I”ve never precisely been the athletic type. I grew up with mostly boys, being an Air Force brat. According to my parents, the focus on academics, rather than sports, became a priority as I grew older. I did play volleyball in middle school, enjoyed it, tried out in high school, and didn’t make the team. I was basically done with sports.

Instead, I focused on my academics and focused on the band. Music has been a big part of my life. Music had and still has been a big part of my life. A way for me to escape. A way for me to express my emotions without getting physical. The intricacies of music are so much like emotions. The melodies and counter melodies are interwoven within each other and play off each other. They’re complimentary, they speak to each other, and just express what needs to be expressed.

Playing music became another release and escape. While learning the basics in elementary school, and then learning to play in an ensemble in middle school, music became a part of me. While I played volleyball in middle school, it was a seasonal thing. I didn’t do anything in between seasons to improve my playing skills. Music, however, was an everyday practice. An every day want to become better and better. The best, if you will.

I found a tribe in those members of the band. There were still cliques within the band, and yet, there were still camaraderie and the knowledge we were a team. That without one person pulling their weight with their music, we’d all “fail.”

I’ve been told not to let Ted’s decision define my life. Not to let it take over my life in a way that I won’t be living a fulfilling life. And honestly, my life after his death has felt like one challenge after another. One thing that I reflect on is that I still don’t know who I am and even what it is I really want from life. Okay, so that’s two things.

In any case, I’m still searching. I’m still struggling as a solo parent. I’m finding out I’m carrying some pretty deep wounds from my childhood, and I want nothing more than to heal from them. Along with that, I also help my kids not carry my wounds with them; some of which I see them already carrying. I’m learning to give myself grace and forgive myself when I notice these things. After all, I am doing my best with what I have and what I know. Thankfully, I am willing to learn and willing to heal – even when it becomes unbearable. And it does sometimes. So overwhelming, I will shut down. Freeze, if you will.

When I think of what it is I really want, it’s not some big paying job. It’s a feeling of peace and calm. It’s a feeling of unconditional happiness and unconditional love. No matter the situation. It reminds me of the often-shared John Lennon story that tends to go, “When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down ‘happy’. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life.”

I am also reminded of this quote, ““Everyone you meet always asks if you have a career, are married, or own a house as if life was some kind of grocery list. But no one ever asks you if you are happy.” Heath Ledger is given credit for that one.

Happy is such a subjective word. Every single person has their own definition of happy. I’m slightly getting off-subject here.

After Ted died, I began searching for myself, having realized I had basically spent my life living the expectations of others and also living how I had come to believe would get my love. It was all a farce to some extent. I hadn’t been living for myself. I’d been living for everyone else in my life, being “selfless,” thinking that was my purpose. Yet, I really hadn’t begun searching for myself. I had become focused on making sure the kids got the support they needed to get through their own healing, to get through their loss and their grief.

At some point, I wanted to be someone who made suicide less taboo. In a year, maybe a year and a half, two friends had a love one kill themselves. Within a year, or maybe even closer, Ted took his own life. Within 45 months, a person close to the family, someone who had taken our son under his wing, took his own life.

In my experience, when you’ve directly been affected by suicide, people start talking about their own experiences with suicide and/or mental illness. When I say “their own experiences,” I mean they will talk of others in their lives who have experienced mental illness and/or have tried to kill themselves or succeeded in taking their lives. For some, it felt like some sort of confession. For others, it felt like some sort of release – a weight they needed to give to someone else….or maybe it’s that human nature of not wanting to feel alone in our own experiences. A need to feel included, even in someone else’s pain.

Quite a few people came to me after Ted. Some even came to me for advice on how to help their loved ones in their own moments of suicide ideation. That is a hard thing to give advice on, really. Each person is different. While there are patterns and similarities in cases, there is still individuality in that bleakness. I’m not an expert. All I could do what give them resources I found after the fact. Resources I felt would help others in their own situations.

And our family took it very hard on how our family friend’s death was kept secret as if it was shameful what he did. Granted, we didn’t know the full extent of what was going on in his life for him to make such a decision. Still, to feel ashamed of his choice just made us angry.

Suicide is so very, very common. History had made it taboo. Even criminal. And we’re still afraid to speak about it to others. For so, so many reasons.

It’s a little like talking about loss and grief. It’s something we try to avoid in general conversation. Why is that? A flat answer: we refuse to acknowledge, dwell, and sit with grief and loss. Somewhere along the line, the pursuit of happiness made us abandon, push away, bury, and hide from the more “negative” feelings that make us human.

Right now, my mind is starting to bring up all sorts of arguments for what I’m writing. I do that. My analytical brain will start flipping through the Rolodex of scenarios and arguments. It’s a hyperactive response from childhood. I mean, I could give you so many reasons for some of my responses to scenarios. Ah, the joys of unresolved childhood traumas.

Okay, I got off topic just a little bit.

The thing I was getting at is that, there is basically six degrees to suicide. For some of us, it’s less than that.

My first experience with suicide while I was in college. A guy friend I had met through a best friend from high school hung himself. One of the others guys in gr that group I hung out with messaged or called me – I can’t remember – to let me know. There would be no service with friends. Just family.

Then, began my first experience of survivor guilt. At the time, I didn’t know who I could talk to, so I didn’t. I mean, the group of friends didn’t talk much about it. So I carried some guilt for awhile, not really bringing it up. I think I brought it up once with my dad during a break. Even then, it wasn’t…right. Just no understanding of it. Eventually, it got buried as I continued to live me life. Every once in awhile, I would think of him,and the guilt would come up again. Now, I understand it better, and I can forgive myself more.

Within two years, I was witnessed or experienced suicide three times. The daughter of a mom friend, both of whom I worked with at the lab, killed herself. I think it was six or seven months later, the father of another dear friend killed himself. Each one was handled differently by each family. It’s been so long. I was inspired by the one family that insisted people get help if they are feeling that depressed. The subject wasn’t avoided. The girl’s family didn’t avoid the subject either, but it was obvious that they were impacted differently.

Then, Ted took his own life.

While preparing for Ted’s service, I wanted so badly to bring up how he had died. I knew not everyone at his service would know how he died. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to speak up and tell everyone there that Ted had been hurting for months, if not years. That, please, there is absolutely no shame in asking for help and letting people who love you know that you are feeling suicidial and are in such a dark place. There really isn’t. I laugh as I write that because I still struggle to ask for any kind of help.

Why? Why didn’t I speak up myself at his service? Because there was this feeling that I didn’t want to hurt his family anymore than they already were. I knew somewhere in the generational programming, some would feel ashamed of what he had done. There was enough pain, and at that time, I didn’t want to make it hurt more.

I had already been struggling on keeping his suicidal feelings to myself per his request. I had told a close friend and his mother, secretly hoping they would intercede. Of course, that didn’t happen. It’s no one’s fault. I mean, what was any of us to do? None of us knew what to do at the time.

So can you see, how influences from society and even within our own familial lines, there was a sort of reluctance to share or even speak the word, “suicide.” There still is.

Afterwards, I sort of began posting things on Facebook. Websites and resources I had found that spoke of suicide and how to help those in such situations. Of course, I mainly focused on men’s mental health because that something that just wasn’t, and still isn’t, really addressed and supported. I didn’t shy away from people when they asked how Ted died. People came to me, stating how they knew others who suffered a mental illness and/or were suicidal. Only thing was, I couldn’t do more than listen and if there was the opportunity, direct them to a resource I felt might be helpful.

I became a student of sorts in the aftermath of suicide, a student of grief, a student of loss, and observer of society as I became one of the many of a traumatic loss grappling to come to terms to her new reality.

Okay, I think I’ve babbled on enough. More at another time.

I think we all go through cycles. Different kinds of cycles at that. Right now, I’m not happy. I’m not happy about a situation I’m in, and I am sad about this because I had some hope for this situation.

The past two weeks have been hard. I realized over the weekend some things could have been handled differently. During this last week, I tried doing it differently while staying in alignment with myself. After a conversation yesterday, I felt disassociated and detached from my surroundings. I couldn’t quite put into words what had occurred or how I was feeling about what occurred. I went home with a headache that felt very much like a migraine. Who knows, I might have been clenching my jaw the entire 3-4 hours I was in that room.

I also decided I wouldn’t talk to anyone about what had been discussed. I had some clarity on how my own actions and emotions had contributed to the chaos I was feeling in that environment. I had some other moments of…clarity for myself, and it saddened me a little bit. I had attached an expectation to something, and that expectation had been shattered by the act of a few people. I can forgive. I can eventually let go, and the scar will still be there as a reminder.

I’m big on trust. It’s a thing with me. Authenticity and trust are huge with me. If you are fake and end up lying, and I find out, that’s it. And here’s the thing. I’m pretty damn good at reading people. I can usually tell when someone is lying, and it’s not a fun superpower to have. I am not capable of just lying straight up to someone. Especially if I care about them. There really is no filter. I’ve learned to filter myself in certain companies or learn how to speak about things without filtering. It’s something I’ve had to learn to do when speaking with others because I’ve never really been on the same wavelength with a lot of people.

In my recent therapy session, we uncovered that I don’t want to make a mistake. I don’t want to get it “wrong.” I need background and clear instruction when doing something, especially if it’s new. It’s a thing with me. I think I “need” to be perfect to be loved even though I hate being too restricted in my being me. But there are also scenarios where the structure is necessary. Boundaries as well. It’s a program I’ve been trying to re-program or just delete from the uploads I received growing up.

I’m still learning so much about myself. Sometimes I get so passionate about it, I become blinded until I hit a wall or fall hard. THen, it’s another learning process of using what I learned in a balanced way with me and what it is I need.

I’m a child still in some ways. Idealistic in some things. An old soul in other ways. While I know we all see and experience the world differently, there’s something about what and how I see the world around me that’s alienated people, and it’s caused some…loneliness. The kids experience the same thing with a good majority of their peers. And I know there are those out there who do and will understand. Will accept me without judgment and without expectation, and just love me as I am- broken and pieced back together and just scarred from head to toe.

And I’m not talking about romantic love. Good gravy, what a program I uploaded when I was younger! I didn’t know or even realize the different kinds and levels of love until I was in my thirties! Then, during all that, I realized that to be loved is one thing we all really want. Or at least accepted, which I believe is a form of love.

02/12/2022: This week, I did something I wouldn’t have done in the past. I spoke up about things to people that were above other people. Some things escalated, and after Thursday, I crashed into a sea of depression and paranoia. Then, I did something out of that paranoia on Friday, which might not have been a “good” thing to do.

I am a deeply feeling person. And I mean deeply feeling. When my mind and my heart both grasp onto something, I can become passionate about it. A lot of the time, it’s mostly just talking or just the need to express it out. I talk to people about my thoughts, wants, passions. I’ve rarely actually acted on what I want. Fear is a powerful thing. And over the past two weeks, I acted on something that had been with me for months. I had reached a breaking point. Again, fear is a powerful cage…leash…whatever you allow it to be.

It may not be complex, but my mind is telling it is. I spoke up at my workplace, feeling that some of the systems in place could be improved for the entire staff. Only, I might have come off so strongly that people don’t know how to react or how to take it. I explain things and use words that aren’t “normally” used when communicating. Even in my writing, I can go on tangents and lose my way to my point. The point is there, and sometimes it takes me a long while to get there.

I write things out to better communicate. Sometimes I”ll just write, and then, when it’s all out, review to see what it is I really want to say. It can take an hour or it could take days. This place is just one place that I dump my thoughts on.

In any case, I came home last night so depressed and paranoid I went to bed at 5:45 p.m. And slept. I woke up a few times to use the bathroom and later to talk with the Boy after he got home from work. I didn’t want to get out of bed. While I didn’t feel “depressed,” I still felt worthless and out of place. Like I don’t belong anywhere. It was like I had come down from some sort of manic episode.

02/13/2022: See? What’d I tell you? I’m in a better mental space now that I was the past few days. I spent some time last night with one of my soul sisters, whom I hadn’t seen in several months. I haven’t laughed that hard or long is such awhile. It felt good to feel good. She reminded me that sometimes people just won’t take who I am, and that’s okay. And this concept is something I’ve been working on for years. Even before Ted took his life.

I’ve never liked being “normal.” Which seems weird considering I’ve had the tendency to want to be wanted and accepted into a group. Only, as I’ve gotten older, I’m not so sure that it’s a want to fit into a group or be accepted by a group. I just want to be accepted as I am. For the past few years, starting in 2016, I think, I began to question who I really was and what I was really meant for me. Then, those questions really hit me after Ted died.

While grieving, while helping the kids navigate through their grieving, I was trying to find out who I really was. Not who everyone else wanted me to be. I get it – our families and friends want the best for us, and as we move along in life, they project those wants for us. It’s become a natural scheme of things, right? They are all doing the best they can with what they know.

And as I’ve found my voice, while still navigating through life, raising teenagers, and whatnot, I’ve had a lot of losses and a lot of strange moments of clarity. And some of these moments, I haven’t shared with anyone but my therapist because not a lot of people I know will get it. Yet, there are moments when I can’t seem to use my voice. The fears I’ve carried with me throughout my life are so deeply ingrained, that one little thing can throw me back to that one younger version of me who was so hurt, she couldn’t speak.

Understand this, I have been going to counseling/therapy for at least five years; this year will be going on six. I’m not going to quit. I’ve been through different types of treatment with my therapist, and they’ve all worked up to some point. The current method has me emotionally raw after the session. For all I know, this might have triggered my speaking up.

I’m still trying to find my voice. I’m still trying to understand we are all different, even though I believe deep down inside we just want to be loved and treated with kindness. I’m still working through my “issues” one day at a time. I’m not perfect. And thank goodness.

I struggle with two things: the want for freedom and the want for structure. The want for structure is most likely from my childhood and nearly 19 years in a lab setting where structure and protocol were held with utmost importance. The want for freedom comes from not liking being told what to do, the realization that I had (and probably still do to some extent) lived my life how others wanted me to live it. I become overwhelmed with too many choices. I have so many passions that I overwhelm myself sometimes trying to figure out what it is I want in my life, out of my life.

I’ve learned that being perfect, trying to be continuously in a state of perfection is exhausting. I’ve also learned that there is some benefit in striving for “perfection.” Granted, I’ve also learned nothing is ever “perfect.” I don’t even tell my kids to seek perfection. The phrase, “Practice makes perfect,” is basically a forbidden phrase in our household. “Practice makes you better….” The perfectionist mindset has been passed onto the kids, and it’s also something we’re all working through. We see how it affects others who strive for perfection. Just witnessing it is exhausting.

Writing is a passion of mine. I tell stories. I write about my life. I just write. It’s a release for me. Writing allows me to be unfiltered and feel unjudged. Even if I know people read my words, I know that they are still my words, and whatever the reaction is, isn’t mine. And there have been times when I’ve wanted to write a book about something. Fear has/is a big obstacle I struggle with. There have been two times where the book dream was worked on. Then, life happened. I still have things saved with what I’ve written on my own or with others. It’s fun reading through it all, and seeing how my writing has developed.

I write because I have something to say. I write because it’s safe for me. Speaking in front of others, especially strangers isn’t my thing. I can get passionate about things, and only tend to be expressive with people I feel safe with. Isn’t that how it usually works? By the way, I can already hear some of you saying/thinking, “But that’s how you get over a fear. You just do it. Or work towards doing it. Just go out and speak to strangers.” The introvert in me is laughing at you and your thoughts.

I cried this weekend. The kids were out of the house, doing their individual Sunday thing, and I decided to take a bath. During the bath, I was listening to music and texting a friend. I’m not quite sure what triggered it, and I think the music was a big factor, my chest, right around my heart became tight and painful. Broken would probably be the best word to describe it. My heart felt broken – shattered. I felt tears starting to well up and stream down my face, and I almost stopped it. Then, I blurted out to nothing, “You left me.” And I realized that I needed to say that to Ted. “You left me. How could you? You left the kids. How dare you? Why did you leave? You left me.” And the tears kept coming. Streaming down the sides of my face and into my ears, and then into the bathwater. After I spent about five minutes crying and just saying what came to mind, I felt lighter. I drained the tub, and started the shower, sitting in the tub and experiencing the water falling over me. I laughed at one point because I sometimes cry in the shower. I did a lot of crying in the shower after Ted died. Can’t feel the tears on my face while the shower water is running down it. And sometimes the noise of the shower, bathroom fan, and the music playing drowns out the sobbing. Drowns out the whimpers and blurted out thoughts I didn’t realize were waiting to be said and expressed. No one but me hears all this amongst the cacophony of the bathroom noises.

I have cried more the past few weeks than I had for quite some time. Might have been months really. At least since August. I really can’t remember just breaking down and crying. It’s not as if I don’t want to do it. I think part of it is a subconscious thing. Programming uploaded in me from my childhood years as well as other societal “standards,” or however you want to call it. Crying wasn’t allowed.

I read somewhere something that hit me in a way that made me rethink how I tend to just hide my pain, ” Promise me not to hide yourself when you’re in pain. It’s unfair that we laughed together but you cried alone.” Now that I’ve typed that, the memory of being at the funeral home and receiving Ted’s personal items comes up.

It was a moment where the reality of the situation hit me. I broke down, and just cried and sobbed and shook with loss and grief and disbelief and realization. Those who had come with me to support only sat there in silence, and witnessed my grief. The funeral director was asking my questions, and thank goodness some of those there spoke for me. Looking back, I’m grateful I had witnesses then. And a lot of times, I really wish I could run to someone to just cry. Yet, there is still shame I carry in crying in front of others. Hence, I tend to cry alone…and usually in the shower.

I write because there’s freedom in it for me.

Living with depression, anxiety, and PTSD due to experiencing suicide can be a tricky thing. There are things that will trigger someone living with the said above. Each person has their own set of triggers. Sirens and the sight of emergency vehicles is a trigger for Peanut. I’m working through that one myself. There are certain phrases and words that will trigger me. A missed call from one of the kids, a family member, or a friend without a left message triggers me. My brain immediately goes to the worst possible situation. The same thing goes when I don’t get an answer to a phone call by someone I know who should be answering their phone – namely the kids. A missed call from someone who I know the kids are with, and no message. Lease a message! Please! Even before I see the message, I can get triggered by seeing a missed call.

We all have triggered for something. Some of us work really hard to work through those triggers. Others are so overwhelmed by them that they don’t know where to start in order to work through them. We’re all different.

The kids can be a trigger for me. A trigger of the, “I’ll never be good enough,” inner child. I am constantly working with/through that one. My work experience and my childhood are also sources/triggers for that inner child. Really, it’s not the kids’ fault. It’s how I react to them, their actions, their reactions, their teenager ways (even their prior to teenager ways).

I grew up with a right or wrong mentality. I went through school with the right or wrong programming. I went through it in my work experience; in fact, I still do. Black or white. Even though, deep down I knew there is grey and a multitude of other ways of going about things. It’s difficult for me to stray from certain set standards/molds, and I also struggle with being forced into a mold. I dislike labels, trends, and being told how I “should” be doing this or that.

Criticism can be a trigger. I’m getting better with that one. It’s always a work in progress.

I got a new laptop. A lighter one, and one that I really want. Now, I just need to get used to the keyboard on it when I take it with me to other places.

I’ve been absent. I took an isolation retreat, trying to figure things out. Truth be told, being on social media from November through January is hard for me. It’s just a reminder of the hole left in our family. A hole that will never be filled by another. No one could ever replace Ted’s role in the lives he touched. I remember Peanut asking me about a few days or a week after Ted died, “Are you going to get us a new daddy?” It was such an interesting flooring question. I told her no, not for a long time.

I found freedom after Ted’s death. Through my counseling, I realized that I had conformed to what not only what I thought Ted wanted me to be but others throughout my life. Part of the people-pleaser in me, I guess. I’m still trying to figure myself out. In fact, I think I’m going through another cycle of shedding.

I stayed at a job I had begun to dislike out of fear, not only my own fears but the fears projected from Ted, family, and friends. While it was devastating to be let go after nearly 19 years, it was a gift. I hadn’t been in alignment with that place for such a long time. Something else was calling to me, and basically, the Universe basically pushed me off the pot.

I got another job, and a little over a year there, I left because it wasn’t in alignment with me. Now, I’m struggling with something very similar at my current job. New things look so shiny, and once the shiny layers get worn down, certain things get seen, right? Honestly, as I think back, there were red flags in the beginning. Now, I’m in this spot where I don’t know what direction to go towards.

I’m a fixer. I’ve gotten better at not rushing to fix things, and there are times where things do need fixing.I can’t really fix what’s going on. You can’t fix people. You can improve systems.

BK said that my two sides – the one that wants freedom and the that wants structure- are going head to head right now. She suggested I look at what their purpose is in keeping me safe – what are they keeping me safe from? And explore how they can both exist. We’ve been trying a new therapy technique she learned, and it’s brought up some things I haven’t addressed in months and I’ve been hiding from.

“I’ll never be good enough. No matter what I do or how hard I try, I will never be good enough.”

“Why bother trying?”

“I”m so tired of trying.”

“This isn’t fair. None of this is. My doing all this by myself. It feels like I’m doing it all by myself. And it’s not fair!”

Just a few things that’s come from me while going through the last two sessions. It’s layers. It happens in layers. That’s why I said I felt like I was shedding. Now, I’ve lost the steam to write. Erg….Love and light to you all!

I’ve been away. A slightly self-imposed break from the interweb and social media. I was getting overloaded and feeling the weight of things. I couldn’t focus, and I didn’t know where I was or even who I was. I still don’t know exactly who I am, and do we ever really know?

Another thing was, the laptop I had bought last year in hopes of writing more was given to my son for Windows Certification class, and asking to use it (yes, I said asking), became too much of a hassle for me. Even when I got the laptop, I couldn’t get myself to write or even really go online.

I’m hoping this will change. I’ve learned some things about myself, and I’m going to be working on those things. One of which is oversharing. That’s a subjective term, and I’m going to keep to myself what it means for me. I still won’t filter here what I want to say; I just won’t be sharing certain things with the rest of you.

Just a quick note really this morning. Y’all take care. Love and Light!

I tend to date all my entries. Even here. Why? If you haven’t quite noticed, I don’t always finish my posts, and sometimes it takes days for me to even get through my own thoughts. I tend to go on tangents sometimes. I’ve been accused of giving too much background and detail. That can be true. The thing is, I want the listener/reader to be able to experience it. A strange to want, no?

It could be a result of all the books I read as a kid and growing up. I was reading books beyond my age starting in fourth grade. Started reading Stephen Kings books around then. A neighbor had a big collection at that time. Reading was one of the few avenues of entertainment when I was a kid. My mom still has my collection of Nancy Drew books and Baby-Sitters Club books. I was reading The Scarlet Letter in fourth and fifth grade. I was reading The Idiot by Dostoevsky my freshman year in high school. Now that I think about it, I never finished it. Might have to dig that one out, along with a few other books that have recently pique my re-interest.

In any case, these books offered detail where I could experience it. It’s fascinating because all authors use their words differently to transport their readers. Even in some of the more simplstic writing, one could experience the words. It certainly helps having a wild imagination, right?

Reading was an escape for me. At times, it still is – especially when I pick up a fiction book. Writing became an escape for me more when I got into college. I’ve been writing a lot of my life. It seems it’s the best way I can express myself. I had a friend say I was a “prolific writer,” and to be honest, I had to look prolific up. I thought maybe it was a slight poke at my writing, like I wrote too much for anyone to stay engaged, especially in my social media posts. Then, I realized my friend was complimenting me. Eventually, it came to a point where I really didn’t care if people read my posts or not.

Google Search:

pro·lif·ic/prəˈlifik/Learn to pronounceadjectiveadjective: prolific

1. (of a plant, animal, or person) producing much fruit or foliage or many offspring.”in captivity tigers are prolific breeders” Similar: productive creative inventive fertile
   • (of an artist, author, or composer) producing many works.”he was a prolific composer of operas”
   • (of a sports player) high-scoring.”a prolific home-run hitter
2. present in large numbers or quantities; plentiful.”mahogany was once prolific in the tropical forests” Similar: plentiful abundant bountiful profuse copious luxuriant rich lush proliferative fertile fruitful fecundriferank plenteous bounteous proliferous
   • (of a river, area, or season of the year) characterized by plentiful wildlife or produce.”the prolific rivers and lakes of Franklin County”

And honestly, this blog is one of the many avenues I write. I have numerous journals and notebooks laying around, “ready” for me to grab when something demands I write of it. And sometimes, there isn’t anything available for me to get the words out. The thoughts. Oh, the number of thoughts that attack and beg me to be released onto screen or paper. At times, they’ll be forgotten among the busy streets of my mind, or they’ll suddenly swerve out of the lines, and I can’t do anything but write.

The Boy found this blog. He told me a few months ago. My first thought was, “OH, shit. Is he mad for what I’ve written?” Then, when I asked him what his thoughts were, he didn’t seem upset. The more I thought about it, and when I became honest with myself, I knew it was eventual the kids would find this. My words. And I had promised myself when I started this blog, I wouldn’t edit for anyone. This blog is for me. If I get readers, so be it. If I get loyal readers, I’m further blessed. Like I’ve learned, said before, and have been told, I cannot control how other people react to me, my actions, and my words. That’s been a hard lesson to grasp and understand, and it’s offered me so much more freedom.

In college, I found chat rooms. Oh, what a rabbit hole that was for me. Eventually, I found a chat room that was basically folks role-playing characters of their own design, even if based on different forums. It became an escape for me – for me to be someone or something else. I made some amazing friends through those chat rooms; friends I still talk with after 20+ years. They taught me how to write, how to improve my writing skills. I learned from each of them in their own writing styles and even of the worlds they created of their own imagination and desires.

It occurred to me recently, that my writing was actually a form of therapy for me. A way for me to express the repressed voices in me. The characters I created had some connection to what I felt lacking in my life, or some wish of what I could be in my real life. Strangely, I found out playing male was easier than females. If I played a female, she was angry and bitter or very doelike and complacent, a giver.

I find I can’t write like I used to, nor do I write quite like I used to. One develops over the years. Different styles. Different perspectives. I can still be very detailed in my descriptions. I do want the reader to experience it, even if they can’t really know every single thought or movement that happened

This blog was intended to let you in on one life affected by the aftermath of a suicide. It will happen, adn you will also witness other happenings of this life. I will time-travel with you. You will experience things with me that if you do know me, probably would never have guessed it of me. Then again, as a saying goes, “There are some chapters that aren’t made for sharing…” or something like that.

I’m going to be as honest as it feels in aligntment with me. Because this is for me.

The end of May and the beginning of June are hard. As much as I’d like to deny it, it’s just downright hard. I want to be able to move forward and leave all the pain behind. All I’ve been doing is working on letting go of the pain. And I still hold on because deep down I’m fucking afraid that if I let go of the pain, I’ll be letting go of Ted…permanently. Logically, I know that isn’t true, and all those years with him…what would I be denying? Nothing but myself, right?

Today was a tough day. All day I had this heavy weight on me, in my chest, and a knot in my throat. I could feel the tears, only they wouldn’t come. Not until I had left work, after I watched my daughter’s recitals, and I took my son to work. As I drove my daughter home, I realized I couldn’t go home.