Sunday, March 15, 2020
Daily Routine - Home Schooling 7th, 4th, 1st
I purchased a few grade appropriate workbooks from Amazon. I will also be checking in with the district curriculum when it is arranged, but, until then, I am creating my own lessons based on my own knowledge, resources, and priorities.
Friday, September 22, 2017
After the Suicide
My friend killed himself.
I was primping myself for an evening
wedding when my phone began chirping and vibrating with a cacophony of texts
and calls, all urgently asking if I needed anything, offering support in my
grief. “What the hell is going on?” I
replied in panic. What the fuck was
going on?
…
This summer was the first since birthing
my children that I was absolutely required to find employment. As a teacher, I have always cherished summers
with my three kids, even though each September we were financially struggling
to dig ourselves out of the financial hole my “vacation” had burrowed. But this
summer, I knew we weren’t going to make it.
If I didn’t find a source of income, we wouldn’t be digging ourselves
out of a hole, we would be desperately scraping our way out of a credit
grave.
Working at my district’s credit recovery
summer school, helping wayward students back onto the path towards graduation,
was fine. However, it killed me just a
little more each day to leave my children with a sitter, well aware that the
number of summers I have with them during which they will actually want to
spend time with me are numbered. And I
have to give this one away.
I could feel myself slipping back into the
valley of depression, a valley I’d travelled several times. I was maintaining the regimen that had worked
to pull me from my last serious bout, a struggle with postpartum depression and
anxiety following the birth of my youngest child: daily exercise, meds,
vitamins and supplements, allowing myself the opportunity for 8 hours sleep
each night. But, I could feel myself
slipping further. My sleep is often
disturbed by nightmares or insomnia. My
heart pounds, inspired by my mind, which resolutely runs through a gauntlet of
highly unlikely, yet still terrifying possibilities.
All of my limited patience was being
entirely spent on my students, leaving nothing for my husband and
children. I was short tempered and
difficult to please. Loading my body
with carbs, fat, and sugar, desperately trying to stop the slippage though
self-medication, was only working to make me feel slow and grotesque. I was withdrawing from touch and retreating
into distraction.
…
Depression, for me at least, involves my
brain challenging itself. The axis powers are spreading a dark cloud of
self-doubt and dissatisfaction, a cloud that soon settles as a heavy stone
inside my gut, a lethargy that encourages me to shut my eyes and sleep the
hours and realities away. The cloud
obscures my realization of all of my blessings and achievements, until I am
yearning for a new reality.
The allied powers are struggling to
maintain the light. They realize the
battle is being lost, but still have hope for the war, sending fading distress
signals: “Batten the hatches! Go for a walk. Do yoga. Eat a healthy meal. Take
some time for yourself. Write in a journal.”
It feels impossible to struggle against the depression, but, with the
small amount of clarity that the allies have maintained, I make the decision,
every day, to push through.
…
And, then, he killed himself. I would be
dishonest to say that I was completely shocked. In the 16 years of our
friendship, his emotions ranged from grumpy to solemn to depressed to
distraught with few exceptions. During
the good periods, he’d lose weight and start dressing in his colorful button
downs and matching ties. His dress shoes
would shine, and he’d snarkily greet me with some sexist gibe or another.
During the bad times, his weight would
rise, he’d wear the same t-shirt and camouflage pants every day, he’d stuff
himself with bagels. He’d keep his head
down, eyes glued to the floor so as not to have to make any eye contact, no
connections.
During the good times, he’d light when he
saw me, grab me into a hug that lasted just a little too long, sniff my neck,
whisper something flirtatious with a wink in his voice: “I love when you press
your boobs against me.” Or, “If I didn’t
respect your husband so much…” And, it
was good because he was my friend, and I was ok with his lighthearted sexual
harassment, and I would flirt back because I loved him and wanted to make him
feel good and wanted him to understand that I valued him as a person, as a man,
to let him know that he wasn’t alone, that he was attractive, that he was
worthy of love and sex and flirtation from women.
In the bad times, the gregariousness went
out of the hugs, they had a more desperate quality because he needed to be
touched by another human. That was ok with me because I knew that that contact was,
for him, maybe the only skin-to-skin contact that he would have all day.
In the best times, his dark, wicked sense
of humor drew raucous laughter, laughter from my guts. We would laugh so hard
that my cheeks ached with the strain of the smiles. Someday I am planning to laugh again, about
his dirty-minded puppet shows, about his obsessions with unavailable blondes,
about his snarky insults, always said with love. Someday, I plan to remember his passion for
Led Zepplin and Rush with fondness, maybe even, despite my own distaste, listen
to a few songs in his memory. But, it won’t be today. There isn’t any room for laughing today.
He put forth effort. He did, I am certain of it. Online dating provided opportunity to meet
new people, and he did. He pursued
dates. He asked me to take pictures for
his online profile, and I did. When he
smiled, when the smile actually hit his eyes, he was a handsome guy. I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t have had
many responses: attractive, professional, intelligent, funny, music-lover, dog
lover. He said he wanted, more than anything, a wife and kids: a family of his
own.
I, personally, set him up at least three
times. We went on double dates, me with
my husband and him with whomever he was courting at that time. I admit, I was
desperate to find him someone, clinging to the hope that a relationship would
fix his sadness. But, it was never “the
one.” There were a litany of reasons: no
spark, she wanted different things, too young, too old, didn’t react in the
ways he wanted or expected her to react.
It was frustrating to me, and, I have to admit, embarrassing, to
apologize to these women with whom I had set him up. I admit, I gave up to protect myself. Maybe it was selfish. As I think back now, I wonder if his disease
just wouldn’t allow him to make those connections, that all his “reasons” were
just excuses.
…
In the deepest parts of my own
struggle, my depression and anxiety lead me to crazy thoughts, obsessive actions,
some I was aware were outrageous, some to which I was oblivious. In the two years after my youngest child was
born, I lived in near constant terror that my children would be harmed or
killed. I ferociously clung to the
people I loved, my husband, my friends, my children, for dear life. Obsessive thoughts would race through my
mind, plunging me into the breathless, pounding, disorienting spin of panic
attacks. I was unable to see the effects
of my spin because I was so desperate to keep from drowning. I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t help it. I was trying.
Yet, I was fortunate. My anxiety and depression never mired me in
thoughts of suicide. I was never plagued
with the belief that leaving would be less painful than staying.
I want to be angry at him for
leaving before he biologically had to, but it isn’t that simple. Depression is a disease in the same way that
cancer is a disease. There are
treatments, some of them effective. Some
can be cured. The therapy and drugs and
regimen pulled me out. But, he was terminal.
He died of his depression, and it isn’t his fault, I can’t be
angry. He fought the battle for the 16
years I knew him, probably long before that.
The disease won the war, and that isn’t his fault.
Guilt is tugging at me, though I am
not egotistical enough to believe that I could have saved him. But, the “what ifs” are real and heavy. And, there’s nothing to do to undo what is
done.
As woeful as I feel imagining him in
his last moments, in extreme emotional distress, psychic pain, and without a
soul to hold his hand on his terrifying journey, I want to take solace in the
fact that he is now free from the pain that he could seemingly never escape
during the 16 years I was fortunate enough to know him.
He didn’t believe in angels, didn’t take
comfort in heaven. So, I will respect
his beliefs and refrain from maudlin platitudes about his being a guardian
angel in our lives. But, I do believe
that a person is never truly dead until the last person who knew him, who holds
a memory of him, dies. And, all of his
friends hold his memory dear, will say his name and, eventually, remember him
for his snark, his grump, his humor, his intelligence and temper and
passion. Especially for the warm, red, loving heart he hid beneath the dark and stormy surface. I was so fortunate to have been held in that
heart.
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