Tuesday, August 12, 2014

The problem with writing is that I love it too much to do it half-assed. There are days when I write entire blog posts in my head while driving to work or playing with the kids on the floor, but they never make it to the page. There are other days when I open up this site, pour a glass of wine and *contemplate* writing but then realize I have no direction to my thoughts or nothing relevant to say at that particular moment. This doesn't mean I am not constantly thinking because I am...all the time. While making the kids' lunches, while walking to the mailbox, while drifting off to sleep. I mostly think about people. I don't waste time worrying about politics or events that are occurring halfway across the world because they are out of my control. Instead, I spend most of my life focusing on the people I care about (and there are many). I try and make their lives inherently better just by being a part of it. I love to listen, to truly listen, to what people have to say. Over the years I have certainly done my fair share of talking as well, but when I was younger, I was more of an observer. I think when you start out life as a shy, introspective child, you gain a lot of insight and perspective about the world around you. You can immediately tell when someone is hurt, even if the person that inadvertantly hurt them might not notice. You see and notice small changes in facial expressions; disappointment or sadness. You watch and take internal notes, or at least I did. I may have been too quiet to do much about these observations until high school, but I know that the time I spent both writing and observing during those formative, character-building years made me into the empathetic person that I am today.

So when I was sitting on my love seat last night and heard about the death of the beloved Robin Williams, like everyone else, my jaw dropped open and I almost ran off to Snopes to find out if it was true...but mostly an overwhelming sense of melancholy washed over me because of the cause of death. Suicide. I hate that word. I also hate the phrase "committed suicide." It's so cold. It sounds so harsh. I don't know if "took his own life" sounds any better, but at least it's less clinical. People expressed shock about his untimely death and I suppose that's understandable in a way, but if you are familiar with suicide and have lived through the death of an immediate family member, you know that depression can completely change a person's life view in a matter of months. It changes their personality and their physical appearance, their mannerisms and their routine. It affects their level of patience, their former passions, their every relationship. It may not be completely transparent to the public, but the signs are there. And sometimes there's nothing we can do to recognize how serious the situation is until it's too late.

The other day I was home alone with Liam. He went down for a nap and I decided to relax watching some old home movies. (In addition to writing and being empathetic, I am also extremely nostalgic and sensitive). These particular movies are silent because they were filmed with my parents' Super 8 camera prior to their mega Camcorder purchase in 1986. I watched my first day of kindergarten...blonde curls and blue crocheted dress with little brown Mary Janes and a white button-up cardigan. Care Bears lunchbox. And then I watched Ryan's 2nd birthday party, in September of that same year (1984). I watched my Uncle Billy come up the hill with my Aunt Margaret. He was a young 30-year-old, even younger than I am now. Sporting faded but surprisingly designer-looking blue jeans and a long-sleeved v-neck shirt. Young and happy as could be with his hot blonde (who had a Farrah Fawcett haircut, I might add!) Looking at them, tears glistened in my eyes because I did the math. In 25 years, he would take his own life. Would you ever have guessed it had you been in that moment? Would I ever guessed it--my four-and-a-half year old self running around the front yard in that video without a care in the world? No. I wouldn't have. Even in the months before his death (and I was 30 when he died), I honestly didn't think he had it in him, even after hearing that he had been experiencing depression. I pride myself on being empathetic but I didn't even notice it was that bad that he thought it was the only alternative. I fell on the couch when my mom called to deliver the news. I was pregnant and alone and thought I might explode with sadness...I had just spoken to him the day before on my birthday; how could this have happened? But looking back, there were signs. Even when I had talked to him on the phone the day before (he called! he did care and remember despite all of his inner demons), I know he knew it was the last time we would ever speak. It chokes me up to even write that now. But I know he was at peace with his decison, as Robin probably was with his. While we will never be able to understand with our rational minds, it is an illness and it is important that people are aware of the signs and of how to get their loved one help.

I heard some unsophisticated caller on the radio this morning stating that Robin must not have "given a shit" about his three children to do this to them. I was practically shaking with anger at that statement because it is so FALSE. So unFAIR. Of course he did. He just could not see any other way out. Imagine being that depressed and paralyzed that you choose death over your own children. THAT is how serious depression is. Be aware and reach out...help in whatever way you can.

Every year my family and I do the "Out of the Darkness" walk in October (there are plenty around the country, but this one is in Bristol, CT). All donations go towards research and education programs to prevent suicide and save lives, because suicide is more prevalent than you think: Suicide claims more than 38,000 lives each year in the United States alone, with someone dying by suicide every 13.7 minutes. A suicide attempt is made every minute of every day, resulting in nearly one million attempts made annually.

Let Robin Williams' death have just one silver lining: awareness. If you see someone struggling, be empathetic. Don't judge. Take the time out of your busy day to reach out and listen. It only takes a few minutes or hours but may make a difference. I know that there's nothing that I could have done to save my uncle, but I take comfort in the fact that I was there for him every time he called me that fall and winter. I cheerfully told him all about the events going on in my life and tried to make jokes and make him feel like his "real" self again. I am sure I wasn't completely successful every time, but I know in my heart that he knew I loved him and that I was trying to make a difference. Let's all take care of each other. Life is too short to do anything else.

Friday, June 13, 2014

No day shall erase you from the memory of time.

I rarely have five minutes to myself to reflect or think on any given day. With a full-time job, a preschooler and a toddler, it just doesn't happen as often as it used to. The romantic evenings of sprawling out across my bed, pen in hand, to write in my journal are long gone. Ashlyn wakes up around 5:45 or 6 a.m. every.single.morning and from that moment on there is a caucophony of sound in our house for the rest of the day: milk and cereal being splashed into a bowl, cabinets being slammed, lunches being made, brothers being yelled at, screeching and drumming and toddler feet running...non-stop chaos. While I wouldn't trade any of it for the world, there are certainly days where I crave peace and just FIVE MINUTES of silence to serenely sip my coffee while staring off into space.

On Wednesday I visited the 9/11 museum and memorial. I had about 105 consecutive minutes to walk through the space and reflect on a day that changed the world as well as my entire perception of it. I haven't felt that completely immersed in my own thoughts in a very long time. As most people know, I am a sensitive person by nature. Some people would say too sensitive and overly nostalgic. I always strain to find the negativity in it, though--when someone says, "Oh, you're so sensitive" like it's a dirty word, it just doesn't make sense to me. As a sensitive and young person (21!), even though I didn't know anyone personally affected by the tragedy, I took it really hard. I completely immersed myself in the news for months; eyes glazed over as I watched the camera pan thousands of missing person flyers, listened to panicky voicemail messages and witnessed the towers collapsing over and over again.

I think the museum is tastefully done. I know there had been a lot of controversy regarding how to display the artifacts from that day; what to display; and how to arrange everything so that it evokes the appropriate level of emotion and pays respect to the nearly 3,000 people that lost their lives. The space is massive...almost cavernous...and you are immediately pulled into the events of the day with multi-media messaging from news audio clips to witness accounts and photographs of people reacting to the smoking towers (I remember actually thinking "heads in hands" a few times because every single person, no matter what age or what walk of life, had their eyes raised up to the sky with a look of utter shock and horror and their hands covering their forehead. As if to convey that they literally could not believe their eyes. And they probably couldn't.) As you walk further down the hallway, a projector flickers the missing people posters on a bare cement wall. Tears came to my own eyes as I read description after description. I felt like my 21-year-old self again. Alone. Traumatized. Ruined of any shred of innocence that remained from my childhood.

The museum is located seven stories underground, so the original flood wall that protected the towers is still in place and serves as one of the walls on the lower level. The entire space has an industrial feel overall with the exception of the smaller enclaves that are dedicated to preserving the memories and sharing the life stories of those that died. Affixed to one of the walls is the three mangled steal beams that depict the exact point of impact where the plane crashed into the North Tower between floors 96-99. It's hard to look at...a complete visual representation of the evil that took place that day.

The other part of the museum that resonated with me and nearly moved me to tears was the preservation of one of the stairways and the adjacent escalator from the North Tower. These stairs were carefully extracted from the wreckage and placed in the museum. I found it strange how one flight of stairs could generate so many different thoughts, just picturing the people fleeing for their lives and hearing the rescuers shouting out advice to help as many as possible. I stared at these stairs for quite some time, just thinking of the thousands of feet that ran over them to safety...and the thousands that were unable to make it out alive. It is an eerie feeling to be so close to an object that had such an effect on the course of people's lives that day. There they are, just plain old cement stairs, and yet they tell a story that no one else can.

The next time I visit, I'd like to spend more time by the fountains. They are amazing in their size and depth, and an interesting and obvious contrast to what used to exist in that space. You can't help but look up into the vast, open sky and see a huge, gaping hole that will never be filled again. It's a poignant and sad reminder that 13 years may have passed but the fact remains that those people are gone forever. Everything about the site points toward reverence, but not in an overly religious way. I don't think the museum is for everyone, but it is definitely an experience you will never forget.