My confession is not that I feel shame about being “white,” which I do, because that’s pretty normal in my social circle. Rather, it relates to my hurt when I’m called a racist.
Suicide will not be prevented by trivializing posts telling people they are loved and with hotline numbers. Here’s my experience both as someone who has loved those who have taken their lives and as someone who’s considered it.
Within a month I caught two thieves and followed them both. One got away. One I talked to and bought him lunch. I learned from them to listen to my gut and be who I am not who I think I’m supposed to be.
I often put off thank you cards as a burden, but discovered as I wrote them following my brother’s death, they acted as a ritual to release grief by evoking memories of him and friends who loved us.
How I stop feeling bad about just being me.
Especially during grief, when the path ahead looks uncertain, stay the course already set. Choices will become clear when they need to be.
Learning to paint and draw helped me to learn to take more risks, surrender the idea that the illusion of control will improve the outcome, and in experimenting I reach the most exciting outcomes.
I love to hike with my dog off leash, but I hate when I’ve bothered people. Sometimes these values clash. I don’t always react to the annoyed people in the way I wish I would.
What do I do when a post about learning to stay in the moment as I solve problems turns into a post about anger over my brother’s death?
And then I get around it.