I’ve been doing a lot of self-reflection as we head into the holiday season this year. My uncle’s birthday was on Christmas. My birthday is on December 13th. He took his life the day after my 30th birthday on December 14, 2009. I've always loved this time of year and everything it offers: the anticipation, the lights, the crisp air and family get-togethers. The wine, gift giving, thinking of others and attempting to make their days merry and bright. But since 2009, the holidays have been slightly bittersweet. I recently told Ashlyn (she turns 12 on 12/29—another reason I love December) that Uncle Billy’s birthday was on Christmas and she asked, “Is that why you sometimes seem sad on Christmas morning?” I never realized my expression betrayed my feelings, but I'm sure there are times that I’ve been contemplative or lost in thought.

This year, I thought about all I’ve accomplished in my uncle’s honor. The silver lining is that this work helps other people and I am grateful for that. Not that he would want to be remembered for how he died (because I know without a doubt that as a private person, he absolutely wouldn't), but I think he would be proud that I'm helping to save others who are struggling. So this year, I thought I would do something a little different. In the spirit of “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, I pulled together a list of everything I’ve done in his honor and quantified it:

· $58,335 raised for this year’s Out of the Darkness walk that I co-chaired (goal: $25,000)
· $7,706 personally raised for AFSP/suicide prevention
· 18 months (and counting) on the CT chapter of the AFSP board
· 7 Out of the Darkness walks
· 4 years served on the Niantic Out of the Darkness Walk Committee
· 3 Talk Saves Lives presentations delivered to Aetna/CVS Health employees and customers
· 2 successful fundraisers at the Niantic Public House
· 1 year as walk Co-Chair
· 1 Mental Health First Aid certification course
· 1 Narcan/QPR certification course
· 1 invite to the AFSP Chapter Leadership Conference in Houston January 2022
· Countless lives enhanced or saved by this invaluable information and organization;
· and a partridge in a pear tree

December and the holidays can be a really difficult time for some people. Reach out. Have a real conversation and ask them how they are feeling. Earlier in November, Taylor Swift re-released her album “Red” (on her terms). If you have a moment, listen to the lyrics of “Forever Winter” which portray how it feels when you’re watching someone struggle mentally and emotionally:

"All this time I didn’t know
You were breakin’ down
I’d fall to pieces on the floor
If you weren’t around
Too young to know it gets better
I’ll be summer sun for you forever
Forever winter if you go…"

Go be someone’s summer sun this holiday season. Reach out. I promise you, you will make a difference. Happy holidays, everyone. #mentalhealth #holidays #grateful

Mental Health Month matters more than ever this year.

Note: If you experience suicidal thoughts or have lost someone to suicide, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741. Or call the Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.

 

May is Mental Health Month. This year, I think more people will take the time to pause and reflect on these past fourteen months and what they have meant for our collective mental health than any other time in recent history. The isolation, the anxiety, the staggering death toll, the loss of financial security for people who had to close their businesses or who lost their jobs, the process of grieving even for the “normal” events we (and our children) were unable to attend…school, the office, birthday parties, weddings, holidays with family, happy hours, funerals. With very little warning, our lives were irrevocably changed in an instant one Thursday aftern in March and we didn’t even know for how long or what the magnitude of the extended impact would be. We went from thriving and humming along with our daily lives and routines to survival mode pretty much overnight. And we’ll be witnessing and measuring the aftermath for years to come.

 

Mental health has been at the forefront of many of my conversations these past few months both personally and professionally, as well as through my work with the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP). I think it’s one of the only silver linings to come out of this difficult time. While we all experienced the pandemic from different perspectives, various walks of life and circumstances, the bottom line is that we have now witnessed first-hand how important it is to be mindful of our own mental health; to check in on those we know and love; and to be aware of the warning signs if someone is suffering so much that they may be depressed or even thinking of suicide.

 

The importance of reaching out.

 

Many times, especially when we are so immersed in our own lives and issues, we may not notice the signs that indicate someone is struggling. If you are concerned about someone you know or love, make sure you know the signs and how to approach the topic with them. Being educated and proactively knowing the signs may be extremely helpful in case you find yourself in a future situation where you need to know how to react, and quickly.

 

Reaching out can absolutely make a difference, and it has for so many people. Since losing my Uncle Billy to suicide in 2009, I have reached out to many people in my personal and professional life through various avenues, including social media and real-time conversations, and I truly believe it has made a difference. I have also been published on The Mighty website that chronicles people’s real-life stories, and have been featured on Aetna and CVSHealth’s intranet sites raising awareness about the importance of mental health. By continuing to speak out, I’m actively looking to reduce the stigma surrounding this topic. I encourage those struggling to reach out for help. Reaching out for help doesn’t make you weak—it actually takes an incredible amount of courage to do so and should be considered a sign of strength. 

 

Being part of the solution.

 

This year, I am proud to continue my active role as a board member for AFSP and I’m honored to be the Co-Chair of this year’s Niantic Out of the Darkness walk (shameless plug: Register or donate today!) I am also preparing to deliver my first Talk Saves Lives training to 50-100 CVSHealth employees and customer representatives in early September. Those of you who know me well understand that this is out of my comfort zone because I have never been super confident in my ability to present and speak publicly, but this year I made it one of my professional development goals, and after several (non-mental health) presentations at work, I have to admit, at 41, I’m finally coming along.

 

In March, I had the opportunity to attend one of my AFSP colleague’s Talk Saves Lives trainings for an elderly LGBT population and it was a beautiful experience, hearing their collective stories and what they have endured over the years, and how they have come together to support each other. I was even able to help one of the participants with an idea for their peer support hotline by suggesting that the volunteers take the Mental Health First Aid course to feel better prepared for certain conversations and topics that may arise on their inbound calls.

 

As I once wrote in my LinkedIn blog post, Choose to Make a Difference No Matter What You Do: “Long ago, I made a promise to myself to reach out to others in their time of need. And I will continue to look for opportunities to make people’s lives better for the rest of my own life because I don’t know how to live any other way.” I truly believe this is my calling in life—to listen without judgment. To understand. To care. And to help and support this important cause.

She passes through a long corridor
Slowly, as if uncertain
She’s headed in the right direction.
Her auburn hair unravels
And she stops.
Tucks it behind her ear and continues.
She can’t go back the way she came
But wandering into the unknown
Seems pointless somehow.
She tries to find meaning, a purpose
to all that she has endured.
But it evades her.
“Who orchestrates this life?” she thinks to herself,
tearing up at the thought of what once was.
Or what she thought had been.
Her internal strength propels her forward
even when she wants to give up.
She won’t. She can’t. She has too much at stake.
Then her hazel eyes flicker with the realization that this feeling is fleeting.
Temporary.
Someday soon life will make sense again
And be beautiful and strange, the way it always has been.
It may not be the life she anticipated
or even thought she wanted
But she will reclaim it as her own.
She takes another step.

The recent conversation around sexual assault, harassment, and the powerful #MeToo mentions has had me creating this blog entry in my head for weeks. I wasn’t really sure what my angle was going to be, but I knew I had something to say.

When I first saw that celebrities were the focus of this dialogue, while I felt for their plight and understood that they had to sort of open the proverbial Pandora’s Box on this topic, my initial reaction was “What woman hasn’t experienced this to some degree…way more than just once in their lifetime?” So I was glad to see Alyssa Milano raise this on Twitter a few weeks ago by asking ALL women (or people, really) to stand in solidarity with Harvey Weinstein’s accusers and share whether or not they have also been a victim of either sexual harassment or assault. She said, "My hope is people will get the idea of the magnitude, of just how many people have been affected by this in the world, in our lifetimes, in this country.”

On 10/16, I tweeted “I was thinking about this the other day. Why should the focus merely be on actresses and other famous women? #MeToo.” I didn’t share any details about my experience with this topic and I don’t plan to on here, either. That isn’t the point for me. But it’s clear from the sheer volume of “#MeToo’s” that we needed this out in the open and that we have an incredibly long way to go as a society.

I’ve been reading so many of these victims’ accounts and wonder when it was decided that we no longer needed to treat each other with respect or empathy. Obviously the behavior has been going on—and accepted—for years, decades…centuries, even. Which makes me shake my head in disgust. To me, the most fulfilling and rewarding part of being human is just that: making real human connections based on the mutual respect between yourself and another person. This brazen disregard for the victims’ boundaries, feelings, and needs is something that I will never understand or accept.

And so I come to the second theme in this piece: empathy. Which I write about often because it is embedded in who I am. But I’ve never truly written about this experience. I have talked to friends and family about it during the course of the past 17 years, but I’ve never put pen to paper until now. When I was thinking about human connection, respect and blatant disregard for someone’s feelings these past few weeks, this experience kept forcing itself back into my mind. It’s a different kind of harassment, but it still counts and I think that it’s finally time to speak out.

I spent the semester in London the fall of my senior year. For some reason, the majority of my flatmates (all 12 of us were from UConn) decided that they had no use for me. A few of them (and by that, I really do mean about 3 out of 12) were friendly enough, but for the most part I was ostracized for the entire three and a half months that I was there. My hair was frizzy at that time, I didn’t have the same fashion sense that I have now, I was a little overweight and I wasn’t confident in myself at all. I was quiet, reserved. I didn’t go to London merely to drink and party—I wanted to experience the culture and see shows at the theatre, go to museums and just LIVE.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when or how it started happening, but my flatmates started branching off into groups, usually leaving me alone (with the exception of our classes). They left me at a bar alone when I had had too much to drink and laughed at me when I came crying back into the flat because I didn’t even have enough money to pay the cab driver (He let me out anyway, clearly seeing that I was a wreck). One time when we were all heading out for the night, one of the guys uttered, “Ever think about who we would vote off if this were an episode of Survivor?” Lots of laughing followed. I ignored it. Another time, we were out dancing and having drinks at Cheers and two of the guys bought a round of drinks for all of the girls except for me. Then one of them looked at me, saw a half-empty mug of beer sitting on the bar, abandoned, and said “Here, you can have that one.” Then he laughed and walked away, leaving me alone.

I heard one of the girls talking to her sister on the phone about me in a whisper. I would sometimes get home from a day of walking around the city and go straight up to the roof where you could see the city. I’d be freezing but at least they couldn’t hurt me up there. I wouldn’t come down until everyone was settled in and watching TV. Writing this now is making me teary, not for what I feel now, but for the poor girl who didn’t know how to handle any of this at the time. I didn’t speak up for myself, not once. I tried to confide in the three friendlier flatmates, but they didn’t believe me—they thought that I was embellishing everything and that the perception was in my head. It wasn’t. And I wonder now if my experience could have been more positive if one of them had.

I’m speaking up to give that more vulnerable girl a voice. To defend her when I should have defended her at that time. I have 17 more years of life experience at this point. I am confident. (Side note: it took a LONG way to get here, but I honestly think that this experience was the first step in getting me there, ironically enough. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?) I am successful. And I still have empathy and would never even dream of making someone feel like they weren’t worthwhile of my time or energy. We all are until proven otherwise.

All I want is to feel safe. Lately, it feels like we’re all living on the edge of a knife. I was lying in my bed early this morning (like 4 a.m. early) wide awake and thinking. Snuggled under a blanket with my cat tucked in behind my knees, I thought, “This is really the only place where I feel completely safe.” Between people getting shot at the Oakdale Theatre last night, a drunk driver killing a 24-year-old Waterford resident the day after Christmas about five minutes from our house, and finding out yesterday that a good friend has stomach cancer (an 89-year-old friend, but still)…I just feel like the hits keep on coming. We had a beautiful Christmas and are so lucky in many ways, but let’s be honest—2016 has been a rough year overall.

I fell back asleep for a short time before Liam bounded into our room to wake me up, and I’m glad I did because I dreamt about my Uncle Billy for only the second time since he died seven years ago. And in this dream, he actually interacted with me, whereas in the first one, he was sitting at a table writing a note and I came up behind him and hugged him but he didn’t respond.

This morning, I had a dream that I was at my grandparents’ house in Waterbury (I haven’t been there since my grandma died in 1997). It was like I was going back in time and was looking through the window of their front door into their living room and kitchen. Grandma had these vintage Valentine’s Day decorations on the front window, and I took out my iPhone (clearly present day) to take a photo of just one for Instagram because I liked the feel they had to them. My uncle was behind me…and then the dream gets fuzzy for a bit, but the next thing I know, there’s talk of danger (I’m not sure what, either an open shooting situation or something similar) at a local school during a kids’ swimming lesson. I knew that one of our friend’s children was there and I needed to go.

Then it turned into me needing to go pick up my cousin’s girls, Samantha and Lily, because no one else could go. I’m not sure if they were in danger, but I felt panicked—I was only wearing a nightgown but knew I had to head out. I got into the SUV (my cousin’s), but some force, a negative force, had turned the car seats all around and messed with the steering wheel and locked the gate to the garage behind me so I couldn’t figure out how to escape. All of a sudden, I heard my uncle’s voice and he helped me unlock the gate and back out slowly. Before that, somewhere in the haze of my dream, he also gently helped me cut the tag off of my nightgown and he offered me ice cream.

Liam woke me up right as I was backing out of the garage in the dream, so I’m not sure what would have happened next, but all I can really say is that I feel oddly comforted by that dream. Since he died, I haven’t felt his presence even though I try and try to remember his voice and the conversations we had together. The fact that he came to me this morning after I was feeling completely insecure and sad makes me feel like his spirit is still somewhere, in a good place.

So I am feeling slightly better this morning, but I still really, really wish people would stop being so crazy and violent. It’s like you can’t even go a day without hearing horrible news, either somewhere in the world, somewhere close to home or in your own personal circle. I have been trying not to internalize so much, especially when it doesn’t *directly* affect me, but it’s hard. Being empathetic is ingrained in who I am and I don’t foresee that changing at 37. Will certainly be looking into effective coping mechanisms in 2017.

Her little hand pops out of the water to wave at me. She wants to make sure I had seen her back float. Her goggles are all fogged up, making her eyes appear larger and buggier than normal. Her ponytail is slicked back and flyaway hairs are matted to her face. She grins broadly when I give her the double thumbs up sign.

Right now, she craves my attention. “Mommy, I want to show you how to play this game…” “Mommy, come read with me…” “Mommy, look what I made…” And most of the time, I am patient. Even if I’m in the middle of washing the dishes or cleaning up (a million) crumbs from the kitchen floor, I pause what I’m doing to acknowledge her. Because I know that despite my current title of “Best Mommy in the entire galaxy—not just the planet” (she actually said that to me yesterday), this time is fleeting. Maybe not fleeting as in gone next week, next month, or even next year, but in just a few years, she’ll be beyond this. She’ll crave the attention of her peers instead. And while I’m sure she’ll secretly appreciate me rooting for her on the sidelines, one day she’ll no longer search for my face in the crowd to make sure I’m paying attention. Which is totally normal; I wouldn’t expect her to…but still. For all the people constantly telling me to “Enjoy this time—it goes by so fast!”, I.KNOW. I know. Wasn’t she just learning how to walk? Toddling across the hardwood floor, completely unsure of herself? I get it.

Tonight I helped her practice multiplication even though they’re still focused on addition and subtraction in second grade. She loves math (and I never did), so I figure we might as well get a head start and continue to encourage her early on. (Side note: I failed long division. Miserably). She was doing really well but ended up getting a wrong answer for one of the problems. Maybe because it was late at night and she had reached her limit, but her beautiful hazel eyes filled with tears as she put her head down on the table and cried “I can’t get anything right!” In that moment, I saw her baby face shining through, flushed cheeks and all, and pulled her onto my lap. I half rocked her and smoothed her hair, told her that she was so smart and that she had done an awesome job. She settled down after a moment (I think I did or said something that made her laugh) and finished the rest of the problems without any issues.

My baby girl is almost seven. Some days she is completely independent, going off with her friends, reading by herself, teaching Liam about the world…but some days she still needs me. For reassurance, for support, for compassion. I guess I’m just hopeful that the foundation we’re building now will keep the lines of communication open in the not so distant future. When she thinks she’s ready to take on the world (aren’t all 14-year-olds?) but perhaps realizes she’s not quite strong enough yet. When her innocent mind comes to the realization that not all people have good intentions. That kids can be mean. When she fails a test because she doesn’t understand the material as well as she thought she did.

Parenting can be really hard. You don’t always know what to say or how to say it. What we say (and what we *don’t* say) can affect our kids for years to come. Being absent also speaks volumes. No pressure, right? But I think as long as our heart is in the right place and we’re “on” about 90 percent of the time, we’re doing it right. So, hopefully, I’ll continue to be the “Best Mommy in the Galaxy” for at least a few more years to come.

Lately Ash has been asking a lot of questions about dying, about what happens to our bodies when we die, and if we're reborn, will she have the same family? (Cue the tears: "But if I'm born again into another family, won't I forget that I ever had you?" which I thought was a pretty deep question for a six-year-old.) A while back when she was maybe 3 or 4, we told her that most people live a very long time, until they're about 100. But recently she learned that her Grandpa Lynn died at age 52 because he was very sick and now it seems that she's been seeking meaning to every song and even reading between the lines of lyrics. When she heard the song "Centuries", she asked Jeff how long a century was and then later on at bedtime she said that 100 years isn't long enough, that she doesn't want to die. I said, "But the whole point of life is to enjoy each moment, to make lasting memories, to love your family and spend time with your friends." She bawled, "But we only get oneeeeee..." When she heard the song "Seven Years" in the car the other day, she said "Mommy, you're not anywhere near 60, right?" Her little brain is trying to take in and process so much but it's *so hard* to answer all of her raw and honest questions when we don't have all of the answers. Half the time, I'm not even sure I'm saying the right thing or putting her mind anywhere near at ease.

And night after night, she's been having bad dreams. It seems like she just can't shake this from her subconscious. One night I went in there when she was crying and asked what's wrong. "I had a dream that Daddy was kissing us for the last time." "Where?" I asked. "In bed." Then, "Daddy believes you can be born again. What do you believe?" I told her that I'm not sure, but that I'd like to think our spirit can find its way back here to live again. That's when she uttered her heartbreaking, "But if I'm born again into another family, won't I forget that I ever had you? I don't want another mommy and daddy. I want youuuuuuuu...."). A few nights later she started crying shortly after she went to bed. I went in there and asked what was wrong. She started again with "I never got to meet my Grandpa Lynn." I told her that I'm sure he loves her and that he would love to have met her too. "But how do you know? Can he see me? Is he sitting right there?" Uggghhhhh. Then she said "I had a dream. Daddy came to pick us up and you weren't there. And then you never came back again." More crying. I said, "How did you know I never came back?" "Because you weren't there and then a week went by and you still weren't..." How do you reassure your kids without being dishonest? I mean, we all know that we can't promise them we'll be there tomorrow. We may SAY it, but no one really knows for sure what's going to happen each day. It just breaks my heart to see her so worked up about these issues that are so far out of her control.

I did some research online because of course I understand that kids are naturally curious about death and I expected to have the conversation at some point, but I guess I didn't think she would have *so* many questions. It seems like most kids ask a lot of basic questions but then quickly move on. Ashlyn, however, has one question after another: "What are our options when we die? What happens to our bodies? Did Grandma have to move after Grandpa died? What did they do with his body?" The saddest part was when she said "When you and Daddy are gone, the only one left with me will be Liam" and I had a lump in my throat because even that's not a given. I don't want to think about it, but the fact that he is younger doesn't necessarily mean he will be there when she's 100 and he's 97 (and I say that because I literally can't bear to think of them dying any younger than that). Parenting is hard enough, but when you are responsible for making your child feel safe and secure and you aren't successful, that is truly the worst. I wish I had the answers to make her little brain shut off each night. I wish I could tell her what happens when we die...where we go...that we are reunited with people that we love...that we never feel pain or sickness or hurt again...that we have the same mommy, daddy and brother in the next life, if there is one...that we are okay without our physical body because it's the spirit that truly makes us who we are. ("But if I am born into someone else, then I'm not really me? Or am I me, but a different version of me?") I swear, she blows me away. I almost feel like she has already lived a former life due to the depth of her questioning and her ability to ask and understand these concepts beyond her short time here on Earth.

I know we all want to protect our kids from the harsh reality of life. We want to save them from the first harsh comment or criticism from their peers, we want to shield them from the tough choices they will eventually have to make, we want to hug them and tell them that they are safe and sound and always will be. But we can't always promise these things. What we can do is hug them and say, "You know, I'm not really sure what will happen, but I love you so much and we are here together right now--let's make every day count." I'm just happy to know that she trusts me enough to want my opinion even when I tell her I don't have all the answers. I don't shut down the conversation or laugh off her concerns; I openly talk to her, stroke her hair and do the best I can to explain life and death as we know it. There is no script for this. I don't even remember asking my own parents about it (although when I did, I am almost positive it wasn't as in depth or emotional for me). I'm not sure if everything I say is right or accurate, but at least she knows she can come to me at any time, with any question or concern, and I will be there for her. We brought her into this world and it's our responsibility to explain how it works when we know and explain that a lot of the world is a mystery to us. I just hope that her life is full of enough joy to make the unknown worthwhile. And that's the only thing that I *can* control.