This is going to be an uncomfortable read for you. Is there a topic that stirs more discomfort than mental illness?

This is going to be a challenging read for you. Is there a field where our lack of understanding translates into the real premature cost of human life, of loved ones, of children, in violently horrific ways, more so than mental illness?

And finally, if you are brave enough to keep reading, this is going to be an emotionally heart-wrenching read for you. We are plagued by mass shootings to the point of numbness, and yet, they keep happening. Is there a topic that makes us feel more powerless than mental illness?

If you can stomach this read, even if you are the only person in the world who can, then the pain I have sifted through to bring you these blood-stained words will not have been in vain. My body shakes in-between sobs as I try to get this message to you. Just you. I couldn’t write this for everyone. I couldn’t make this easy. Nothing about this is easy.

The most recent shooting took place in Florida, the state I call home, where I grew up. Palm trees and beaches line the memories of my mom needing to go to the hospital yet again in handcuffs, the experiences of which were not discussed afterwards. “What was mommy sick with?” I am 8 years old and confused. My dad teaches me a new word. “Bipolar.”

Though you may learn a new word, that doesn’t mean that you can say it whenever you want, not even when you need to. Some words are like curse words; any relief you get in yelling them loudly is not worth the risk.

F**k!

The Florida sun beats down on the car to accent the embarrassment that has flushed my cheeks in a K-Mart parking lot. My mom used to work here, but not since she quit weeks ago. Inside she made a scene in front of her old coworkers as I stood aside with my brother, Matthew. He’s frustratingly too young to understand, and our matching red hair makes us stand out at a time where I’d give anything for invisibility. A former coworker puts his arm around my mom and asks with genuine concern, “Are you okay?” I want to run away.

Minutes later we are in the car and my mom is calling the police yet again. The wait in between a 911 call and the cops arriving to file yet another report that is not true, but that they pretend to take seriously for my mom’s sake, stresses me out. I can’t take it anymore. The police report captures my loud arguing with my mom through the cellphone and ends poignantly: “Daughter hung up on me.” I was twelve.

Over two months ago I packed my little car to the brim with my belongings, and roadtripped with a beloved 3,000 miles, catching many a landmark and animal crossing in between.

It was my first roadtrip to the West coast, jam-packed with activities like hiking, horseback riding in a national park, visiting sacred sites, and the like. An exhilarating, albeit exhausting trip (I may have broke down sobbing multiple times, but more on that later) that I will no doubt be dripping with inspiration from for the rest of my life.

I was looking forward to the end of the exhaustion. The schedule and budget was tight, so most nights were spent sleeping in the car. I hardly remember driving through the whole state of Colorado, fatigue combined with my anxiety about cliff driving* has made the memories fuzzy.

From sending out the post I last wrote, Community Events, I got a response from a meditation teacher, and learned some hard lessons.

I was making assumptions about how many people were attending events just from the number of RSVPs on Facebook or Meetup. But as the practitioner who responded to me pointed it out–this is often not the case. While looking at an event online where attendance appears to be low, in person there are a lot of regular attendees that simply don’t bother using the online system. He has popular events that sell out every month with 20-50 people, but you wouldn’t know that by looking online.

I was making assumptions based in ignorance and not in experience. This is a youthful habit that has burned me before, and I want to break it. I want to stop assuming that I know more than I do, and instead be more receptive to learning. I want to stop being so judgemental and instead live more from a place of appreciation and in the moment.

Coincidental Cynicism

It was interesting getting his response later in a day when I was so inspired by the animator who made this video.

A year ago I wanted to die.

Or maybe a better way of saying it is that I was so overwhelmed with anxiety, stress, guilt, and tragic loss, that I wanted to alleviate the pain that I was being crushed under at every moment. Ending it all seemed like a potential solution. It would mean that I wouldn’t feel these horrible things anymore. All of my problems will disappear…

What saved me was holding onto the reality that this also a way of abandoning my family and loved ones, whose problems were very much so real. This minute long clip from the show The Blacklist explains this better than I can, and it’s a powerful piece of acting.

Suicide is a long-term and permanent solution to short-term and temporary problems.

Ending it all also doesn’t just mean preventing a future of negative experiences, it means preventing a future of positive experiences as well.

It comes down to a choice between committing to life or committing to death.

I committed to life.