It’s been an interesting last few days with Chris’s parents. I got to witness a pretty heated debate on our way to Montauk yesterday between Chris and his mother, as they debated “welfare” and who “welfare” really benefits in society, the rich or the poor. I was amused by Chris’s dad’s assumption about my dad regarding his experience being drafted for the Vietnam War. He suggested that because my dad had traveled to Vietnam for the war that perhaps it would have peaked his interest in international travel. The funniest thing about this comment is that it probably did the opposite and only furthered the American superiority complex that so many Americans have. America is so great, right, so why do we need to travel outside of it? Actually, if we had to be more accurate about this, people really think, “my neighborhood/city is so great, so why do I have to leave it?” It’s why Chris and I have been labeled freaks while trying to visit every state in the country.

The greatest thing about being around Chris’s parents is that you can have regular banter about really odd things and opinions, but also have heated debates, and in the end, no grudges are held. This may seem normal to you, but this is not normal to me. I come from a family that is the king of grudges. If you started arguing about politics with my uncle or aunt or anyone in my family, it would likely end in a swearing, name calling shouting match, and people would likely not be on speaking terms after because both sides would think the opposite side was just an uneducated, uninformed moron. People in my family aren’t capable of having healthy debates where once the debate is over, so is all of the potential yelling or arguing; they only end in sourness and insults. I’m still getting used to this, and this family still isn’t real to me. It’s like I’m waiting for something scary and ugly to come out, but it never comes out. I try to embrace it while I continue to pinch myself and convince myself that it’s all real.

This morning, I went to another mentoring session with my K-8 school in Harlem. Because there was some misunderstanding with the kids regarding today’s session, most did not show up, resulting in approximately two mentors being paired up with one mentee for activities today. Another mentor and I sat with a girl as we discussed goal setting. She shared a notebook with us of a story she had begun to write. The story started with “Once upon a time…” and included some drawings.

As I’m looking at her writing and smiling at her misspellings, I suddenly remembered an “assignment” my mom would give me in my first few years of kindergarten through elementary school. When I first began writing, my mom encouraged me to read and write as much as possible. Because she worked full time, I wouldn’t see her until she’d come home from work around 6pm. At the beginning of the day, she’d walk me to school and drop me off, and she’d remind me about what she expected of me when she came home from work. She said that in my notebook, I had to write her a story, with a beginning, middle, and end, and that she looked forward to reading it when she came back. When this first began, I literally would write silly things like, “Once upon a time, there was a girl with long pigtails. She had a cute dog she played with. And they lived happily ever after in the fields of roses.” Well, I guess I had to start somewhere. I was just 5 then. But as the years went on through the end of elementary school when I was 10, these writings would evolve into full blown stories with complicated plots and surprising endings, and the length would be in excess of ten to fifteen pages on 8″ x 11.5″ binder paper. In third grade, I started sharing these stories with my classmates and teacher, and during silent reading time, the kids would fight over my stapled binder paper stories. Once, a story got torn up in the fight. Our teacher had to get involved to stop it.

I guess this is where my love of writing began, and it’s also how I started developing these really long sentence structures that the average person never writes in. My sixth grade English teacher was the first person to say this to me, that I have a gift of expression and a gift of writing. How do you know when you are different or have any type of talent? Someone usually needs to point this out to you. Some idiot I once met told me that my sentences were run-ons because they were so long. I responded back that I don’t even know how to write a run-on sentence, and that there’s nothing “run-on” about my sentences; they are just complex, unlike him. I never even realized how different my writing was from the average person until around 6th grade, when I read someone else’s writing in a peer review. And I thought their sentences and general expression were crap and completely inferior to my own. I guess that’s also when I started becoming a more confident person. 🙂

What struck me during this mentoring session, though, was how after all this time, I had completely forgotten about this “assignment” my mom gave me. I had a weird moment looking over this girl’s notebook and remembering my past. I usually pride myself on remembering these types of details. “When I was your age,” I thought to myself, “I was writing crazy stories to entertain my class.”

I recently started following the Suicide Shatters page on Facebook, and today, I saw this article written by Kristina Cowan, who has experienced the death of immediate family twice in her life, the first was her mother’s to cancer, the second was her brother’s to suicide. She quotes a line from Dr. Maxine Harris’s book, The Loss That Is Forever: The Lifelong Impact of the Early Death of a Mother or Father. : “[I]t only takes one shattering event of sufficient magnitude to change one’s core beliefs about life.”

In Cowan’s own words, she writes, “They’ve changed my beliefs — for the better. I’ve learned not to ask why bad things happen, but how to cope well with such bad things, and turn them into something glorious. For me that means when I remember my brother, I’m challenged to love the people around me better, to forgive faster than I’m inclined, and to be kind when I’d rather not.” I understand and feel a lot of what she feels. I have always been a kind person, but now I’m even kinder to people, especially strangers… even the ones who bump into me on the street. But at the same time, I think I am far less tolerant of a lot of things: lack of empathy and compassion, arrogance without something concrete to back it up, and even things like people interrupting me or each other in group settings. I’m less patient with complaining and irrational worry, and I’m also far more critical of day to day superficiality that people seem to love to discuss and fill their lives with. Example: the other day, a colleague gave me a really hard time for not remembering the name of some famous actor (apparently it was Jared Leto). She said, “Yvonne, really? How can you not know this?” Chances are that someone who says something like this is probably really catty and gossipy in real life with her own friends, and she’s not someone I’d want to waste my breath on at work. I simply responded that I don’t really focus on celebrities and their lives in my free time. She got the message… At least, I think she did. And I’m sure she also wrote some nasty instant messages about me after. I really can’t be bothered by people’s stupidities and shallowness. Some might find this narrow minded of me, but I don’t want that kind of life. There’s an art to not giving a shit. It’s important to judge people not by isolated comments or conversations, but as a whole person. And she as a whole person is not appealing to me.

Tonight, I was invited to attend the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention’s first appreciation event for top fundraisers. The group was far bigger than I thought it would be — there were at least 30 people who attended, a mix of fundraisers/walkers, board members, and junior board members of the New York City chapter across all five boroughs. I spoke with a number of fundraisers and board members, and it was a great feeling to be part of a group of people who were clearly passionate about the cause we’re all supporting. One junior board member I spoke with had lost her aunt, who was also her godmother, to suicide a year ago. Another fundraiser, whose first name I recognized from the top fundraisers list last year, had lost her little brother to suicide in December 2013, just five months after Ed passed away. Talking to her hit very close to home for me. Even though Ed was really my older brother, in so many ways, he felt like my younger brother. He never had a real opportunity to grow up to be a mature adult. It wasn’t his fault, though.

She talked about the pain and shock she experienced when she learned her brother had died, and she said that she began seeing a therapist about a year after his suicide. She was diagnosed with “complicated grief,” which is a condition in which a person has lost someone close to her to death, but the survivor struggles to grapple with the death, which results in time moving on, but the survivor not. I had no idea this was even a condition one could be diagnosed with.

One thing she said really resonated with me — she was so angry afterwards when some of her own family and friends just withdrew from her. It’s as though as soon as they knew her brother died and it was because of suicide that they decided to just ignore her, some for over a year. That made me so angry. I could actually feel pain seep through me when she said this, and I could see the hurt on her face as she described the whole experience. “I get that people don’t always know how to respond when someone has died, especially when it’s something as sensitive as suicide,” she said. “I was like that for a long time before my brother died. But sometimes, it doesn’t really matter what you say or do as long as you say or do something. Just show that you are there and care.” She said that after that experience, she realized who her real friends were and who really cared, and she just separated herself from the ones who turned away from her. It’s so interesting how similar this is to my own experience and how I changed my own outlook on people after that.

Exchanging experiences with her was emotional for me, as many moments I held back tears listening to her speak about how isolated and alone she felt, and how she felt like she could never really be herself ever again. I still feel moments throughout every day since Ed has passed when I feel like no one really understands me or what I’ve gone through, not just because of Ed’s suicide, but because of all the experiences in our lives that led up to that hellish moment he jumped off that bridge. Everyone seems to think it’s all about his suicide. If he were still here and struggling, no one would pay me any attention. And even worse, no one would pay him any attention, as they did up until the point he died. We all know this is true as awful as it is to write it out. When you have someone very close to you experience mental illness and/or suicide, the way you view the world is completely different. There’s a completely different level of empathy you have for what others’ experiences are and how they perceive the rest of the universe. There’s little that can accurately describe it. Every day is a different type of hurt. But at least it’s a small comfort to know there are other people who care enough to share their own experiences and support a cause they believe in.

I’m about three quarters through reading Democratic senator Wendy Davis’s memoir Forgetting to Be Afraid. Davis is most well known for holding an eleven-hour long filibuster to block a measure in Texas in 2013 that would have included more restrictive abortion regulations. She is truly a Fruit Loop in a sea of Cheerios in Texas.

About the first half of the book goes through a very detailed account of her family, her childhood and her life through age 18, and it’s almost painful to read about some of the things she had to go through. Her mother went through such a dark period after their father left when she was young that she almost tried to commit a family suicide by putting all three of her children in the trunk of the car and turning on the engine in the garage. A neighbor randomly knocked on the door, concerned about Davis’s mom, and just said he wanted to “check in” on them to see how they were doing. In the end, that single visit is what made Davis’s mom decide against the suicide and realize that she needed to continue going on.

Because of this and a few other key experiences in her life, Davis says she believes in angels. Everything happens for a reason, even when the worst things happen. Reading her book and going through experiences in my own life, I really believe that everything, even the most excruciatingly painful experiences, happen for a reason and serve some purpose in our lives. In some ways, it can be perceived as merely justifying past experiences or mistakes, which could be a fair argument, but if we have no hope, we really have nothing to move forward into our future. I believe in angels, too.

Last night, I had a series of very convoluted dreams, dreams that didn’t really make sense when you juxtapose them all together. In the most vivid dream I had, I was invited to a major conference (who knows what conference it was) to speak about my family’s experience with mental illness and my brother’s suicide. I gave an emotional talk about Ed’s ups and downs, his symptoms, how people responded (or didn’t) to him, and what led to his untimely death. I gave reasons for why we need more awareness and attention around suicide prevention and mental health and why the stigma needs to end. In a crowded auditorium, I received a standing ovation.

After the speech, I was shown photos taken during my time on stage, and I looked at myself in these photos. I looked determined and passionate, as though this was truly important to me, and I wanted everyone else in the audience to know and understand how important this was to society. I thought to myself, if i can’t convince these people why this is important, then I have really failed Ed and his memory.

After going through at least a dozen different photographer websites to pick a wedding photographer, I noticed that a number of them have a section on their website specifically for “boudoir.” I clicked on the first website with this and saw lots of glamorous shots of heavily made up women, lying on beds and posing by bright windows wearing little other than long strands of pearls or endless veils. This is a category of photography now — wedding boudoir?

Some people find these photos too self indulgent and excessive. I think about the average person who is not a model or celebrity, though. How often does the average person get professionally photographed? After your annual school portraits, senior portraits, and with the exception of your wedding, you probably won’t get professionally photographed much at all. I think boudoir photos are a nice way of capturing the “other” side of you that people don’t normally get to see … and it’s not like you would be sharing these photos with the entire world, anyway. Sometimes we need to be a bit self indulgent and treat ourselves. We should do more to capture our own beauty in a given point of time because who else is going to do it for us?

I had a really good sleep last night. It was probably the best weeknight sleep I’ve had since I’ve come back to New York from San Francisco last month. And oddly, I dreamt about being in a small conference room with my therapist…. and Ed. Ed was sitting at the table with us.

I don’t remember hearing any of the words coming out of our mouths during our discussion, but I remember seeing all of us very animated and speaking and smiling and laughing. Ed was speaking openly with my therapist, and it was like a real, truthful conversation about our family and our intertwined lives. Ed was smiling a lot.

Usually, when I dream of Ed, I tend to wake up and not want to get out of bed. I want to stay in bed and try to fall back asleep in hopes that he will come back so I can see him again. This morning, I didn’t. I woke up, lingered for ten minutes, and hauled myself out of bed to go to the gym.

It hurts to see him in my dreams and know I will never see him again in this life on earth. But as much as I want to linger and hope that I can see him, what I really need to do is to stop holding onto trying to see him in my dreams, and instead to live my life to the best of my ability to make him proud.