost 30% of my readership after some of my biggest writing cheerleaders, Carolyn, Scott, and my stepmom, Charla past away over the years. (FYI – I’m going to need the rest of you guys to stay healthy so I have an excuse to write.)

As the seven of you know, when I tell my stories, I’m typically taking something ordinary, then teasing out a seemingly insignificant detail and emphasizing it. It’s a device to help stories like, “I went to go get coffee” sound more like an epic adventure that somehow involved a dead ringer for a dwarf named Gimli versus “I went to get coffee, and then they gave me the coffee, I drank it and I went home. Fin. -30- Stage bow.”

To take that a bit further, one of my friends, whom I loved dearly, was terrible at storytelling, which is fine, not everyone is a gifted storyteller (Hello! I am the pot to this particular kettle) but she loved telling them, and bless her, they were (author’s note to self: find polite/diplomatic way to say “grueling”). An example would be: “I went to the doctor’s office, and the door handle was a brushed silver. It was heavy, like one of those doors that would close automatically and seal in an emergency, but I didn’t see a magnet. I wonder if they have halon gas to save the patient records. Anyway, there were brown chairs in the lobby. They were probably made of pine, but had a darker finish and the carpet was mauve. Three people were seated. One was an older woman who had a metal cane and wore a floral top. Her glasses were on her head…” And when she finished, there was never a payoff. No funny conversations on the way to the exam room. The doctor didn’t use the speculum to perform an impromptu, and wildly inappropriate, puppet show to calm her down. Nope. It was just a “I went to the doctor” story. We loved her, and loved she had a passion, so we listened while silently praying the restaurant might reward us with free bottomless margaritas. (I secretly/not so secretly pray for this to happen at most restaurants I attend.)

So, when I’m thinking about stories, I’m really trying not to do the above. My goal is to never have you leave thinking, “what the actual… just happened here?” However, sometimes, it just is what it is. (Lord, I hate that phrase, because “it ain’t what it ain’t”.)

Now, I implied I don’t have a hook; however, I do, and unfortunately, of all the things that could be my thing, my hook these days is talking about suicide and long term grief. Yay. I had hopes of being funny, but here I am. So, long story longer, that’s where we are today. I’m going to stick to what the heart of this blog is about (me) and tell you a real story about grief.

I recently received a lovely text from a friend out of the blue, and part of what she shared implied that in the past she’d put the burden of her struggles on me and it still bothered her.

So, I want to talk about the burdens I carry, but before I start, I want to offer her some absolution, since she’s one of my readers:

A Message To My Friend

Friend, what you shared never added to my burden. I’ve always genuinely cared about you and where you are in your life, and I’ve always wanted the best for you. You are worthy – more worthy than you allow yourself to see – you’re worthy of love, of friendship and kindness. I am glad that you’re here. You are more important to others than you realize. Give yourself grace.

I know it’s a challenge for you to believe that what I’m saying is the truth, so I’m saying it in a very public way. I love you.

Burdens & grief

After Jay died, I cried every day for over a year. This is not hyperbole. This was my life every day. I remember feeling triumphant when I’d gone a whole week without tears. The dam I kept trying to build finally began to hold. My reality today, as I’m typing on the 22nd of June, 2024 – I still cry. I have moments where I’m genuinely inconsolable – moments where I’ve shaken his ashes – moments where I scream into the void calling his name, letting him know how angry and disappointed I am – how deeply wounded and how deeply broken I feel.

But I don’t live in this space anymore.

What I do now is advocate for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. I raise funds. I raise awareness about the stigma around mental health issues and suicide. I walk. I have spoken at the state’s capitol to a crowd that stretched across its lawn. I have written a small piece in our office’s magazine, and have had multiple co-worker’s reach out.

I share my story, because I can.

That’s how I made lemonade.

However, before I started down the advocacy path – back when I only had lemons, people who were just on the periphery of my acquaintances began to treat me like their personal Grief Guru. A wizened woman one can only seek out by taking a pilgrimage up 1000 steps then crawling the last 500 feet across coarse gravel so I might impart my wisdom about inner strength and coping with grief. It’s hard for me to do and it’s a little crazy ask. Plus, people rarely bring offerings or show the courtesy of handing over even one margarita, much less a bottomless mug of one. (HINT: I would really like a margarita – that should be coming through loud and clear now. I recently shared with a former co-worker that I don’t margarita friends – she did not offer to meet me for a margarita thus proving my point. Our friendship is clearly over. Don’t be like her. Ok, back to the serious stuff…)

People seeking me out for advice started a few weeks after Jay’s death. Someone called (how dare they – everyone should know that phones are for texting, Duolingo and KPop reels on Instagram) to share the news that a friend of a friend of someone’s cousin lost their down the street neighbor they once met at a block party, and didn’t I think that was sad, and didn’t I want to talk about it with them. Nope. No. Nada. Uh uh. Do not want. Shoo. I remember calling a friend and just fuming, because her connection to the deceased person was about that tenuous, and I busted out all of my favorite colorful words with a flare.

More requests for grief advice came my way, again from people I had barely spoke to before, and many of them left me wild-eyed. Yep, not wide-eyed. Wild. In my mind, I looked absolutely feral as I tried to cobble together some modicum of composure and remain patient and offered advice.

Oh, a fun super side effect of losing Jay (aside from anxiety and panic attacks – which those have been fun) is that I lost my ability to be sympathetic. I wielded (and can still wield) a fairly sharp edge and I rarely showed any reservation when it came to letting it fly. If someone said something I perceived as offensive, I’d impassively make them regret their words and watch them twist. Now in hindsight, I’m pretty sure they didn’t mean to be hurtful. I imagine they didn’t know what to say and instead taking the “nothing” option, they opted for faceplanting at my feet. It’s a choice. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. (Nah, who are we kidding?)

When that happened, I’d try my damnedest to stuff that down, but to be honest I wasn’t always successful. Then I’d just go back in my Grief Hut and wait for the next margarita-less person to ask for advice while hoping the person wouldn’t ___ the bed.

Those were the burdens I didn’t want to carry – everyone’s sadness because they saw me as strong – as still standing and still moving forward after enduring something incredibly heartbreaking. And again, these weren’t necessarily people I spent a lot of time talking to before.

True story: Jay’s death did not give me any special wisdom imparting powers.

Then another suicide hit my group of friends, and I was accused multiple times of abandoning them. They weren’t wrong, because that one – that one right there was actually too much, and it was too big of an ask in that moment, because it was very triggering.

Suicides that have involved people I’ve known wreck me.

I’m now further in my own healing process and my own advocacy journey and my shoulders have broadened. I can carry more. But my ask of my seven readers is this – please be mindful if you decide to approach me with your own grief (and you are not my immediate family or in my immediate circle of friends). I am happy to hear your story and answer questions. I will help put you in contact with the right people, and I will help find you the right resources, but… you need to come to me with your plan on how you are going to move forward, and I will want to hear that you also plan to speak with a professional.

Now back to my friend – None of the above is about you. You can always come to me. You are never a burden.

That’s a wrap – You got a new story with a lot of “me” and a bit of my hook.

Need Help?

If you are in crisis and need help, please contact the national suicide and crisis hotline. by dialing: 988