Suicide Prevention Awareness Month – Julie

Today’s piece is one I have been dying to share for a while now, well before I came up with the idea for this month’s collaborative project. 

This is a piece written by my aunt, Julie. In many ways, she has been someone I have idolized for so long. As I grew up, I was always so proud to have so many interests in common with her. To me, she was like the success story I wanted to one day become. 

I first read this piece a few years ago. I still remember how relieved I felt when I finished it. I remember feeling like “Oh…okay!  She’s not flawless, she’s human. Cool, I can be that. That’s attainable.” It was as if, in that moment, a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. I remember feeling this urge to share the story with everyone I knew, in hopes that they would feel the same. 

This was long before I started to go to therapy, mind you. This was well before I was comfortable admitting that I struggled with anxiety and depression. This piece was one of the first real eye-opening experiences I ever had with regards to anything involving mental health. It was one of the first times I realized that maybe I wasn’t okay, and if I wasn’t, that wasn’t wrong. It was one of the first times I didn’t feel alone. 

When I knew I wanted to share pieces for Suicide Prevention Awareness Month, this is the first one that came to mind. Not only is Julie an extremely talented (published) writer, but she’s also a volunteer counselor for the Crisis Text Line

In case you have never heard of it, the Crisis Text Line is a 24/7 support service for anyone, in any type of crisis, at any time. It is an AMAZING resource. Check it out if you haven’t already.

Although I could go on for hours, I don’t want to ramble too long before introducing Julie’s piece. I hope it touches you in some of the same ways it did for me. Here it is:

 

The Fall of Strangers
Julie Greicius

Sometimes I write that she runs to the edge of the rooftop. Fifteen stories below, I’m running uphill on the sidewalk. She speeds up for momentum, so that she’ll fly past the instant when she might change her mind. The park isn’t safe at this hour, so I’m under the streetlights. I feel strong, so I lengthen my stride and decide to run farther. She vaults out past the edge, and gives herself to gravity just as I’m fighting it. For a second, she’s in flight. Our hearts are pounding. A few more steps and I’ll catch up to her.

Other times I write it straight: In 1996 I witnessed a suicide in New York City. I abandon imaginary details. I don’t really think she was running. Not at her age, in her state, or in those shoes: sullen mauve pumps, one of which landed askew next to her. It would be wrong to say she launched like a diver, or dove like a bird of prey. For all I know she might have been pushed. I only know for sure what I finally saw: her body on the pavement, head smashed beyond recovery, brains fanned out across the sidewalk.

I was working that year as a biographer’s assistant, at a small desk built into the underside of a loft bed in a one-bedroom apartment. Those were the early days of telecommuting. The woman I worked for lived just across town on the Upper East Side. We’d check in by phone, but most of the time I worked alone, interrupted by field trips to public libraries or longer getaways to private archives to find letters and diaries that belonged to people I had never met, most of whom were already dead. When I worked at home, days often ended at five o’clock with me realizing I hadn’t spoken a word to another living person all day.

I loved my job, loved holding the aged, handwritten letters of strangers, examining the journals of others and exploring the idiosyncrasies of families that were impeccable on the outside and daft on the inside. They felt familiar. I grew fond of the people I researched, and they became my community by proxy. I had freedom to work when and where I pleased, and to disappear whenever I wanted to. I lived with my fiancé, who was finishing medical school and rarely at home. When he was, he was fitfully asleep, or a shadow of himself, consumed by work.

I was good at being alone, I thought, even though I was lonely some of the time and mildly depressed—a condition I dismissed as indigenous to New York, something I could handle.

At the end of the day, every day, I got out to run. Running in Manhattan put me back among people. And there were no people I would rather have mingled among more than the people of New York City. I would run from our apartment on 107th street through the neighborhoods on Amsterdam and Columbus, past the bodegas and towering apartment projects over to the giant hill at the upper western corner of Central Park. I’d run into the park and make a double loop around the reservoir. I’d pass people on rollerblades, lovers in arms, children with nannies. And by the time I got to the East Side the crowd was all Burberry and fine terriers on leashes. When I wanted a shorter run, I ran through Riverside Park along the Hudson, over broken crack vials and, further south, through the islands of flower gardens set in the cobblestone. I ran by people on park benches staring alone at the river, people with children and dogs, teenagers in tunnels. I ran in every kind of weather, from the worst heat to the heaviest snow. Running was my drug, my release, my state of grace.

By the time I left my apartment that afternoon the sun was setting. I ran down West Side Drive, from 107th down to 72nd Street and back again, and then on past my own block. A light rain started to fall. Ahead, I saw the lights of fire trucks in front of a building—maybe a fire alarm or a car accident. There were no police lines, up, and no one seemed distressed. So I kept to my path.

A group of people stood looking, their eyes all pointing to something on the ground. As I passed them, I suddenly saw her: a woman in her mid-fifties, curly hair, gray skirt, a single shoe on the ground near her foot. Cinderella. Her head had made a pit in the pavement. But there was no pit. The side of her skull was flattened against the ground. Her brain speckled the sidewalk all the way to the small bushes that bordered the building from which she had dropped. The same sidewalk where I suddenly realized my feet were falling. Now I was on tiptoe, horrified, leaping past what I had already disgraced.

Of all the thousands of ways we encounter strangers, meeting someone at the moment of their death is possibly second in intensity only to meeting them at the moment of their birth. Between those extremes, we pass by with indifference in grocery stores or airports, or confront with clear intention on battlefields or in bars. But to witness this woman alone on the pavement, destroyed, was more than I knew what to do with. I had no basis for processing it, no precedent for understanding the absurdity of how we had just made contact.  

A few minutes faster and I might have blocked her, stopped her, or obstructed her fall. Maybe just one person on the street below would have been enough to change her mind. Then again, she might have struck and killed me. But I wasn’t there when she fell. Should I have been? I was no one: a pedestrian, a jogger, a passerby. The cement was there to catch her.

I stopped running and sat on the curb. There were footsteps behind me, and then a hand on my shoulder.

*

Over the next several years, my fiancé, Mike, became my husband, and we moved to the suburbs of San Francisco to raise our two children. One afternoon my friend Stephanie called and asked if I would go to see Jason, a friend of hers whom I’d never met. She was traveling, and had received an email from him saying he was in trouble. He had stopped drinking a while ago, but was drunk today, far gone, and sounded like he might be thinking about taking his own life.

I don’t know what made her think I was qualified to give that kind of support. My husband said it might be safer—for Jason and maybe for me, too—to call 911. That might have been true.

“What am I going to find?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just think he needs someone.”

I drove to his house. I didn’t find it easily, but soon realized that he lived in a house behind a house.

When I reached his door, I noticed the lights inside were off. Maybe I was already too late. I wondered if he was hurt or if I was going to get hurt. A small sign on the door read JASON—a note to help people find him. He wanted to be found.

I opened the screen door and rang the doorbell. I waited, then knocked. Still nothing. I opened the mail slot and yelled into it. “Hey Jason! Answer the door!”

Another minute passed, enough to scare me.

Finally I heard someone coming. He opened the door. His eyes were red and glassy. At the base of his bleached-blonde hair were black roots, tousled as if he’d been sleeping. He wore sweat pants and a T-shirt. “Hey,” he said. The apartment smelled like cigarettes and maybe pot. Definitely alcohol.

“I’m a friend of Stephanie’s,” I said. “She said you weren’t feeling so hot so I came over.”

“Stephanie,” he said slowly. “That girl. She’s good people.”

He opened the door wide and let me in.

“She was worried about you.”

“Yeah. I don’t know. I have a fever or something.”

His apartment was dark and stuffy. A small plant struggled on the kitchen table. He sat down on a small couch by sliding glass doors.

I sat down in a chair facing him. And there we were. I remembered once sitting in a therapist’s office back in New York. I was crying and crying—I couldn’t handle it after all—and she leaned down to the floor and pushed a box of tissues toward me without ever lifting her ass off her chair. I never went back.

I didn’t come there to sit back and stare at this man. I had nothing to say to him politely over a coffee table.

I said, “I’d rather sit on your side. I came here to make sure you’re okay.”

I stood up and climbed over the coffee table straight to him, sat next to him and took him in my arms. He fell into me and I squeezed him hard. He shifted and turned so he could fit more closely. He sighed. “Thank you,” he said. He pulled his legs close to his body and curled up. I think I said, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He wasn’t crying. He breathed heavily in big sighs. Maybe he was relaxing, or just trying to breathe. I didn’t know how much he’d had to drink, but I guessed a lot.

We were quiet for a while. I had rushed over quickly after my friend called, right after a shower.

“Your hair is wet,” he said. “You smell so clean.”

“I think I know how you feel,” I told him. “I’ve felt exactly the way you’re feeling right now.”

“When?” he asked. “Tell me.”

But I couldn’t. The answer was “yesterday.” I thought it would terrify him.

*

Yesterday: I pulled the point of a razor across my skin and made a cut on the back of my left hand, on the flesh between my finger and thumb.

I wasn’t even close to admitting what I had been feeling in the previous weeks. I kept my life in a rush of accomplishment, so the empty spaces would blur, and was now at a halt, alone, leaning against a counter in my bathroom.

The pain stung, corrosive, but the color was rich and red—unmistakably healthy. The sight of it made me feel strangely robust, in spite of how I felt emotionally. Here was the blood that propelled me forward, the same blood that could tell me I was young and fertile, or mortally injured. I took my time, in no rush to see it end. Then I thought of my children and husband and job and responsibilities, covered the cut with a sober band-aid, and left the house.

I wondered, if someone was going to confront herself finally and truly, if it could only be done violently.

But that wasn’t enough. I didn’t want to die. I want to look over the edge, to confront the stranger in myself, and stand my ground.

*

“A while ago,” I lied. “I cut myself to sort of punctuate what I was feeling. It was like this huge cavern of loneliness and despair opened up in me, and I could make it small and manageable and put a band-aid on it. I didn’t think anyone else would understand.”

“I know,” he said.

But he didn’t know, didn’t see that the band-aid was still on my hand.

“So I’m here and you don’t have to be alone,” I told him.

“You know, you sound like you’re good at this,” he said. “The way you just showed up and let me hold on to you. Like you know twelve-step programs.”

“I don’t know. I guess I think it’s something we all need at one time or another.”

“That’s how sponsors are supposed to be in AA. They’re supposed to be there for you.”

“I mostly know them from The Wire.”

“I love The Wire!”

“Yes, well, Bubs is all I know about AA.”

“Bubs!”

There was Jason, this stranger in my arms, suddenly very much alive. In that apartment, I might have found anything. Or he might have never even let me in the front door. He would need therapy from someone more professional than me, or an intervention, but at the moment, he just wanted to shoot the shit.

We talked about television, about his sponsor, and about differences between suburban and city life. I said it wasn’t as easy to walk outside and enjoy the anonymous comfort of humanity like you can in the city when you feel alone. Jason agreed, or nodded, or mmhmm’d.

“But do you do this a lot?”

“You mean show up at stranger’s homes when they’re sad and sit on the couch with them?”

He laughed.

“No, I don’t.”

“And Stephanie just asked you to come over?”

“Yeah.”

“Stephanie. Shit. You know when you let people lean on you, when you help people, you forget about your own problems.”

Stephanie had called more friends, people Jason knew, and in a little while they showed up with their baby and gave Jason more distraction, more love, held on to him when it was time for me to go home to my own family.

That night he called. He sounded happy, relieved—and maybe a little in disbelief that the world had come through for him, stood in his way of a path he didn’t really want to take at all. And I told him that he rescued me, too. Months later I told him that it really was the day before that I had been feeling the way that he had. That it was my own vulnerability that qualified me to hold him up, to really understand how he felt, to hold him like some kind of fragile scaffold.

*

One of the bystanders had come over to me. He must have seen me run straight through the crime scene (was it a crime?), and I was ashamed.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I nodded. That anyone should be asking how I was doing when a woman lay dead twenty feet away astonished me.

But I wanted the comfort. I asked him what happened, who she was. He said no one knew.

“Did she live there?” I asked, indicating the building above her.

“I don’t know. If she did, nobody knew her,” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” I said, and stood up. “Thank you.”

I couldn’t pick up where I left off. I walked home because it didn’t make sense to run. Nothing made sense. I had no idea how long that feeling would last.

At home, I turned on the television to keep me company. Four different channels had shows about suicide. They were melodramas, made-for-TV movies, a talk show, and stand-up comedy. I turned it off.

I walked back up to the scene. The entire block had been tied off with bright yellow tape and flares at 109th and Broadway to prevent cars from coming down the street. From a distance I could see the woman’s body was covered now, her shoe still lying next to her.

I wondered who she was, what had provoked her, what weight had brought her down. There was nothing in the papers the next day, nor any day after.

I called a friend and she came over. We put our feet up and had a drink. She spent the night and slept next to me in my bed like my sister used to. We talked in the dark and soon fell asleep.

** Originally published in the anthology Rumpus Women, Vol. 1, editing by Julie Greicius and Elissa Bassist **

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Suicide Prevention Awareness Month – Chase

When Chase and I talked about the idea of him writing a piece for this month, I can honestly say I did not expect this outcome in the least. I mean that in two ways. First of all, his writing blew me away. But secondly, I was also almost angry at myself for not wholeheartedly understanding Chase’s relationship with his depression until now.

Chase is someone I’ve known for years. I’ve told him many times how I felt that, from such an early point in our friendship, it seemed so easy to be open and honest with him and his friends. We used to just get drunk sometimes and share some dark shit and it never seemed weird or uncomfortable. But how could I feel like I was able to be so honest with someone, yet simultaneously not realize the extent to which they’re struggling?

That’s the thing about depression and suicide though. Most people don’t realize the severity of other’s struggles, until, in some cases, it’s too late. That’s why I loved this piece, though. It’s such a perfect example of the complex relationship between inner demons and outside support.

Chase’s words and vulnerable and honest, but I don’t think I need to explain them much more than I already have because they truly speak for themselves. I hope, if nothing else, they’re a simple reminder that these feelings are so real and so valid. Without further ado, check it out:

You become so infatuated with the thoughts of being alone, having nothing, looking in the mirror and hating yourself. Day in and day out you wake up and hurt. You lay in bed, not wanting to lift your head from the pillow because the only time you feel at ease is when you dream. Fake smiles and fraud laughs make you seem okay, but deep down you just want to be in a dark room. Silence is your only friend.

This darkness has taken over my life for over a decade. The depression has never left me, it only comes and goes like summer storms. Sometimes there are rainbows at the end, and sometimes there are flooded streets – each time a different result.

When it comes, the storms bring lightning like slit wrists and broken knuckles. The thunder is multiple missed phone calls and voicemails from loved ones, crying for you to answer the phone. Torrential down pours where your mind seems unable to find any sort of happiness, leaving you aching to end your own life because you cannot bear to cope with the pains of everyday being. The occasional rainbow is your only hope at wanting to stay in this life – the only thing reminding you that it can be beautiful.

My depression has led to suicidal thoughts and actions. I was generally sad. I hated my mental and physical states and who I had become. My life, as it seemed to most people though, was a good life. Good guy, good health, good job, good friends, good family. Everything was fine. But I could never seem to see that. To me, the negatives outweighed the positives in all aspects. I was a whirlwind of hate, anger, self-harm, and sadness, believing that this world would be a better place if I could drown myself in the ocean and never be found.

That was my goal. On Thanksgiving of 2013. I was going to swim as far as I could, out into the sea. Far enough that I could not have the strength or willpower to swim back to land. Hoping I would eventually go delusional from hypothermia, my chest cavity churning with salt water. My mind and body would go numb and I’d sink to ocean’s floor where no one would find me. That’s what I thought I needed to make me feel at ease again. To feel whole.

I was stopped though, as thunder rolled in. One last voicemail that I would listen to before I made my attempt to swim out into the freezing waters of the Atlantic. The words that someone said to me still ring in my head. That night, I listened to those words again and again, repeating the voicemail over and over. The syllables silenced the provoking sounds of the waves crashing on the cold, hard sand, as I sat, ready to end this once and for all. As I contemplated my fate, those three words stuck, and the pain slowly drifted out to sea. The storm ended and this time the rainbow came.
Love conquers all.

Thank you,
Chase

September is National Suicide Prevention Month

I’m extremely excited to mention that I am working on another collaborative project for this coming month. As I’m sure you can tell from the title, the pieces will revolve around the idea of suicide and suicide prevention.

Having said that, I’m approaching this topic very apprehensively. This is without a doubt the most sensitive subject matter I’ve attempted to tackle yet.

I want to preface this by saying I am far from an expert. Although I will share my own experiences, and some pieces written by family and friends, these are only a couple of viewpoints in the wide world of opinions and experiences related to suicide and mental health in general.

The intention behind these stories is simply to create dialogue. In my opinion, we still don’t often make open conversation about such sensitive subject matter very readily available. How are people supposed to know how to seek help/cope/understand what they’re feeling if resources aren’t easily accessible and dialogue isn’t actively promoted?

According to Mental Health America, Suicide is now the 8th leading cause of death among Americans (it used to be the 10th according to the CDCP). Over 40,000 Americans take their lives each year.

Why does this matter so much to me?? Because I think that this topic is so much more complex than we often talk about. Those numbers and statistics cannot even begin to encompass such a multi-dimensional concept. It’s honestly difficult for me to even put into words what I mean by this because of how intricate I believe the topic of suicide is.

Here are the ideas floating around in my brain to support what I’m trying to get at though:

  1. That number of “40,000 American’s” doesn’t even include suicide attempt survivors or people with suicidal thoughts that have not yet acted on them
  2. The question of why people have suicidal thoughts is extremely complicated and difficult to answer (and it’s not a one-size-fits all type of situation)
  3. Suicide affects friends and family members too. On top of that, the extent to which it affects these people differs from person to person.
  4. Wanting to die doesn’t always mean you literally want to die,  but it still feels all too real, and explaining what I mean by this is almost impossible.
  5. There is a massive stigma surrounding the topic that negatively impacts those struggling even more.
  6. Shame is such a huge factor that plays into all of this, and I believe the only way to learn and teach others that there is literally nothing to be ashamed of is to talk about it more!!!

Some of these posts will be from the point of view of those who have lost a loved ones to suicide. Some will be from the point of view of those struggling with suicidal thoughts themselves. Some of these will have comedic undertones, and some will be much more serious.

I hope that if you can take away one thing from this, it’s that there is no right or wrong way to share these experiences and feelings. And even more so than that, I hope that if you can relate to any of these words, you are able to begin to realize that you are so far from alone.

Also, a quick disclaimer: because this is such a delicate topic, please, as readers, keep in mind that each piece I share is, without a doubt, intended to be as sensitive and compassionate as possible. 

I will start sharing posts for this month after Labor Day!

**Also, if you are interested in writing something for this month and I haven’t reached out to you yet, please feel free to contact me!! I would LOVE to share your words**

Are You All Really Happy and Successful, Tho? IDGI

I’ve been seeing a lot of blog posts recently written by young people in the corporate world. I don’t know if I’m somehow subconsciously attracting articles like this or what, but posts by ~20-somethings in big cities looking for jobs~ are basically consistently begging me to view them these days.

A reoccurring theme I’ve noticed in all of these posts is that all of these people seem so hopeful??? The all seem fairly confident that they will find careers they want? They also all seem financially stable? Even though a lot of the people behind these posts are either currently unemployed or currently interning.

I finish reading these posts with the same frustrated feeling every time. First of all, I really thought I had the mindset of the majority on this? I thought that that’s why we all share those memes about how miserable it is to be a millennial? Did I miss the memo? I don’t know if it’s just me and my complete inability to “fake it”, or if it’s a little bit of that grass-is-always-greener effect happening, but you aren’t all actually happy, are you?

I’m not writing to pick people apart or to call some bloggers out on their shit. Quite the opposite actually. To me, blogging has always been about honesty. That was the entire intent of this blog from the start. I wanted to share my genuine experiences and opinions with the world to remind myself and others that no one is ever alone.

So like…..can we all agree that the working world in your 20’s (and even after) is scary AF? Yes, granted, I work in the Media Industry. And yes, ideally I would like to pursue a creative position in my future (ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaa). So that does play a part in my opinions on all of this. My college professors used to tell us weekly that the Media Industry was a “‘no’ business”. They would remind us daily that we will hear a hundred “no”s before a single “yes”. So yeah, maybe I hit the ground with some preconceived notions and a negative attitude, but I sure as hell am not alone.

I don’t think the struggles of finding a job in your 20s change that drastically from industry to industry either. Like, if we’re being honest with ourselves, can we admit that a good amount of a college graduate’s initial success on the job hunt is directly correlated to the connections they have off the bat?

Every. Single. Position. I had prior to my current job was because of a connection I had. When I was moving from DC to NYC, I applied to hundreds and hundreds of jobs over the course of 4-6 months until I landed an interview with the company I am at now.

My point in this is, it’s not unusual to feel discouraged and unwanted while trying to find your corporate niche. I don’t know if some people are just better at grinning and bearing it, but I personally think it’s extremely easy to feel lost and hopeless as a 20-something working professional, even with a job.

I literally wonder DAILY if I made the right decision by graduating college with a Media Arts degree. I have an internal battle with myself constantly over whether I should continue to choose a career path for the money, or attempt to look for something that I can put my passions into. I’m constantly terrified that I’m not making enough money to sustain my lifestyle, and I’m even more scared that a passion-driven position would make that problem worse.

When people tell you that you should follow your dreams and do what you love, they’re completely right, but they often forget to remind you that it going to be hard AF too. I love that our parent’s generation, for the most part, seems to have instilled the idea in all of us that happiness should come before money. What I don’t think anyone talks about though, is the fact that it’s almost impossible to measure and quantify “happiness”. In my opinion, this leaves our generation constantly wondering if we’re doing the right things, making the right decisions, and finding the “happiness” we’ve been working towards all this time.

This is basically the biggest ~first world problems~ post on the planet right now, and I get that. Especially given the recent horrific events in our country (and the world, i.e. Barcelona today), but it’s been on my mind for so long now. Plus, I just cannot even begin to articulate my feelings on all of those recent events – that’s for an entirely separate post.

It’s just so easy to feel lost in a world filled with so many talented people. I think we all deserve a little reminder that we’re still of worth, even though things aren’t always going to come easy.

I Have Left My Heart…

I have left my heart in so many places. 

A year ago, on my 24th birthday, I spent about 48 hours straight just crying. It was the lowest I think I’ve ever been in my life. I felt unstable, lost, lonely, broken, and hopeless.

This year, I have realized after a lot of thought, that I can genuinely say I am in such a different place. Of course, it took a year of hard work, therapy, change, and help from a lot of amazing people, but I’m here and I couldn’t be more grateful.

For the first time in so long, I feel both happy and optimistic.

I’ve recently realized that, although I may have lost my childhood home (and to some extent, one of my parents too) and a lot of the stability that comes with that safety net, I have gained so much in the process.

 

I have left a part of my heart in so many beautiful places.

I may not have my first house anymore, but I’m starting to understand that my real “home” is scattered all over the country, and that is even better.

Here’s to 25 and all that is to come

Pride Month: LJ

Today I am extremely happy to share a post written by the very talented, Lawn aka LJ. I met LJ freshman year of college, and I remember feeling like she was just immediately one of the most friendly, outgoing, and accepting people I had met thus far. 

Freshman year of college is weird AF, you’re trying to get to know people, find your niche, and feel comfortable in a foreign place. I was lucky to have been introduced to LJ through another friend of mine, Kara, and our friendship just felt natural. I’m pretty sure the first time we hung out she literally let me drag her along to a concert hours away from our school, for an artist she had never heard of, and even welcomed us to sleep at her house afterward too. 

Anyway, the reason I asked her to write has nothing to do with that (lol), I just wanted to give a funny little backstory. I asked LJ to write because I think her ideas are extremely important. I’ve been following her on Twitter for years now,  and I just feel like there is so much substance and importance to the things LJ tweets and retweets. I just had this feeling that if I reached out to her, she’d have something unique and valuable to share. 

To be honest, LJ’s piece surpasses what I even expected. I know this month is about “Pride”, but like I have said before, “Pride”, and the meaning behind it, encompasses so much more than just positive experiences. Her words aren’t necessarily about a coming out story or a supportive moment, quite the opposite actually, and I think that is what makes them powerful. I don’t want to give too much away with my summary, so just check it out here:

I’m gay, but don’t tell my coworkers

June. The month many LGBTQA members of our society are looking forward to every year. Why? Well, because it’s the month corporate America so generously gives to the LGBTQA community as a chance to be unapologetically proud of who we are and who we love.

For starters, I am a cisgender gay woman and my pronouns are she/her/hers. I am out to pretty much everyone: my parents, my friends, and even the random girls I meet around midnight in bars while I’m in line for the bathroom.

However, there is one group of people to which I have never uttered the words, “I’m gay” — my coworkers. While many of them probably assume my identity because I never bring a date to our staff parties and can rock a pantsuit better than Ellen, they never bring it up.

Kenji Yoshino best describes this term in his book, Covering: The Hidden Assault on Our Civil Rights. In Laymen’s terms, to cover is to tone down a disfavored identity to fit the mainstream. It’s not a new term and it isn’t solely attributed to the LGBTQA community. There is also racial covering and sex-based covering, but this post focuses on LGBTQA covering.

People cover for many reasons. I cover for fear that my homosexual identity will undermine the quality of work that I produce. I don’t want to be known at work for my sexual orientation because I don’t want to give anyone a reason to dislike me for something that is irrelevant to my work performance.

Is this thought process messed up? You bet. It’s hard going to work every day feeling like I have to censor my true self to cater to the bias and comfort levels of other people.

But covering doesn’t make me feel safe and “in control.” Instead, I feel ashamed and dishonest. I’m ashamed that I care so much of what current and future colleagues may think of me and I feel a dishonesty that is so privileged because I can pass as straight.

It’s also discouraging to think that people I work so closely with every day might suddenly shift their opinions of me because of who I have feelings for.

I guess I have to decide what’s more important to me, the comfort of others or how beautiful my girlfriend will look at our next holiday party.

This is What Two Years in Jail Looks Like:

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Earlier today I tried to write a really lengthy post about this….and my computer crashed right before I posted it. L O L was that a sign? I’m not sure!! But here I am writing it again!! I can’t guarantee this will be as interesting because my brain is still mostly consumed with my anger towards Tumblr for not automatically saving drafts of my posts every couple minutes incase of potential computer crashes!!!! But anyways, 

I’ve tried to sit down and write about this so many times and I’ve never been able to find the right words. Are there even words that can be correctly strung together to formulate sentences to explain what it’s like to have a dad that’s been in jail for two years? I’m not sure. Probably, but I haven’t found them yet. 

In a lot of senses, I think its difficult to explain because my problems with my dad began well before he was in jail. In a way, two years ago was not the beginning of my problems, it was the beginning of my freedom. 

Two years ago was the first time I was able to separate myself from my dad. It was the first time in years that I wasn’t consistently feeling responsible for him. I didn’t have to be the parent anymore. But at the same time, it was the first time my problems were exposed to the world. It was the first time I couldn’t just pretend things were normal or perfect or easy. Two years ago I was forced to start learning to let go of my fear of judgments and outsiders’ opinions. 

A lot of losses are easy to understand. With a death or a divorce, most people can fairly easily interpret the pain you’re feeling and appropriately comfort you. With incarceration, no one ever knows what to think or say. In my opinion, so much of that lack of appropriate support comes from confusion. 

To start, it’s extremely difficult to explain the complexity of the flaws within the criminal justice system. On top of that, it’s even more difficult to understand what it feels like to be trapped within that system (whether guilty or innocent). And then to be an outsider looking in, watching a loved one suffer without any ability to help or control the situation is another demon entirely.

Two birthdays. Two Christmases. Two summers that would have been spent at the beach or by the pool. Two years of missed calls. Two years filled with hand written letters. Two years without my childhood home. 730 times that I could have processed my feelings. 730 days to pick up the phone and say “hello”. 730 days to write you back.  

The best thing I’ve learned over these past two years is that change does not happen overnight and progress is not linear. Sometimes I go weeks without crying once. There are periods of time where my life feels flawless. Then there are periods of time where my entire day is filled with shame and anger and pity. Sometimes I feel proud. Other days I feel beyond weak. 

I used to think that was wrong though. I used to think that time just healed wounds. But healing also takes work. And just because you’re healing doesn’t mean it always happens in a sequential order. Sometimes you’ll take 3 steps forward and then 5 steps back. Sometimes you’ll take 10 steps forward and only 1 back. 

I’ve learned that the whispers behind your back are sometimes unavoidable. I’ve learned that the silence after sharing the truth is okay. This situation is just as new for me as it is for everyone else. Judgments and criticisms directly stem from confusion. 

I’ve learned that people can be both good and bad simultaneously, and that doesn’t mean you were ever wrong for loving them.

I also learned that I’m allowed to love the parts of my dad that I see within myself. Just because I am made up of parts of him, doesn’t mean I am him.

My dad showed me a lot of beauty but he also showed me a lot of darkness. 

These past two years have been filled with growth and acceptance. 

Incarceration. Is. A. Loss. Too. 

Maybe it’s not as conventional as other losses, but it’s a loss. For the past two years I’ve felt, more or less, unable to openly share what I’ve been going through. I’m not going to let my shame control me anymore. I am proud of the person I have become. 

My dad is in jail but my life wasn’t perfect before that either. It has been two years, but I am the happiest I think I’ve ever been.

Quick Little PSA!!!

This blog is not a cry for help. This blog was not created because I need to vent my feelings and I don’t have anyone to go to. I don’t write these things because I’m insecure, or lonely, or in need of attention.

Quite the opposite actually!! 

I created this blog out of confidence and out of pride. I created this blog because I felt strong and I realized that many people do not. 

I created this blog because SO MANY PEOPLE struggle with the exact same things that I struggle with, but not enough people want to openly talk about it! 

In all honesty, I don’t care if one or one million people read what I write on here, I still think sharing my thoughts and experiences is important. 

Even though I’m only one person, I can be one less person hiding my struggles from the world. 

I just think it is extremely important for more people to understand that sooooo many of us struggle with mental illnesses, but those illnesses are nothing to be ashamed of, nor do they define us.

In fact, I live a really flippin’ gr8 life even with my bad days! Just because I write about these dark feelings doesn’t mean I’m not happy a lot of the time too! I have a life that I’m honestly really proud of, filled with a lot of really amazing friends. I work a job with people I really like, in a city I love, and I fill my days with experiences am really thankful for! 

I want people to understand that, if anything, being more open about my anxiety and depression has brought me more happiness. Not to mention the fact that I feel like my openness has allowed other people to feel comfortable being more open with their own struggles too. 

There is still a MASSIVE stigma surrounding mental health and I know I can’t single-handedly change that, but I can at least try my best to help! 

Silence only perpetuates the problem, so I’m actively and purposefully breaking my own silence to share my own raw and honest feelings with anyone who happens to read them.

So no, I don’t want any sympathy. I am not here in search of support or compassion or a shoulder to cry on. I have plenty of that! I’m here because I want to be honest. And maybe my honesty will help break down the negative stigma a teeeeeny tiny bit! WHO KNOWS AMIRITE?? MAYBE IT WON’T HELP ANYTHING AT ALL LOL!! But regardless, at least I didn’t choose to stay silent!!!

KK GOOD TALK TY BYE! 

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Side note: I think part of my idea to start a public blog was inspired by few blogs that I have read and felt like I could really relate to. Gotta give credit where credit is due!! Check out the blogs below: 

http://jillboard.tumblr.com/ 

http://everythingoodwastaken.tumblr.com/

http://unkemptgirl.tumblr.com/

And check out this v great post written by a girl in my sorority!!!!:

https://themighty.com/2016/11/sharing-your-suicidal-thoughts-with-a-therapist/

Lost Magic

Sometimes I catch myself missing the novelty of my teenage years. Does that make any sense? I miss the way even the littlest of things felt like they mattered so much. 

I remember sitting on the car roofs watching the stars and listening to old music, feeling like the world was filled with so much wonder. 

I used to drive through town with friends, with no destination in mind, thinking about how we had the whole world at our fingertips. 

A night spent smoking a joint and having a deep talk felt like it would never end. Even parties felt meaningful. Kisses felt adventurous, secrets felt deep, and days felt full. 

I just FELT more then I guess. 

Driving with the windows down, listening to a great song at full volume, seeing the ocean with the sand in my toes. None of it feels as magical anymore. 

Experiences roll off me like water lately, never penetrating deeper than surface level. 

Do I feel old because I’m depressed or depressed because I’m old? 

I’m Moving to New York

When I was 13 years old, my best friend Brittany and I used to constantly daydream about living in New York City when we grew up. We used to have these elaborate plans to work in film and fashion and live in this beautiful apartment overlooking all the lights of the city. I so so SO vividly remember listening to The Fray’s self titled album on repeat alone in my bedroom in suburban Pennsylvania, idealizing my future self and my cool, successful, big city life.

It’s funny because here I am, over 10 years later, still idealizing this future, successful, happy version of myself. I know I sound like a broken record, but I would have never expected my life at age 24 to be the way it is. 

Don’t get me wrong, part of that is a great thing. I went to a college I loved more than I ever could have imagined, and I met friends that showed me sense of love and support that I had never experienced before. I spent a year in DC and I loved (almost) every single minute of it. I traveled to some amazing places, met some amazing people, and I’ve made memories I never thought possible.

But I think as a kid dreaming about my future, I never accounted for the struggles I was bound to face. My young, naive self always assumed that the older I got, the happier I would become. I spent so much of my childhood being bullied and feeling like an outcast, that I assumed that with age came confidence and the ability to withstand any negativity thrown my way.

For a while that was pretty true. High school and college were a collection of almost entirely happy memories for me. I felt more popular, more confident, more mature, more independent, and overall more happy. But post-grad hit me like a brick wall. My family fell apart, my career didn’t come easy, my confidence plummeted, and my mental heath suffered. 

It’s been so easy for me to pity myself, especially recently, because I feel like I’ve had a lot more emotional low points over the past few months. But I want to take a step back and realize how much I have to be proud of. Yes, I have a long way to go, but I’m making my little middle school self’s dream reality and that is pretty cool!! 

I wish I felt more excited about it. I’ve been having an extra difficult time feeling upbeat about anything recently and not only is that obviously sad, but it’s so so frustrating. Knowing that something that used to make you happy doesn’t anymore is such a confusing feeling. 

I think this move is going to be a step in the right direction, though. I took a big risk leaving DC for a job in NYC. The past 6 months of commuting has all been leading up to this moment. I wonder what my 13 year old self would think of me now.