"Wow... you're so sweet , I'm a mess right now. Let us see what the future will hold. You amaze me, with your kindness. I will see you again. Thank you so much for so much i don't deserve; you're great."
That was the last thing Josh said to me. I woke up this morning and found out that he died almost a week ago. I immediately thought he had killed himself. His friends told me that he had died at home, in his bed. One explanation is a brain aneurysm, while another has to do with a new medication that was possibly combined with alcohol or something else. Apparently, there's going to be an autopsy because there are a lot of questions surrounding his death. But, ultimately, it doesn't matter... the fact is, a beautiful young man is dead. His funeral is on Sunday and my heart is fucking broken for his family and all who were close to him.
I met Josh at the drum circle on his 25th birthday. We talked a lot that night, and I told him about the book I'm writing. He listened intently to what I said, and I was amazed to learn that he was even familiar with one of the suicide prevention organizations I support.
When we said goodbye, he told me that he couldn't wait to see me again. He gave me a soft kiss on the neck, and it wasn't until I drove away that I realized we hadn't exchanged contact information. I thought about him non-stop until I saw him again the following week.
Our first date was perfect. We smiled, laughed and kissed the whole time. A random gentleman asked us if we were newlyweds. Josh said that I made him nervous, but in a good way. I told him that I felt like I've known him for a long time... he seemed familiar, even though we had just met. We kissed goodbye in the rain that night.
I went to visit my family for Thanksgiving, and we communicated every day. He said that he was thankful to have met me, and I told him the same. I got back to St. Pete on a Sunday evening. I couldn't wait to see him, and I was so excited for my best friend to meet him for the first time. We hung out at the drum circle, and before heading back to my house, we took a walk on the beach. He brought me to an area where there was a sandcastle building competition days before. The sandcastles were starting to fall. We admired some of the broken sculptures and ran on top of the ruined ones. I felt playful and full of joy around him.
We stayed up for most of the night, and he shared with me... he had just gotten out of a four-year relationship and was having a hard time. He told me that he had anxiety and that he sometimes drinks too much. We talked about writing. Poetry was his release.
In the days that followed, things began to change. I started to receive text messages in the middle of the night. Scary messages that worried me. One said, "It's nights like these when I feel like giving up. It's nights like these when I don't give a fuck." Another text: "last thing you want to say." I tried to shower him with positive words and make him feel valued. I know that he was suffering from a broken heart... trying to drown it in alcohol, which only made things worse. During one of the late night calls, he said that he never sleeps and that he drinks every night.
Soon, the phone calls and text messages became less frequent. I wanted closure and I needed to know that he was ok. So, I tried to reach out to him. I brought him journals... a place to keep his words when things were bad. In the big journal, I wrote this: "Set good intentions and surround yourself with positive people. Happiness is inevitable if you just listen and embrace it." I also gave him a pocket sized journal, so he could carry it with him and write whenever he needed it. That one said, "When inspiration strikes, take the time to honor it."
Then, a couple weeks ago, I stopped hearing from him completely. I told him that I was here for him if he ever needed someone to talk to and that I honored him and valued him. The last thing he said to me was the message I started this blog with. I knew he was suffering, but I didn't want to bother him, so his message to me was our last communication.
I've been visiting his Facebook page every few days because I've been worried about him so much. In doing so, I always found poetry that scared me even more. These are some of his last words...
and my body lies as it hits the ground , i hear them start the statement, he was such a good soul but then they catch themselves, this is my hell this is my hell
grab my hand and let us pray, i scream please get the fuck away
I'm reckless and free now. You can't touch me now. My heart breaks for no one.
DIE YOUNG AND SAVE YOURSELF!!
I don't know what was worse... the scary messages or none at all. I was out of town for Christmas. I thought about him, though, and secretly hoped I would run into him at the drum circle on Sunday. I logged onto his Facebook page this morning... it had been almost a week since I last checked, and the first thing I saw was information about his service, along with RIP messages. My brain is fucking jumbled right now. I'm sharing this because I have to.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Patience
I've taken a break from the book project, and I'm not entirely sure if it was a conscious decision. In the midst of leaving my office job and pursing my hoop dance business full-time, I got side tracked. Not to mention, the last time I wrote, the content was pretty emotional. Diving into my journals can be an emotionally draining experience. I'm balancing those times out with inspirational books, movement meditation and other healing practices. The books are very helpful... Some of my favorites include: Peaks and Valleys, A Short Guide to a Happy Life, Where Did the Gift Go?, and The Mastry of Love. There are more that are escaping me right now. These books tend to leave me with positive thoughts that remind me to approach each day with gratitude. But, at the same time, I've been feeling a little guilty about my break from writing. A few months ago, I was on a roll... writing every evening, feeling very inspired. Now, it's quiet time. Time to listen and absorb the thoughts and feelings within.
I returned from Citrus County this morning. I visited my home town to host hoop dance workshops over the weekend. I was pleasantly surprised that the workshops were a big hit. I didn't know if people would show, and if they did, would they connect with it? The answer is yes to both, and it felt good.
Afterwards, I met up with my good friend, Jeff. I've been craving face time with Jeff, to tell him about the book project that I'm working on. I didn't want to talk about it over the phone. I wanted to tell him, in person, about my plans for the book. Growing up, Jeff was one of Brad's best friends. Over the years, he became one of my best friends too. His mom was my tennis coach and guidance counselor in high school. I was also great friends with his sister, and our families were connected as well. We all played tennis, and we spent countless hours hanging out after school and on the weekends. Following high school and college, we remained close. Jeff and I leaned on each other after Brad's death - and it was important for me to share with him about the book.
So, on Friday evening, Jeff and I talked. I explained that I've kept journals my whole life, and I have everything documented... all of the grief and emotions that followed Brad's death. Jeff is an amazingly supportive friend, and I'm grateful that I had the chance to speak with him about it. I ended up staying at the house that night since I had a couple drinks and didn't want to drive. The next morning, I woke up at 6 a.m., with the thought that I had to rush back to St. Pete in order to teach class. But as I cranked up the car, I realized that it was Saturday, not Sunday. I don't teach on Saturdays, so I no longer needed to rush. The sun wasn't up yet and as I approached the boat ramp (where Brad took his life), I decided to stop. I hadn't been there in a long time, and I felt compelled to visit his cross and absorb the energy of the lake. We grew up on that lake and spent so many days on the water... swimming, wakeboarding, boating, and playing. I thought about the lake being the last vision Brad had before he died. And as I pulled my car up, I grabbed my Ipod and went to plug it in. But, I quickly decided I wasn't in the mood for my own music, so I switched on the radio instead. At that exact moment, the beginning of Patience by Guns n' Roses came on. It sent a chill through my body. This was Brad's favorite song, and it's what we played at his funeral. I've listened to this song thousands of times but at that moment, the message resonated in a different way...
Shed a tear 'cause I'm missing you. I'm still alright to smile...
There is no doubt you're in my heart now.
Said woman take it slow. It'll work itself out fine. All we need is just a little patience.
Take the time... 'Cause the lights are shining bright.
All we need is just a little patience.
As I sat there, listening to the words, I felt like Brad was speaking directly to me - about the book that I'm writing in his name. I felt his presence.
Before this moment, I was feeling anxious and guilty because I had taken a break from writing. I had been on a roll at one point and then I stopped. I was disappointed in myself because of it... until this moment, at the boat ramp.
It was a confirmation that I'm on no one's time frame. If it takes me years to write, that's OK. Brad deserves only my best work, so when inspiration strikes and the moment is right to write again, then I will. I think my quiet time is also part of the process. I'm reading, absorbing, remembering and thinking... I'm realizing that writing a book doesn't necessarily mean you're actually writing it the entire time. I want it to naturally evolve into a piece of work that does the story justice... it doesn't matter how long it takes. I will have patience.
I returned from Citrus County this morning. I visited my home town to host hoop dance workshops over the weekend. I was pleasantly surprised that the workshops were a big hit. I didn't know if people would show, and if they did, would they connect with it? The answer is yes to both, and it felt good.
Afterwards, I met up with my good friend, Jeff. I've been craving face time with Jeff, to tell him about the book project that I'm working on. I didn't want to talk about it over the phone. I wanted to tell him, in person, about my plans for the book. Growing up, Jeff was one of Brad's best friends. Over the years, he became one of my best friends too. His mom was my tennis coach and guidance counselor in high school. I was also great friends with his sister, and our families were connected as well. We all played tennis, and we spent countless hours hanging out after school and on the weekends. Following high school and college, we remained close. Jeff and I leaned on each other after Brad's death - and it was important for me to share with him about the book.
So, on Friday evening, Jeff and I talked. I explained that I've kept journals my whole life, and I have everything documented... all of the grief and emotions that followed Brad's death. Jeff is an amazingly supportive friend, and I'm grateful that I had the chance to speak with him about it. I ended up staying at the house that night since I had a couple drinks and didn't want to drive. The next morning, I woke up at 6 a.m., with the thought that I had to rush back to St. Pete in order to teach class. But as I cranked up the car, I realized that it was Saturday, not Sunday. I don't teach on Saturdays, so I no longer needed to rush. The sun wasn't up yet and as I approached the boat ramp (where Brad took his life), I decided to stop. I hadn't been there in a long time, and I felt compelled to visit his cross and absorb the energy of the lake. We grew up on that lake and spent so many days on the water... swimming, wakeboarding, boating, and playing. I thought about the lake being the last vision Brad had before he died. And as I pulled my car up, I grabbed my Ipod and went to plug it in. But, I quickly decided I wasn't in the mood for my own music, so I switched on the radio instead. At that exact moment, the beginning of Patience by Guns n' Roses came on. It sent a chill through my body. This was Brad's favorite song, and it's what we played at his funeral. I've listened to this song thousands of times but at that moment, the message resonated in a different way...
Shed a tear 'cause I'm missing you. I'm still alright to smile...
There is no doubt you're in my heart now.
Said woman take it slow. It'll work itself out fine. All we need is just a little patience.
Take the time... 'Cause the lights are shining bright.
All we need is just a little patience.
As I sat there, listening to the words, I felt like Brad was speaking directly to me - about the book that I'm writing in his name. I felt his presence.
Before this moment, I was feeling anxious and guilty because I had taken a break from writing. I had been on a roll at one point and then I stopped. I was disappointed in myself because of it... until this moment, at the boat ramp.
It was a confirmation that I'm on no one's time frame. If it takes me years to write, that's OK. Brad deserves only my best work, so when inspiration strikes and the moment is right to write again, then I will. I think my quiet time is also part of the process. I'm reading, absorbing, remembering and thinking... I'm realizing that writing a book doesn't necessarily mean you're actually writing it the entire time. I want it to naturally evolve into a piece of work that does the story justice... it doesn't matter how long it takes. I will have patience.
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Girls From Brookwood
When inspiration strikes, honor it.
I wrote that sentence in a blog a while back, and I needed to remind myself today that it's OK to take breaks. I was in the middle of running around with a million things to get done, but I can't stop thinking about the incredible experience I had yesterday morning. I need to write about it, because the girls from Brookwood inspired me...
I was contacted about a month ago by a newly-formed organization called High Hopes in High Heels, asking me to do a hoop dance workshop at a place called Brookwood. Brookwood is a housing dorm dedicated to providing troubled adolescent girls with an alternative living environment and therapeutic program encompassing education, employability skills, independent living training and counseling that will prepare them for self-sufficiency and/or successful family reunification. In other words, these girls have been through a lot and Brookwood is helping to set them up for success in life.
Our workshop was scheduled to begin at 10 a.m. on Sunday. When Shellie and I got there, a few of the girls looked at us like we were crazy, as we carried about 40 brightly-colored hoola hoops into the cafeteria. I think others were curious, but the reception certainly was not warm. The majority of the young women who live at Brookwood are between the ages of 12 and 18. Apparently, they like to sleep in on Sunday mornings and aren't required to be downstairs until 11 a.m. But on this morning, the supervisors made rounds, waking up the girls who were still sleeping, to notify them of our workshop. I'm sure that the early morning wake up call didn't make us more popular among the group. About 20 girls showed up, many rolling their eyes or groaning, and most were still wearing their pajamas.
I knew that we had to make a good impression in order for them to take us seriously (or even express an interest in what we were doing). So, as the young ladies filed into the room, Shellie and I had the music pumping and were busting out all of our tricks. We freestyle hoop danced to high-energy music as the girls watched. Afterwards, I talked about the art of hoop dance and how the hoops we use are made for adults, which make them easier to use. I told them that they could learn all of the things that Shellie and I were doing, too.
When we invited the girls to participate, about half of them chose to sit out. But the ones who did give it a try were feeling good and accomplished as they danced with their hoops. They must have inspired the others... It was a beautiful thing watching the seated girls get up and join in.
As they danced, I asked them if they've ever had a bad day, felt ugly or sad. They all raised their hands. I told them when I feel that way, I start hooping and the rhythm makes me feel better. I explained that it's really hard to be pissed off when you're hoola hooping. We talked about how hoop dance automatically makes you smile and is a good way to feel good and let go of stress. I encouraged them to explore the space around them and be creative with their movements. Shellie and I then split the girls into two groups, and we taught them some tricks. I loved watching them giggle and smile, especially the ones who were most skeptical in the beginning. It was really interesting, though. It seemed as though some of them were afraid to smile and be happy. I remember one of the young ladies telling us that she never has fun, and she never laughs.
But as Shellie and I played, the girls loosened up. We wanted to provide them with a safe space and communicate a message that they are all beautiful and worthy of love. Each of the girls had stories. I can only imagine what they've been through. It's hard enough being an adolescent girl, much less one who has been abandoned or abused. We were there to provide support and encourage them to dance, move, play. Throughout the workshop, we told them they were beautiful and that they were blowing our minds with how quickly they were learning. We were just speaking from our hearts because everything we said was true.
As the workshop came to an end, we had a group hoop jam. The girls formed a circle. Those on the outside clapped and cheered for the girl in the middle. One by one, they rocked out with their hoops - while we all supported each person during their turn. Girls who were snapping at each other at the beginning of the class were now cheering for one another. When the hoop jam ended, they begged us to stay just a little longer. Some asked for hugs, and others actually had tears in their eyes when we said goodbye. One sweet young lady even wanted our autographs. The funny thing is, I felt like they were the celebrities. They brought us so much joy and melted our hearts.
We left a hoop behind for them to play with and gave them our contact information and asked them to stay in touch. I know that we'll be back soon. This is one of the many reasons why I love what I do. Movement meditation heals, and I'm grateful for experiences like these. There is beauty all around us. We just need to take the time to stop and notice it.
I wrote that sentence in a blog a while back, and I needed to remind myself today that it's OK to take breaks. I was in the middle of running around with a million things to get done, but I can't stop thinking about the incredible experience I had yesterday morning. I need to write about it, because the girls from Brookwood inspired me...
I was contacted about a month ago by a newly-formed organization called High Hopes in High Heels, asking me to do a hoop dance workshop at a place called Brookwood. Brookwood is a housing dorm dedicated to providing troubled adolescent girls with an alternative living environment and therapeutic program encompassing education, employability skills, independent living training and counseling that will prepare them for self-sufficiency and/or successful family reunification. In other words, these girls have been through a lot and Brookwood is helping to set them up for success in life.
Our workshop was scheduled to begin at 10 a.m. on Sunday. When Shellie and I got there, a few of the girls looked at us like we were crazy, as we carried about 40 brightly-colored hoola hoops into the cafeteria. I think others were curious, but the reception certainly was not warm. The majority of the young women who live at Brookwood are between the ages of 12 and 18. Apparently, they like to sleep in on Sunday mornings and aren't required to be downstairs until 11 a.m. But on this morning, the supervisors made rounds, waking up the girls who were still sleeping, to notify them of our workshop. I'm sure that the early morning wake up call didn't make us more popular among the group. About 20 girls showed up, many rolling their eyes or groaning, and most were still wearing their pajamas.
I knew that we had to make a good impression in order for them to take us seriously (or even express an interest in what we were doing). So, as the young ladies filed into the room, Shellie and I had the music pumping and were busting out all of our tricks. We freestyle hoop danced to high-energy music as the girls watched. Afterwards, I talked about the art of hoop dance and how the hoops we use are made for adults, which make them easier to use. I told them that they could learn all of the things that Shellie and I were doing, too.
When we invited the girls to participate, about half of them chose to sit out. But the ones who did give it a try were feeling good and accomplished as they danced with their hoops. They must have inspired the others... It was a beautiful thing watching the seated girls get up and join in.
As they danced, I asked them if they've ever had a bad day, felt ugly or sad. They all raised their hands. I told them when I feel that way, I start hooping and the rhythm makes me feel better. I explained that it's really hard to be pissed off when you're hoola hooping. We talked about how hoop dance automatically makes you smile and is a good way to feel good and let go of stress. I encouraged them to explore the space around them and be creative with their movements. Shellie and I then split the girls into two groups, and we taught them some tricks. I loved watching them giggle and smile, especially the ones who were most skeptical in the beginning. It was really interesting, though. It seemed as though some of them were afraid to smile and be happy. I remember one of the young ladies telling us that she never has fun, and she never laughs.
But as Shellie and I played, the girls loosened up. We wanted to provide them with a safe space and communicate a message that they are all beautiful and worthy of love. Each of the girls had stories. I can only imagine what they've been through. It's hard enough being an adolescent girl, much less one who has been abandoned or abused. We were there to provide support and encourage them to dance, move, play. Throughout the workshop, we told them they were beautiful and that they were blowing our minds with how quickly they were learning. We were just speaking from our hearts because everything we said was true.
As the workshop came to an end, we had a group hoop jam. The girls formed a circle. Those on the outside clapped and cheered for the girl in the middle. One by one, they rocked out with their hoops - while we all supported each person during their turn. Girls who were snapping at each other at the beginning of the class were now cheering for one another. When the hoop jam ended, they begged us to stay just a little longer. Some asked for hugs, and others actually had tears in their eyes when we said goodbye. One sweet young lady even wanted our autographs. The funny thing is, I felt like they were the celebrities. They brought us so much joy and melted our hearts.
We left a hoop behind for them to play with and gave them our contact information and asked them to stay in touch. I know that we'll be back soon. This is one of the many reasons why I love what I do. Movement meditation heals, and I'm grateful for experiences like these. There is beauty all around us. We just need to take the time to stop and notice it.
For confidentiality reasons, the faces of these beautiful girls have been blurred.Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Confirmations
Lately, I've been getting confirmations that I am moving in the right direction in writing this book. Last night, for example, I turned on the TV. I haven't watched TV in months. In fact, I don't even have cable at my house. But I am currently enjoying some alone time while I house sit for a friend, and I was in the mood to see a movie.
I flipped on HBO just as a documentary was beginning called Boy Interrupted. It's about a boy named Evan Perry who committed suicide at age 15. His parents are film makers and they created this documentary to honor Evan's life; process the events leading up to his death; deal with the grief, and communicate a message that it's not only OK to talk about mental illness, it's vital. Here is a link to the documentary preview:
Boy Interrupted Trailer
In it, we also learn that Evan's uncle (father's younger brother) killed himself when he was 22 years old. I have to believe that depression, bi-polar disorder and being at risk for suicide is genetic/ hereditary. There are instances of suicide on both my mom and my dad's side of the family, and it was interesting to see that this connection had occurred with the Perrys as well.
This is the first time that I've come across a work about suicide that I felt a solid connection with. It was real, honest, intense and true. I wrote last night and I cried for the Perry family. I cried for my family too. I compared the similarities and the differences between Evan and Brad (and even myself at times). I think that more people need to see this documentary. Every parent should see it, as should every teenager. Anyone who's suffered from depression or bi-polar disorder should watch, and so should families who have dealt with such a tragedy.
Confirmation #2: I woke up this morning and I turned on the radio station to hear the DJs talking to a man who had called in about this story:
http://www.tampabay.com/news/health/medicine/article1005344.ece
It's about a 7-year-old boy in Foster Care who committed suicide. He was given psychiatric drugs without parental consent, and he killed himself by hanging from a shower hose at the facility.
The man who called the show was outraged because his daughter had also attempted suicide. He was trying to make a point about how terrible it is that children are administered psychiatric drugs without the parents' knowledge. This gentleman was also placing blame on the radio show, insinuating that this boy may still be alive had the station done something to increase awareness about mental illness in children. Apparently, the man had tried to contact the DJs on numerous occasions but his attempts were unsuccessful. I think the man's initial message was stemming from a good place, but he came across like a jerk. In turn, the show hosts questioned his parenting skills and called him crazy.
This is a prime example of how mixed up and confused people become when the topic of suicide arises. This man was angry and his words were coming from a place of deep emotion and fear for his daughter's well-being. I'm sure that he also felt grief for the boy who died. The way that he approached the radio DJs, though, was threatening and accusatory. The DJs were immediately defensive, and they responded with mean words. The man's message did not come through the way that it should have. Instead, the listener was made to think that the father was responsible for his daughter's suicide attempt. The reason for his call was masked over with conflict and rage between the show hosts and the father.
Things like this keep happening... I randomly met a man at Target a few months ago. We were wearing the same shirt, in support of the organization, To Write Love on Her Arms... it's a charity that aims to increase awareness about depression, bi-polar disorder and cutting. I asked him about his shirt, and he told me that his mother had killed herself. I drove over the Skyway Bridge recently, just after a young woman had jumped to her death and then I heard the news story hours later on the radio. People are sending me emails and messages, speaking out about their own battles with mental illness.
I believe that these are confirmations - that the universe is telling me I'm on the right path and I need to write this book.
I flipped on HBO just as a documentary was beginning called Boy Interrupted. It's about a boy named Evan Perry who committed suicide at age 15. His parents are film makers and they created this documentary to honor Evan's life; process the events leading up to his death; deal with the grief, and communicate a message that it's not only OK to talk about mental illness, it's vital. Here is a link to the documentary preview:
Boy Interrupted Trailer
In it, we also learn that Evan's uncle (father's younger brother) killed himself when he was 22 years old. I have to believe that depression, bi-polar disorder and being at risk for suicide is genetic/ hereditary. There are instances of suicide on both my mom and my dad's side of the family, and it was interesting to see that this connection had occurred with the Perrys as well.
This is the first time that I've come across a work about suicide that I felt a solid connection with. It was real, honest, intense and true. I wrote last night and I cried for the Perry family. I cried for my family too. I compared the similarities and the differences between Evan and Brad (and even myself at times). I think that more people need to see this documentary. Every parent should see it, as should every teenager. Anyone who's suffered from depression or bi-polar disorder should watch, and so should families who have dealt with such a tragedy.
Confirmation #2: I woke up this morning and I turned on the radio station to hear the DJs talking to a man who had called in about this story:
http://www.tampabay.com/news/health/medicine/article1005344.ece
It's about a 7-year-old boy in Foster Care who committed suicide. He was given psychiatric drugs without parental consent, and he killed himself by hanging from a shower hose at the facility.
The man who called the show was outraged because his daughter had also attempted suicide. He was trying to make a point about how terrible it is that children are administered psychiatric drugs without the parents' knowledge. This gentleman was also placing blame on the radio show, insinuating that this boy may still be alive had the station done something to increase awareness about mental illness in children. Apparently, the man had tried to contact the DJs on numerous occasions but his attempts were unsuccessful. I think the man's initial message was stemming from a good place, but he came across like a jerk. In turn, the show hosts questioned his parenting skills and called him crazy.
This is a prime example of how mixed up and confused people become when the topic of suicide arises. This man was angry and his words were coming from a place of deep emotion and fear for his daughter's well-being. I'm sure that he also felt grief for the boy who died. The way that he approached the radio DJs, though, was threatening and accusatory. The DJs were immediately defensive, and they responded with mean words. The man's message did not come through the way that it should have. Instead, the listener was made to think that the father was responsible for his daughter's suicide attempt. The reason for his call was masked over with conflict and rage between the show hosts and the father.
Things like this keep happening... I randomly met a man at Target a few months ago. We were wearing the same shirt, in support of the organization, To Write Love on Her Arms... it's a charity that aims to increase awareness about depression, bi-polar disorder and cutting. I asked him about his shirt, and he told me that his mother had killed herself. I drove over the Skyway Bridge recently, just after a young woman had jumped to her death and then I heard the news story hours later on the radio. People are sending me emails and messages, speaking out about their own battles with mental illness.
I believe that these are confirmations - that the universe is telling me I'm on the right path and I need to write this book.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Birthday Bliss!
Today is my 30th Birthday, and I feel good. That, in itself, is a huge accomplishment.
As mentioned in my previous blog, July 22 has not always been a day of celebration for me. In fact, for many years, I would grow anxious, bitter and sad as my birthday approached. Because July 22 is also the date of my cousin's funeral, I associated my birthday with his death.
I have a "Brad Box." It's a red and yellow tin box with a sun on it. Inside, there are pictures, poems, stories, newspaper articles and small items that remind me of my cousin. The box also contains a stack of birthday cards that were given to me at his funeral. I've read the messages many times, and most of them are filled with sorrow and grief.
It's interesting how a specific event can affect your mindset on that same day, moving forward...
For a long time, I would have my friends and family promise not to make a big deal out of my birthday. I would opt to stay home and be alone with my thoughts instead. The last thing I wanted to do was celebrate my life on the anniversary of his death. During my deepest throws of depression, I would question my purpose in being here. I hated the idea of celebrating the day I was born, and I found myself wishing that it would have been me who passed on instead of Brad.
And then there were the years where I would go out with my friends and try not to think of it... this typically resulted in me drinking myself into complete and total inebriation. I would end up arguing with someone - usually my sister or a friend - and the night would always end with me in tears.
I remember one particular birthday (my 27th), where a group of friends suggested that we go out for a nice, relaxed birthday dinner. A couple of them knew that I was sensitive about my birthday, and they ensured me that we would just have dinner. No bars, clubs, etc. At first, I hesitated but they convinced me that it was a good idea. After all, it was the weekend and I hadn't done anything on my birthday the previous year. So, we decided to meet at a restaurant, and I made the reservation for a party of 12.
On the morning of July 22, I received a phone call that my stepdad's sister had died unexpectedly from a brain hemorrhage. She was home, cooking dinner the night before, when she fell to the kitchen floor and was pronounced dead about an hour later. She was young, in good health, and her sons were the same age as me and my sister. They had spent every holiday with us for the past 8 years, and while I wasn't extremely close with her, the news was devistating and heart-breaking for the family... especially for my stepfather who was battling cancer then.
Throughout the day, I started to receive more calls. Jaime couldn't make it to dinner. Then, Cathy had something come up. Ashley wouldn't be there, and neither would Katie. One by one, my friends were bailing on our dinner plans. When I arrived at the restaurant that night, only two of my girlfriends had showed up. So, my boyfriend at the time called his buddies to fill some of the empty seats. I took the event as a sign... my birthday was not worthy of celebration.
Now, three years later, I can honestly say that I am in a good place on my 30th birthday. The past two years, in particular, have been transformational. I've changed so many things about my life, including: my thought process, my food choices, the activities that fascinate me, my creative outlets, and the overall outlook that I now have regarding my purpose here on Earth. I am no longer a victim of circumstance, and I will not feel sorry for myself.
I also choose to be surrounded by positive people who inspire me. The company we keep holds so much weight on our mental health and well-being...
So, as I enter my 30's, I've decided to make the following promises to myself. This is my credo:
As mentioned in my previous blog, July 22 has not always been a day of celebration for me. In fact, for many years, I would grow anxious, bitter and sad as my birthday approached. Because July 22 is also the date of my cousin's funeral, I associated my birthday with his death.
I have a "Brad Box." It's a red and yellow tin box with a sun on it. Inside, there are pictures, poems, stories, newspaper articles and small items that remind me of my cousin. The box also contains a stack of birthday cards that were given to me at his funeral. I've read the messages many times, and most of them are filled with sorrow and grief.
It's interesting how a specific event can affect your mindset on that same day, moving forward...
For a long time, I would have my friends and family promise not to make a big deal out of my birthday. I would opt to stay home and be alone with my thoughts instead. The last thing I wanted to do was celebrate my life on the anniversary of his death. During my deepest throws of depression, I would question my purpose in being here. I hated the idea of celebrating the day I was born, and I found myself wishing that it would have been me who passed on instead of Brad.
And then there were the years where I would go out with my friends and try not to think of it... this typically resulted in me drinking myself into complete and total inebriation. I would end up arguing with someone - usually my sister or a friend - and the night would always end with me in tears.
I remember one particular birthday (my 27th), where a group of friends suggested that we go out for a nice, relaxed birthday dinner. A couple of them knew that I was sensitive about my birthday, and they ensured me that we would just have dinner. No bars, clubs, etc. At first, I hesitated but they convinced me that it was a good idea. After all, it was the weekend and I hadn't done anything on my birthday the previous year. So, we decided to meet at a restaurant, and I made the reservation for a party of 12.
On the morning of July 22, I received a phone call that my stepdad's sister had died unexpectedly from a brain hemorrhage. She was home, cooking dinner the night before, when she fell to the kitchen floor and was pronounced dead about an hour later. She was young, in good health, and her sons were the same age as me and my sister. They had spent every holiday with us for the past 8 years, and while I wasn't extremely close with her, the news was devistating and heart-breaking for the family... especially for my stepfather who was battling cancer then.
Throughout the day, I started to receive more calls. Jaime couldn't make it to dinner. Then, Cathy had something come up. Ashley wouldn't be there, and neither would Katie. One by one, my friends were bailing on our dinner plans. When I arrived at the restaurant that night, only two of my girlfriends had showed up. So, my boyfriend at the time called his buddies to fill some of the empty seats. I took the event as a sign... my birthday was not worthy of celebration.
Now, three years later, I can honestly say that I am in a good place on my 30th birthday. The past two years, in particular, have been transformational. I've changed so many things about my life, including: my thought process, my food choices, the activities that fascinate me, my creative outlets, and the overall outlook that I now have regarding my purpose here on Earth. I am no longer a victim of circumstance, and I will not feel sorry for myself.
I also choose to be surrounded by positive people who inspire me. The company we keep holds so much weight on our mental health and well-being...
So, as I enter my 30's, I've decided to make the following promises to myself. This is my credo:
- When inspiration strikes, I am going to honor it. I will not put the things I'm passionate about on the back burner. Passion and inspiration are now my driving forces.
- I will finish writing my first book, and when it's done, I will have it published. I will share my story with as many people as I possibly can. And when I'm busy promoting my first book, I will be simultaneously working on the second.
- I will make a difference in this world.
- I will accept the things that I can not change, but I will not dwell on them.
- I will not question my self-worth. I know that I am appreciated and valued.
- I will spend more time with nature. I will sit with sunsets and sunrises, and I will camp out as often as possible.
- I will make it on my own as a young entrepreneur on a mission.
- I will respond to the negativity I encounter with kindness.
- I will become a fire staff-spinning badass.
- I will tell my family and friends that I love them as often as possible.
- I will be the best me that I can be.
- I will not only face my fears, I will crush them
- I will invest much more time at the bellydance studio and at the gym. I want to be a freak of nature like Evelyn Tosi (the jazz instructor from the studio where I teach). She is a 50-year-old in a 20-year-old's body.
- I am going to transform my body, just like I transformed my mind. I am being realistic, though, and I'm not setting weight loss goals. Instead, my intentions are to feel good, eat right and make sure that my exercise routine is a direct reflection of the activities I enjoy.
- I will read as many books as I possibly can.
- I will take the time to LISTEN, BREATHE and BE
- I will inspire my hoop dance students to feel good and accomplish their goals - not just in class, but in life.
- I will smile, laugh and love
Monday, July 20, 2009
11 Years
Today is the anniversary of Brad's death. I am always emotional on July 20. I woke up feeling sad. It's been 11 years, which seems surreal.
I sometimes worry that I will forget what his voice sounded like or that I won't remember his facial expressions. Other times, I feel guilty because I don't think about him as much as I used to. I actually think this is a good thing, even though the guilt creeps in, and here's why:
July 20 was the most hellacious day of my life. I've never felt grief like that before. At first, I would cry so hard that I'd make myself sick - literally. I would hide in my room from the rest of the world, feeling awful... being sucked into the black hole in my heart.
Thinking of him is one thing. Thinking of the aftermath is something else. So, when I say that it's a good thing that I don't think of him as much as I used to - it's because for a long time, it was all wrapped into one... thinking of Brad was directly linked to hurt and pain. Thankfully, I am now able to separate the two.
Thinking of him looks like this: a bright, clear blue sky. Us on the boat. The sun beaming down, water sparkling and a grin on Brad's face as he tilts his head toward the warmth and closes his eyes. Every time I think of him, that same image appears: Sunshine.
Thinking of the aftermath looks like this:
The hurt in my uncle's eyes, the first time I saw my aunt after it happened, the piercing pain in my chest, my sister's face crumbling with sadness, my grandma holding my hand at the funeral while people handed me birthday cards, my younger cousin withdrawing from the family and then becoming an asshole. The fucking aftermath...
I still feel sad and heartsick because I miss him but now, I am more aware. I also know that I'm not "cured" from depression. I will always be more fragile on this day. It's something that I have to be conscious of. The triggers set off episodes. Triggers are the hard things in life that cause your thoughts to spiral out of control. Some of my worst episodes were on July 20 - the day he died - and July 22 - the day of Brad's funeral (and also my birthday). The triggers will always be there, and I understand that I need creative outlets to deal with them... writing is one way. Meditation through the hoop is another. These outlets keep me in check.
Chrissy wrote something in the Brad book that comforts me (The Brad book is the journal that stays at his cross)... "May the sun always shine on you." I know that the sun IS always shining on Brad, because when I think of him now, I can't see him any other way.
I sometimes worry that I will forget what his voice sounded like or that I won't remember his facial expressions. Other times, I feel guilty because I don't think about him as much as I used to. I actually think this is a good thing, even though the guilt creeps in, and here's why:
July 20 was the most hellacious day of my life. I've never felt grief like that before. At first, I would cry so hard that I'd make myself sick - literally. I would hide in my room from the rest of the world, feeling awful... being sucked into the black hole in my heart.
Thinking of him is one thing. Thinking of the aftermath is something else. So, when I say that it's a good thing that I don't think of him as much as I used to - it's because for a long time, it was all wrapped into one... thinking of Brad was directly linked to hurt and pain. Thankfully, I am now able to separate the two.
Thinking of him looks like this: a bright, clear blue sky. Us on the boat. The sun beaming down, water sparkling and a grin on Brad's face as he tilts his head toward the warmth and closes his eyes. Every time I think of him, that same image appears: Sunshine.
Thinking of the aftermath looks like this:
The hurt in my uncle's eyes, the first time I saw my aunt after it happened, the piercing pain in my chest, my sister's face crumbling with sadness, my grandma holding my hand at the funeral while people handed me birthday cards, my younger cousin withdrawing from the family and then becoming an asshole. The fucking aftermath...
I still feel sad and heartsick because I miss him but now, I am more aware. I also know that I'm not "cured" from depression. I will always be more fragile on this day. It's something that I have to be conscious of. The triggers set off episodes. Triggers are the hard things in life that cause your thoughts to spiral out of control. Some of my worst episodes were on July 20 - the day he died - and July 22 - the day of Brad's funeral (and also my birthday). The triggers will always be there, and I understand that I need creative outlets to deal with them... writing is one way. Meditation through the hoop is another. These outlets keep me in check.
Chrissy wrote something in the Brad book that comforts me (The Brad book is the journal that stays at his cross)... "May the sun always shine on you." I know that the sun IS always shining on Brad, because when I think of him now, I can't see him any other way.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Turning the Page
When one chapter closes, take a deep breath and sit with it for a moment but do not dwell. Accept what is, and then turn the page.
We don't choose what happens in our lives, but we do choose how we handle things. The old me would have spent last night in tears. The new me went out dancing.
I am proud of myself for the way I handled the end of this particular chapter. I confronted my truth, and I told him how I feel. Now, I am free of worry and distress. Reflecting on this situation, I have no regrets. I know what my spirit needs, and I am going to feed it with the things that make me happy. If and when a partner joins me on the journey, I will be grateful, but I won't sit and wait for him to arrive. I will move forward on my path, and I will stay true to who I am.
So the story goes...
We agreed to see each other yesterday evening. It was his last night here before going back to California. We spoke on the phone as I drove home from work, and he said that he was having dinner with his family. We talked about going bowling, hanging out at my house or I might come to meet him at the beach. I was planning to enjoy my time with him and be present in the moment. I was hoping for a happy, relaxed evening full of smiles and laughter. I had a book to return to him as well.
During our phone conversation, I mentioned that I had to go home, change and let the dog out. I would text him when I was ready so we could make plans. I sent him a message around 7 p.m. asking if he would be at the beach a while longer. He messaged me back, saying he was still eating but he'd be done soon. Some time went by, and I asked if I should head his way or if he preferred to come to my house. His response: 'not sure.' By this time, it was approaching 8:30. I could feel the disappointment, frustration and hurt rise up inside of me. So, I wrote back: 'your book is in my mailbox.'
Normally, I wouldn't throw in the towel so quickly, but I should mention that there was confusion the last time he went home to California, surrounding the fact that he left without saying goodbye. In addition, we had specifically talked about meeting up early yesterday. I tried not to have expectations, but I really didn't envision him letting me down, in the same way as last time. It was happening all over again.
I took a deep breath and sat with the feeling for a moment. I then grabbed my journal, got in my car and drove to my favorite restaurant. I called my friend Kristin on the way and asked her if she wanted to meet me there. As I waited for her to arrive, I ordered a glass of wine and my phone rang. I talked to him briefly. He invited me to his parents' house, but I explained that I had made other plans at that point. He seemed surprised to hear that I wasn't interested in coming over. It was 9 p.m. I told him I wasn't home and that he could come pick up the book from my mailbox. I expressed my feelings of disappointment. I hung up the phone, and I wrote in my journal as I waited for Kristin.
When she got there, we had a great conversation and ordered some appetizers. Towards the end of our meal, two of our other friends showed up. It was a nice surprise to see them, and they told us that a good band was playing at the bar downstairs. About an hour later, the four of us were drinking sangria, laughing, dancing and taking silly pictures. Kristin had a hoop in the car, so we busted that out. Everyone wanted to try it - from the band members to the servers and customers at the restaurant.
What had the potential to be a really shitty night was completely transformed into an impromptu girls' night out. I got home around 2 a.m. with a stomach sore from laughing.
We are the masters of our own destiny. Do not be a victim of circumstance. Create the reality you want.
We don't choose what happens in our lives, but we do choose how we handle things. The old me would have spent last night in tears. The new me went out dancing.
I am proud of myself for the way I handled the end of this particular chapter. I confronted my truth, and I told him how I feel. Now, I am free of worry and distress. Reflecting on this situation, I have no regrets. I know what my spirit needs, and I am going to feed it with the things that make me happy. If and when a partner joins me on the journey, I will be grateful, but I won't sit and wait for him to arrive. I will move forward on my path, and I will stay true to who I am.
So the story goes...
We agreed to see each other yesterday evening. It was his last night here before going back to California. We spoke on the phone as I drove home from work, and he said that he was having dinner with his family. We talked about going bowling, hanging out at my house or I might come to meet him at the beach. I was planning to enjoy my time with him and be present in the moment. I was hoping for a happy, relaxed evening full of smiles and laughter. I had a book to return to him as well.
During our phone conversation, I mentioned that I had to go home, change and let the dog out. I would text him when I was ready so we could make plans. I sent him a message around 7 p.m. asking if he would be at the beach a while longer. He messaged me back, saying he was still eating but he'd be done soon. Some time went by, and I asked if I should head his way or if he preferred to come to my house. His response: 'not sure.' By this time, it was approaching 8:30. I could feel the disappointment, frustration and hurt rise up inside of me. So, I wrote back: 'your book is in my mailbox.'
Normally, I wouldn't throw in the towel so quickly, but I should mention that there was confusion the last time he went home to California, surrounding the fact that he left without saying goodbye. In addition, we had specifically talked about meeting up early yesterday. I tried not to have expectations, but I really didn't envision him letting me down, in the same way as last time. It was happening all over again.
I took a deep breath and sat with the feeling for a moment. I then grabbed my journal, got in my car and drove to my favorite restaurant. I called my friend Kristin on the way and asked her if she wanted to meet me there. As I waited for her to arrive, I ordered a glass of wine and my phone rang. I talked to him briefly. He invited me to his parents' house, but I explained that I had made other plans at that point. He seemed surprised to hear that I wasn't interested in coming over. It was 9 p.m. I told him I wasn't home and that he could come pick up the book from my mailbox. I expressed my feelings of disappointment. I hung up the phone, and I wrote in my journal as I waited for Kristin.
When she got there, we had a great conversation and ordered some appetizers. Towards the end of our meal, two of our other friends showed up. It was a nice surprise to see them, and they told us that a good band was playing at the bar downstairs. About an hour later, the four of us were drinking sangria, laughing, dancing and taking silly pictures. Kristin had a hoop in the car, so we busted that out. Everyone wanted to try it - from the band members to the servers and customers at the restaurant.
What had the potential to be a really shitty night was completely transformed into an impromptu girls' night out. I got home around 2 a.m. with a stomach sore from laughing.
We are the masters of our own destiny. Do not be a victim of circumstance. Create the reality you want.
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