Her Death Gave Me Life :: The First Suicide Story

My first experience with death, not the dying or the dead but death, was when I was ten.  I do believe that there is a difference.  One is natural but the other, the grim, is not.  I remember it in detail.

It was the only time I ever saw tears in my fathers eyes.  There was also something else there. In his eyes.  Disappointment, fear, confusion, even now I can't put my finger on it but as a young girl, it puzzled me.

She was my great grandmother.  The one who taught me the importance of letter writing.  The one who tried over and over to convince me that beauty is on the inside, yet she hid behind a wig because she was concerned about what others thought of the thinning silver on her head.  She was the one that said she saw herself in me, 

that I reminded her of herself.  

These words didn't truly sink in until later.  Much later.

It was always a treat whenever she would call and invite my sister and I over for "slumber parties".  We would stay up late into the night playing games, Chinese Checkers was her personal favorite.  I saw something mysterious in her.

Rebellious.  Fun.

Wild.  

She wasn't like most other adults that I knew.  I think that's what drew me to her.  I don't think others noticed this, or wanted to notice it.  I think they ignored it when she couldn't ignore it.  That is, until the day that tears found their eyes.

We weren't allowed to attend the funeral.  They wanted to protect us.  To keep this evil hidden.  Quiet.  But as I'm learning in my own life,

"Bone by bone, hair by hair, Wild Woman comes back.  Through night dreams, through events half understood and half remembered, Wild Woman comes back." ~Women Who Run With The Wolves~

I remembered the gun.  I had often lay next to it under the bed when she sent us off to hide as she counted before searching for us.  In some ways, I think her suicide was a letter to me.  A letter with a secret message to embrace the wild woman.

Her death gave me life.

I wish that it would have been this suicide that started waking me up, but it was his, nineteen years after his great grandmothers, that gave me a voice.

My Voice | A Vlog

Insomnia ~

It's after midnight and once again I'm restless.  Tossing and turning I can't seem to quiet my mind.  I keep thinking about light.

I'm reminded of waking, though not by choice.  I'm trying to figure out what this "wild woman" wants with me that keeps howling at the moon while I'm trying to get some sleep.

Its been one of those days today, when I feel as though I say all the wrong things and want so desperately to wave a wand and make everything all better.  Like. Now.  Life doesn't work that way.  Well, mine doesn't.

I wonder about going back to "normal" and how everyone says it will fix it all.  I don't believe it to be true.  Why?  Because I feel that even though I see so much darkness right now, even though sleep isn't coming and I often feel as though I'm stumbling in the dark.. I ponder waking .. and sleeping and ..

light.  Faint.  light.

~ ~ ~

But I want fireworks.  

I want a bright light that makes everything glow.  I tell my friend Rain that perhaps too much light is blinding, trying to convince myself that this is truth.  That I don't need that bright light.  The words just came out of nowhere as I typed up the comment, and yet, it's as if I was answering my own soul inquiry.  It's not about convincing myself, but it's about remembering meanings, secret messages in everything...  

We had an incident this afternoon with my husband:

He was cleaning his motorcycle this morning and some chemical happened to get blown up into his eyes.  I wasn't out there at the time but when I came walking out, I found him stumbling.  One hand was covering his face and the other was outstretched, searching, for someone.

He moved slowly.  Cautiously.  Yet there was a hunger in his body language.  "Someone help, I need help," he said.

I ran to him, grabbed his one arm as he breathlessly requested water because he couldn't see.  I ran as quickly as I could up the stairs and to the nearest water supply, pulling him along.  I watched with my heart beating wildly as we attempted to clean the liquid out of his eyes and hope that his sight regained.  

It took time.  

His sight was cloudy at first.  

I feel as though my sight is still cloudy, Im "rinsing my eyes out," and just waiting for the cloudy sight to become clear.  

~ ~ ~

I've tried to convince myself over and over again that it needs to be greater, that I need more glow, more rainbow colored filters of which to see it all through.  

if I just forced myself to keep my eyes open without rinsing them, 

it would bring the joy and happiness to my tired weary soul.  

Fake it till you make it, right?

Light twinkles dimly on my incense burning next to me and I know.  I can breathe here.  It feels safe.  It feels right.  So why should I be in such a hurry to leave.  I need to embrace the faint light that dances with the darkness.  I'm before my very own "water source" and the repetitive rinsing is slowly bringing relief.  This path.  Right now, 

I can't take more than a little glow.

Too much light, too many answers would be blinding and scare me back into dark corner where I am so used to hiding.  As long as there is a little glimmer in the distance, as long as our eyes are cloudy and not blind, I believe, we will make it.

After all, there are a tribe of hands pulling us along when we need pain relief.

This Is Me: A Grungy Whiteboard

 

Last week I wrote about learning how to trust this thing called my heart/my intuition, it hasn't been easy.  Just today I found myself almost to tears because of a simple question.

What is your favorite color?  I know it sounds trivial but how does one not know what her favorite color is?  A chameleon has many colors.  This has been me.

The chameleon.

Liking this color one minute, calling it my favorite and then in the next, scribbling the whiteboard clean and picking up a new marker.  This is me, the grungy whiteboard with faint scribbles in the background, wiping quickly so that nobody sees the mistakes.

It's messy.

A friend reminds me that it's ok because there are no mistakes. 

 "There are no mistakes or failures, only tender lessons which are opportunities for gratitude ~ because sometimes it takes struggles and do-overs to know ok, this is what happens when I do not follow my soul. That's what it feels like, that's what it sounds like, so I'll know better next time."

So what does this grungy whiteboard tell me?  I may not know my favorite color but there are secrets slowly being revealed..

It whispers that:

~ Tattoo's are my favorite art.

~ Dangly earrings and bandannas make me feel at home in my gypsy soul

~ I'm not a painted nail person.  I've tried.  Different colors.  Just not me.  Love colored toenails!

~ I prefer simplicity.  Layers are not my friend.

~ Jeans and Skirts romance my soul like poetry.

~ Oh and Ariel is my favorite Disney Princess. :)

Embracing Deceitful and Wicked

I remind myself that it's safe here.  This little corner of the universe is a safe place for my heart to open up and bleed upon paper.

And so...  candles are lit and I watch the flame flicker.  I debate touching my fingers in the wax like I used to when my parents weren't looking, because

it was brave.  and bad.

I liked the mask it created upon my fingertips.  I'd peel it off little by little in amazement of the process.

 

I've thought back to that little girl many times lately.  Her actions still hold #secretmessages within them awaiting discovery.  At times, I see her so clearly sitting under a tree, 

hiding.  

She often crossed her fingers, wishing and hoping that nobody would find her because she needed time to reckon with herself.  She tried to convince herself that she wasn't evil for thinking such wild thoughts.  She traced her secrets onto branches.

Somewhere along the way her heart was silenced.  The battle was lost.

"Hearts are deceitful and wicked," they told her.  The Bible says so.  Her heart was the reason she was evil.  The heart couldn't be trusted.

She learned not to trust herself.  She learned to ignore her heart.

She became what they said she should become.  Putting on the costume of "should and shouldn't" she clung to them tightly.  This worked for a while, until fingers got sore.  She couldn't hold on any longer and the only one left to catch the fall once her grip gave way...was me.

The heart she'd tried so hard to ignore.  Now we are left with much un-learning but the outlook is bright.  

I've Learned To Be OK With Getting Lost

There's a sacred calming sometimes in starting new rituals, like sitting with a new book of a favorite poet. 

There's a thundering fear sometimes in starting new rituals, like a grey sky announcing a storm is on the horizon.

Usually this is where I get stuck:

What if I don't make it?  What if it doesn't work?  What if once again I move onto something new?

The doubting begins.

Like loading the car up for a new adventure.  I begin, unsure where the road will take me, unsure which routes are in need of a detour.. and in case you didn't know, I'm a bit directionally challenged.  

It's as if my GPS has a weak wire, it isn't turning on and I'm left with only me and my intuition.  I'm left with a decision to just go for it or turn around and head back towards the familiar.

Yet this time, I choose to leap fearlessly and hope that my wings form in the process of descending.

I've learned to be OK
with getting lost.

This is scary.  This.  Learning to trust myself.  This.  Asking questions.

This living from the inside out.

I stretch my arms up to the sky,
asking nature to speak to me as I stand like a warrior.

It has begun.

Unsure where it will lead but doing it anyway.

Waking Up Some More

It started with a post about naming.  Some of the words stirred my soul in a way that I just couldn't put my finger on.  I knew that naming was an important part of my awakening.

I'd heard of dying to the old and living anew.  But not in this way.

I wasn't sure what to do about my writing.  Things had gotten hard.  Painful.  There is pain involved when one wakes up from a deep sleep.  Muscles and Limbs are stiff and weak.

I feel as though I'm learning how to walk again.

One baby step at a time as one friend puts it.

This is that journey.  The journey of one girl.  Waking up some more.  One baby step at a time.  Care to join the journey?