Suicide Surviving to Life Thriving

It was this morning eight years ago my knees gave out and I hit the ground. 

The concrete was the only thing strong enough to support me after the words landed in my life.  My brother had just walked toward me with his head held low.  I could see he was searching for something.  He took me gently by the arm as I asked him “John, what’s wrong?”.  He hesitated for a brief second, while I stood staring.  Then he lifted his gaze to mine and he said “Tara…..Dad killed himself”.

That’s when I crumbled to the ground.  I was half holding on, half begging for it to swallow me whole.  It’s the moment I heard my spirit break and shatter into pieces.

I don’t often let my mind wander to that string of seconds.  It’s too difficult to relive.  The powerful impact, a swift and violent punch to the soul, is still something I physically feel as if it’s happening all over again.

In eight years I’ve learned to revisit this moment sparingly and only when absolutely necessary.

As I look back, I recognize massive shifts in my perspective and awareness.  Time is now measured by before and after.  Dad’s suicide the harsh beginning to a brand new reality.

In eight long years I’ve learned (the hard, bumpy, bruised knee and bloody knuckled way) of navigating Grief, living with Depression and managing two full-blown assholes called Anxiety and Panic.

In this time I’ve also learned how to patch my broken spirit back together into a mosaic puzzle I’m growing proud of.

It’s no secret that my family and I have experienced a great deal of loss that didn’t stop after Dad.  Tragic loss.  Unbelievable loss.  Too massive for our minds and hearts and souls to absorb.  Too big to hold on to and too heavy a burden to carry.

So what do you do with it all then?  If you can’t carry them, hold them or tuck them all away...where does it all fit?

Eight years ago I was certain I would drown in the murky water of it all.  I had no clue what my tomorrows would look like under all this heartache.  I had no space big enough to store it all.

Fast forward to today, after a tremendous amount of hard work and digging deep, the one and only thing I know for sure is that letting go of it, bit by bit, is the only option.  It’s not about storing it.  It’s about releasing it.

Release.  What an epiphany (when I allowed myself to have it).

Talk about true grit.

Each day I work at it.  I supplement the dark moments with memories that are lighter, happier and healthier.  It’s not always pretty.  In fact, it’s a hot mess.  Emotions swinging around like Kettle Bells, me doing my best to focus my energy on the positives and not feed the gluttonous negatives that wait anxiously in the wings.

I study.  I read.  I try my very best to be understanding and have compassion.  When I can’t do any of the above I turn the kindness onto myself and soothe the parts of me that ache.  In time, the gift I’ve been given in return for my hard work is Belief.

Belief that letting go is the gateway.  It’s where I will find the shift from surviving suicide and tragedy to thriving, one day at a time.

Each day I apply this practice I can feel myself healing.  My clenched fists begin unfolding, my sadness slowly lifting, my resentment tasting less bitter and my anger simmering.

Somewhere along the way I realized that surviving simply wasn’t enough for me.  I wanted more.  Thriving, in the face of it all, was my only true option.

So with that I decided I would let go, piece by piece, and set all those experiences ablaze on a trail of a life well lived.

Tragic loss, great love, mosaic soul patches and all.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

La Pura Vida

In the spring of 2006 I set off on a journey with a dear friend of mine.

It was one of those “take a time-out from your life” kind of adventures and I was in desperate need of it. You see, at this point my life was a constant state of Chaos, and I was over it. So I decided that I was going to allow myself to hit the coveted snooze button and go on a treasure hunt for that shiny gem known as Clarity.

Our plane touched down, we de-boarded and there we were…Paradise had been found! We made it to the lush, tropical, untouched purity of Costa Rica.

I could feel a shift as soon as my feet landed on the tarmac. I shed some layers of clothing (it was cooking hot) and though I didn’t know it yet, I also shed some of those pesky inhibitions that were cramping my Spirit’s style.

The first few days were spent lounging, reading, swimming, sunning and detoxing the stressors I left at home.  The cotton candy sunsets, bold iguanas and opinionated howler monkeys took residence where the sights and sounds of city living once did.

Before I knew it relaxation had set in and running in tandem with it was the weekend.

My girlfriend and I decided to head out on the “town”. Now, by “town” I mean tiny little surf town on the edge of the Costa Rican jungle, of which you navigate by dirt roads and big smiles.

It was this night, in this town, backlit by stardust that I never knew to exist, that I met him.

Our paths crossed in a manner that only makes sense if you never question it. We fell into a state of normalcy that would historically have taken me aback. Lucky for me, I had just excavated a state of mind akin to blissful relaxation, so I decided to be Zen and just roll with it.

My mantra was something along the lines of “Tara, be Zen, roll with it, don’t question how or why....oh, and be sure to call the airlines and extend your stay”.

(FYI:  My mantra was a success.)

It was a whirlwind romance that made all the sense in the world. The only issue was…I was a world away from home.  

My last morning in Costa Rica pulled back the tropical blanket of my hiding spot.  My two worlds were now colliding.

He drove me back to my neglected hotel (and forgiving best friend) before the sun began to rise. We parked out front sharing a very long and hesitant farewell, filled with pleas and wishes by both of us that I could stay longer (maybe forever). But home and the chattering list of life obligations began to trickle into my Zen. The only words that found their way to my voice were the ones that said I couldn’t stay. I wanted to stay…but I couldn’t.

My heart and my soul slumped their shoulders in defeat. They were ambassadors of Paradise.

Before I could let him change my mind, I kissed him one last time, hopped out of the truck and bolted toward my room without daring myself to look back.

I flung the door open and my girlfriend greeted me with a look of shock and the following words: “I can NOT believe you are coming home!”.

My response was: “I can’t believe it either”.

I packed my bag in a fury. Within minutes there was a knock at the door. My heart jumped, my soul squealed in delight. I looked at my friend and said: “It looks like I’m staying after all!”.

I whipped the door open, ready to proclaim "Ok, I'm staying!" but it wasn’t him with one last request, it was our driver letting us know he was ready to begin our long journey back to the airport where this whole adventure began. 

I tucked my regret into one of my pockets, tossed our bags in the car, gave our surroundings one last look and crawled into the backseat. As I sank into my seat and closed my eyes, I did my best to reassure myself I was making the right, rational choice. Soon, the gentle rocking of driving on unpaved roads had me drifting off to sleep.

It wasn’t long into the drive that I could feel the car begin to slow and then come to a stop. I slowly opened my eyes. The dirt roads illuminated by the rising sun created a magical, dusty curtain over the countryside. I whispered to my girlfriend asking her why we stopped. Her eyes widened and she told me to look ahead, through the windshield.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing there, in the middle of the road, was a white horse so grand, so pure, so dreamlike I could hardly believe it to be true. He stood there, looking at us, unafraid, unwavering and beautiful beyond words.

My girlfriend turned to me, she held my hand and she said: “Tara, what do you think he’s saying to you?”.

I would love to tell you I listened to his message that day, turned around, drove back to my love and stayed in that little casita on the edge of the Costa Rican jungle forevermore…but I can’t.

Instead, what I can tell you is that I did, in fact, find the clarity I was searching for on that adventure in Paradise. I can tell you, with certainty, that I was forever changed. I can tell you that I married this man, barefoot with flowers in my hair, in a tiny chapel on an orchard with trees dripping in twinkle lights.  I can also tell you that I believe in magical white horses who are messengers and reminders of the life you are meant to live.

La Pura Vida was first published on 12 Months of Lent.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Tenderness & Tenderbits

This is today's Truthbomb from the ever-inspiring Danielle LaPorte.

Sounds easy, right? 

Defend your tenderness. 

Of course the things that sound easy never really are…are they?

Tenderness.  Those soft, raw, unexposed pieces of your heart and soul that haven’t been beaten to a pulp yet.

The parts that loss hasn’t carved into with the ferocity of a blade slinger.  

Suicide, drug and alcohol addiction, overdose, loss on top of grief on top of mourning.  

Years and years of mourning.

The weight of it all cripples any tenderness that has the balls to stand its ground.

Tenderness along with innocence are my casualties of circumstance.

What was once tenderness is now covered in scar tissue.

What was once innocence is now cold, hard experience.

What's even more concerning is whatever battleworn tenderness might be bunkered deep within can’t even find solace in my sleep.

This grieving and mourning and wailing doesn’t fucking quit.

I wake up with it.

I live my days with it.

I tuck myself in with it at night.

That's when things really get muddy.

As my eyes close and sleep takes over, my subconscious mind continues to rip apart at my tenderness.

Visions not suitable for waking hours.

Abysmal sadness.

So, so deep.  

It’s a wasteland of despair, my dreams.

I’m failing my tenderness.  

Unable to defend it.

Weak to protect it.

Lacking faith that I have any pure tenderness left.

My own truthbomb is this:  My tenderness is broken. 

Which leaves me with one question...

If defending it has failed and it’s broken to bits...

Is there HOPE to HEAL it?

Because luckily I can say...

Somehow, some way my hope is still in tact.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Grieving 101: The Emotional Marathon

“I can't be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.” 

― J.D. Salinger 

But I do.

It's exhausting, really.  It's something along the lines of an emotional marathon.  One that I find myself running every few years, against my will and against my wishes. 

Now, I've never run a real marathon before, however, this emotional marathoning isn't for the weak of heart either, that's for sure!  Each miserable stride burns more than the next breath.  You wonder how the hell you're going to get through this.  All those miles ahead, one thumping foot in front of the other.  Then, something happens along the way and everything quiets down for a moment when you realize... everything has gone numb.  You can't feel a damn thing!  Your reaction:  Hallelujah!  This respite allows you to coast for a spell.  Who cares if you can't feel anything.  Feeling, especially at times like these, is over-fucking-rated. This is your Menthol Mile, baby, and you better enjoy it.  Because slowly and then all at once the burn breaks through again and you'll be leaving a trail of smoke behind you for all the wrong reasons. In time, you'll stop screaming "holy hellfire" and simply accept the flames.  They are, some say, what make you or break you.

I don't know.  Sometimes I think "What the fuck?".  Sometimes I simply can't believe it all and I stand there wonderstruck, in the least magical way possible.  Every so often a wave of peace washes over me and I realize it's all ok, all of it, even the parts that aren't ok, if that makes any sense.

My thoughts ride a wicked pendulum.  They whip from side to side, up and down, from here to there, now to then and back again a million times in the blink of an eye.  Sounds fun, right? Yeah, just about as fun as that clown in Stephen King's "It" (insert shivers here please).  

It turns out my circumstances have demanded that I get good and clear on what I believe in….and I mean what I TRULY believe in.  As in...what is all of this heartbreaking, beautiful, chaotic, exotic, full blown insanity worth in the midst - and in the end - of it all?

My belief system, I've learned, is made up of the following:  Love, the amazing, true kind of love that makes all this shit worth while.  Heaven.  Family.  Life, this one beautiful life.  Friendship.  Forgiveness, regardless of what a battle it is to achieve it.  Impact, the kind you make and the kind that's made on you.  Karma, what you give, you get.  Peace, the sacred hunt for it.   And honesty.

It's my 3rd Emotional Marathon in 8 years.  

Although you'd think I'd be a frontrunner with all this "experience" the truth is, right now, I'm just pacing myself to get to the finish line without shitting my pants.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Coping Superstar

This is the story of a coping superstar that most of us know and love.

I guess I should begin with the definition of what a coping superstar is. A coping superstar is a person who has come to terms with the fact that time does not heal all wounds. It does not ease grief and does not ease pain. The suffering never truly goes away but learning how to live, despite the weight you carry, is what makes you shine. 

Our superstar has experienced loss on a level that no one should ever have to feel. Yet, I need to sneak this post in and publish it right away because there's a good chance she will hop on. She is the one who keeps up with our submissions, entering them, editing them, everything, So, I'm worried she may find this first thing tomorrow at a time in life when the rest of us would be in bed, unable to move, unable to deal. 

When she's not entering other people's pieces, she's either editing my piece of shit submissions or she's pouring her heart out. We all read her posts. We take in the strings of words she ties together that make you want to cry or make your heart drop or both. It's because she writes to cope, not to pass time.

The concept of a coping superstar came about when I posted something about my cousin who passed away and about how time had not helped but you learn to live with the loss. When she commented, she called us both coping superstars. That one comment, from the person who embodied what it meant to be a coping superstar, gave me a whole new and higher understanding of how life works. 

So, while I haven't been able to come up with a solid piece for this blog in months (due to my very often trips into fiction land) a story that needed to be told was sitting there, right under my nose. The story of a girl from what was once a pretty gross city who now resides in a beautiful paradise with the love of her husband, friends and pets surrounding her. 

She is an artist who creates kickass coasters, bungalow wilde jewelry and countless other creative projects. She is an incredible yogini who will be the best instructor ever some day. She breathed creative life back into me that has now given me the confidence to write a new book after my first was turned down. I had thrown that dream out of the proverbial window and she threw it back in. She has changed my life and I know I'm not the only one who can say that.

She is unlike anyone I have ever met. She is living to tell her own tales of both loss and love, grief and survival, wounds and healing. The story of a girl who, through her art of all mediums and never-ending kindness is teaching us all what real strength is.

We are all so lucky to have a modern day princess. The type of princess that when she sings animals flock to her side. (I'm not kidding, I pretty sure that does actually happen.) One that possess all things good and believes in unicorns. She is stunning, gracious and loved by all. Despite her hardships, she perseveres. She is the kind of princess who will have her happily ever after because she is a coping superstar. 

Melissa wears many hats. Some are super colorful and some are dark just like her stories. She is a mother, a friend, a writer, a survivor, a warrior, a yogi, a listener, a talker and a lover of all things art. 

Chronicles from the Edge . . .

Being acutely aware of how depressed you are is an interesting life experience.

Before, through other Loss Chaos, I was depressed.  I just didn't realize I was depressed.  There's a special kind of freedom in that.  The unknowing allows you to fade, resistance free, into the gray underworld of being numb.  

Now, let's flip that coin.  Here, in the Land of Awareness, things are different.  I am fully awake to the fact that many of my interests have quieted to a whisper.  Let's take food, for example. Why bother going through the hassle of preparing some fantastic meal when I can't TASTE anything?  You can ask me if I'm hungry but my mind goes blank.  Quietly searching.  I have no idea if I'm hungry.  So I just sit, with my head tilted to the side, wondering if I am hungry.  I keep waiting for my brain to light up with some spark of inspired thought, but nothing happens.  So, in the end my response seems to keep coming in the form of a shoulder shrug, followed by me saying I'm certain I should eat and finally stating "whatever" sounds good.

At this point in time, you can apply the same thing to activities, movies, anything really.

Now with that said, what has managed to pique my interest is the difference between these two states (The Unaware versus The Aware).  And how am I sure I fit in one category versus the other this time?

Well, that's where Tea & Tiramisu enter, stage right.  

So far, these are the only two things I have any interest in consuming.  Chai tea and a dessert that Whole Foods makes, which I am 100% certain is sprinkled with pixie dust and topped with Heaven flakes.  That's it. Nothing else sounds good.  

Now, trust me, I am well aware that my body MUST be hungry.  It's just my nerves aren't firing the way they usually do.  I usually light up when you say "pizza".  Not right now.  Salsa & chips would usually have me singing.  Nope, not today.  Things are misfiring, or not firing at all.  

Please allow me to clarify one thing...so I don't have my family on the horn worried that I'm not eating….that's not the case at all.  I eat but only because I know I should eat not because anything sounds good, tastes good or turns me on.  And certainly not because my body is telling me I'm hungry.  My body and my spirit are doing one thing and one thing only.....they are grieving.

What I find most alarming about all of this is that I am wide awake to it...and it's kind of nutty knowing your tastebuds (for example) are on hiatus while Grief has depressed your system.

Now, let's move on to another mind-bender, music.  I am a self confessed music lover with a very wide spectrum of genres that get me moving.  Normally I can count on velvety singers and soul stirring lyrics to make me swoon.  However, there are only a few songs that currently have the power to dive deeper than Depression's thick layer of mud and actually touch my soul.  I know all of this because I've been listening to A LOT of music waiting for my normal go-to's to move me....and they don't.  They just fall flat.   Each time I press "play" nothing sets a spark, and I wonder....What the fuck is going on?

The truth is, KNOWING that you can't FEEL what normally sets your soul on fire is, well, it's a bummer on top of the bummer you are already depressed about.

However, I've decided to lean toward the intrigue rather than away from, well, everything.  I've chosen to consider all this awareness the positive side effect to my current state while I continue to experiment with anything that will set a spark.

So with my chai tea and Whole Foods happy cake in hand, I'll keep leaning toward the light and away from the gray nothingness that sits on the other side while I play this song on a constant loop because it's one (of only a few) that pick me up and take me along with each and every beautiful note.

Phosphorescent's "Song for Zula"

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Loss Lines

“How much tragedy has to happen before I split wide open?” 
– Alisa Mullen

I can feel the fault lines trembling and quaking....but I haven't split yet.

Or maybe I have and I'm in denial.  Or delusional.  Or incapable of knowing that I'm broken, haphazardly down the middle.

Edges sharp like blades.  Others frayed like wire.  Some sections dull, void of any threat.

I am exhausted.  

Too tired to blame.  Too unsteady to play host to anger.  Too sad to do anything but shed salty tears.

My little brother is gone.  Lost.  Lifted to his eternal home.

He slipped through our grip....yet my fist is still clenched.  Knuckles still white.  Muscles aching.

Letting go, even after he has gone, feels impossible.

Heroin took him.  It was not the other way around.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Trail of Turquoise

My best friend introduced me to the white sands, swaying palm trees and turquoise waters of Florida when I was 13 years old.

It was on a sweltering August day that my plane touched down with a thud.  I unbuckled my seatbelt and thought to myself "I made it!".  It's all I could do not to clap my hands and shout in glee, like the child I was trying so desperately not to be. 

As passengers began to spring to life, I stuffed my camera filled with prized images of clouds (it was my first flight, give a kid a break) into my carry-on and with all the strength my tiny frame and oversized ego could muster, dragged my loot toward the exit.

After being collected by my best friend's family at baggage claim, we made our way outside.  It was within a few steps and one upward glance that I was greeted by two things I had been anticipating for some time: The majestic sight of my very first palm tree and the wall of humidity I thought I might have to scale in order to get to the parking lot.

For that moment, I stood there, giddy with excitement and without doubt, head-over-heels in teenage love.

As my years and story unfolded, my love affair with Florida never faded. There was no doubt that Florida and I were in a long-term, long-distance relationship.  No matter where my wanderlust had taken me, I always found a way to make it back.  My time was split, a weekend here, a week there, always pining for the next visit. Always flirting with the idea of moving there "next". 

The Universe, as always, has an amazing way of working things out because somehow, some way "next" happened.  

Just a few short years ago I found myself in the position I had been eagerly awaiting.  I no longer had to rendezvous with my sweetheart.  It was time to commit.  

As a recovering commitment-phobe, I'm happy to report that I'm still swooning.  I mean, how could I possibly resist the year-round smell of dewy grass in the morning, the pure delight of looking up at the swaying palms as they dance and the overwhelming gratitude I feel while gazing out at the turquoise waters with as much awe and with as much love as when I first saw this place through sparkling teenage eyes?

You might be wondering what the moral of all this is, right?  What's the story?  What's the parting note? Well, that's an easy one...

True love lives and true love lasts, friends.  Don't let anyone tell you differently.

:: Always from under the same sky ::

Tara

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

No Regrets . . .

I have this motto, this aspiration really, to move forward each day with no regrets.

This applies to things as small buying the silly item that caught my eye to the big things like saying "I love you" even when it's scary, overdue or the opposite thing your temper really wants to spit out.

Sometimes I'll hesitate, allow myself to sit with whatever it is for a minute or day or two and then straighten my posture and go for it...whatever "it" may be.   Occasionally it's easy, most times it takes some real zest to leap into it.

For example, when I first started free diving with Bobby everything in the tropical waters were new to me. My long list of "firsts" included my first time swimming several football fields out into the turquoise ocean. The first time my lungs took me diving 20+ feet below the surface. My first time seeing a nurse shark and my first time swimming with a sea turtle.  All of these sound super cool, right?  Yeah, well let's flip the coin to the other side, like when I was having a full blown panic attack as the jellyfish were so plentiful there was no way to avoid them. None. They were everywhere, only inches apart from each other for as long as my eyes could see.  Insert "Motto No Regrets" here please.

Let me walk you through what this really looked like...

I'm chest deep, still able to stand and I'm frozen with panic.  My breathing is quick, really quick, and the color in my cheeks is gone.  Bobby is coaching me along, he's really great like that.  My fins are on.  My mask is on and fogging up because I'm hyperventilating which also means my mouthpiece couldn't possibly be in my mouth, again, because I'm hyperventilating.  I'm surrounded by these fat, light pink and lilac colored jelly fish.  They are everywhere and they are huge.  I'm being stung.  My mind is whizzing in a million directions.  I can see how close I am to the shoreline but I can't allow myself to move through this mess and mass of jellyfish.  Then it dawns on me. Bobby isn't wearing a rash guard.  He's in the same mess I'm in.  I'm certain he's being stung to bits too, however, he's fine.  How is he fine?  He still wants to swim out and dive?  I tell myself he's clearly insane.  At this point  I'm just staring at him.  And then it happened....my "stop being a pussy, Tara" pep talk.  If he can do it, I can do it too.

And so I did.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I was stung more times than I care to say that day and spent more time diving below to the ocean floor than usual to avoid those slimy suckers.  However, I also completed our dive and made it back to the beach knowing that I was proud of myself for doing it because now I know.  Rather than wondering if I could have or what would have been....I knew.   And frankly, it was worth it because when there are jellyfish there are sea turtles.  

Now, let's get back to the "living with no regrets" part of this.   I can't say I live with "no" regrets.  Truth is, I have more regrets than my heart can hold.  I regret not having more confidence and self respect as a teenager.   I regret missing too many of my brother's football games when they were young. I regret the times I ignored my gut instinct.  I regret any holiday I didn't spend with my family while it was whole.  I regret not giving my dad a hug when he needed it most in his life and I regret not taking my mum in my arms and telling her it's all ok, all of it, and that I loved her before she left us.

So, you see, those regrets are so heavy I can't allow for many more.  My regret cup is full, so full it's spilling over. Now, out of necessity (and experience) I coach myself on choosing the "no regret" route as often as possible.

That means I tend to swan dive into things.  Some awesome things.  Some less than awesome things.  But all "no regret" things.

Insider tip:  The route marked "no regrets" has amazing sights to be seen.  Five star rating.  I promise it's worth it if you decide to leap.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Holder of My Heart . . .

What is it like, holding my heart in your hands?

Does it feel heavy under the weight of my longing?

Can you feel the beat that is skipped when you cross my mind?

Do you see the depth in the fault lines of my tragedies?

Have you let your fingers trace over the scar tissue that protects what's broken?

Does my heart become cold when I am filled with resentment?

Or burn hot to the touch in moments of desire?

Can you hear the soft sounds of weeping when I ache?

And feel the flutter of laughter when I feel free?

You see, I can't help but to wonder what it's like to be the holder of my heart.

I hope, over time, it's not too much of a burden.

That you don't grow tired and bored and weary.

I know I can often be too much me.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.

Cocaine Cowboys . . .

I was three years old the first time Cocaine breezed into my life.  At that time I had no idea these particles of white noise were going to be making cameos throughout so much of it.

Back then my parents owned a three family home on a busy street in the city we call home.  We lived on the third floor.  I don't remember the frustrations of third floor living, like hauling anything up all those stairs or noisy neighbors below.  However, what I do recall is a gentleman who lived next door to us.  He was an old man, certainly someone's grandpa and I was fascinated by him.  I used to watch him from our back window as he tended his garden.  

Even back then I was a flower child at heart.  I would long for him to invite me down to help him pick and prune the flower beds.  Each time I caught a glimpse of him through our window I would hold the curtains back and wave yelling "Hi, Mr. Neighbor" as brightly as I could, hoping that this time, maybe, it would be the day he'd extend the invite to join him.  Each time I'd eagerly call to him he did his best to ignore the shit out of me.  Sometimes I would get nothing from him.  Not a nod, not an acknowledgement of my existence whatsoever.  My three year old self assumed he just couldn't hear me.  Other times he would glance up and wave me off saying "little girl, go away".  Regardless of his reaction, Mum would always come whisk me away and remind me not to be a bother to him.  Each time she carried me off I would try to explain to her that he was my best friend (though I could never figure out why my best friend wouldn't speak to me).

Anyway, at the tender age of 3 you are beginning your practice of memory collecting.  Maybe that's why getting the cold shoulder from my neighbor and the night I met Cocaine are both so clear and so vivid.  They are some of my very first momentos of this life.  The kind that are burned into your mind's eye.  The kind that can be triggered easily and recalled at whim.

Cocaine came to my house one night far beyond my bedtime.  I remember waking up and wandering out of my Hollie-Hobbie decorated room and looking for my parents.  I'm not sure what had woken me.  It could have been noise from the street below, it could have been a bad dream or it could have been the "boom" Cocaine makes when it lands in your life.  

With sleepy eyes and quiet steps I made my way to the living room.  I stopped short in the hallway when I saw that my parents were entertaining friends.  They were unaware of me watching them.   I saw them laughing about some shared story as they sat around the coffee table and took turns blowing lines.  The sound of Billy Joel's "Just The Way You Are" filled the airwaves from a record player in the room.  I stood there, taking it all in and looked up at a picture we had hanging in our hallway.  It was a hand drawn sketch with splashes of color of a heartbroken clown, who had just opened a treasure chest only to find a stack of used buttons instead of shiny jewels.  He was crying and holding a drooping sunflower.  

I'm not exactly sure how I knew not to interrupt them.  It's not as if I was aware that Cocaine was "bad". This was the first time I had to share space with it, so how could I have known?  This is a piece of the puzzle I still haven't figured out.  All I know is that I knew. I knew that this character wasn't welcome in my world, yet there it was taking up space, hoarding attention and planting seeds on how to quietly wreak havoc on our lives for many years to come.

To this day whenever I hear that song, I time travel back to that moment.  Back to the sad clown, back to the unexplained knowing and back to the day Cocaine became an uninvited character in my story.

As far as my best friend neighbor, it wasn't until I was an adult, speaking to my mother about my memory of him when she explained that he was simply worried for my safety.  A small child leaning against a window three stories up shouting "hello" was troublesome.  She reasoned that him choosing to ignore me was the best way he could keep me safe.

With that, I sat wondering whether he ever knew about the sad sunflower that needed a gardener's attention three floors above.

Tara Mazzeo Jackson

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective, 

Curator for Bohemian Living, Owner/Artist of Bungalow Wilde 

and Blogger at Bits & Pieces.

Tara is a lover of yoga, bleeder of words and a bohemian city-kid who has a knack for rescuing stray animals.  

She has a mean case of wanderlust and you’d be hard pressed to find her without these things:

a journal in her bag, a camera in-hand and sun kissed shoulders.

Tara writes from experience, pain, truth, triumph and that place, 

deep down, where the words simmer in emotion.