To Frances Spade (from someone else who lost her mom to suicide at 13)

Dear Frances,

I've been thinking a lot about you over the last couple of days. I want to start off by saying that I'm so sorry for your loss. Losing a parent is incredibly difficult at any age, but 13 is even more tough. Not only am I sorry for the loss of your mom, but I'm so sorry that you will be going through this in the public eye, with a lot of people sharing their thoughts and opinions about your mom, her death, stigmas about mental health, and the fact that it was a suicide.

I too lost my mom to suicide when I was 13. It was in 1998 before the internet was popular, yet even still, news of my mom's death and the "mysterious" circumstances spread like wild fire. People said that I was lying. My peers speculated on the way that she died. There were rumours, lies, and a whole lot of opinions that I could have done without - and my mom was just an everyday person, not even a public figure.

Over the last 20 years I've grappled with many emotions, feelings and waves of grief. It isn't my nature to be angry, but if that's what you're feeling, it's ok. Your feelings are valid, whatever they are. A friend once shared with me that grief is like the seasons - ever present, but always changing. Over time you will run the gamut of emotions, you may have already felt like you've gone through too many to name this week.

I was very lucky to have an incredibly guidance counsellor and a very compassionate homeroom teacher when my mom died. And that guidance counsellor set me up with my high school guidance counsellor, who helped me to participate in a bereavement group in my high school. I found a great therapist 2 years ago and she's been instrumental in my continued journey. I am so grateful for those resources and support. I urge you to find that support for yourself, or talk to someone who can help you do so; It will be invaluable for the future.

With each passing day, this will now be the lens with which you view the world. Your friends' and peers' problems will likely feel small and challenging to empathize with for awhile. It isn't common for teens your age to lose a parent, especially not in this way. They may be dealing with moving out of their childhood home, getting a low grade on a test, or having a disagreement with another friend - it is okay to show compassion, set boundaries, and remove yourself from the situation if needed. Managing your own self care and self preservation in those moments is key.

As you meet people in your life who have gone through something similar, don't be afraid to be vulnerable and talk to them about your shared experiences. I have found that I have become deeply connected to those who have experienced trauma, grief, loss and the suicide of a loved one. I cherish those relationships deeply, and know that they have helped me in my own process over time.

Don't read the comments on the internet. While always a good practice, when it comes to these matters I would advise you to be even more stringent. People can be insensitive, cruel and downright nasty. You may feel attacked personally by their words and insensitivity. Save your energy and potential rage.

As the years go by, continue to take care of your own mental health and practice good self care. There will be days that will be hard - some will be predictable (like mother's day, her birthday, the loss of others, special days in your life) and others will be sneaky and catch you by surprise. Lean on your supporters, ask for help from your network and remind yourself that it's ok to not be ok.

Your mom brought joy to many people - not only with her brand, but to you, your family and those who knew her closely; her death does not take that away. Talk about your mom. Say her name. Print photos. Ask people who knew her to tell you stories about her. Repeat your favourite stories about her. When you meet new people, share her story. They won't be able to meet her, but her legacy will continue to live in you.

These are all the things I wish I could go back and tell myself. Twenty years later I am impacted deeply by my mother's life and her death, and I still miss her every day.

Kate Spade was an incredible woman who loved you very much. I am thinking of you through these challenging days, and hope that little by little, things will seem a bit brighter. Take care of yourself.

xo

Photo by Matthew Henry

20 Years of Grief

Sometimes it feels like yesterday, other times, a lifetime ago; February 24th, 2018 marks 20 years since my mom died.

Grief is a funny beast. Sometimes it's predictable, like in February. I've come to learn that each year grief is going to make itself known very prominently in February. It's cold, grey, and bleak, and so often I feel overcome with sadness that I can't entirely explain. Everyday challenges feel like a heavy weight I can't bear, and some days I struggle to just get out of bed. I've come to learn that self care is key, and do my best to be gentle, while surrounding myself with people who can be gentle for me when I've lost my way.

The February grief I'm familiar with - it's the sneaky grief that catches me by surprise. The times when I catch a glimpse of a mother and daughter doing something lovely together. The ordinary thoughts of the things she will never be a part of. The photo that falls out of a book to reveal an image of a person who I long to be near. The realization that I can't easily recall the sound of her voice. Twenty years will do that to a person.

This week I was talking to a friend whose mom died a year ago. She said that she's at a point now where her mom feels further and further away with each day that passes. I know that feeling well. I've passed through more than 7,000 days without my mom, and now she feels like a distant whisper of the person I used to know.

Last year I mentioned that this 20th anniversary scared me. 20 years somehow felt more significant. Now that I'm here, it still does, even though I know it's just another anniversary. I re-read this quote earlier this week, and it still resonates so deeply:

"As far as I can see, grief will never truly end. It may become softer over time, more gentle, and some days will feel sharp. But grief will last as long as love does -- forever. It's simply the way the absence of your loved one manifests in your heart. A deep longing, accompanied by the deepest love. Some days, the heavy fog may return, and the next day, it may recede, once again. It's all an ebb and flow, a constant dance of sorrow and joy, pain and sweet love." - Scribbles & Crumbs

Twenty years ago I experienced one of the worst days of my life. I've spent the years that have followed grieving, recovering, exploring, learning, growing and changing. I know that losing my mom at 13 has played a huge role in shaping me as a person - but I can't diminish the impact of everything else that has followed. Grief has left me forever changed, as I miss the person who gave me life, and I know that I will never be the same. 

Mary Jane - for my mom on her birthday

When I was in the sixth grade, Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill album was everything to me. It was one of the first cd's I owned, I knew all the words to all the songs and sang along with them (much to the dismay of my mom at times - she politely explained that it wasn't a great idea for me to belt out all of the words to You Oughta Know...) It was an iconic album for all of the girls in my class, and we bonded over creating new lyrics to Ironic to share some of our elementary school problems.

I grew up listening to a lot of music in our household. My parents introduced me to Motown, Diana Ross, Tina Turner, Madonna, Bob Marley, Sheryl Crow and more. Alanis made her way into the rotation, and I was proud to share the same musical tastes as my mom.

There was one song on the album that we disagreed about: track nine - Mary Jane. At that time it was probably my least favourite and I would skip over it whenever we were listening to the cd. If my mom was around, she would ask me to go back and play the song. I didn't understand why she liked it so much, and hadn't yet come to the realization that perhaps it was the song on the album that she most related to. I would oblige and let the song play out.

The year that album became a favourite in our house was a tough one for our family. We were living two hours away from Toronto, almost all of our friends and family were back home, my dad was commuting back and forth for work, and my mom was especially unhappy. It was really hard on all of us, and I know an especially bad year for my mom's depression. We lost her less than two years later.

After my mom's death, Mary Jane had new meaning.

It's a long way down
On this roller coaster
The last chance streetcar
Went off the track
And you're on it...

What's the matter Mary Jane?
Tell me...

Spending time reading her journal and examining the time leading up to her death gave me new insight into how she may have been feeling, and why this song resonated with her so deeply.

This will be the 20th time I've watched her birthday pass on the calendar since her death.

In February it will be 20 years since she's been gone.

I still wish we were celebrating her birthday together. 

I've sang Mary Jane many times since my mom died - on my own, in the shower, in rehearsal and in shows. It holds a special place in my heart, because I know it was a song my mom really enjoyed. I wish she too could have watched me sing it onstage. While the rest of Jagged Little Pill holds a lot of nostalgia for me, Mary Jane is on another level. 

I never skip track 9 anymore.

Happy birthday mom xo

---

Vocals: Ashley Gibson Piano: Tara Litvack Guitar: Brandon Wall

Recorded at the 120 Diner by Chris James. Special thanks to Jeni Walls

How I Grieve

It's February 24th, which means that it's the 19th anniversary of my mother's death.

Year after year, February throws me into a tizzy and leaves me feeling sad. I've shared before the idea that grief is like the seasons - ever changing, but always present. While I know this and believe it, February continues to hit me like a tonne of bricks every year.

My mom isn't buried in a cemetery, nor do I have a place to visit her in any way, so each year my blog has become a forum for me to honour her memory and reflect on each new season of grief. This is where I'm at today.

It's ok to not be ok.

I've said this before, and I'll say it again. Most of us are guilty of reassuring people that we're ok. I myself found myself telling my therapist that I was "mostly ok" -- and that's totally fine if it's true. But it's also really ok if it's not. And it's also ok to admit it.

In this glossy, social media-driven world it's easy to view one another's lives as polished, easy, ideal or even perfect. But you never really know what's happening behind the photo or what their expression looks like in between camera clicks.

I encourage you to truly ask those around you how they are and adequately prepare yourself for a real and true answer. It's not always sunshine, rainbows and unicorns -- and that's really ok.

And in those darker days, I encourage you to reach out. Ask for help if you need/want it. Practice self care that helps you to feel safe. And do your best to find a glimpse of light in the darkness, just to make the day a tiny bit easier.

Feelings are valid, whatever they are

In past years I've gotten down on myself for anticipating February 24th or just feeling upset as soon as the calendar turned to February. I've worried about being "too upset" or "getting myself worked up". I've been working to remember that my feelings are valid and normal and it's totally ok to feel what I'm feeling. Getting anxious over "getting too upset" doesn't serve anyone, especially me.

Grief is such a difficult thing - it comes in waves and sometimes hits you when you least expect it. There are so many things that have triggered my grief - other deaths, special occasions, difficult life changes, happy life changes, photos, memories, conversations -- the list goes on and on.

I've found myself feeling sad over the last few weeks and doing my best to practice self care, but I've had moments where I've been paralyzed by grief. I've started and ended workouts really quickly, cancelled plans and put myself in bed to manage my emotions. I've been having some really helpful conversations with my therapist and being honest with where I'm at day to day, hour to hour.

I read this quote last night in Brené Brown's book, The Gifts of Imperfection "owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do", which rang especially true.

Showing or expressing feelings is not a sign of weakness. It's not a competition to try and be better or stronger. Feelings are valid - whatever they are.

19 years later, it's still important for me to honour my mom

I moved into my new apartment on January 1st and I've been enjoying making it my own and creating little projects for myself. One of the things that makes me really happy is that there are lots of pictures of my mom throughout my space. I look up in most rooms and she's there.

My mom wasn't a huge fan of having her photo taken, so each of these photos feels like a pretty special gift. Having these photos, talking about her, sharing my thoughts through social media helps me to feel closer to her.

I'm afraid of next year

It blows my mind that 19 years have passed since I've had any contact or a conversation with my mom. I have no frame of reference for what it would be like to have her in my life. I'm an entirely different, grown up person from 13 year old me.

If I'm being totally honest, next year's anniversary scares me a lot. Two decades. 7300 days. Her physical presence in my life feels like more than a lifetime ago. 20 years feels like it has added significance somehow.

Today I will feel what I need to feel. I will continue to practice good self care, surround myself with wonderful people who I love, take time and space to feel safe and remind myself that whatever my feelings are today, they're valid, real and significant.

"As far as I can see, grief will never truly end. It may become softer over time, more gentle, and some days will feel sharp. But grief will last as long as love does -- forever. It's simply the way the absence of your loved one manifests in your heart. A deep longing, accompanied by the deepest love. Some days, the heavy fog may return, and the next day, it may recede, once again. It's all an ebb and flow, a constant dance of sorrow and joy, pain and sweet love." - Scribbles & Crumbs

You are Missing From Me

Tu me manques. You are missing from me.

It seems so much more fitting than just “I miss you” as we say in English. And 18 years after my mom’s death it almost feels redundant and insignificant to say that I miss her.

But I do.

I realize her absence when I’m really excited about something – whether it be a new job, a great day, a cute dress, a new friend, an exciting opportunity.

I realize she’s not there when I want to pick up the phone and call her to talk about a tough decision or challenge that I’m facing in my life. Even up to age 13 I always felt that I could talk to her about anything. I watch friends and family members and colleagues and movie characters and complete strangers talk with their mothers, and I am reminded that I can’t do the same. That’s what moms are there for, right?

I miss her every single day and over the 18 years that she’s been gone I’ve noticed the mom-shaped space in my life. It's not empty, but more like a shadow that is always present. 

This year we lost my Nan. It brought up old feelings and more sadness. While our relationship had its challenges, I loved her and she was still a connection to my mother. Hearing that her house had been sold was a blow to my heart – I had so many memories of my mom in that space and visiting there was such a comfort. That’s gone now too.

With each passing year that she’s gone, it reinforces the fact that she’s not coming back. This isn’t some long vacation or holiday or visit to another country.

As the years go by I continue to wonder what my mom would be like - would she be happy to celebrate her birthday? Would she be on Facebook? What would our relationship be like? What kind of music would she enjoy? How often would we connect? How different would my life be with her in it? I don't know.

Today would have been her 55th birthday. I like to think we would have celebrated. But instead she is missing from me and every single poppy reminds me of my loss. I know that they carry a strong significance, but I can’t help but associate Remembrance Day with another birthday that I won’t get to celebrate with my mom. 11/11 feels like an extra painful day.

Every day my mom is missing from me, but today I'm feeling the loss more significantly.

Happy birthday mom. Tu me manques. 

What Nan Taught Me About Love

It's been a really surprising couple of weeks. A week and a half ago I got a text from my uncle Glen late in the evening to say that my Nan had had a heart attack, but she was doing okay. I anticipated sending flowers to the hospital and then speaking with Nan in a few days. The next morning I got another message saying that things were not good, and my aunt Sharon and I made the decision to leave work and go to Belleville because we didn't know how things would progress.

We got to the hospital in time to see Nan and have her recognize that we were both there. It was surreal. As the day went on, we came to understand the impact of the repercussions of everything happening in her body that led to the heart attack and everything that happened as a result. She didn't make it through the night.

I'm so thankful that I got to say goodbye - but it was all truly shocking as everything unfolded so quickly.

As I've talked about before, grief brings up a lot of old feelings for me and I found it especially hard since it was my mom's mom. I'm so thankful for the incredible support I received from family and friends as I went through the motions of life in the days that followed. I was also really grateful for the love that surrounded Nan in the hospital on the day she died.

We had a celebration of life for her last week, which was attended by much of our family and friends. I spoke at the event, and I wanted to share my eulogy here as another way to honour Nan's memory and share my feelings about what her life taught me.

---

For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Ashley. Thelma was my grandmother by relation, but to me, she was always my Nan. I was never allowed to call her grandma or grandmother or granny (because those made her sound old) – so Nan she was.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I wanted to say about Nan today and how I wanted to express my feelings to celebrate her life. I’ve reflected on many memories that we shared over the years – from times at Tobe’s bingo hall, swimming in the backyard pool, getting my butt kicked at crib until I figured out how to beat her, having lunch at Zellers, eating lemon meringue pie to my hearts content, that time my mom warned her about my 3-year-old brother Cory putting her in a headlock, that time that 3 year-old Cory succeeded at putting Nan in a headlock she couldn’t get out of, that time I almost got married, Christmases, birthdays, graduations, shows– the list really goes on and on.

I’m the oldest daughter of her daughter Debbie, who died in 1998. Over the last week I’ve felt so many of the same feelings that I felt following my mom’s death – shock, disbelief, sadness and grief. But that’s not what I want to talk about.

Today I want to talk about love.

Because in the last week, I’ve realized that love is one of the greatest gifts that Nan gave me. Our family is unique – to say the least. But underneath it all, there’s a lot of love. And when I think back on the family reunions, the Christmases, the summers spent in the backyard – that love is a constant.

I remember waking up on Christmas morning in Belleville at the crack of dawn, and Nan being the first one to get up with me. This was always to the dismay of my mom who was NOT a morning person, even on the best of days. Nan’s spunk, excitement, and twinkle was always present and those mornings were filled with love – even if it was 6am, still dark out and we were the only ones crazy enough to be awake.

Nan taught me how to cook and bake all sorts of treats, which probably helped to cultivate my love for food. We would make up silly songs and put on cooking shows as we danced around the kitchen. We would laugh and be silly as we baked up a storm, with everything we made being infused with love (which obviously made it more delicious)

When I try to explain Nan to people, I tell them a story about when I was in college and visiting Belleville. I was sleeping and she came to wake me first thing in the morning. At my bedside, she said “Ashley, I’ve been thinking about it all night, you’re such a beautiful girl with a beautiful smile, and it’s just a couple of teeth – I want to get you braces” Still half asleep I said thank you, and a few weeks later I was in the orthodontists chair. Nan was known for speaking her mind, but she did it with love underneath it all. I smile bigger because of it.

As I got older, Nan was always very curious about the people that I dated and I realized that it was because she equated happiness with love – and didn’t want me to be without it. In the last couple of years, she would always ask me if I was “still going with Corbin” and when I said that I was, she would tell me how happy she was that I had found him. Because she held love in such high regard and truly wanted that for the people who were important to her.

What really inspired this reflection was the time we spent at the hospital last week - because there was so much love surrounding her in the room when she died. Love from my uncle Glen, my aunt Sharon, Martin’s children, friends, the ICU staff, people sending good wishes and prayers, but most of all Martin.

Seeing the two of them share their last moments together was one of the most beautiful and heartbreaking things I’ve ever seen. Watching Nan look over and make sure that he was ok. Hearing Martin say that he was going to hold on for as long as he could.

Every moment.
Every breath.
That is love.

It's been said that grief is the last act of love we have to give to those we have loved. Where there is deep grief, there was love.

Nan’s life and her death has made me think closely about what we leave behind when we leave this world – and Nan has left behind many memories, experiences, very special people and most of all, love.

To the motherless daughters on Mother's Day

Ah, Mother's Day. Here we are again for another year.

I was in a bit of a funk last week - things were busy at work, I was hustling in my coaching business and I just didn't feel like I had any downtime. I felt burnt out for the first time in awhile. And then I also realized that the halo of Mother's Day was shining down on me, and my feelings made even more sense.

I'm always hyper-aware of Mother's Day and how quickly the cards and flowers and mentions pop up after Easter. Part of me thinks "shouldn't every day be Mother's Day?" With my mom being gone 18 years, I think that's how I feel.

I was reading an article about Michelle McNamara's death yesterday and something her daughter said really stuck with me: “When your mom dies you’re the best memory of her. Everything you do and say is a memory of her.”

I've often said that I am the person I am now because of my mom's life and her death. Losing her at 13 took my life on a different course and things turned out a bit differently than perhaps I envisioned. A family member recently told me that I looked like her - which I took as a huge compliment and was also a bit hard to hear.


To the other motherless daughters - I feel you.

And I'm right here with you amid the greeting cards and flowers and brunches and plans and ridiculous email subject lines. As a motherless daughter you know that even a phone call would mean the world. For us, every day is a version of mother's day - and we carry it heavy in our hearts.

I keep waiting for the year that Mother's Day will just pass like any other day in the year. Here we are at number 18 and I haven't gotten there yet.

My best suggestions for managing the day include making nice plans for yourself - with someone special, a friend, another maternal figure or just on your own. Make yourself a priority and be kind to yourself. You may be fine, you may not be -- and that's totally ok. Feelings

Find a way to honour your mom -- maybe through journalling, visiting a special place or even just talking about her. Sharing memories of my mom is one of my very favourite things. There are so many people who are now a part of my life who didn't get the chance to know her, and so just talking about her is very important to me.

You're not alone in your experience and we motherless daughters and those who feel sadness on this day need to stick together.

As I wrote in the above card in 1993, "you're a very special part of our lives and you'll always hold a very special place in our hearts". Little did I know how true that sentiment would truly be as the years went on.

So here we are.

Being a constant memory of my mom. And holding onto any and every memory I have of her for dear life. Sunday will pass and Monday will be a brand new day.

More posts on Mother's Day (2011, 2012, 2013)

A New Season of Grief

A friend recently shared the idea that grief is like the seasons - ever present, but always changing. I know I've mentioned this idea before, but it has deeply resonated with me this month as I approached the 18th anniversary of my mom's death.

February usually haunts me. It's the whole reason why I started the Life is Sweet series and performed 2 shows in my mom's honour. Those projects gave me a place to focus my energy and remember my mom in a cold, bleak, grey month that always felt like it was hanging over me like a dark cloud. In 18 years, I've figured out that I need to practice great self care in February, ask for help and give myself things to look forward to. 

I realized that this year was a different season for me about 2 weeks into February. 

I felt calmer. 

Sadness wasn't my predominant emotion.

I was in control of my feelings. 

As I've reflected on this change in my February demeanour, I've come to attribute it to a few things in my life right now:

• I feel really happy and fulfilled in the work that I'm doing and in my relationships
• I've been practicing good self care by working out each morning, nourishing my body with delicious food, drinking lots of water and getting a good amount of sleep
• I've developed a daily practice of gratitude and spend a few minutes doing positive visualization each night
• I'm going on a cruise in less than 3 weeks and I'm really excited for the downtime, time with Corbin and friends, sunshine and the opportunity to swim with dolphins
• The weather in Toronto hasn't been entirely miserable this year - it was 10 degrees on Saturday!

Corbin said to me last week that he felt like this had been my best February since we had been together and I have to agree. I think it's actually been my best February in a very long time, maybe ever. Perhaps this is a new season? Maybe February doesn't have to hit me like a tonne of bricks every year? Right now I need to get through today. 

My amazing friends and family have been a huge support to me this month. My Nan called last week to ask me how I was doing because she "knows February is hard for me". I woke up to a text message from my sweet aunt sending her love. Corbin made plans to take me out for dinner tonight. A friend (who has known me since the 8th grade when my mom died) just messaged me as I was finishing this post to say that she was thinking of me. I expressed my gratitude for her thoughtful message and she said "I wouldn't let today go by without one". Other friends have sent their love and offered to support me in any way I needed. Asking for help can be really tough, especially when you're an independent, self-sufficient person, but I'm very blessed to have beautiful people in my life who have my back. 

Sometimes it feels like I'm grasping at thin air for a memory of my mom. I have photos, stories, anecdotes, some mementos and her journal, but I wish I had more. Over the years I realize how far away I truly am from her, and that time is only going to increase as I get older. 

This morning I pulled out my mom's journal and read a few pages. I stopped at the letter she added on the very last page for my brother and I in December of 1993:

To Ashley & Cory:

I always knew I wanted to be a mother even before I had you both. You're more than I ever dreamed. 

Each of you is a very special gift from God. I hope I've been the best mother I could be. I hope to always be a positive influence in your lives. 

I know the importance of your individuality and independence. 

I want the best for both of you always. 

I love you both with all my heart. 

I hope to be here with you both for a very long time. 

My love for you both forever. Love Mom

I could re-read that second last line over and over again. I wish I could tell her the impact her life and death has truly had on my life. 

This is what grief looks like for me today, February 24th, 2016. 

In 18 years I've come to learn that grief is always changing. Tomorrow, next month or next year could be entirely different. I don't know because I haven't gotten there yet; I do my best to figure it out along the way.

Life is (still) Sweet

Life is sweet.
I want you to remember that.
It's something that I have believed for as long as I can remember. And it all started with my mom, Debbie.

My mom died by suicide when I was 13, and her life (and death) have greatly impacted my life. I've always been very open about my mom's death and opening up a dialogue about suicide and mental health, because I truly believe that it is something we don't talk about enough in our society.

For the last 3 years, every February I have hosted 'Life is Sweet' month here on my blog. It started with a show that I did to honour my mom's memory and then I thought that hosting a series of guest blog posts would be an incredible way to open up an even bigger conversation about mental health, loss and grief.

From 2013-2015 more than 50 people shared their stories candidly. Their bravery had a huge ripple effect on those who read the posts and the dialogue that followed. I shared posts from friends, family members, former lovers, internet acquaintances and complete strangers, of all ages, backgrounds and life stories. I was continually inspired, moved, and often brought to tears by their stories and their willingness to share.

Some participants told me things they had never shared publicly. Others told me how thankful they were for the opportunity to write about their experience and how it greatly impacted their life. In sharing these posts and my story through this blog series and my Life is Sweet shows, many other people told me their own stories of mental health, mental illness, grief and loss. 

Year after year, the Life is Sweet series has taught me that we need to keep the conversation going - it's not about one day, one week or one month - it needs to be happening year round, because mental illness is a thing that is happening every day in the lives of those around us. All of these people are a reminder that the conversation doesn't end and that it's up to all of us to end the negative stigma around mental illness. 

This project has brought me closer to my mom. Since 1999, February has always filled me with dread - it's cold, dark and dreary here in Canada and to make matters worse, I've always had to contend with my mom's death anniversary at the end of it. It's been 18 years since my mom died and over the last few years I've been so grateful to not only share her story, but to bring a positive light to her death. My blog posts and show have been an opportunity for new people to get to know my mom, and in a way, for me to spend time with her too. I continue to miss her every day. 

These are all of the stories that have been shared from 2013-2015. In the future I hope to categorize them by topic, but wanted to start by sharing them all in one place. I encourage you to read them, share them and keep the conversation going.

February 2013

Life is Sweet, Even in February

Finding Sweetness in Panic

Discovering Her True Self

Like Jackie Chan or Chuck Norris or Something

Left Behind

Writing Her Own Destiny

It Does Get Better

The Science Behind the Mind Body Connection

Demons and Darlings

Loss to Love

Everything is About Infertility - Even Missing Grandma

It's Okay to Not Be Okay

I Want You to Know that Life is Sweet

On the Pursuit of Happiness

The Silver Lining in Healing an Incurable Disease

A Little More Time - Part One / Part Two

More than Just the Baby Blues

Flowers

Know that your Best is Always Enough

Six Years. Brighter Still. 

Twenty Five Years

Missing You

Tales from the 6th Grade

All I Can Give You is Love

Let the Light Shine In

One Ballet Class

Removing the Stigma Surrounding Mental Health

Everything the Life is Sweet Project Has Taught Me

February 2014

Life is Sweet Month - February 2014

The Outgoing Agoraphobic's Guide to Going Outside

All I Wanted Was to Be Listened To

Finding Forgiveness

Getting Back to Me

When Every Day Becomes a Chore

How to Support Someone Living with Mental Illness

Anxiety and Muffin Trays

What's Happening to Me?

Every Day

Does Anyone Really Enjoy a Sequel?

A Beautiful Mess

Life is Sweet and Full of Acceptance

A Gift Nonetheless

Search of the Spirit

Jigsaw Satisfaction

Stranded

Life isn't Always Easy

Time Capsule

Accepting the Sadness

Remembering My Mom and Her Love of Theatre

Memory Lane

It's Still For You Mom

Celebrating Days

Thoughts on a Life Worth Living

All I Know

Life is Sweet - Let's Keep Talking

February 2015

#BellLetsTalk and Life is Sweet 2015

The Other Side of the Story

Awful Sweet, to be a Little Butterfly

Something Sweet From Nothing

How to Lose Someone

Suicide, God and Comments on the Internet

Why My Mum Would Rather Have Cancer Than Bipolar Disorder

Fire Within

Yesterday Was Fine, Wasn't It?

My Year with Clinical Depression. How I Fought Back and Still Fight Every Day. 

Other Posts About My Mom, Mental Health and Grief

The S Word

Smile, Open Your Eyes, Love and Go On

You're Falling Away from Me - What They Don't Tell You About Mother's Day

Dusting Off the Grief Box

To My Mother on Her 50th Birthday

A Motherless Daughter: 13 Years Later

How to Survive Mother's Day as a Motherless Daughter (or Son)

Oh they told you life is hard, misery from the start, it's dull, it's slow, it's painful 

But I tell you life is sweet, in spite of misery, there's so much more, be grateful

- Natalie Merchant

Life is sweet.
I want you to remember that.

How to Lose Someone

Teresa has contributed to the Life is Sweet series for the last 2 years (you can read her previous pieces here and here), and sent me this post even before I had officially decided if I was going to be doing the series again. This piece resonates deeply with me, as I'm sure it will for anyone who has experienced the loss of someone that they love. 

If you weren’t expecting the news that someone you loved has died, feel the air audibly be sucked out of your chest in what feels like one long breath. If you were expecting this news, even if you are sitting beside them when it happens, feel the air be sucked out of your chest all the same.  Immediately cry, or stand in shock. Either is fine. Look around and marvel at your surroundings, wonder how people can be walking and talking, how your refrigerator can still drone on humming and your neighbours can still be chatting over the fence when the whole world has been turned upside down. 

Poke the pain of death like you would a cavity: Tongue it occasionally, remember the person you just lost in detail and then immediately regress and think of nothing when it starts to make you feel like you are swallowing a lump of cotton.  Don’t think too deeply of the person yet; do not let yourself think of how their hair smelled, or how their crooked smile would make you laugh no matter what or how they hated pickles.  Don’t think of how when you called he used to say ‘Hello, my little love’, because you knew he thought of you as the definition of the word, you were love. Don’t think of how your fathers face would light up when his favorite Beatles song came on the radio, or how your mothers hands always smelled like basil or how salty your lovers lips tasted the last time you kissed them goodbye. Don’t think of any of those things now or you will not make it through.

Haphazardly pick out clothing and pack a suitcase composed of every black garment you own, spend no time picking out anything of significance, anything you wear will be associated with this day, you will forever look at your sweater and think ‘I was wearing this when I found out you died’. Go to a funeral home; shake hands with someone you immediately hate for the need of their presence alone. When the funeral director says ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, wonder how someone can use such a common place word to describe what is happening right now. This is not a loss, this is a bomb. You lose your keys, your parking ticket, your shoes and you may think you are going to lose your mind if this man refers to your loved one in past tense one more time. This is all okay.

Turn on your autopilot. Be with your family and try to awkwardly comfort one another. My family calls this bonding time ‘fighting’. Say thank you for fruit trays, add their name to the inventory of people you must later thank in card form for bringing sustenance that will inevitably go to waste. Dress up in your black clothes and somehow make it through the services we put ourselves through. Ask yourself questions like ‘if I wear makeup and look good, will people think I didn’t really love him/her’? The answer is no, by the way. 

If there is a open casket wake, you should practice learning to swallow the vomit in your throat before the first time you see your loved one. Wonder in your head if this is the artists interpretation of what they think your beloved should look like. Then stand next to the body in the line of your wounded family and present yourselves like you are on the firing range. Present the dead to the mourners like a circus attraction and be disgusted with yourself when you say ‘well here he is, yes he looks very good considering’.

Watch the funeral from an out-of-body standpoint. Distance yourself if needed. If you can’t stop crying, berate yourself for not being strong for others. If you can’t seem to cry, berate yourself for not being emotional enough. Listen to people say the stupidest things. Many people will come up to you and tell you where they were when they heard, as though the person you loved was an assassinated president. They will ask without an ounce of subtlety what happened in excruciating detail, and you will be forced to recount it over and over and over and over until you are gripping the side of the sink in a funeral home bathroom.  Look yourself in the eye and tell yourself that this is it, this is hell and you are living through it. These first few days will be a mixture of devastation and love and sadness and you will not find a way to balance it all. 

Become immediately horrified at yourself the first time you laugh or find yourself happy afterwards.  Become disgusted with happiness in general, even its smallest measure. Find yourself immediately hating people who say things to you like ‘they are in a better place now’ or ‘only the good die young’ as though these thoughtless placations are going to cushion the gaping hole left in your life. 

After the services, begin the task of actual grief, the one that happens for the next few months after everyone is gone and thinks that you should have that whole sadness thing wrapped up by now. Obsess over what your loved one would think of everything you are doing. Have a good day and then watch it go to smithereens the first time you pick up the phone to call them and tell them a funny joke, only to be met with a disconnected line. Or pay the bill for a year so you can listen to the voicemail recording over and over, because you cannot bear the thought of this little piece of your universe going away.  The first time you find yourself in the middle of the grocery store putting your loved ones favorite items in the cart, just leave. Walk away. Give your self permission to lose your marbles a little. The world is your grief oyster and you can do whatever you want. Try and get through the distribution of their possessions without driving yourself mad. Keep what you want, for as long as you want. Don’t let anyone tell you that you need to move on, tell them to go away. Eventually, when you feel like it, keep their favorite sweater and coffee mug and only things that will make you smile and give the rest away. Positively go mad trying to decide what to do with intimate items, because throwing away your loved ones undershirts and socks seems rude and insulting to them. Donate it to somewhere that can use it. Spend a week in your bathrobe. Or get up everyday and walk out of your house fresh as a daisy, whatever makes you feel better. Do nothing because you think you’re supposed to or because some grief book told you to.

Eventually one day, wake up and not feel an immediate sense of dread. I don’t say that like a platitude meant for the grieving, some one size fits all piece of advice that will wash away your sorrows. I say that with all the love in the world and with the experience of losing both parents, a fiancee and several family members and friends before the age of 25. I say that because it’s the only piece of advice that ever helped me. I wish I could remember who said it to me. My fiancees funeral was a blur, a play I was in, one where people said varying levels of disgusting things to me: you will meet someone else, you are young, he did not suffer. He wasn’t even in the ground yet and I had people telling me to get over it, to not cry because he ‘wouldn’t want me to’ (what he would have wanted was to BE ALIVE you old bat, I remember screaming in my head). Then finally either someone recognized my tight smile or took pity on me or maybe (as I like to think) she passed on this sentence because someone once gave it to her when she needed it. I don’t remember her face or her voice, just a hand on my shoulder and a woman saying ‘Time ain’t gonna fix this for you sweetheart. Neither will moving on or meeting someone else, this right here is gonna hurt for the rest of your life. I’m not gonna sell you promises and assurances that probably won’t come true, but I will promise you this: One day in the not-so-distant future, you will wake up and this will not be the first thing you think about’.

I clung to that sentence like a life raft, clung to the idea of that day when I would wake up and not have to remember what happened to my life all over again. I clung to it until it was true and if you’re reading this and recognizing yourself in these words then I’m here to pass them onto you and promise you that one day it will be true for you too.

Hold on. 

Teresa is a writer, traveler, nutritionist, tour manager and hula hoop champion.  She likes bukowski, the ocean, holding hands, Roswell reruns, and long, romantic walks down the organic produce aisle. You can find her on twitter @thebandiswithme 

It's Still For You, Mom

I had a weird feeling pass over me about a month before my show, The Life is Sweet Project. It didn't feel right anymore.

After more than a year of working on the initial version of the show and then the "new" version, it didn't feel like me and I felt as though it had lost its focus. I realized that I had gotten lost in "ohmygosh a show that I've written is being produced by a theatre company and it's gonna be at the Toronto Centre for the Arts" instead of the "I'm doing this show to pay tribute to my mom because I miss her every day". The intention to get people talking about mental health was always there, but I got blindsided by the "thing" rather than the motivation. I had immersed myself in a process that I thought was the right way to go, but somehow managed to lose sight of the original objective which resulted in a major disconnect.

Thankfully I realized this about 3 weeks before the show and brought it back to its roots again. After our next rehearsal, the show felt settled and my intention was clear. I felt so connected to my mom on the day of the show. On Rogers Daytime and CBC's Here and Now, I talked about our relationship and what it was like to lose my mom to suicide at age 13. I felt confident during soundcheck and in the closing chorus of 'Mama' I felt grounded and close to her.

It's been 16 years since her death and I'm holding on for dear life to anything that will help me feel connected to her.

I wish I could tell you about the last conversation we had.
Or remember the exact sound of her voice.
Or the best piece of advice she ever gave me.
Or what it felt like when she hugged me.
But a lot of it is fading and it's terrifying.

One of the (very) few photos where my mom is smiling

On February 10th I got up in front of a packed audience to talk about how my mom's death made me the person that I am and how the tragedy of her death helps me to more intensely appreciate the happiness and the sweetness in my life. And while that's all very honest and truthful, I still lay in my bed sobbing this weekend thinking about the fact that she'll never meet my boyfriend or that I'll never be able to call her up and take her out for lunch.

She's been gone for 16 years and her life and death both impact me so greatly each and every day still. Days like today make me miss her more intensely and I remain thankful for the time we had together. I am reminded to embrace the sadness and find joy in the memories I do have of her. I'm still trying to figure it all out.

As I did last year, the show has helped me to feel an intense closeness to my mom through sharing her life with a whole set of new people. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to perform my show to honour her memory once again, and that through this series of blog posts, her death cultivates something great and genuinely helps other people.

I will forever be missing my mom and attempting to hold onto the pieces of her memory. I will remind myself of all that I've learned and gained as a result of her death. I will allow myself to feel sadness when thoughts and memories arise. But mostly I will remember that what I do is for her and that the show and the blog series have taken a lot of the sadness and grey out of a month that I normally despise. And that the whole Life is Sweet movement has brought me closer to my mom than ever before.

It's still for you, Mom.

Getting Back to Me

Since my mom's death, there have only been a few people who I have met who have dealt with the suicide of an immediate family member. Adrianna and I connected through the theatre / Twitter scene in Toronto a few years ago and though we've only spent a bit of time together, I've always felt greatly connected due to her experience and the path she has taken as a result. She has been a great supporter of  Life is Sweet month and I'm grateful to have her as a guest blogger.

Loss is sometimes greater than leaving your umbrella on the subway. Sometimes you lose someone you love. Forever. That’s what happened in the year 2010. It was a foggy November night when a knock at the door changed everything. My brother Andrew had killed himself. My father wanted to tell me in person so he came to my doorstep at midnight on November 12th 2010. Ever since then, things haven’t been the same. I lost more than my brother that night: I lost my home, because my boyfriend left so I had to move. I had to give my cat away. My workplace was forcing me to take minimal hours. I felt like I had lost my life. I felt like I had lost my self.

Bereavement was harsh and looked a lot like depression. I have select memories of the first year of bereavement. They are dark, sad, and drenched in alcohol and loud music. But through it all I was writing in my diary. Despite having two therapists (one just for me and one for family and group therapy), I felt like I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I wrote and wrote and wrote to try to work stuff out. In my past life, a.k.a. pre-2010, I was a playwright of historic adaptations. So writing was a part of my old self that carried over into the new. I would write out conversations with my brother. I would write out alternative endings to our story set in other universes. I would write out the things I ate for breakfast, on the rare occasions I managed to eat breakfast. I just wrote. It was my private therapy. In the end I would use those diary entries and fake letters to deceased and living loved ones as fodder for a solo show about bereavement and suicide—“Everything but the Cat…”. Creating this not-so-one-woman show, dealing with all the above, was my attempt to come out of this with something helpful, something to contribute, something to say about the terrible truth of suicide.

I want Andrew’s story to continue. I hope to educate those around his age that they are not alone. My brother was depressed and needed to hear he wasn’t the only one experiencing the weight of transitioning into adulthood. He needed to hear that life can get pretty dark, sad, lonely and downright awful at times. But in an age where everything is photo-shopped, auto-corrected, and Instagram-filtered, it’s hard to remember that. It’s so easy to be tricked into believing that everyone else’s lives are so frickin’ perfect. So when yours is not, you question yourself. What am I doing wrong? I’m wrong? I am wrong, it’s me. And that can be a dangerous headspace to live in.

I want to tour my show to get that conversation out of the dark and into the open. I want people to know that failure in life is not optional – everyone experiences it. Really, failure is a gift; a gift that sucks. But the part that failure sucks out of you makes room for something else, something potentially better, something new! I want to help people embrace that dark feeling and understand that it is only temporary; it is only a stepping-stone towards something much better. And what if the embrace lasts too long or you don’t know how to let it go? I want people to know that it’s okay to talk to a therapist. It’s okay to see a doctor about medication. It’s okay to do what you have to do to get yourself back to you.

I lost my brother. I lost my self. I will always miss my brother, but I won’t ever miss who I was, because it helped me get here — to me.

Adrianna Prosser is a Toronto based actor and playwright. You can learn more about her project at  www.everythingbutthecat.net

How to Survive Mother's Day as a Motherless Daughter (or Son)

Photo by Shopify Partners from Burst

Every year just after Easter, the emails start to flood my inbox:

GIFTS MOM WILL LOVE
11 MOTHER'S DAY GIFTS THAT WILL BLOW MOM'S MIND
SAVE BIG ON THESE DEALS FOR MOM

Everyone from Shopper's Drug Mart, KFC, Netflix to various blogs, Pinterest pins and tweets along with folks around my office and randoms on the street - they're all talking Mother's Day and I can't seem to escape it. I'm sure most people don't even notice the subtle change in the spring marketing messages, but as a motherless daughter I feel like it's a constant reminder that I haven't been able to send my mom a card or flowers to celebrate this 'special day' in 15 years.

Like clockwork each year at the beginning of May I start to get a little bit more sensitive and emotional. Things that wouldn't normally upset me send me into a bit of a spiral. I'm less confident and more caught up in the small stuff. I've started to recognize this pattern in myself in recent years and am slowly developing strategies to cope with one of the three toughest days of the year for me (next to her death anniversary and birthday). Here are some things that are helping me this year:

Be gentle - you may find that days like Mother's Day become a trigger for you, just as they have for me. Breathe and allow yourself to feel whatever it is that you're feeling. Losing a parent is tough on any given day and it's hard to be constantly reminded of your loss by the media and those around you.

Practice good self care - take your time and do something nice for yourself. Take a walk in the sunshine. Journal. Nap. Make a nourishing meal. Have tea. Treat yourself to a new book or manicure. It doesn't need to be elaborate or crazy, but give yourself some time and space to give yourself a little bit of extra TLC

Surround yourself with people you love - you may need a distraction or maybe you want to spend some time talking about your feelings, and these are the people you can count on. Try to communicate how they can support you through this tough day and don't be afraid to ask for their help. You know you'd do the same for them. I'm so thankful for some very special people in my life who have been a wonderful source of support this week.

Find a way to honour your mom - it's unlikely that you'll take advantage of any of the Mother's Day gift guides or sales, but it's lovely if you can find a way to celebrate this day. It might be writing a note for her in your journal, planting flowers in her memory or even just taking some time to think about her. Rather than viewing Mother's Day as a negative, use it as an opportunity to reflect on your mother's memory

Make plans for "the day" - It can include any of the above strategies or hiding from the world altogether. I like to give myself something to look forward to on Mother's Day as it helps me to get through the week. This year I've asked someone I love very much to spend the day with me. I'm not sure what it will entail just yet, but knowing that I'm not going to have to face the day alone is a huge relief 

Last, but not least, remember that it's just a day. 

This is a big one for me to remind myself of. I've come to learn that dates hold a large significance for me, but also that I will make it through. I'm doing everything I can to be gentle with myself and employ as many of these strategies as I can while still allowing myself to feel whatever I need to feel. I'm incredibly blessed to be surrounded by the most wonderful people and look forward to getting through this tough day for another year. 

What do you do to get past days that are challenging? How do you take care of yourself?

Everything the Life is Sweet project has taught me

I wasn't sure what to expect when I announced the Life is Sweet project. I knew that I was going to produce a show to honour my mom's life and put together a month of blog posts about people's experiences with mental illness and loss. I knew that I wanted to honour my mom's memory, get people talking about mental illness and share my perspective on life. I didn't realize how much more I (and those around me) would gain from the experience. Here are some things I've learned along the way:

I have learned that given the right opportunity, nearly anyone can share their story. I have been so moved by the candor, bravery and respect that has been shown on my blog this month. I have heard from many of the guest bloggers that writing their post has changed their life and that they were grateful for the opportunity. If you haven't already, take some time to go and read their posts and share their stories. I am so indebted to them for all of their honesty and love. As a result of the show and the blog, many others that I know as well as complete strangers have opened up to me and shared how mental illness and loss has impacted their lives.  Many have asked to write next year if I decide to do the blog project again.

Curating a month of blog posts about mental illness, mental health, death, grief and many other intense subjects requires you to be an editor, confidante, friend, cheerleader and therapist. It is fulfilling, demanding and oh-so worth it.

When your very first solo show sells out ten days before the event, you will cry at your desk and then run around skipping. And squeal. A lot. And probably cry some more.

Amid songs and stories about the life and suicide of your mom, you may still make people laugh and remind them of all the good in their lives. The experience will be surreal. Enjoy every second.

I have learned that 15 years after her death, I can feel closer to my mom than I have in many years. Family members have told me the same thing. This connection is beautiful and probably something I am most thankful for.

This project has taught me that even with the dreary skies, cold days and sad feelings, February can be an okay month. It's still not my favourite, but this project made me feel happier than I have in as many Februaries as I can remember.

I've learned that after a sold out show filled with a loving, kind, beautiful audience, you may come crashing down a bit and spend a weekend feeling all the emotions you would normally feel in a whole month. This won't be easy, but with the right support system, manageable.

I have learned that those of us dealing with mental health concerns are truly not alone and how important it is to be there for those who need the extra support. A huge number of people have reached out to tell me how this project has touched them and have agreed that it is something that we need to be talking about and focusing our energies upon. This isn't a one day effort or a month long effort - it needs to be happening year round. I have gained a whole new network of people who share this belief and trust that they will help to keep the conversation going and work towards erasing the negative stigma and helping those who need it.  #letstalk

I have been reminded what incredible friends and family and supporters I have in my life. Everyone's love, kindness and generosity has been wonderful. Thank you for all that you've done to help me bring this project into fruition.

Above all else, I have confirmed that life truly is sweet.

I never doubted this fact but the show and blog posts and the support I have received from my friends, family, bloggers, Facebook friends and twitter followers has been unbelievable.  I recently fell in love with the quote "there is so much beauty that you haven't seen yet. don't give up now" And that resonated so deeply.

Sometimes we are faced with more than we think we can handle.

Persevere.
Push through.
Ask for help.

You will get through it and come out stronger on the other side.

Life is sweet in spite of the challenges that come our way and I hope that this project has been a reminder of that for you too.