My Essay on Country Living: “When Tragedy Turns Your Home…”

Country LivingIt’s safe to say that 2017 has been a VERY good writing year for me so far — and it’s not over yet! I’ve written so many essays I’m incredibly proud of, and lots of them have been on the topics of disabilities, relationships and pop culture — all three of these topics are quickly becoming my “beats” as they say in the journalism world. But it was my essay for Country Living last week that might just be my favorite.

The essay “When Tragedy Turns Your Home Into Just Another House” was actually a long time coming for me. I’d had the idea for years, but couldn’t seem to get anything down on paper — err, I suppose, on the screen, really. I distinctly remember passing by my childhood home for the first time after my father died — this was after we’d moved into a new house across town. This is an experience we all can relate to, right? That feeling of seeing a part of your past whiz by and having it hit you that this isn’t your life anymore; it’s sort of like feeling completely removed from a place that once meant safety, comfort and security to you.

I felt like there was so much I wanted to say about this topic, so I started writing. And writing. And writing. This one took me longer than some of my other essays because I wanted so desperately to capture that feeling of loss — of losing my dad, of losing my childhood innocence, of losing a place that, although is still physically there, is gone forever for me.

Here’s an excerpt of the essay, in which I slowly realize that perhaps it is possible to take our home with us wherever we go in life…

The last time I stood outside on those front steps, our two-bedroom apartment felt nothing like a home. It was no longer a sanctuary, but a foreign land I didn’t recognize—it was full of unfamiliar terrain. It was cold and unforgiving. Where I once felt free, that house had become a prison and I could feel the walls slowly closing in. My mom, sister, and I had just finished packing, stuffing dishes, clothes, and a lifetime’s worth of memories into boxes. There was such a finality in closing those boxes, as if we were saying goodbye to the past. One life was over and another one was, reluctantly, beginning. With everything packed up, the emptiness became all too real: The walls, once lined with family photos, were now bare, casting shadows off one another like ghosts.

The whole place felt empty and hollow, much like my grieving heart.

You can read the full essay here and I’d love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to email me anytime at mellow1422@aol.com and let’s chat! And of course, feel free to share my essay on Facebook, Twitter or even your local refrigerator. If you share on Twitter, be sure to tag me @melissablake so we can connect! I can’t wait to hear from you! Love you all… xoxo

 

Remembering My Father on His Birthday

Remembering My FatherI’ve been remembering my father this week — he would have celebrated his 66th birthday today.

Here’s a question I’ve had on my mind lately: What does it mean when you don’t know what to say? I’m not talking about processing his suicide — not really, I don’t think. I suppose I’m talking more about processing the fact that he’s not here, that so much time has passed since he’s been on this earth and just the fact that I genuinely don’t know what to do with all that sometimes. It’s a lot to process, you know? And a huge milestone moment like a birthday always seems to put things in stark relief, as if I’m looking through a telescope and zeroing right in on it all.

Everything just seems heightened — my feelings, my senses — and everything is just a bit brighter, louder and weightier today. I’m sure things will ease up tomorrow, but for right now, that’s where I’m at. It’s not a bad place to be, and I could be feeling far worse than I do, but as Ms. Bear would say, it is what it is.

So I’ll be gentle with myself today and smile when I remember my father. The above photo shows one of our many beach adventures. Maybe the water is a metaphor for my emotions. The tide carries the water in and out in a never-ending cycle. There’s a rhythm and a soothing calm to it, like it will always be there. My emotions will come and go, in and out like those waves, and that’s OK. Maybe all I should do is notice them, not questioning them or judging them. Taking them for what they are? That sounds like a revolutionary choice, but perhaps it’s the best one in the end. Happy birthday, Dad…I love you… xoxo

P.S. More posts about my father…

My Father’s Suicide: 14 Years Ago

my father's suicide 2017My Father’s Suicide: 14 Years Ago.

That’s the title of this post. Frankly, it’s the only title I could think of at the moment. In fact, nothing else really came to mind. I was talking to my mom about this yesterday, actually. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with something to write about on the anniversary of his suicide, which is tomorrow, and…

I’m coming up with NOTHING. It feels like the well is going dry and there is nothing more left to say about the whole thing. At least at the moment, anyway. For the last eight years, I’ve written extensively about my father on this very blog: The strength of my mother, on bonding with my father, symbolic dreams, all the questions I’d ask him, being proud of my parents, bittersweet holidays and searching for a sign. I’ve even written an Open Letter to Suicide to try and make sense of all those emotions swirling around in my head!

So why now? Why, when such a pivotal day is right around the corner, do my words seem to fail me? I was utterly mystified and as you know, I’m always curious for answers, so I asked this very question on Facebook. And, of course, my friends came to the rescue! Here are some of their wise, salient words of wisdom for me…

*”The most important thing is that we all are reminded of your dad and the love your family shared. Just sit down and begin to write. . It will come, you know that. Sending positive vibes.”

*”Perhaps today is a day to simply and gloriously love yourself and your family. Maybe today is a day for your heart and soul to be still and know the power of love and Love. Holding you, your sister, and your mom in my heart today. And, today, I will wear a gold teardrop pendant in respect for your strength. I wore this whenever I knew you had a surgery and I wore it for your family’s grief. (The teardrop is a Sigma Lambda Sigma symbol).”

*”I think it helps people to acknowledge the pain of loss recurs and is still with us even after lots of time has passed. Society wants us to be over our loss but that’s not real. Maybe a re-post with a few comments about how you feel now. But I know whatever you put will be great.”

*”You don’t have to say anything new. Just mark the day in whatever way seems most appropriate to you, even if that just means posting that you’re going to have a quiet day of remembrance. And remember you have a lot of friends.”

What wonderful advice, don’t you think? But I do wonder: What would my father think if he knew that I couldn’t find the right words to say about him? How would that make him feel? I’ve always come back to the idea of not wanting to forget him, of wanting desperately to keep his memory alive, so maybe that’s what I’m struggling with this year? How, so many years later, I can keep him with me, even as the gap between his death and the present grows wider.

my father's suicide 2017Thank you, friends, for all your kind words of love and encouragement! I’ll be celebrating my father this weekend and I hope you’re able to hug your loved ones and spend lots of time with them. As I’m always saying, “there’s not enough time” and there’s NOT!!! I wanted so much more time with my father. I think I’ll always want more time… xoxo

P.S. Remembering my father in 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 and 2016

My Essay on The Establishment: “An Open Letter To Fellow Suicide Survivors”

Yesterday was World Mental Health Day, but like millions of Americans, I don’t have the luxury of just “observing” it for a single day. It’s something I’ve lived with 24 hours a day, 7 days a week since 2003 — the year my father committed suicide.

The numbers are staggering: The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention estimates that 42,000 Americans die from suicide every year and is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S. Add in the number of loved ones left behind in the wake of suicide and that number goes from staggering to crippling.

It’s those left behind who shoulder such an unbearable burden. I’ve felt like grief would consume me at times over the last 13 years, and all kinds of questions have swirled around in my head…


–Did my father really think we’d be better off without him?
–Would he be proud of the woman I’ve become?
–What life advice would he give me if he were still here?

I was able to give voice to these questions in my new essay “An Open Letter To Fellow Suicide Survivors On World Mental Health Day” for The Establishment. The piece went up yesterday, and I couldn’t be more happy with it. I know I sometimes post about trivial, fun things, but this type of writing — this confessional, from-the-soul writing — is truly where my heart is at at the end of the day. It’s a healing way of looking at very heartbreaking and traumatic events in my life.

Here’s an excerpt of the essay, which is one of my recent favorites…

I grew up against the sprawling backdrop of the cornfields, in a college town 75 miles west of Chicago. Despite my physical disability, my father made sure that I had a normal childhood—the kind that feels like the perfect home movie when you look back years later as an adult. We chased lightning bugs in the summer and sledded down snow hills in the winter.

Life was simple.

The idea that a loved one died so unexpectedly and so violently shakes you to the very core of your being, and as much as you may wish to deny it, you’ll never be the same person ever again. I never really understood this until I grieved my father. Slowly, however, I realized that not only was I grieving my father’s death, but I was also grieving the loss of my “old life.”

I think, in the end, the real journey I’m on is learning to say goodbye to my old life, not just learning how to say goodbye to my father. It’s important to remember that sometimes, I—you, we—need to try saying hello to our new lives, if just to see how it feels.

You can read the full essay here and I’d love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to email me anytime at mellow1422@aol.com and let’s chat! And of course, feel free to share my essay on Facebook, Twitter or even your local refrigerator. If you share on Twitter, be sure to tag me @melissablake so we can connect! I can’t wait to hear from you! Love you all… xoxo

My Father’s Suicide: Searching For a Sign

I’ve never considered myself an overtly religious person. It’s not that I begrudge other people of their beliefs; it’s just that I’ve never really had a clear sense of what my own beliefs actually were. I have a pretty strong moral compass, sure, but things like God and prayer have never really come easily to me.

That’s not to say that I don’t wonder about it all. Because I do. It’s something I’ve wondered about a lot since my father died.

I’m always hearing these stories about people who receive all these sorts of signs from their departed loved ones. Eerie coincidences. Ghostly occurrences. Even, in extreme cases, visions. It was all so comforting to them and seemed to bring them so much peace. They weren’t frightened or scared; they truly felt their loved one’s presence at the exact time they needed it.

But I haven’t really felt my father’s presence at all. Not in any sort of way that matters, at least. There have been a few times where the lights have flickered, but that’s it. It’s never been anything more than that. For all intents and purposes, it’s like he’s disappeared from my life. And that hurts more than I probably want to admit. Where is he? Where did he go? I want to feel like he’s with me and that there’s still that connection there because sometimes, it starts to feel like there’s nothing left at all. It would be unbelievably comforting to get some sort of sign from him.

It’s not like I haven’t been looking because I have been — all over the place, actually. I look for him in that way you look for someone that you desperately miss — you look for any sign of them, even in the most random of places. I know looking probably won’t turn up anything, but that doesn’t stop me from keeping my eyes peeled all the time. And honestly, my eyes are growing very tired. They need to rest.

Or maybe I need to rest. It can be hard to tell the difference between the two sometimes. All I know is that I miss my father. And I wish I felt him with me more than I do right now.

[Photo via We Heart It]