Ghost of a Rose

A recent Saturday morning… I awoke early to take flowers to my girl. I wanted to arrive as the sun rose over the stories of lives remembered… lives forgotten… ghosts of memories lost to time. Alone… another living soul not to be found in the graveyard of memories that morning. Many non-living souls surrounding me and my girl: a Navy Warrant Officer on her left; a Navy Corpsman on her right. Only appropriate she lies between two Navy veterans I think each time I visit. Flowers arranged this day: white roses.

“She would say:

Promise me, when you see

A white rose you’ll think of me

I love you so, never let go

I will be your ghost of a rose.”

            Ghost of a Rose by Blackmore’s Night

Each time I see a white rose, my thoughts immediately go to my girl. Her voice flowing through the closed bathroom door, floating through the house, reaching my ears. Often, her voice drew me to the door… standing outside… listening to her sing. Ghost of a Rose was often played, and amazed at her voice, I would stand… listening. Never did I imagine the many times standing there that one day her voice would be a memory, and at the doors of my mind I would stand, straining to remember every nuance of her voice.

Time… eventually people forget… or do not remember. It is not that this is intentional, but time moves on. Lives filled with other priorities: jobs, other family, vacations, other deaths… people move on. Occasionally, a thought may cross their minds; occasionally, a tear may form as their eye blinks, but time… it stops for no one. A graveyard is a reminder of lives no more, of lives remembered, of lives transitioning to the field of history that become only a name engraved in stone… in time.

It will be that way for me, for you, for each of us. My name will one day engrave a stone, but until that day, my girl lives in me and with me every second. Her absence weighs heavy on my heart every day. He absence pierces my soul and that absence is often filled with anger when life hits me. Flags being lowered to remember those who died because of Covid-19, or the lives killed in Atlanta is one such life-hitting moment. Those in government, the media, decide who is important enough to be remembered, to be honored. Why is there never a flag lowered for the lives ended by suicide? Do their lives not matter? Are their stories not important? Why is it the only time we hear about somebody killing themselves is when the person is considered “important,” or is a “celebrity.” Naturally, there is the occasional coverage of suicide when some external factor makes it salacious enough to cover: a girlfriend egging on her boyfriend resulting in a trial; a teenage boy taking his life because of a blackmail scheme. However, what fascinates me – and not in a good way – is in these few cases, most of the coverage is on the other person who is deemed responsible for the suicide, not the person who killed themselves. Yes, they are there, but more as props in the story the media narrates. Why is this?

According to the Center for Disease Control, the top five reasons people die are: unintentional/accidental death; malignant cancer; heart disease; homicide; and suicide. In 2000, suicide was fourth on the list for young people between the ages of 10-25. By the year 2019, it was second. The number of suicide deaths in this age group went from 15,700 in 2000 to 22,100 in 2019. A total of 358,600 young people between 10-25 years old killed themselves from 2000 to 2019. (Note: This is not the total number of suicides.)

Why is there no honor being paid to these young lives? To the other lives? When a young person dies, it is not just that life that is extinguished, it is all that person could have become that is also extinguished. It is the death of another generation. My daughter, age 25, often spoke of the daughter she would have; she even had a name selected: that is no more. There will be no children of hers, no children of theirs… and so it goes.

But it is way more than the ending of life and the subsequent generations of lives; it is so much more because suicide radically alters the lives left behind. At this point comes the disclaimer that death alters anyone, because a person loved is no more, and what I am writing does not in any way diminish the grief felt by those who have buried loved ones. Why the disclaimer? Because someone reading will think, “Well, I lost my (fill in the name) to (fill in the manner of death), and it altered me.” And they would be correct, but other deaths are not like suicide.

Other deaths rarely elicit questions such as:

“Why didn’t they ask for help?”

“Why did they do it?”

“Didn’t you see it coming?”

“It is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”

“It was their choice and such a selfish one.”

As a society, and individually, the person who killed themselves are to blame, and implicitly those closest to the person are questioned, and what follows is a sigh of relief because that lets everyone else off the hook. This myth creates in the survivors more questions, more self-blame, more pain, because inside, in the quiet of the night, or the loudness of the day, the questions remain… the guilt remains… the what ifs remain. The “if I’d only done more or done something differently” remain. The ghosts of memories remain…

Dedicated to my friend, Dee Dee.

Time

Time that ticks away
     seconds that fade to black

Time that reveals its treasure
     minutes that fade to grey

Time that steals your breath
     hours that fade to bleak

Time that shakes the ground
     days that fade to shrouds

Time that sparks the ember glow
     months that fade to winds a-blow

Time that fears not its place
     years that fade to space

Time that eternity becomes
     with you no more setting suns

www.shelbyswalk.org     

S…

S… for smiles you created with each sight of you

S…for sunshine radiating with your showing, even in rain

S…for songs your voice discovered singing

S…for sunflowers turning toward the sun with shades of secrets kept

S…for simplicity that is your love

S…for shadows in which you moved

S…for stories shaped by you

S…for silence saddening your spirit

S…for suicide stealing you away

S…for Shelby

http://www.shelbyswalk.org

S…

S… for smiles you created with each sight of you

S…for sunshine radiating with your showing, even in rain

S…for songs your voice discovered singing

S…for sunflowers turning toward the sun with shades of secrets kept

S…for simplicity that is your love

S…for shadows in which you moved

S…for stories shaped by you

S…for silence saddening your spirit

S…for suicide stealing you away

S…for Shelby

http://www.shelbyswalk.org

2020: Moving On and Moving Forward

Good morning, my daughter.

Good morning, mama.

Well… I made it through Christmas and now we are on the eve of a new year. 2020… the year that kept giving. You came to me for a visit.

I know… I was there, but please, tell me.

I was home, but you know how it is in dreams, it is the same but different. Anyway, the front door opened and entered you did, with Jordan behind you carrying a black bag twice the size of a seabag. Your face bore a smile. I embraced you and said, “Oh, there you are…” which is what I say in each dream that finds you there. Your smiling face, so beautiful, you responded, “I just needed to get away.” Christmas Eve night it was when we again saw each other. I awoke Christmas Day with the reminder that you are no longer here.

But I am with you.

Yes, my sweet pea, I know you are with me, but it is not quite the same.

I know.

So, it got me thinking about 2020 and the way it started and all that has happened and what has not happened.

Would you like to tell me?

Yes. Would that be okay?

Absolutely, because although I was with you all along, I want you to tell me.

You know how people say it is time to move on?

Yes, it is rather irritating.

I agree. Moving on implies we leave the past behind and that is true, but for some things that happen in life, it is not moving on, it is moving forward.

You found yourself doing both this year, didn’t you?

Yes, I did.

Did it hurt?

Yes. Moving on… I moved on from some relationships that I learned were never going to be healthy and were never going to be based on love. It saddened and angered me, but I learned this year I can never change another person.

But you wanted to try, didn’t you?

Of course, because that is who I am, I guess.

I know mama, you tried with me, gave me everything your had and your whole heart, but you could not change my hurt. How are you doing with that?

With you?

Yes.

It has been a journey… dark days, darker nights… worry for your brother, your dad, but I cannot change them. I cannot do anything for them other than love them and support them, but the road they choose it theirs alone. Then, my heart that will never be whole. Learning that a part of me will always be absent… not easy.

You are moving on then?

From you?

Yes.

Never. With you, I am moving forward for your past is my past and I am never going to leave that, leave you behind. It made me who I am, you made me who I am, and I am moving forward with all of it: the joy; the happiness; the moments that became memories; the pain; the hurt; but most of all the love because you are love.

And the moving on?

I am moving on from empty relationships, you know the ones I mean.

I do.

And moving forward with you, and the relationships that are built on unconditional love. You know those too.

I do.

Time to move on from 2020 and move forward into 2021. I miss you, my girl.

We shall see each other again.

I know. Until then, you will move forward with me. I love you.

I love you more.

I love you the most.

I loved you first.

Myth of Time

The passage of time used to be heard in the clocks that filled rooms… the tick… tick… tick.. of the second hand as it made its way around the circle of numbers. Or the chiming of the grandfather clock that declared another hour had passed. Now, time silently slips by without those auditory reminders. Yet, it is felt with each beat of my heart.

Yesterday I was given a truth that dispels the oft used phrased, “Time heals all wounds.” Time does not heal all wounds, I was told. Hearing those words from a man who a few years ago buried his wife of many decades was much needed, because it lifted the weight of expectation from my shoulders. He called it myth one of grieving.

Time… every second of every day reminds me of a void that will never be filled. I awake with her, I carry her throughout the day, I fall asleep with her. There is no analogy that can be used to describe the ache that is felt in every fiber of my being with her absence. Images flood my mind, songs fill my ears, flashbacks brings me to my knees.

Death is a part of life, but her death brought more than just a physical absence. It is the death of all the plans we had. It is the death of the name she had already selected for her little girl that is no longer to be. It is the death of a part of me that will be never be brought back to life. It is the death of hope because time is no more for her, for us, for our family.

If an analogy is to be used, I suppose it is like a category six hurricane. Suicide is really a “stops-you-in-c(s)ide” type of death. It is assumed or accepted that it is just that moment, when the truth is it is all the moments that led to that one event. For us, it was 14 years of moments, 14 years of being in a hurricane. In the aftermath, even though the sun eventually shines and the ski clears, the carnage is there. The physical pieces are picked up, but the internal pieces are still scattered to the ends of the earth. How do I describe this? How am I to respond when the words of a supposed loved one are spoken, “You are not the only one to lose someone.” Those words alone minimize, reduce the carnage to a bag of trash that needs only to be tossed into the bin and taken to the dump. Then it will be okay. How do I explain to that person how devastating those words are and how they sever any ties that bind? How do I describe that suicide is not like other deaths? How do I describe finding our daughter, the person I carried for nine months, gave birth to, nursed, cared for, watched take her first steps, and all the moments between birth and finding her lifeless body in our home? How do I describe that I am angry with her, yet I love her and understand? How do I describe the feeling of not doing enough even if that defies reality?

The proverbial, “be strong.” I know not what that means either. How do I explain to those who have perceived me one way that I am not that at all? How do I describe the heart-crushing pain that exists in every part of me, and strength is an illusive ghost? How do I describe that when asked, “How are you?” I want to scream, because while the word “okay” forms, I really just want to cry, but the perception of strength must remain? How do I explain I am not okay and I do not know if I ever will be okay again?

How do I describe the roller-coaster of emotions. Just when I think I am going to be okay… a wave knocks me down, leaving me struggling to get back up, and then the times when I don’t want to get back up, that I really just want to let the waves consume me? How do I describe that only our son keeps me going? It is not a crisis of faith, because I know where our daughter is; it is a crisis of pain. There’s a difference.

How do I describe that time does not heal all wounds, and how grateful I am for the person who told me it really is just a myth?

How do I put into words that all I really want is just a hug, one hug… time… the passage of time… how do I explain that I really do not know just where this road of time will take me? This is not eloquent, it is not meant to be; nor is it meant to elicit responses. Time… it is not forever; while it continues, it does stop for each of us. I was not prepared for her time to so violently end, but I suppose no one is ever truly prepared when that moment in time enters the door of the heart.

You Are…

Crazy, nuts, bipolar, schizophrenic, manic depressive, depressed…

Ever notice when it comes to mental illness or mental injury, the words used are, “You are…” fill in the blank.

Now consider this scenario: you are attempting to recapture youth by learning to skateboard, when your balance gets lost in the memories of time and you end up in the ER. What words do the doctor use? Does he say, “You are a broken ankle?” or “You have a broken ankle?” Of course he uses the latter, because you are not a broken ankle, you have a broken ankle. There is a difference.

This is true with any injury or other illness such as cancer. Why then are individuals who have a mental injury or a mental illness labeled with “You are…” Is there a difference? Would changing the language used determine the outcome?

When “you have” is used, the mind and body receive the words and begin to process how the condition can be healed. Not managed, not drugged, but healed.

When “you are” is used, the mind and body receive the words and believe nothing can be done to heal, and therefore, it’s just who you are and therefore, it must be managed or drugged.

What if we used the words “you have,” for mental injuries or mental illness instead of “you are.” What if we changed the dynamics and approach from managing to healing. Going back to the broken ankle, or cancer, or heart disease, or other physical illness, the doctor pinpoints the cause of the illness and proceeds to create ways to heal or eliminate the illness, with the person’s input. For the broken ankle, the doctor doesn’t tell the patient to take some pain medication and go home and learn to live with the broken ankle. He resets, or sets, the bone, places it in a cast or wraps it in such a way that allows the bone to heal so in six weeks, give or take a few, the ankle is healed and the person back to attempting to recapture youth, or just walk.

Just as when a person “has” a physical ailment or illness, what if we approach the brain the same way? A person with cancer is seen as a whole person, and the treatment reflects the whole person: mind, body, emotional, spiritual… what if that same approach was applied toward those who have mental injury or mental illness. Instead of a “take this drug, and this drug, and sit on a couch…” approach, imagine if the mental health industry viewed the totality of the person. What if those doctors, in consultation with the individual, accepted the four pillars of that person: mind, body, emotional, spiritual?

It does require more work, more effort, but imagine if instead of masking with drugs, the ‘professionals’ took the time to determine the root cause, created a treatment plan that includes the four pillars of the person, so true healing could take place?

Just imagine the healing difference that could be made… Just imagine…

Garden of Memories

Mad Hatter: “In the gardens of memory, in the palace of dreams, that is where you and I will meet.”

Alice: “But a dream isn’t reality.”

Mad Hatter: “Who’s to say which is which?”

Alice Through the Looking Glass

“We meet everyday in the gardens of my memories.”

“I enjoy our time together among the sunflowers.”

“I watched a documentary the other night. I felt as if I was watching our, your, story.”

“Will you share?”

“Of course, but first remember your words, ‘It’s like everyone is seeing how I’ve been feeling this entire time on the inside of my body cause now its affecting the outside of my body. I’ve been falling to pieces for years inside and now everyone can see what I’ve always been feeling. It sucks.’ Remember?”

“I do.”

“In this documentary, a man was describing his story of childhood trauma and finally getting the help he needed. He finally found a doctor who stopped labeling him. The doctor told him, “You are this way because of something that happened to you. You have a story that’s not been diagnosed.” He was told the labels didn’t make sense, trauma victims blame themselves, and the arch enemy, the fiend is the truth, but your reality is not allowed to be seen and to be known, and that is the true trauma. I cried because he was describing you. So many memories flooded back. Memories of desperately searching for someone, anyone, who would stop labeling you, who would see you, listen to you, help you heal. Then the words that it’s not mental illness but mental injury…”

“You okay?”

“No, not really. I thought there was time, I thought we’d have time…”

“It’s okay now, momma.”

“Yes and no. A friend said to me, “God answered your prayer to heal her, just not in the way you wanted.” A hug, your hug… just one hug… you always said I gave the best hugs, but really it was you who gave the best hugs. I miss your hugs most of all because they were so complete, so full of unconditional love.”

“We shall hug again…”

“I know, my precious daughter. You weren’t mentally ill, your were mentally injured. Doctors who prescribed drugs only hurt you more because those drugs didn’t help you, they hurt you more by altering your mind. I wish I could go back… I would tell that first doctor to go to hell. I’m sorry I trusted him, a doctor who didn’t care about you in a system that cared even less. I’m so sorry.”

“Momma…”

“I know, how could I know? It doesn’t really help though when I’m trapped in the garden of memories.”

“Momma?”

“Yes?”

“Remember?”

“Remember??”

“I sent you a picture with the words, “God is restoring everything the enemy has stolen!” I wrote, “You know those days where you think God forgot you and you can feel the pain crushing you and then something catches your eye cause it’s not in the ordinary of your things? I read this the other day during one of those moments and I think it’s great. 🙂 I hope it helps you too.” God has restored to me everything the enemy stole because I’m whole now. It’s His promise to you as well. I love you momma.”

“I love you to the moon and back, to infinity and beyond.”

“I love you more.”

“I love you the most.”

“I loved you first.”

“You are missed, my darling. You were never a burden, by the way. A thousand bad days with you are better than a perfect day without you.”

“I’m still with you…”

Stronghold…

“How did you know?”

“Know?”

“That I’d be here.”

“It’s where you always come when you want to be alone.”

Draping the air as fog on an early summer morning, the silence clung to the particles of the atmosphere, cloaking its visitors.

“Are you okay?”

“Now… I am now.”

“What changed?”

“Me.”

“How so?”

“Before I can tell you, there’s a more pressing thought?”

“Will you share?”

“It’s not comfortable.”

“That’s okay. I prefer you share to comfort.” 

“Comfort… it’s comfortable to observe the world while keeping it as arm’s length bay.”

“What is it you observe?” 

“Stronghold towers.”

Fog… silence…waiting…

“People create stronghold towers… they live in them… they stay in the stronghold of their constructed walls so they can feel comfortable. They are afraid of what’s outside, but really what they fear lurks inside.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”   

“It’s okay, I’m not sure I understand myself… it’s just an observation.”

Stillness… “It’s okay, you can explain, you are safe here,” whispers the voice.

“Remember the Allegory of the Caves?”

“Vaguely…”

“The cave… all the trapped souls within, but they don’t believe themselves trapped. They believe they are safe in the darkness of the cave. Yet one day… one man gathers the courage to leave. The light hurts his eyes and he must move slowly to allow his orbs times to adjust, but when he finally emerges, he realizes the cave is not a stronghold tower but rather a prison and the freedom awaits outside.”

“What does he do?”

“He returns to tell the others about the freedom awaiting them…”

Silence…

“And?”

“They laugh at him, mock him, tell him he’s crazy… demand he stay with them in the darkness. This saddens him because he finally sees the truth, but they refuse to believe him. “We’ve always lived here,” they say, “We trust this cave because it’s what we know.” 

“What does he do?”

“He leaves… he breaks free of the stronghold of the false tower and when he emerges for the last time, he shudders… casting off the darkness, leaving it behind because he knows that even if alone, he’d rather be alone and free than surrounded by a thousand imprisoned in the stronghold of a belief drapes their minds and souls, anchoring them to the darkness.”

Moving the air particles, hands join forming a circle of love.

“Going back to the beginning… I’ve changed. The darkness has been caste off and I am now free because I walk toward the son.”

 ^“I am come a light into the world, that whosoever believeth on me should not abide in darkness.” John 12:46

 

 

Silence…

“You told the story?”

“To some.”

“How was it received?”

“Depends on who you talk to, I guess.”

“Mama?”

“Yes, hon?”

“Do you think they understand?”

“Understand what?”

“What it’s like to be trapped inside a screaming mind.”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think fear controls them as much as as it controls my mind.”

“Tell me more.”

“Fear… fear of having to confront the reality that not everything is as it seems, and we deceive ourselves by not accepting reality.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s hard to put into words.”

“Please try.”

“Remember the word?

“What word?”

“Hero.”

“Yes?”

“We create impressions in our mind based on that one word. We delude ourselves into believing an institution is heroic because heroes fill it, but we only allow problems to continue because of the illusion we’ve created, and when we are confronted with the reality that the institution is failing because not everyone is a hero, we immediately reject it.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand, but…”

“Not everyone who wears a uniform is a hero. Not everyone cares. Not everyone who is in the institution has pure motives. Many are selfish, many only care for themselves and take for granted the trust placed in them.”

“What happens then?”

“People die.”

“How does that relate to heros?”

“I can only tell you because if I tell anyone else, they will get angry and reject… confronted with an uncomfortable reality we’ve created false gods of people through the labeling of hero. Just as we’ve created images of people with screaming minds labeling them “crazy,” “unbalanced,” disturbed.” They don’t get it, do they? They don’t see what’s in front of them. They don’t want to confront the ugly reality that they are just as imperfect and flawed as I am, and that I am a product of their creation of false gods, because they don’t want to acknowledge people fail and not all people are good and… my mind… it’s unraveling.”

“No my precious child, I think your mind is clearly seeing what most want to eradicate.”

“Why won’t they try to change?”

“Change what?”

“The entrenched institutions.”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think they are just as imprisoned as I am… and afraid.”

“Imprisoned? Afraid of…”

“Afraid they will have to accept that they are part of the problem through their silence and acceptance of what they know is broken. What did you use to say… you use to tell me… yes, that’s it. Human nature… when confronted with the ugly part of human nature, people can acknowledge or reject. In acknowledging, they can choose to act; in rejecting, they choose to ignore. What does that say about them, if they know and yet choose to ignore and do nothing? So instead of either, they choose to imprison themselves in denial because then they feel safe in that cell. They don’t have to do anything. They can comfortably believe in the heroes of the institutions they believe in almost as much as they believe in God. They choose imprisonment of denial over the freedom of truth.”

“What can we do?”

“Tell the story… break the silence.”

“I will try. Will you be with me?”

“Always.”