A Mother, A Sister, A Friend

When confronted with the death of a person, all cultures and religions respond in equally different manners. A Jewish funeral is one of mourning, of black coats and dreary grey souls. An Irish Catholic funeral mourns by celebrating life. I tend to favor my Jewish heritage, but not today. Not for this newly-lost soul.

On Monday evening, the news that a dear friend of mine had passed away traversed quickly through my social media. She had been in a car accident the night prior, and fell into a coma. She never came out. Her spirit now floats among the stars.

We met under duress – in rehab. While I struggled with my sobriety, diving deep into the depths of melancholic depression and anxiety, she embraced her new life with grace I still wish I could possess. In my free time, I would look over the ranch and wonder “why me?”, but she never did. Her happiness was found through the pounding bass and soulful vocals that flowed through her headphones. She danced her addiction away.

By far, her most impressive accomplishment was becoming a mother to a special-needs son. Despite not being able to see and having low motor coordination, Patrick knew exactly how much his mother loved him. He never knew a day when he was not supported or surrounded by care. Her love for him fill their house to the brim.

No. It is not you who is newly lost. Your soul has finally been returned to its ethereal homeland, for your spirit always existed on a plane apart from this grey one. Without your vibrant color, it is I who has lost my way.

Rest peacefully Jillian. May you forever bounce among the stars, infusing them with your joyous laughter for every day yet to come.

It’s a Wonderful Life

It’s a Wonderful Life, a familiar movie to many older Americans, was produced in 1946, almost 45 years before I was born. A little over 60 years after its release, I watched the film over and over during winter break of my junior year of high school. It was one of the only Christmas/holiday-related movies that I could A) get away with watching in a predominately Jewish household and B) showed someone who was searching for a reason to live. My love of school was almost gone, only a flicker of concern for a few teachers and maybe a subject or two left. My knee and mind were in the process of breaking down, tendons and ligaments straining to hold the joint together but failing while my brain continued to expect perfect pirouettes. I was purely a technical dancer at this point – there was no way I could successfully master the emotions needed to be an artistic one, not when I was battling panic attacks and desperately searching for a reason to continue treading in the same breath. Feelings hurt. Breathing hurt. Life hurt. My heart did not. It had shut down years ago.

In my junior year of high school, George Bailey and his troubles brushed against me in a time when few other things could.

70 years after its release, George Bailey still invokes a reaction among my now functioning heart, but it is far from the one it did a decade prior. I looked at Bailey before and saw a man acting out my own thoughts and feelings. The worry, the desperation, the sheer hopelessness and belief that I was nothing but toxic waste poisoning those who got too close. Was Bailey me or was I Bailey? It didn’t matter – we both acted the same way. Now I still see the George/me congruence, but it is from the perspective of an intimate outsider. In the case of George Bailey, that would be Clarence, his guardian angel. In my case, it is from my parents.

Before I continue, I need to preface that my parents and I maintained a toxic and power-hungry relationship until I was forced to leave. Combine an alcoholic/addict with violent narcissism, a codependent with an anxiety disorder, and a highly emotional and vulnerable child and I’m surprised the explosion wasn’t bigger. My parents had many faults. I am not going to absorb the blame for their despicable, and at times illegal, behavior. But they loved me. In their own convoluted and twisted way, they tried to do what they thought was the right thing. It was far from it in several cases. But what counts is they tried, right?

Good intentions are laudable and deserve recognition, but they are nowhere near good enough. Good action must follow good intent, or unwanted results will certainly follow.

My parents tried to be my Clarence. They tried to offer me routes out of my suicidal depression, give hands and arms and legs when I needed them. They tried, providing a psychiatrist for the pills and a therapist for the pain. But they couldn’t. They were too ingrained in their own toxicity to even see that I was drowning. The little blue-and-white capsules could only provide another false crutch, just like the woman at the other end of the office who listened to me talk and rant and scream until all that came out was silence. After nearly a month of spewing silence, I quit both. As for my parents? Screaming at one another was considered standard communication. All I could do was whisper.

And by the time I let others know I needed help at all, by the time of winter break of junior year, it was already too late.

Unlike George Bailey, I nearly drowned when I jumped off the bridge. His Clarence gave him a chance to see what life was like if he had never been born. My parents (and state-provided insurance) gave me an extended stay in the hospital. George never tried to kill himself again. I dove so far underground – institutionalized terror and bloody fistfights, predatory practitioners and solitary confinement, an addiction to pills courtesy of a candy-man psychiatrist and homelessness – I nearly didn’t come out.

My life is wonderful now, wonderfully and perfectly ordinary. I have a job I love, am surrounded by friends that care, and am almost done with a degree for a career that has my name all over it. I have five years sober in September. No one suspects a thing. Bits and pieces of my former self, the one that is George Bailey, still reside in me. But now, if I’ve thoroughly dealt with the issue, I talk about it. It’s why I am comfortable sharing my story of addiction with some work friends that will not judge me. And if they do, that story is already complete. That movie is over. I am still scarred, still cracked, still a bit damaged. But my life is not. And that is the most wonderful thing I could ask for.

He’s Not Ok, But He Will Be

There is a reason I teach. On some days it is because I enjoy the company of my students. On some days it is because I enjoy the subject I teach. On some days is because I enjoy the people I work with. On some days it is all three.

There is a reason I do not work in the mental health field.

While I continue to put myself through my senior year of college, I’m working at an aftercare program serving an elementary school. The vast majority of the time, I truly enjoy working with the kids there. Yes, there are some days that are difficult. Yes, there are some days that are truly taxing. But for the most part, I really like the kids, and they seem to like me.

Today was one of those taxing days.

While working on his homework, a kid off-handedly mentioned how much he had been thinking about death and dying. Me, given my history and intimate flirtations with Death, immediately jumped to the worst conclusion possible. But our protocol is to talk to the parents first, and we so did. His parents were rightfully concerned and vowed to talk to him more. Realistically, that should end the my part in the story, and physically it did. Hours later, and I cannot think of anything else.

Is he ok?
Maybe not, but he will be.

Is he going to be in program tomorrow?
Of course he is.

What have I done?
You tried your best. No one can ever ask for anything less.

This is why I don’t work in the mental health field. It’s not because there are zero people who truly deserve their services – there are. There are several. There are several millions of people who need mental health services, but I am a terrible person to provide them. Today I was faced with one depressed child, only one, and it’s currently one in the morning and I’m still awake. I cannot handle the reality that most social workers are facing everyday, of depression and anxiety and bipolar disorder and people who simply do not want to live anymore because life has been too damn much. At one point in time, I was one of those people. I needed help. But now that my life has stabilized and I’ve found who I can help, it’s not with them. Not even close.

To the kid, my biggest wish for you is that you could see you the way that we all do. I know that it’s hard to believe in a reality that you cannot see, because trust me, I’ve been there. If there’s any one thing that I do hope you hear, it’s that we are here. At least I am. And while I cannot promise to keep your secrets, I can always promise to listen.

And to me: tomorrow brings forth a new and better day. Always.