Share Your Story

Suicide Survivor's Top Ten Things To Do (or NOT Do):

SHARE YOUR STORY

I realize I already said, "Keep a journal." That's the place where you include every single detail, down to the miniscule. Write all the goriest details of your journey in your journal/diary.  

Figure out your "safe people." These are the people you can say anything to. You can cry, scream, cuss, confess and pray with these people. These people are the ones who don't judge you, no matter what. You'll probably only have one or two of these people in your life during your loss (or ever). They can handle your grief. They will process it as a listener and they'll only guide you when you ask or when you're sinking so low that a rescue is necessary. You can over-share with your people, your tribe (as the hipsters say). 

At some point you'll over-share with someone who isn't your BFF. You'll meet for coffee and you'll end up spilling the beans. You'll feel a little sick to your stomach for the diarrhea-of-the-mouth that just happened in the conversation. Over-sharing is uncomfortable, for you and for the person you're sharing with. You have to edit to decide what is helpful to others, to meet their current need. Yes, our darkest places can be a light shining on other's paths keeping them from falling into the same holes we've inched our way out of.  Sometimes sharing an inch of the story to help the person standing in front of you in loss and need is better than sharing the ten-mile-journey. You might share your ten-mile-journey with them over time, but when they're only into their journey a quarter of a mile, you don't have to point them to mile marker seven. It might send them into the fetal position sucking their thumb in the corner of Starbucks. And no one wants that. 

I inched my way into sharing. First with my BFFs. They're the only people I talked to for the first several months. Then with my Pastor. Then with a few close friends in my church family (small group tribe). Then with my grief counseling group. Three and a half years after Dad's death, my Pastor asked me to share my story on a Sunday morning, two services, over a thousand people. I edited. I shared. I cried. But I told the story. Best of all, I got to tell the story of how God brought me and my family through it all. HIStory. (Yes, you just got punned.) I told them about how faithful God was during every twist and turn. I told them that without my heavenly Father, I'd never get to see or hold my earthly father again. I got to share the Gospel. I shared the greatest story ever told, the story of Jesus. Oh how I love to tell the story!

This Sunday I get to share that story again with my friend's church across town. I'm so excited that I get to offer them the hope of the Savior who conquered death. I'm so humbled that God lets me open my mouth and offer Him praise. If you're willing to share and bear your heart, He'll give you a captive audience. Be ready for it!

Share your story. 

Keep going. 

Don't Expect to Find a Suicide Note

Suicide Survivor's Top Ten Things To Do (or NOT Do):

Don't EXPECT To Find a Suicide Note

I expected to find a note from Dad following his suicide. He didn't leave one. He didn't leave a card or an email or anything. He just left. 

Back then I thought everyone left a note before they followed through with suicide. I thought that was a given. Probably because I like to write, whether in my journal or on twitter & FB or on this blog. I figured if someone was contemplating something super serious like life and death, and they chose death, they would write and tell us why. But I soon found out from reading everything I could lay my eyes on about suicide that most people who complete suicide do not leave a note. Only 18%-37% of people leave a suicide note. That means that 63%-82% of people who complete suicide do not leave a note. 

Dad did not leave a note.

I wanted a note because I thought it would bring me some closure. It would explain "why" and I could tuck it away and give a flat answer when someone asked "Why did he do it? He had so much to live for." I could whip out my "Well, in the note he left he said he explained that he was an alcoholic and he was really depressed. He thought we'd all be better off if he wasn't hanging around making life especially difficult anymore." Yeah, I thought that would make me feel better. That sounds ridiculous to me now. But eight years ago, it made me feel...I dunno, like I was off the hook. I thought if there would have been a note, then I wouldn't have to process, wrestle with and struggle through the "Why's". Silly silly little 2005-Jessica. One of the greatest lessons that God taught me through Dad's suicide was: faith begins where answers stop. Hebrews 11:1 "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence for things not seen." 

On this side of Heaven, this is what I know:

• I will never get a concrete answer as to why my Dad killed himself. 
• I will never get an answer from God as to why He didn't stop my Dad. 
• I did forgive my Dad.
• I do still trust God. 

A suicide note would not have necessarily made Dad's death easier to comprehend. It would never give me an answer that was good enough to satisfy my heartbreak. Even if your loved one left a suicide note, I'm guessing you still have millions of questions you're ready to ask him/her when you see them again. 

So here's the life lesson I walked away with: 

I can't put my faith or hope in anything that I can put my mind around. 

Because that thing would be a very, very small thing indeed. 

Go to Him with your questions. And....

...Keep going!

Go To Counseling

Suicide Survivor's Top Ten Things To Do (or NOT Do):

GO TO COUNSELING

Brad and I had only been married seven weeks when my Dad's suicide occurred. Talk about being unprepared! No one is ever prepared for a loved one's death, much less a suicide; and way less when you're honeymooners. We couldn't even navigate through the "which sink is mine?" in the master bathroom conversation.To say that we were horribly ill-equiped to deal with working through the tragic death of my Dad is a gross understatement. Like super gross. 

Nine months into our rocky marriage, I was laying in bed one morning or afternoon, sad and depressed, when my handsome husband put his hand on my hand and said, "I don't know that I can make you happy. Maybe we should get a divorce."  Translation: "You've gone freaking nuts and I don't know how to help you." We began marriage counseling three days later. (Don't be hard on Brad! He loved/loves me crazy madly! You have no idea what he had to deal with.)

We didn't just go to counseling. We did the work. Whatever the counselor told us to do, we did it. We put in the time. We put in the tears. We worked through the anger, frustration and confusion. We were both willing to hear difficult things about ourselves; not just from each other, but also from the counselor. We were willing to apply what we learned. We say in our house that we're not interested in behavior modification, we're interested in life transformation. We both learned to cling more dearly to Jesus, because life transformation only comes through Him. We each went to counseling by ourselves. A little one-on-one tune-up was needed for each of us. 

It was all crazy hard. Was it worth it? You bet your sweet bippy it was. Brad can still make my blood boil b/c I'm human and flawed to perfection. But I love him so much. I know how to talk to him better because of counseling. He knows how to express love to me better because of counseling. And we know how to fight fair because of counseling. 

I also attended group grief counseling. A girlfriend from church had lost her husband and she knew of a church that offered free group grief counseling. So each week for about 12 weeks she would drive to my house and pick me up. We would drive to the nearby community where the church was located and we would be each other's grief counseling accountability.  It was unspeakably helpful. The group was made up of around 15 people raging in ages from 26 to 86. Everyone went around the room and shared their story of loss the first week. I was nervous and didn't want to utter the words out loud, "My Dad killed himself." But I did. I sobbed the entire time and so did everyone else. God gave me such sweet healing in that group. 

When I read back through this, it sounds like I was in counseling 20 hours a week! ha! I probably should have been. The group grief counseling was an hour each week for around 12 weeks. And it was FREE. Our marriage counseling was an hour each week for about three months. The weeks that we saw the counselor one-on-one, we didn't meet together. The marriage counseling cost us about $45 a session. Yes, that seems like a lot of money for 12 weeks, but not when you think about what we could have lost. And PS - most people spend crazy stupid money on their wedding but don't want to spend a dime on marriage counseling (the thing that may help keep your marriage together)...I'm gonna call that one on the carpet and say: COP OUT! Spend the money on counseling. Biblically-based counseling. Many churches offer free counseling, so check with your church. 

Get help. 

Seek wise counsel.

Keep going. 

Honor Them, Honor Yourself

(so I didn't make it through 10 posts in 10 days. Epic fail. Today I'm trying again. Note to self: Keep going!)

Suicide Survivor's Top Ten Things To Do (or NOT Do):

HONOR THEM, HONOR YOURSELF

Your traditions don't have to die with your loved one. My Dad killed himself three days before Father's Day. I had already bought a Father's Day card for him. I came home and buried that card in the bottom of my card box (I'm a "card person". It's my own personal "tradition" to give or make great cards. Yes, I have a box-o-cards for every occasion. Drives my OCD husband crazy!). Every time I'd reach to the bottom of the box and see that father's day card, my heart would leap into my throat and I would crumble. Until I decided to conquer that card by writing in it. My fear of that card was tied to my false belief that all my emotions and feelings for my Dad had to die and be buried with the memory of him. Wrong. I decided to brave it. I decided to work through it. That card is stained with my ink and my tears (and probably my snot). It is full of words that are held intimately private between me and my Dad and my Savior. I'm not going to lie and say it wasn't incredibly painful to write in that card. It was. But it was my tradition and it didn't have to die with Dad. 

I've bought my Dad a Father's Day card every year since he died. Some years I write in it. Some years I just file it in my box with the other cards marked: Dad, Daddy, J.D., Dragon Slayer, Jerry Don, Gary Don - all the names we had for him. 

Honor them. Our family has kept some of our old traditions. Every year on Dad's birthday we eat his favorite meal: beans, cornbread and carrot cake. We even sing "Happy Birthday" to him. We sometimes go to the Harley-Davidson shop...Dad's favorite place. We usually exchange some sort of Harley memorabilia - that quintessential black & orange shield will forever be a reminder of Dad.  We pray and cry and laugh. We remember.  

Honor yourself. Our family has created new traditions. Every year on the anniversary of Dad's death, we celebrate another year that God has brought us through. We call it Dead Dad Day. We take turns buying each other a meaningful gift. We eat, shop, travel. It doesn't matter what we do, all that matters is that we're together. We survived! We didn't think we could or would, but we did. We pray and cry and laugh on Dead Dad Day. And we make new memories. 

Sunday was Dead Dad Day and, BONUS, it was Father's Day. I woke up and celebrated what a great Daddy my husband is to our daughter. And then we went to church and worshipped. I cried, of course, especially when we belted out my favorite David Crowder song, "Oh How He Loves Us." After worship, I jumped in the van and ran across town to my friend's church where a member of my church family was sharing his story of alcoholism and sobriety. And I cried. I cried for the hope that God gives a young man that he can rise out of the "pit of despair", out of the "mud & mire" and come out different, better. To be present to witness this young man be poured out and used to point others to the forgiveness and transformation of Jesus, what a privilege. Wow. Thanks, Ty (and Tonya). Many have seen what He has done in your life and they are amazed! Sunday was a great day. Yesterday my Mom, Sister and I celebrated Dead Dad Day. We ate, shopped, laughed, cried a little and shared a few memories. 

Mostly, we celebrated how good God is. How faithful He is. How much He loves us. 
We're so thankful. We're so blessed. He's brought us so far in eight years! 

Where ever you find yourself today, don't stop. Don't bury your feelings and emotions in the bottom of your box-o-cards. Pull out the card (or journal or blog) and write it all out. Go through it. You can do it...and when you think you really can't do it anymore, then remember and renew your belief in the healing, transforming and resurrecting power of Jesus. The place where we cease to exist is the place where God is just beginning to do something spectacular in our life. Let Him dazzle you...and keep going. 

Ty shared his life verses with us on Sunday (Psalm 40:1-3). These are some of my favorite words from scripture. 

Psalm 40:1-3 (NLT)
"I waited patiently for the Lord to help me,
    and he turned to me and heard my cry.
² He lifted me out of the pit of despair,
    out of the mud and the mire.
He set my feet on solid ground
    and steadied me as I walked along.
³ He has given me a new song to sing,
    a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see what he has done and be amazed.
    They will put their trust in the Lord."