Well, finally I am able to share Sunday's experience. I think the common thread on Sunday was that we were all exhausted. The Seminar had a little less structure on the second day, but it was easy to see why: everyone was just out of emotional resources. We started the day with a remembrance service, which I admittedly skipped. I decided to explore the Rita Art Project instead. If you get a chance to check out the work this group is doing, please do. After that it was time to choose a workshop. Along with about 20 other suicide loss survivors, I sat down with Jackie Garrick, Acting Director of the Defense Suicide Prevention Office.
Jackie is AMAZING! Her office is only about a year old, and yet they are making REAL efforts to prevent suicide in our DoD community. And she wanted real feedback from us, the survivors, about how we can support our military and other survivors. Can I tell you how wonderful it is to actually have someone listen? I think as survivors we often feel like our stories and needs fall on deaf ears, which is tremendously frustrating. In an already emotional situation, being brushed off is another injury to our hearts. Anyway, I think we made some great points, and I know Jackie is going back to her office armed with some excellent ideas. THANK YOU for taking the time to listen to us!!!
We then had lunch, and returned to our Peer Groups. It was small again, of course, but I think it was wonderful, as we were able to really connect and dive in deep. I love those ladies I was in a group with (and our facilitator, Franklin). I hope to connect with them often. We talked about how in 5, 10, 20 years, all those young kids will be us. We are a growing group, and that is just heartbreaking. I hope that in the years to come, more resources will be made for adult child survivors, as we, as a population, are about to explode.
By the afternoon, most of us were pretty much tapped out. It's a fabulous program the TAPS staff puts together for us, but all of it is hard work. Work experiencing our own grief, and supporting others in theirs. We had a moderated peer panel, on which I represented the adult child survivors, and I think we succeeded in sharing a message of hope. That there IS life after suicide loss. We can go on and find things that make us happy again, we can celebrate again, and we can remember the love. The motto for the weekend sums it up:
Remember the love, Celebrate the life, Share the journey.
Anyway, I am rambling again. I am so glad I went. Next year, I want Moose and my husband to go with me. I think it will help him to help me (though he already does an amazing job of supporting me), and to help her cope with the loss of a man she never knew, but loves because I love him. If you are a survivor of military suicide loss, I strongly encourage getting involved.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Saturday, October 6, 2012
While It is Fresh
If you read my last update, you know that this weekend I am at the TAPS Military Suicide Survivor Seminar being held in San Diego. Yesterday, I attended Peer Mentor training, and today was the first official day of the events. It was a long day, starting at 0700, and I just returned to my room at approximately 2130. I knew it would be a hard day. I knew I would be immersed in a culture to which I did want to belong, but here I was, nonetheless. I knew that as a group, we are unique, with even more unique subsets. I came here hoping to connect with someone who can really understand where I've been, and maybe where I'm going. I did that. I also came so I could test the benchmark. Am I so abnormal that even 8 years later, I feel like this? Of course, now it's not everyday, but I do have my days. Is that normal? And what I learned: absolutely. I am normal. I'm not the only one who cries...I probably cry a lot less than some, and more than others. I'm not the only one in pain and just trying to take it a day at a time.
There were a few things I took with me today. The first is a little piece of the pain of everyone there (I think we have about 700 people here, so that's a lot of pain.) To some who know me, they may think I am cold, or distant, or that I keep people at arm's length. It is true to some extent. Who wants to set themselves up for pain again? Anyway, I'm rambling. But the truth of the matter is, every single person I've met, I take a piece of their hurt. I hurt because they are hurting, and that is just so damn unfair that ANYONE else has to hurt like I have.
The second thing I took with me, was from my peer group session. There were only 5 of us in the Adult Child Survivor group. I was the oldest of us, except the facilitator. And as such, I am in a very different place in my life now, but it wasn't so long ago that I was wondering would I ever meet a man who accepted me, my faults, and my pain, and take me for who I am. I wondered, who would walk me down the aisle? Who was going to make the Thanksgiving pies? What I learned today, was that I was not alone. These young women were going through the exact same things I had experienced. And while I felt so alone at those times, now I can make sure they don't have to go it alone. And I feel as if a weight or burden has been removed, just knowing that I'm not the only one to have those thoughts.
Thirdly, the children....oh god, the children. Moose is 4. There were many kids her age, who had lost a parent. There were some who were younger, and many who were older. They were all so brave, and amazing. But my heart hurts so badly. No child should know this pain. It would absolutely destroy me to know that anything had caused my daughter this kind of hurt and grief, and here I am surrounded by these kids who are living. I talked to a lot of moms today who lost their husbands to suicide, and they have young children at home. Some of these children don't remember Daddy, or maybe never knew him. To me, it is unfathomable, but here they are.
There were several wonderful speakers today (all were just amazing), and so many powerful messages, words of strength, and also the undercurrent of support just knowing you are surrounded by someone you could turn to and tell your story. I managed to keep it together, until after dinner. The memorial slideshow, with photos of each attendee's loved one who died by suicide, was my undoing. All that was bubbling just under the surface. I was sitting next to one of my new friends, whose son had taken his own life, and his photograph was the first one. I didn't even have to think. I just leaned over and held her the entire time (maybe about 10 minutes), it was definitely what she needed then, and I think it might have been what I needed. My tears slowly started coming with that first photo. And I cried quietly with her. I cried for her, for every mom, dad, wife, husband, brother, sister, son, daughter and friend who was seeing their own photograph. And when it was my turn, I cried more. And still I held on to her.
By the time our honored guest speakers had finished, we'd all cried some more. And I was grateful at that point for the laughter we'd also experienced today. And the companionship we all gave to one another. This weekend is more than crying, and hurting. It's also about finding new ways to take care of ourselves, help others, and find our way down a very rocky path. I'm raw, stripped to the bone. It's exhausting work like I've never experienced before. Hell, I've never allowed myself to feel this much. And I'm also coming away with a lot of things I want to share. Things I think will help my friends and family, just knowing what to say when I'm having a bad day, or when you just don't know what to say. Things that I hope will help someone who has lost. Things I hope will help my daughter as she navigates her own way through her Poppy's story of life and love.
I'm sure I will write again tomorrow night. It helps to do it while some of this is so fresh. And maybe in a few days, I will take some of my notes to make a more coherent post. But for now, I am going to crawl into my bed, dig deep down under the extra blankets (I set the hotel a/c to 60* so I can pretend I'm having an East Coast fall), and hopefully fall asleep quickly. There's more work to be done tomorrow. And hopefully I am little more prepared for it now.
There were a few things I took with me today. The first is a little piece of the pain of everyone there (I think we have about 700 people here, so that's a lot of pain.) To some who know me, they may think I am cold, or distant, or that I keep people at arm's length. It is true to some extent. Who wants to set themselves up for pain again? Anyway, I'm rambling. But the truth of the matter is, every single person I've met, I take a piece of their hurt. I hurt because they are hurting, and that is just so damn unfair that ANYONE else has to hurt like I have.
The second thing I took with me, was from my peer group session. There were only 5 of us in the Adult Child Survivor group. I was the oldest of us, except the facilitator. And as such, I am in a very different place in my life now, but it wasn't so long ago that I was wondering would I ever meet a man who accepted me, my faults, and my pain, and take me for who I am. I wondered, who would walk me down the aisle? Who was going to make the Thanksgiving pies? What I learned today, was that I was not alone. These young women were going through the exact same things I had experienced. And while I felt so alone at those times, now I can make sure they don't have to go it alone. And I feel as if a weight or burden has been removed, just knowing that I'm not the only one to have those thoughts.
Thirdly, the children....oh god, the children. Moose is 4. There were many kids her age, who had lost a parent. There were some who were younger, and many who were older. They were all so brave, and amazing. But my heart hurts so badly. No child should know this pain. It would absolutely destroy me to know that anything had caused my daughter this kind of hurt and grief, and here I am surrounded by these kids who are living. I talked to a lot of moms today who lost their husbands to suicide, and they have young children at home. Some of these children don't remember Daddy, or maybe never knew him. To me, it is unfathomable, but here they are.
There were several wonderful speakers today (all were just amazing), and so many powerful messages, words of strength, and also the undercurrent of support just knowing you are surrounded by someone you could turn to and tell your story. I managed to keep it together, until after dinner. The memorial slideshow, with photos of each attendee's loved one who died by suicide, was my undoing. All that was bubbling just under the surface. I was sitting next to one of my new friends, whose son had taken his own life, and his photograph was the first one. I didn't even have to think. I just leaned over and held her the entire time (maybe about 10 minutes), it was definitely what she needed then, and I think it might have been what I needed. My tears slowly started coming with that first photo. And I cried quietly with her. I cried for her, for every mom, dad, wife, husband, brother, sister, son, daughter and friend who was seeing their own photograph. And when it was my turn, I cried more. And still I held on to her.
By the time our honored guest speakers had finished, we'd all cried some more. And I was grateful at that point for the laughter we'd also experienced today. And the companionship we all gave to one another. This weekend is more than crying, and hurting. It's also about finding new ways to take care of ourselves, help others, and find our way down a very rocky path. I'm raw, stripped to the bone. It's exhausting work like I've never experienced before. Hell, I've never allowed myself to feel this much. And I'm also coming away with a lot of things I want to share. Things I think will help my friends and family, just knowing what to say when I'm having a bad day, or when you just don't know what to say. Things that I hope will help someone who has lost. Things I hope will help my daughter as she navigates her own way through her Poppy's story of life and love.
I'm sure I will write again tomorrow night. It helps to do it while some of this is so fresh. And maybe in a few days, I will take some of my notes to make a more coherent post. But for now, I am going to crawl into my bed, dig deep down under the extra blankets (I set the hotel a/c to 60* so I can pretend I'm having an East Coast fall), and hopefully fall asleep quickly. There's more work to be done tomorrow. And hopefully I am little more prepared for it now.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
October - Not Sure I'm Ready for You
Well it has definitely been a whirlwind here since the hubs came home. We went to Hawaii (more to come on that in a future blog post), he went to Colorado on an elk hunting trip, my busiest time of the year for work started, I also started working on my Certified Personal Trainer course, and now this weekend I am attending a Suicide Survivor Seminar. (Oh. and the big AFSP San Diego Out of the Darkness Walk is in just over 2 weeks.) Of all the things I have going on, it's this weekend that is stressing me out the most.
About 500 people will be attending the TAPS Military Suicide Survivor Seminar in San Diego. As you all know, my father died by suicide just over 8 years ago, shortly after his retirement from his civilian and military careers. Among other problems, he suffered from PTSD. I still wonder daily if I'd known then what I know now, would he still be here? Would the Moose know him? Would they be the best of buddies? (I have a feeling they would be, because they are just far too much alike. I'm reminded everyday that he lives on in her.)
But anyway, back to this weekend. For the last few days, I've felt this increasing anxiety and dread. I am attending the Peer Mentor training on Friday, then the seminar lasts Saturday and Sunday. This is not my first large scale suicide survivor event, but it IS my first that caters only to military survivors. The topics covered include prevention and PTSD, moving on and building new relationships (something I suck at, as I still cannot bring myself to connect with my hubby's family). There will be children there - young children, Moose's age - and it breaks my heart that ANY child has to know this pain. It's so fucking unfair. I'm 35 years old and it cripples me sometimes. Imagine being 4 or 5, and living with that your entire life. I just can't.
I know the emotions of the weekend are going to be raw, and right there in my face, which is easy for me to deal with for short periods of time, or with smaller groups of people. But 500+ people, for 48+ hours? It's freaking me out. I don't DO public emotion. In our family, it just wasn't acceptable. After my dad died, I didn't cry in public for years. Hell, I didn't cry in private for a year. It just isn't done. You suck it up and move on, soldier!
And, I will be there alone. I didn't think it was fair to Moose to take her and make her sit through the pain and healing cycle. She knows how her Poppy died, but we don't talk about it in casual conversation. She knows how much it hurts me. Sometimes, she is my rock. But I just couldn't be selfish and take her away for the weekend just so I can wallow. (And yes, sometimes I need to wallow.) So I'm facing this alone. And I suspect it will be completely draining, and I'll cry myself to sleep at least once.
On the other hand, I know that in a lot of ways, this weekend will be exactly what I need. I'll be around people who understand this pain (as much as my hubby tries, I don't think he quite gets it, but I still love him). I'll be learning how to support others experiencing this pain. I'm sure that the rewards will be plentiful, but just getting there is going to suck. I've been a million miles away in my head the last few days. I'm scared. I'm not sleeping well. I feel like there is a weight on my chest.
TAPS does amazing work for our military and their families. I encourage everyone to check it out at TAPS.org. Even if you are not in need of their services, mentally file it away for the day you might need it. Already, they have been there in ways I didn't imagine I would ever need. And I'm sure this weekend will be no exception.
Here's hoping the hotel has margaritas on the room service menu!!!
About 500 people will be attending the TAPS Military Suicide Survivor Seminar in San Diego. As you all know, my father died by suicide just over 8 years ago, shortly after his retirement from his civilian and military careers. Among other problems, he suffered from PTSD. I still wonder daily if I'd known then what I know now, would he still be here? Would the Moose know him? Would they be the best of buddies? (I have a feeling they would be, because they are just far too much alike. I'm reminded everyday that he lives on in her.)
But anyway, back to this weekend. For the last few days, I've felt this increasing anxiety and dread. I am attending the Peer Mentor training on Friday, then the seminar lasts Saturday and Sunday. This is not my first large scale suicide survivor event, but it IS my first that caters only to military survivors. The topics covered include prevention and PTSD, moving on and building new relationships (something I suck at, as I still cannot bring myself to connect with my hubby's family). There will be children there - young children, Moose's age - and it breaks my heart that ANY child has to know this pain. It's so fucking unfair. I'm 35 years old and it cripples me sometimes. Imagine being 4 or 5, and living with that your entire life. I just can't.
I know the emotions of the weekend are going to be raw, and right there in my face, which is easy for me to deal with for short periods of time, or with smaller groups of people. But 500+ people, for 48+ hours? It's freaking me out. I don't DO public emotion. In our family, it just wasn't acceptable. After my dad died, I didn't cry in public for years. Hell, I didn't cry in private for a year. It just isn't done. You suck it up and move on, soldier!
And, I will be there alone. I didn't think it was fair to Moose to take her and make her sit through the pain and healing cycle. She knows how her Poppy died, but we don't talk about it in casual conversation. She knows how much it hurts me. Sometimes, she is my rock. But I just couldn't be selfish and take her away for the weekend just so I can wallow. (And yes, sometimes I need to wallow.) So I'm facing this alone. And I suspect it will be completely draining, and I'll cry myself to sleep at least once.
On the other hand, I know that in a lot of ways, this weekend will be exactly what I need. I'll be around people who understand this pain (as much as my hubby tries, I don't think he quite gets it, but I still love him). I'll be learning how to support others experiencing this pain. I'm sure that the rewards will be plentiful, but just getting there is going to suck. I've been a million miles away in my head the last few days. I'm scared. I'm not sleeping well. I feel like there is a weight on my chest.
TAPS does amazing work for our military and their families. I encourage everyone to check it out at TAPS.org. Even if you are not in need of their services, mentally file it away for the day you might need it. Already, they have been there in ways I didn't imagine I would ever need. And I'm sure this weekend will be no exception.
Here's hoping the hotel has margaritas on the room service menu!!!
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