The story I never thought I would have to tell…
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***Trigger Warning: Loss of Life***
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Edited to add: Guys, it took me seven days to complete this and work up the courage to post. Thank you to anyone who takes the time to open it and read it to the end (it’s a bit lengthy). When I started writing, I had no idea what was going to transform. My only initial hope was to share my story for someone who needed to hear it, but it has been so cathartic for me as well. I needed to be reminded of my own strength and heart, and why I started this journey.
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September 13, 2022
It has been two years today. Two years since my life was forever changed. Two years since the lives of my children, step-children, and many others were forever changed. To you, it might just be another date on the calendar. For us, the minute September rears its head with all things fall, football, and back to school, we get a little quieter - our hearts feel a bit heavier, our conversations with others tend to be shorter, and our tears are always sitting right beneath the surface waiting on us to blink so they can escape down our cheeks. September is suicide awareness month. September 11th will forever be a day that the world mourns. It is now the day that reminds our family that there are just two more days until September 13th.
I hugged my daughter a bit tighter this morning and shared with her that on the days that I feel like I can’t do something, I tell myself Glennon Doyle’s infamous words “We can do hard things.” - sometimes I have to say it over and over again, maybe even out loud or to my own reflection, like, “Hey you… yep, you… you look like shit, you feel like shit, and you do not want to do this Big Hairy Audacious Thing, but you can. You know you can. You’ve done hard things before, and you will do them again. This is one of them. Get off your ass and face it.”
Sometimes it gets real dark and ugly with that “(wo)man in the mirror”, but it works 9.999 times out of 10!
I went to bed last night and woke up this morning with this overwhelming voice telling me it is time. It’s time to tell my side of the story. It’s time to share what everyone has been too afraid to ask. It’s time before I’ve healed too much to remember (as odd as that may sound to most). It’s time because someone else out there might need to hear my story. It’s time to do this really hard thing.
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Ask anyone that really knew Tim and me, and they would tell you that our relationship was tumultuous at best. We both had crazy, downright abusive upbringings and first marriages that both ended as the result of our spouses cheating. We came into our marriage as two very broken souls with broken children. All of us carried around anger, resentment, and mistrust like a badge of honor. We had outside influences that were determined to see us fail. We had no business getting married as soon as we did or under the circumstances we did, and it set a very rocky foundation. A foundation that got us just right over that ten-year mark. A mark that somehow needed to happen in my head because my first marriage had only lasted nine.
While there were fun times and happy moments, it was not a good ten years, and as we all know, repeated bad blows to anything, no matter how solid, will result in depletion - a gradual breakdown of the very thing that is taking those blows. On the weekend of September 13, 2020, our depleted souls reached a tipping point. I think we had both reached our individual tipping points before then, but that weekend was one of those moments in time where nothing but one thing mattered. I can’t tell you what that one thing was either, but the theme that comes to mind when I replay that weekend is finality. We were both internally figuring out how to “finally” walk away from something that wasn’t serving us or bringing us joy anymore - I just didn’t realize that the thing that wasn’t bringing Tim joy anymore was his very own life.
Leading up to that weekend, Tim was being pulled from every angle. Supporting eight kids on two incomes with little to no outside help was financially taxing. He and I both had these twisted notions that because we weren’t given the best childhoods, we were going to spoil the shit out of our kids. It sounds good in theory, but unless you have Kardashian money, it’s just not sustainable. Even though six of the eight had graduated and moved away, the impact of the last ten years coupled with kids that knew they could call mom and dad for almost anything had left us financially crippled. I didn’t realize it then, but there was also a lot of careless spending going on and really large debts that were being accrued because Tim wasn’t planning on being around to pay for them. He had always told me in complete seriousness that if he were to ever find out he was dying, he would go full on Walter White or rob a bank - to which I would roll my eyes and change the subject. I can remember sitting on the back patio that week and him chucking his phone into the yard screaming, “All anyone ever wants from me is money.”
On top of our poor financial state, COVID was in full swing. We were in a West Texas oil town where layoffs were being handed out by the dozens. It was like one day, we were in a thriving, booming community, and the next - there was a line as far as the eye could see with travel trailers and fifth-wheels trying to get the hell outta “dodge” as fast as they could. Our community had become a ghost town overnight. The workers were few and stress was at an all-time high, but stuff still had to get done. Tim was gearing up for a huge “pit clean-out” weekend that would take him into the oilfield from Friday and into the weekend… even the next week if the job wasn’t done. The crew did not sleep and barely took breaks until the job was complete - no matter what. The last one (his first) had failed miserably, so a lot was riding on his shoulders for him and his crew to pull off perfection.
And then there was me. Tim had had an affair at year nine and I was lost more than ever. My first marriage had crumbled because of infidelity, and I knew this one was headed in the same direction. I was tired. The yelling, fighting, name-calling, mistrust, back-handed comments, disrespect, secrets, infidelity, spending, recklessness, and more (and not just all him) had become too much for me to bear. Along with becoming even more of a workaholic than I already was, I had immersed myself in extremely long workouts, staring into the smoky nothingness of our at-home sauna, naps in the tanning bed with music in my ears as loud as possible, and even longer naps in the middle of the day any time I could sneak one in, smoke seshes that left me in a trans with my dear friends, Pink Floyd, daydreaming of a happier future, and posting my uninhabited opinions through quotes and “workout progress” selfies to strangers on the internet. I was numb, and longing to feel again…
The week leading up to that weekend, there had been an argument. It was pretty bad from what I can remember, but I don’t remember what it was about. Those days, we fought about everything. I had gone to bed upset and Tim was still awake in the other room. He had recently been prescribed a second anti-depressant to help him sleep in addition to the Zoloft he had been on for a few months and told me later that he took a handful of them that night of the fight. He was a walking zombie for about two days before he snapped out of it. Once he did, he told me what he had done and said he had experienced the worst thoughts about harming himself and never wanted to feel that way again. Then, he flushed the entire contents of the pill bottle down the toilet. I encouraged him to call his doctor right away and let him know what was going on. He said he would, but I don’t think he ever did.
That Friday, September 11th, Tim made his way to work - lunch box packed up with all the Slim Jim, Mountain Dew, and Skoal it could hold. I settled in for a quiet, cozy, fall weekend at home with the kids after their first week at school. That afternoon, Tim and I started to argue over text. In a moment of being completely fed up, I uttered words that I had never been able to utter before - in a nutshell, I wanted out. I had told myself a long time ago that when I finally had the courage to utter the words out loud, I knew it was time to go. Tim knew too - it wasn’t something I tossed around jokingly or at all for that matter. He zipped straight to our friend’s house from the job site telling his boss he had to make a run to the gas station. Once there, he sought advice and told them that he had quit his job. They encouraged him to go back - to hold on to the good position he had managed to hold on to despite the layoffs because no matter what, he was going to need to support his kids and himself. They reminded him of the countless arguments we had before that and that it had always worked itself out - that they knew I loved him, and I would come back around after the dust had settled from the latest brawl. He left in what seemed like better spirits, but instead of going back to his job site, he came home.
When he arrived, the kids and I were hanging out at the house – they were having a sleepover with a friend of theirs that was more like a sibling to them and a child to us. Tim made his way quietly to the back of his closet where he kept his rifle. He had recently given my oldest son his handgun with a handful of other things that brought tears to his eyes as he distributed them out to the adult children when they had come to visit over the last few months, but he held on to his rifle. (I have since learned that getting rid of important possessions is a sign of someone who is contemplating ending their life.) I followed him ready to defend my reasoning yet again in a desperate attempt to get him to see things from my perspective and change. We made eye contact - he was not the same hot-headed, indestructible man that had left that morning. He seemed hollow - like he had zero fight left in him - not just for our marriage, but for anything. He loaded the rifle and tried to walk past me like I didn’t exist. Tim had always been a bit over-the-top, so it was not unlike him to sling a loaded gun around nonchalantly. My intuition told me this time was different. Without thinking, I put both hands on the barrel of the rifle and yanked it in my direction as hard as I could. I think I said something along the lines of, “No, the fuck, you aren’t.” He looked directly back at me and said, “Yes, the fuck I am.” and walked out the front door back to his truck and drove off.
The next few hours are still a bit of a blur. I spoke to Tim’s boss, his brother, and his best friend on a sort of round-robin. If one didn’t answer, I desperately called the next until someone picked up. They were speaking to Tim, but Tim wasn’t speaking to me. I was getting conflicting bits and pieces of information and did not know exactly what was going on. My pieced-together version of that time is that he disappeared somewhere in his company truck with his loaded rifle. He sent a text to his brother’s wife at some point that said something to the effect of, “If something happens to me, donate my brain to science. I’ve been seeing and hearing things for a while now and it has gotten worse.” His brother called the police and at some point, he was talked into going back to his job site where the police, his boss, and his best friend, Jack, were waiting.
As soon as he pulled up, the gun was taken by the police, but Tim refused to go with them to the hospital for evaluation. Unfortunately, he had broken a few company policies over the last few hours, so his boss fired him and had him collect his things. He carried a cardboard box with the items from his office and placed them in Jack’s truck. One of the items was a coin case I had given him to display all of his military coins. In the military, coins are handed out for various things – affiliation, support, honor, patronage – he had so many that they all didn’t fit in the case. He had always taken pride in his positions both in the army and in the oilfield and I’m sure this was a gut punch.
As they drove on the long road back into town, Jack tried to get him to stay at his place for the night, but he insisted on him taking him straight home. Jack’s wife, Kym, sent me a text and let me know they were headed to the house. I was worried. With the past threat of violence, the events that had taken place that night, and the kids quietly tucked in (one not being mine), the final word from the officer I spoke to was to let Tim sleep on the porch if he came home. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but I did it. He stayed calm. We texted a few times and I got up a couple-hundred times to quietly peek on him through the blinds. Once I knew he had dozed off, I climbed into bed for a few hours of sleep.
The next morning, before the sun was up, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I texted him that the back door was unlocked and to come in whenever he wanted to. A few minutes later, he brought in his box of things from his office along with the blankets and pillows I had left him the night before. We fought again. He packed a bag and began to walk on foot out of our neighborhood. I got in my car and insisted he come back home. I remember at some point he looked at me and said, “This is how veterans become homeless isn’t it?” It was the first time I had sensed genuine fear in him.
The argument diffused at some point, and I got myself ready, then got the kids up and packed all of us up for the rest of the weekend. We were going to spend the rest of the weekend at my grandmother’s a few hours away to give him (and me) time to think. I had never left before. I was terrified. I told him that I was going to take the kids to my grandmother’s and that I would be back at some point for us to chat without them around. I told him I loved him and that I still had my job, and we could figure things out, but I needed to see that he wanted it and was willing to work for it as much as I was. He hugged the kids and we drove off.
He didn’t text me much, which was not like him. I resisted the urge as well - if this brief separation was going to work, I had to do what I said I was going to do - I had to make my point and stand firm for once. I made a hotel reservation for myself thinking time alone would help but decided to take some friends up on an invitation to a barbeque first. After a couple of hours, I was riddled with guilt - I didn’t go anywhere like that without my husband. My stomach hurt, and all I wanted to do was see my kids, so I bypassed the hotel again, went back to my grandmother’s house, and climbed into bed with my babies.
The next morning, I called Tim. We briefly chatted about football, and I told him I would head that way soon so we could talk. He said OK and I began the two-hour drive back in his direction. I called again about halfway to check-in. He was crying. He asked me why I didn’t come home the night before. He said it killed him to be alone in the house. I apologized for leaving. I reassured him that I would be home soon and that we could talk it all out. He said OKAY and we hung up. I was an hour away.
My gut told me something wasn’t right, so I called back. No answer. I called again. Nothing. I sent a text. Delivered, but not read. I stared at the text bubble hoping for it to indicate to me that he had at least read my message. Nothing. My heart felt like it was going to beat right out of my chest.
I called Jack and asked him to go check on him - he said he would. A few minutes later, my phone rang again - he couldn’t find his keys - he and his wife were frantically searching for them and would keep me posted.
My speed increased from “breaking the law” to “if you wreck, there is no way you will survive at this speed” and I did not care.
I called 911 and explained what was going on and they told me they would swing by the house and check it out. I tried calling Tim another few hundred times. Another phone call - it was a police officer. He said he went over and knocked on the door, but there wasn’t an answer. He could hear our dogs barking, but nothing else. He said there was a red truck in front of the house - I thought Jack had made it and just forgot to tell me. My breathing slowed a bit along with my speed and my heart rate as I called Jack to see how things were at the house. I took a deep breath, he answered, “Mandy, I still can’t find my keys, but I am still looking. Any luck?”
I felt numb. I was back in sheer panic mode.
I hung up with Jack and called the police officer back. He said he couldn’t enter the house without me, but he would meet me on the corner of our street and go into the house before me. I had about fifteen minutes still. Those fifteen minutes seemed like a lifetime, but I finally rounded the corner where the police officer said he would be and scanned the area. I didn’t see him. I couldn’t wait. I pulled up to the house. Still no police officer. I ran to the door and somehow managed to get my hand steady enough to get the key in. I opened the front door and stepped in.
The house felt different. I can’t really describe it, but it was a cold feeling. Our dogs rushed to greet me and licked my hands. They were calm. I called out for Tim. No answer. I made my way to our bedroom. His phone was on the bed, but there wasn’t a sign of him. I made my way through our master bathroom and into our walk-in closet. I turned to the right, and there he was. He was hanging in the corner of his side of the closet with his necktie around his neck and a small step stool tipped over by his feet.
I have replayed the moments after that a few million times in my head - even when I don’t ask it to. I have told a handful of friends and a few therapists what happened in detail. I have tried to write about it. But I don’t think my brain will ever be able to recall everything that happened and in exact order. It’s just too traumatic, but from what I do remember...
I ran to the kitchen, grabbed scissors, and ran back to Tim. There wasn’t a lot of room for the scissors, but I knew I didn’t have time to think, so I went for the best spot I could find and cut the tie. I tried as best as possible to help navigate Tim’s lifeless body to the ground. I grabbed one of our cell phones and called 911. I remember my brain thinking of all the TV shows I watched - they were going to try to keep me on the phone and calm me down and have me talk to them until someone arrived. Nope. That was not happening. I told the operator what had happened and our address and threw the phone without hanging up. I called Jack. I don’t remember what I said, or what he said, or if we were even saying anything. I just know we were screaming at each other, and he was headed to us. I threw that phone too without hanging up – I later found out that Jack didn’t hang up either.
In what seemed like an eternity before anyone showed up, I kneeled over my husband screaming trying to piece together what I remembered of the CPR I had taken almost twenty years before. I hit his chest and slapped his face thinking maybe he just needed to “snap out of it”. I screamed some more. I vomited. I urinated on myself. I tried to open his eyelids. I did everything I could think to do in that mental state, but nothing was working.
At some point, I snapped out of my tunnel vision that was trying to get Tim back and realized the police were at the door.
I remember running to the door and screaming, “Where were you?”.
I was greeted by a few wide-eyed officers, hands on holsters ready to draw. I didn’t realize it then, but I had cut myself really badly with the scissors and there was blood all over me. I’m sure I looked and acted suspicious - I have zero chill when I panic. Plus, a few concerned neighbors had called in reports of screaming in the neighborhood. It didn’t register until later how everything had looked so chaotic from the outside. I couldn’t understand why police weren’t charging into my bedroom to save my husband?
The officers eventually followed me into the bedroom, and through the bathroom to the closet where Tim was still laying. They started to do whatever it was they were supposed to do. People were dispatched, paramedics showed up, more officers came, and I was directed by an officer to my living room. I was asked to stand against a wall and pictures were taken of me head to toe from every angle. Then, I was directed to stay in the living room. Still covered in three different bodily fluids, I plopped myself on our cold, tile, living room floor to wait.
Two male officers towered over me cold and expressionless. I couldn’t sit still. Every part of me hurt - my bones, my joints, my head, my stomach, my heart, my soul - it was agonizing. I probably asked every minute if they were still working on him. I kept thinking any minute someone was going to tell me that he was going to make it. I tried to think of different ways to ask so the officers wouldn’t get frustrated with me. Nothing. Finally, I asked for a female officer. I needed to hug someone - anyone. They brought one in, and I melted in her arms. It was the most comfort I had felt in days. I didn’t want to let go. Finally, we separated, and she stepped away to check on things. She came back into the room after just a second, and said the words no one ever wants to hear, “Ma’am, you might want to sit down.”
I screamed, “Just fucking tell me!”
Holding back her own tears, she said in a calm voice, “The paramedics did all they could, but unfortunately they were unable to revive your husband.”
I collapsed back onto the tile floor in complete numbness. Officers stood above me as I screamed and cried and writhed in sheer agony. I had never experienced such pain.
I’m not sure how long I carried on or what snapped me out of it, but eventually, I unwillingly gathered myself and sat up...
I needed to call my mom. I asked for my phone, but everything in the room was off-limits. The female officer offered to let me use hers. I used to think my mom’s voicemail was so annoying because she would recite her number on it (who does that when we have cell phones, mom?!?), but now I was so grateful that her number was seared into my brain in her little happy voice. I dialed her number. It rang and rang. I kept thinking, I don’t even know how to tell her. It went to voicemail. I dialed again. Voicemail. I asked the officer if I could text from her phone, but it was against the rules for company phones. I called again. Voicemail. I didn’t want to hand back the phone, but I did. A few minutes later, I asked if I could call again. She handed the phone back with an, “Of course.” I was starting to get upset. Why would my mom not answer the one time I needed her to? I tried for quite a while before I handed the phone back reluctantly.
A few minutes later, the officer looked at her phone and flashed me the screen, “I think it’s your mom.”
A sense of relief flooded me when I heard my mom’s voice. She was laughing and I could hear voices in the background. I had completely forgotten that it was her and my stepdad’s wedding anniversary and they were at a dinner party. Her voice changed when she could tell I was upset, and I heard the crowd noise fade as she stepped away from the party.
“Mom, he killed himself.”
“What?” My mom does not do chaos or drama well at all. She kind of loses her mind and freaks out, and that is exactly what she did.
I said it again, “Tim killed himself.”
More freaking out. I don’t remember exactly what was said. We talked briefly before her demeanor changed and she went into mama-manager mode, “What do you want me to do?”
I had never been one to ask for help or even take it when it was offered, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do certain things right away - and at the time, my phone was still hostage. I asked her to call my grandmother and tell her to take all electronics or devices where they could access the internet away from the two little kids and keep them distracted until I could get to them. Then, I rattled off a list of people to call. I knew that how everyone found out and who told them would matter, so my instructions were pretty specific.
“And, Mom, one more thing…” I was fighting back another physical collapse, “please get here as soon as you can.”
“I love you, baby,” I felt my mom’s words hug me through the phone.
“I love you too, Mom,” and I meant it like I never had before. And we hung up.
Jack and Kym showed up a few minutes apart. We embraced like we hadn’t seen each other In a million years and soaked each other’s clothes in tears and snot and did not care. Since I couldn’t have my mom there yet, Kym’s hugs were the next best thing. She tucked my hair behind my ear as we would pull away for a minute to just look at each other. We didn’t have to say anything, but we were both thinking, “What the hell just happened.” She would grab my face and tell me it was going to be okay and how sorry she was, and we would hug and cry some more. Jack and I embraced and cried, then he went back to the bedroom to say goodbye to his friend.
A grief counselor came in and was introduced to me. She told me her story about her brother taking his life and how it led her to her career. While she was talking, someone came up to us and told us they were getting ready to take Tim out of the house. I hadn’t been back in the closet since I ran out to meet the police. They were asking If I wanted to say goodbye...
The grief counselor chimed in and recommended that I didn’t see him like that – to let my memories be living memories. That she had been doing this a long time, and most people say they wish they hadn’t... but it was ultimately up to me. I opted to go with her suggestion.
They wheeled Tim out around that time - I couldn’t watch. I was so thankful for not being alone at that moment.
Jack left, and Kym gathered me a fresh set of clothes. I changed and Kym and I embraced on the couch as I asked the counselor a ton of questions. I’m sure some of them didn’t make sense, but she never got irritated or put me down. I had her undivided attention 110%. She gave me advice - some I didn’t want to hear. She and Kym took charge and gave other orders. For another “take charge”, but also private and shy kind of person, it was really annoying, but I now know that I am better off for having both of them (and Jack) in my corner that day.
After everyone had cleared out, it was just the two ladies and I left. They helped me gather a few things and load up my car - included in the things I never thought I would have in my lifetime were a ton of pamphlets on grief, death, and suicide, a coroner’s business card, and a handful of police officer’s business cards as well. The counselor left, and Kym and I had one last embrace and a brief chat. As the sun was setting and the Chiefs were celebrating a win in overtime, I began the two-hour drive back to my grandmother’s...
I keep saying “one of the hardest things” because the absolute hardest thing I had to do that day was tell my babies. (A close second was speaking to my children and step-children after they had found out.) I walked into my grandmother’s living room, sat on the floor, and pulled my nine and eleven-year-old in close, “Something happened today, and Dad is in heaven now.”
There was some back and forth on what those words really meant followed by screaming, howling, and unstoppable tears. I’ve chosen not to share details about that moment for now, but I can tell you that heartache really has no limits. I would have done anything at that very moment to take their pain away. It was excruciating to watch and not be able to fix it for them.
I don’t know if the tears ever stopped that evening, but we somehow eventually found ourselves in my grandmother’s guest bedroom. With each child under one arm, I stayed awake until I knew they both were asleep. I unsuccessfully tried to shut my brain off but instead drifted off from pure exhaustion at some point, only to wake up the next morning remembering the day before wasn’t a nightmare but reality. And the day after that, I woke up feeling the same way. And the day after. And the day after until the fog eventually began to lift...
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If you are suicidal, I urge you to get help now. **see the list at the bottom of this post** Tell a friend or loved one that will check on you. Check yourself in somewhere. I am not a professional, but there are professionals out there that can help. YOUR LIFE IS WORTH LIVING!!! WE ALL WANT YOU ALIVE!!! THERE IS HOPE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF WHATEVER IT IS YOU ARE GOING THROUGH!!!
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I have asked myself a million times if there was something that I could have done differently to save Tim, and I really will never know. I have to live with knowing that I didn’t, but I also have to remind myself that I wasn’t responsible for his happiness. I have had more than a few signs since his passing to let me know he is okay. We are learning to be okay too. I think if Tim could see how much pain and strife his death caused, he would not do it again. I know it was a split decision, but that decision, unfortunately, sent waves roaring like a lion through our family – some that are forever irreparable.
There have been times in the past that I’ve tried to write about this day but couldn’t. Suicide makes everything complicated. It’s not like a heart attack that can be pinpointed and explained, or like cancer that sometimes is even gracious enough to give you a warning to get your thoughts out and tell that person how you really feel now that you are staring directly at death itself. Nope. It’s sudden. And unexpected. And it leaves everyone else asking all the whys. There is no way I can tell you everything that I have experienced since Tim’s death or try to encompass my children's and step-children's journeys. Or Jack. Or Kym. Or my mom. Or my in-laws. Or anyone else. Nor should I – it's their story to tell, as this is mine.
It’s a hard path to walk when you feel like the world needs your story, but it’s a hard one to tell. It’s hard to express emotions to others that haven’t walked the same road. There’s so much of the before and after I have yet to tell – which is one reason why I’m writing my book. I will be the big 4-0 next year, and I can honestly say that 2021 was the first year in my entire life that I felt free. Free of narcissism and abuse. Free of judgment. Free to be me. But when some of that freedom came with the loss of the life of a person – a person that still deserved to live and experience their own freedom someday, a person that had children and parents and siblings and friends that needed him and loved him and wanted him around – it gets sticky and messy, and sometimes misinterpreted.
There are days when I can’t get out of bed and days when I must keep moving. There are days when six out of the eight kids are in crisis mode and days when I don’t hear from them at all. There are days when everything reminds me of Tim and others when I forget about that day. I have friends and family that I still talk to and some that I don’t. There are times when I think I didn’t take long enough to grieve, and on other days I am reminded that grief is linear and will come in waves. There are days that I beat myself up and days when I am reminded that I am a warrior. There are days when others beat me up and I let them, then days when I let the same words roll off my back because they have no clue. Days, when I have a couple of margaritas with friends that turn into a few more as our laughter, fills the night, and days I can’t keep my eyes open or force myself to speak to another person after 6 pm.
I have chronic gut issues and hair loss. I have been diagnosed with Complex PTSD, PTSD, Anxiety, Depression, Insomnia, and even ADD. There are things now that can send me spiraling that never would have before. Sometimes, the anxiety is so crippling, that I have to rearrange my plans at the last minute or even during an event. The mood swings can be intense. I’m on edge. I’m emotional. Sometimes I get a bit too fired up. It’s a lot.
I am also in therapy, and coaching, attend a great church whenever I can, and have a few really wonderful people in my corner whom I have learned to lean on. I still have a lot to learn, and I know that I will never be completely healed, but for the first time in a very long time, I am learning how to be happy too...
I have learned that everyone is responsible for their own happiness, and you must take care of yourself before you can be any good for others. When people show you who they really are, let them. You can look for someone to blame all day long, but it still won’t solve your problems. Kindness doesn’t cost a thing – you never know what someone is going through. Healthy relationships are possible and real. Love and loss can share the same space. And love is far more than butterflies or even vows and hard work – it really does exceed all limitations. That there is always room for more love. You can love someone even if they are not good for you, and someone can love you even if you aren’t good for them. That everyone is worthy of love from someone – if they want it and do their part. That it is possible to love someone and for them not to love you back someone can love you, but you don’t feel the same about them. It’s all worth the risk. I’ve learned that boundaries are important and not a lack of caring. That some people are in your life for only a season – usually to teach you something, and others are in your life forever – that is the definition of family. That some people are just not your people, and that is totally okay. That some people will never see things from your perspective, and that is totally okay too. Never judge a book by its cover – some will surprise you in a good way, and some not (so don’t be naïve either). Loss and disappointment are going to happen – it's all about how you handle the aftermath. Forgiveness sets you free. Stress manifests in your heart, soul, brain, and body – it’s up to us when we pick it up and when we lay it down. Laying it down gets harder the longer we choose to carry it. Life is short, and you never know what tomorrow might bring so do whatever it is you that want to do now! God is bigger than any religion will ever box him into and once you see it, you can’t turn back. Not everyone will understand – do it anyway.
* * * If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, dial 988
Blessings on Blessings,