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.

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.

Moment of Impact, Part 1

Did you ever think that running into someone from your past would start out like “Wow, I heard you died”?  

Thankfully, I haven’t heard that in years, but before MySpace, Facebook & Twitter, word of mouth was really the only thing people had to go on.  From the time I started writing this, it’s been 13 years, 9 months, 1 week & 1 day since that almost became a reality. Approximately 7.2 million seconds ago, something happened to me that has literally effected every day since, and will continue to until my last breath.  Some of you may know the story, others may know parts of it.  I’ve always wanted to get this “on paper” so to speak.  Not really sure why, but now that I have the opportunity to do so, here goes nothing.

It was Friday, February 9th, 2001, I was working as an hourly supervisor in the kitchen at the 99 Restaurant in Danvers, MA.  We lived in Woburn at the time & my parents were up at a friend’s house in Maine for the weekend, so Cyndi & I were going to enjoy an empty house like any normal 22 yr old couple would…  I left work around 10 or so, heading 128 southbound.  The last thing I remember to this day was driving, nothing special, listening to music as I always do.  

The accident was the result of a drunk driver.  The man was driving south on 128, hit one of the ramp signs & spun out, facing north.  He was so loaded (2.5x the legal limit in MA) that he started to drive the wrong way on 128.  I was driving a 2001 Plymouth Neon and he hit the front quarter panel on my side, sending me across all four lanes. Apparently there was a nurse a few cars behind us & she pulled over to keep me with it until help arrived.  I was med-flighted to MGH and had to have 128 shut down to allow this to occur.  Some people I know were actually stuck in that traffic that night, as weird as that sounds.

Next thing I remember after that was waking up to a nurse (or doctor) standing over me.  The lights pierced my eyes, like when you wake up and the sun shines on you for the first time.  The next few hours/days is, between going thru withdrawals from some heavy pain meds & numerous panic attacks, a blur.  I remember hearing that I was in a really bad car accident.  Bad enough that I was lucky to be alive.  Bad enough that I was in a medically induced coma for around 3 weeks.  Bad enough that I have zero recollection of any of it… still.  I only know what was told to me by the staff at MGH, my family & my lawyer

I broke my left elbow, needed a plate to keep that together, which I had removed the following year. The lower part of right leg was shattered & the upper part of my left leg had a break in it as well.  Both needed metal rods to heal.  I lost my spleen & needed a graph on my descending aorta.  I was told the severity of my injuries & how the chances of a full recovery were slim.  Docs told me that I may need assistance walking for a long time, cold and damp weather would cause pain & that my cooking career had more than likely come to an end due to the stress on a chef’s legs.  

I had a great support system, my family & Cyndi rarely left my side, and my 2 best friends visited often, bringing things to make my stay better. I was in such a mental funk, depression maybe, who knows. When I was alone, I wanted company. When I had company, I didn’t want to have visitors.  I’d never been so helpless in my life & it’s a horrible feeling.  I remember feeling pity for myself for a few days, asking why this had happened to me, what had I done to deserve all that had gone on.  I can’t pinpoint when that pity faded, but I started to feel lucky to be alive.  I knew the road was going to be a long one, but I couldn’t let some doctor tell a stubborn kid from Somerville that I wasn’t going to be able to do something.  Anyone that really knows me understands that I’ve never done well with people telling me that I can’t do something.  Call it being defiant if you will, it’s gotten better with age & maturity, but to this day, I still credit that defiance for being a catalyst for me to start the road to recovery

I was to be sent to a rehab hospital to stay there until I was well enough to go home, however, how efficient that “well” was going to be was up in the air.  Little did I know, that ride from MGH to the rehab was going to show me the biggest act of kindness by a group of people that I had ever seen…

(To be continued)

Paul Dube

Host of The Sports Den & Chef at Smokey Bones.

Defiant by will.  A true life miracle by every other standard.