That’s How the Light Gets In

Ring the bells that still can ring Forget your perfect offering There is a crack in everything That’s how the light gets in.

Today it is 23 months since Tony took his own life.  One year and 11 months ago, I sat on the concrete steps outside our apartment in San Diego.  It was the darkest night of the year, both literally and figuratively.  In many ways, it was the darkest night of my life.  I did not know, truly, how I would survive it.  It felt to me like there were no bells to ring.  No hope, no light, no life.  It was, I thought, the end of everything.

I was wrong.

Nearly two years later, I find myself in a strange place, emotionally speaking.  Strange, I say, because I’ve been struggling for weeks to put my finger on what it is that I’m feeling.  I keep having the sense that I am cracking open, but I don’t mean that in a bad way.  I feel raw and exposed, vulnerable and new.  This feeling has coincided with some significant life events – some that are meaningful in a way that I can easily identify, some that I can FEEL are profound although I don’t think I fully understand them just yet.

One is my new career.  I am finally doing something I love to do, every day, and getting paid for it.  That is huge, and it’s had a remarkable impact on my outlook.  For the most part, I wake up excited to work.  I am sleeping well and eating well.  I feel energetic and intellectually satisfied.  I feel creative.  It’s the first time in my whole life that I’ve had a job that left me feeling fulfilled.

Another is that I’m starting to achieve the balance I need between the writing that pays my rent and the writing I do for myself.  I started outlining a screenplay.  I’m finding time for blogging.  I’m also making time to read – something I haven’t done as much of as I’d like to since Tony died.

Friendship is another piece of the puzzle.  My relationships with the important people in my life feel healthier and deeper than they ever have.  I have several friends who have had a knack, in the past 23 months, of reaching out to me with such kindness that it overwhelms me.  I’ve reconnected with one of those friends recently, and his kindness got me thinking about kindness in general.

At the beginning of last year, not long after Tony died, I decided to perform acts of kindness on his birthday.  I knew I needed to do something that day to keep my mind off the fact that he was not there to celebrate the day, and never would be again.  Acts of kindness seemed like a natural thing to do in many ways, because Tony had such a hard time seeing kindness.  He was so disappointed, so much of the time, by his life and by the world.  On very rare occasions he would have moments when he’d see it, and when he did I used to tease him that he looked like the Grinch after his heart grew three sizes.  Imagining him like that makes my heart feel like it’s going to float out of my body, away into the sky.  I wish he’d had more of those experiences.

I wrote the other day about how the kindness of the people in my life has sustained me over the past two years.  Starting the night that Tony died, I have seen – over and over – how truly kind people can be.  The police officers, medical examiner and crisis counselor seem like miracles to me.  They gave me the worst news I’d ever heard in a way that makes it possible for me to be grateful to them.  The same is true of my co-workers, who held my hand and took me in and made it possible for me to work remotely for 22 months so I could be near my family.

I can hardly find words to talk about the kindness of my family and my friends.  They have loved me and buoyed me over and over again.  They have had a knack, many of them, for reaching out to me at just the right time.  They have written and spoken so many words of grace and love and kindness.  I have been cracked open by them again and again.

It is those cracks that have let the light in.  It is those cracks that have allowed me to feel the way I do, raw and vulnerable and open and… happy.  Yes, that’s the word.  I am happy, right now, in a way I haven’t been in a very long time.  That doesn’t mean I don’t miss Tony, because of course I do.  It doesn’t mean that things are perfect, because that’s just silly.  It means that I look at my life – at where I live and who I am and the people I care about – and I feel so overwhelmed with love that I think I might burst.

I didn’t do acts of kindness last year on December 21, because last year that day seemed unremittingly dark.  It seemed like a cave – a dark and dank place, dripping with tears.  It felt like a grave.  This year it doesn’t feel like that.  This year, I can look at it and see that as horrible as that date was in 2012, it was also a beginning.  It was that day that set me on a path I could not have anticipated.  It was the first crack, that day, and now – at last – the light is streaming in.

I hope that wherever you are in the world, you will join me on December 21st.  The holidays are an especially hard time for people who struggle with depression.  An act of kindness so small that it seems almost inconsequential to you could be exactly the ray of light that someone needs to find the strength to keep going.  Kindness is free.  Yes, you can do things that cost money if you choose to, but there are plenty of things that you can do that won’t cost a penny.  I will post some ideas and pictures over the next month.  I hope that if you do plan to participate, you’ll leave me a comment now (I would love to get people on all seven continents) and then let me know, later, what you did and how you felt about it.  Let’s turn on the lights.

The Club Nobody Wants to Join

This Friday it will be 23 months since Tony died. I had another blog post ready for today, but I’ve been thinking about something else and I want to write about it while it’s fresh.

Recently a friend messaged me to say that someone she knew had lost someone to suicide – someone very young, still a teenager. I do not have the young man’s name, but I know that she referred his family to this blog. I don’t know if they’re reading yet. Their loss is still so recent. But if anybody reading this has lost a loved one to suicide, I am so sorry.

There is no such thing as easy grief. I don’t like to compare my grief to anybody else’s, because I don’t believe that it’s helpful or that there’s any way to know what someone else’s grieving process is like. I can compare my grief over Tony to say, my grief over my grandmother, because I personally experienced both things. What I will say is this: grief over a death by suicide is different. It is, in my experience, a turbulent, tangled mess of emotions unlike anything I have ever experienced before. Sometimes, even now, I look back and wonder how I survived it. I wonder how I am STILL surviving it.

I sent my friend a link to the Alliance of Hope but I want to include it here. The Alliance is a non-profit organization dedicated to helping those grieving a loss to suicide. Their website has links, personal stories and a wonderfully supportive forum full of caring people who understand. I would recommend it to anybody who has suffered this kind of loss.

The other thing I want to say, because it’s important for those who are newly bereaved to hear, is that there’s no wrong way to feel. The first couple of months after I lost Tony are still shrouded in fog. I remember bits and pieces. I remember intense, gut-wrenching sorrow and searing anger. I remember numbness and confusion and pain and relief and guilt and shame. I remember feeling like a failure. Even now, nearly two years after his death, I still wrestle with those emotions. I am still recovering. Death by suicide is a cataclysm for those left behind.

What I hope we can all remember is to be patient with the grieving. Do not presume that you know what someone else is feeling. Do not offer platitudes. More than anything else, be kind. Kindness was the only balm to my heart after Tony died. Again and again, I found myself cracked open by it as family, friends, co-workers, and people I only know online reached out to me. I have written before about grace, and I still feel that I am surrounded by it.   Don’t underestimate the power of a kind word and an open heart. They can work wonders.

Let the World Burn Through You

FADE IN

The other day a writer friend of mine sent me a message asking me to read a short story he’d written. Before I read it, we chatted a bit – he’s a screenwriter, someone Tony and I met online but never in person. The conversation turned to screenwriting.  I told him I hadn’t done any since Tony died, and he told me there was a script he’d been wanting to write for a long time but hadn’t, yet.  We agreed that we’d encourage each other to write and submit our screenplays to the Austin Film Festival’s screenwriting contest next year, and reward ourselves with a trip to the festival to meet some other screenwriter friends.

Sounds easy, doesn’t it? I mean, I’ve been writing so much lately. Writing one little screenplay shouldn’t be that big a deal. That’s what I tell myself… so why do I feel almost panicked when I think about writing a feature on my own?

I’ve done a lot of thinking about that this past week. I’m not afraid of writing. I’ve written two novels. I wrote 30,000 words in the last five days. I know I’m a good writer, and I’m not afraid of hard work. That means it’s not any of those things causing the panic.

What it is, I think, is that I have never written a feature-length screenplay by myself. I’ve only done it with a partner. I’ve only done it with Tony. I’ve written short scripts on my own, but those were all very short. A maximum of five pages. That’s part of the panic – the knowledge that this is, in some ways, uncharted territory for me.

There’s something else, though. Tony was a very good writer, funny and with a real gift for giving every character a unique voice. He had this huge talent, but his self-esteem was low. His ego was so fragile. When we first started writing together, we used to outline the story and then write in shifts. We’d carve out chunks of time – a half an hour apiece – and one of us would sit at the computer and write as much as we could in that period. The deal we made before we started was that when one of us took over from the other, we would just read, not edit. It was meant to be a free-flowing thing, only Tony could never do that. Every single time, when I would go back into the room after he’d been writing, I would find that he’d made all kinds of little tweaks and changes to what I’d written. I know he didn’t mean it to have this effect, but it crushed me.

In 2006, Tony quit his job to write full time. I kept my job in finance. At first, I would get home from work and even though Tony had been writing all day, we would still write together. Gradually, though, his self-esteem grew more and more dependent on being able to do all of it himself. He felt a responsibility to be able to make our shared dream come true for both of us, and there was very little room for me in that equation. I hardly wrote at all. I was still part of the outlining process, and I edited and occasionally suggested changes. I called myself a screenwriter, but I wasn’t. I felt like a fraud.

It’s perhaps not surprising that I’m feeling more mired in grief than I have in a while. The second anniversary of Tony’s death is approaching. I am not as lost as I was at this time last year, but it is a melancholy time for me. I find myself crying more frequently than I have in months. I am dreaming about Tony again, which I haven’t done in a while. There are moments when I’ve been able to tell myself that the worst of the grieving is over, but what I’m realizing now is I still have a very long way to go. I have spent so much time grieving my husband that I’ve barely allowed myself to touch on the fact that I lost my writing partner too. Screenwriting was always our shared dream, and if it’s going to happen for me now it has to be my dream. Perhaps part of me doesn’t want it to be mine alone. I want to be able to continue to think of it as ours, but it can never be that.

These things, all taken together, explain my panicked feeling when I consider stepping back into screenwriting. There is some deep part of me that fears that I can’t do it, that I’m not a good enough SCREENwriter, to make it happen. That I squandered whatever gift I had for this form by taking a back seat to Tony all those years. I don’t want to think that I’ve lost screenwriting forever, so I’m pushing my fears down and moving forward. I have so many wonderful friends who are screenwriters – not just the friend whose challenge made me consider this step, but dozens of others who I know will cheer me on, give me notes, and remind me why I fell in love with screenwriting in the first place. They all have their own lives, with their own families and jobs and friends and writing. Yet I know they will make a space for me at the table. They’ve stuck with me, even as I’ve stayed away from the kind of writing that brought us together in the first place.

I’m going to do this. I’m going to take the Young Adult novel I wrote for NaNoWriMo last year and I’m going to turn it into a screenplay. It’s a story that deals with mental illness and suicide, so I have no doubt that I will cry and cry as I break the story down and build it back up again. I’m under no illusion that it will be easy, but I am putting a quote by Ray Bradbury above my desk and I’m going to push through it. It’s going to hurt, but I’m going to let the world burn through me. In the end, it’s what I was meant to do.

 

“Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper. ~ Ray Bradbury