l'Heure Bleue's Open Salon Blog

Letting go

Tue, 7 May 2013 14:05:11 -0400

I lost my father five decades ago. I vaguely remember a man who seemed to love me very much. I have memories of him dancing with me, my right arm extended with small legs dangling as he sang songs in English, French and Italian. He used to make up stories of animals who went on quests and would tell them to me after tucking me in. “Tell me a story poppy” would make him pause and look as if it was impossible and then from his imagination would come stories of creatures who wandered the great cities of Europe he used to visit on buying trips. Their adventures thrilled me and I’d fall asleep happy and secure. He made up stories about everything and when I was small neighborhood children would crowd him and say Poppy tell us a story, tell us when you fought the Indians and were nearly killed, tell us when you trained to swim the English channel (he did) tell us about racehorses and the Kings you knew (he did). He was a fearless adventurer in every sense of the word and used truth and fiction to weave a spell.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was when that father disappeared. It seems that when he left I became invisible unless there was no one else for him to talk to. Perhaps it was because, except as an inconvenience, I ceased to exist for him. My father and I did not exist for my mother for as long as I can remember, except as inconveniences. I understand, I don’t think my parents realized that they didn’t want children until they had one. I know they expected to have live in servants to help them but we cannot see the future when we make choices. Anyway, people who got married were supposed to want children. Without anyone to help them learn how to be parents in this country or money for help, they didn’t spend time trying to figure it out. Mom stopped considering us long before and her goal was to not interact with either of us, but she was a good actress.

I know why he left, he went on a quest to avenge an injustice done and clear his, and his father’s, name. A quest over some stupid antiquities made by people who died thousands of years ago and an incorrect determination by a young inexperienced museum curator. In his body remained a man with a single focus, to right that wrong. I grew up surrounded by scientists, world-renowned Egyptologists, attorneys and the occasional museum person. When these intellectuals appeared in our home, I would have to make an entrance, behave well for introductions, and could be excused to my room with my books and doll. As an adult, I learned from observing him to leave vengeance and righting injustices I could not correct to God. I spent my time here on earth loving my children and friends and creating security for myself and my family. I never quit singing or whistling.

Sometimes my new father would notice me and show me precious antiquities, or beautiful pieces of jewelry he’d obtained and who he’d bought them from, or describe the the auction house he’d purchased them in. A few times he took me to large antiques shows where he had a booth, or I’d go to his store with mama on weekends. Sometimes he’d talk about how I had to learn from him so that I could take over his business some day. Sometimes he’d talk about ancient Egypt and show me how to read and write hieroglyphics, or describe the places he’d been in Europe and people he’d met. He taught me early how to add up a receipt in my head and figure the tax without using the chart, customers would patiently smile as he’d already charmed them. He was elegant and jovial, he charmed everyone he met as soon as he met them. I longed for him to be jovial and turn that charm he reserved for others to me.

He would tire of me easily when I failed to conform to his standards of behavior, or some other childish thing that children do would anger him. Then he’d fly into a frustrated rage and wash his hands of me, later he would tell me it was okay that I was bad or stupid and he would always love me anyway. I learned to avoid him as much as I avoided my mother. I learned to read signs of his moods and understand his behaviors. I’m sorry for him he never had a son. I’m sorry for me I wasn’t the son he needed. I’m sorry for me that he couldn’t give me what I needed. Sorrows heaped upons sorrows.

I’ve had a lot of traumas beginning very early. Electrocution and a near drowning before I was 4, then I was hit by a drunk driver when crossing at an intersection at around age 5. My parents were careless and ill equipped to deal with a child and those things scared them, fear prompts anger and they directed it at me for not being a good and careful child. They didn’t understand the role they were supposed to play in teaching me to be careful and behave. Though extremely successful financially, neither of my parents were at all insightful. My father was an excellent communicator and to this day he is the most charming man I’ve ever met, my mother excelled in bookkeeping. Neither was a deep thinker or problem solver. Both were very selfish, and never examined their own behaviors or how they affected others. If someone else responded badly, they assumed the other person was flawed or took things wrong. It’s not surprising that our lives went as they did.

The early traumas and my parent’s indifference led to more traumas and at 15 I ran off with the first man who noticed me. As is to be expected, life did not go well until I was in my 30’s. It took me a long time to lift myself from a bad start and as in childhood, I had to do it on my own. I did well considering the rough start, and the addition of two fatherless children as I escaped husbands too like my father in everything except financial success. Without education I became “successful” on my own through persistence over the decades. I made a friends and a place for myself wherever I went, my kids grew up and have achieved success in the ways they wanted. It all looked good from the outside.

Then I got sick, a brain injury a few years ago sent me spiraling into mental hell. It was discovered that a long ago misdiagnosed mental illness was in fact PTSD and something not as well known, attachment disorder. I have been begun getting EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) therapy and it’s working very well on the PTSD. It’s a little overwhelming, I have so many damned traumas and the brain wanders around connecting horrific memories in seemingly random ways. But I can hang on, I have hope where I’ve never had hope before, stoicism got me to here but it can only do so much. I was very hopeful that I could just keep getting EMDR and between that and CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) it would magically fix everything.

But I cannot escape human sorrow, at my last session I discussed how sad I have been feeling though the PTSD seems better. My therapist said something I hated to hear; it’s okay to have grief and I should sit with it. Shit! Shitshitshitshitshit! I spent 30 years not crying or grieving and getting on with it. A stoic fuck it, I can get through all of it attitude has become oh God, oh God, oh God, it hurts. And now I find myself grieving losses from 50 years ago, big girls do cry. Big strong, amazing, resilient, impressive survivors can be felled by the little girls that still live inside them.

About 20 years ago I couldn’t find the right Birthday card for my dad so I used my PC to make one. It’s been sitting in a frame in my parents house since I mailed it to him from a safe distance. I don’t think he ever noticed it after it was framed. When he received it he courtesy called to thank me and seemed not to notice anything I’d written. A few years ago I finally quit trying to please him so the words I’d written seem surprising to me now. Hindsight and insight.

He died still on his 50 year quest. I think he forgot when he used to love me and dance with me. Though I had every outward appearance of being a strong woman who'd gotten over everything, it seems I still longed for the father I had when I was very small. This is what I wrote:

I wanted to send you a special card this year but Hallmark doesn’t know about you.

No other daddy has a scar on his forehead from when he was fighting the Indians and an arrow glanced across his head and he narrowly escaped a brutal death.

No other daddy fed the bear at Yosemite and had to have the Ranger scare it away.

No other daddy could whistle better than any bird.

No other daddy played “Horsie, Horsie Don’t You Stop.”

No other daddy tells stories about animals who travel the world and buy jewelry and perfume.

No other daddy showed people magical things in ordinary objects.

No other daddy could make old ladies feel young and little girls feel grown up.

No other daddy could forgive his little girl and still love her as much when she was stupid.

If I had asked God to give me the perfect daddy he would still have given me you. No other daddy is as good and strong and honest as my daddy. I love you for being the best dad in the world.

Last January, immediately after I returned from a disastrous trip, the doctor said my father was dying and he was put on hospice. I simply couldn’t get my feet under me and the month that followed was a nightmare. As was his funeral and all the confusing feelings I had. I was relieved to have someone who bullied and tormented me for decades finally gone. Last year I found myself once again clawing my way out of a pit of hurt and despair. I'll skip the details but both I had to let go of old dreams and new ones. I didn't make healing progress, but I did manage not to lose ground.

I have passed by the card many times and wished to shred the damned thing a thousand times. It seems to sit and mock me, as do photos of my father and I, but if I don't face them, they will steal my joy and I will always fear loss. Under the anger at my father for berating me until his dying day, was a little girl who always missed her long lost dad. He's gone and I will never have what I wanted, or what I needed from him. But I can have a loving me who allows myself to cry and heal. I am worth my own tears, I am worth my efforts, time and love. I deserve my own compassion.

There was nothing else for him to do on the occasion of my 50th birthday so he attended the party a friend threw me. It was the first time in my life my father had ever attended anything that revolved around me. He was surprised at the large group of "impressive" friends I had and the lovely home of the host and hostess. About 50 people came and it was obvious the extent so many had gone to to insure my birthday celebration was special. The decoration on the sheet cake was considered not pretty enough and a group of women clustered in the kitchen, scraping it off and washing flowers from one of the bouquets to make it pretty enough for me. What a precious act of love for my parents to see others doing for me. I think I was frozen in his mind as that 15 year old who ran away and made a life changing mistake. Perhaps in this photo it was the first time he was proud of his daughter having seen how loved I was by amazing friends who all went up to tell him what a wonderful daughter he raised. I have wondered many times looking at the photo but all I see is the same he and I. I will never know, and I must let it go.

I’m sorry I never made my father happy, I'm sorry he never knew me at all. He never knew I was talented, brilliant, a great mother or many other things, he only knew that I was never as beautiful as my mother. He never knew I followed his best traits, or have his iron will and apply it to all my quests instead of just one. I don't even know if he really loved me, I could not tell. I hope wherever he is, he’s free from his quest. I’m still here and though he gave up on me decades ago, I won’t follow his example. Instead, as I always have, I’ll find my own way.

I still miss his whistling and singing, and it’s finally okay if I sit and cry for us both.

A pointless (and somewhat popular) repost about a bug

Sat, 4 May 2013 22:05:23 -0400

I wrote this almost two years ago and each comment was incredibly pleasing to me. People are remarkable and fascinating to me. Often I wonder if we all even see the same colors. Does food taste the same to us all and if so, shouldn't I like eggplant? I've never met anyone else who didn't like the taste.... Anyway, in re-reading them just now I smiled at getting the same pleasure, it's as if everyone leaves a different fragrance behind. I was also thinking that as complex as we are it can take so little to make us smile, we’re all so much more than we appear to be. James Emmerling and I have the same not so deep (or very deep, who knows?) thought on why we are here, hahaha, I’m here to live.

We are not so different in purpose than the subject of my post but only our purpose of being here is the same. We are very different than the creatures around us, so much more complex than we appear to be even if we are busy in the same purpose. Well... I thought this would be a good time for me to repost it. If you want to go back to see if you commented before, please comment first (no cheating) so I can get additional smiles and fragrance if you commented before. I am a greedy woman about such things, and why shouldn’t I be?

OCTOBER 4, 2011 9:41PM

A pointless post about a beetle

Sometimes after a hard rain I go stand on the patio to see the bright colors in the yard. There I find earthworms and I wonder how they get up the 8 inches of concrete. I have never seen one jump, I guess they can crawl vertically too, though I haven’t observed it. I wondered if the concrete hurts their skin? Sometimes I find them dried, even stuck out there. I wonder what is the point of their lives but to crawl and eat until they die? I suppose that's it.

Last week I went out and there was a very small black beetle, the pear shaped kind, as big as the eraser on a pencil. I watched as he slowly crawled in a disjointed manner and wondered why we call it crawling instead of walking. I briefly wondered what he ate or about his habitat but have lost interest in googling such things. I’m content to just observe as long as we were both there, it seemed unaware of me. Though maybe it was running away and only had one speed. Later I went out and he had made it nearly to the wall, too small and slow for Haley the cat to notice and toy with, insignificant.

The following morning I was surprised to see the little beetle was nearly at the top of the siding on the patio. I wondered what kind of hooks he must have on his feet to climb the vertical surface. Was he very powerful? Or just so light that it was no effort to climb so high. Then I watched the birds for a while and came back in and forgot him.

That night I went out, and in glancing up at the patio cover, I noticed the beetle was crawling upside down and just above where I first saw him on the concrete. I wondered if he ate some type of dirt that was everywhere and if it was natural for a beetle to crawl upside down or did he just crawl in what ever direction he was pointed. Did he sleep at night, or at least stop to rest? How was he clinging to the aluminum? Why hadn’t he turned around on reaching the top? Why didn’t he let go? I wondered what was the point of crawling endlessly, and so far. I suppose he has no other purpose.

The next morning I went out and there, under the spot where I first saw him, the tiny beetle lay dead. I don’t know how long they live. Perhaps he died from exhaustion, or let go and was killed by the fall, or starvation, poison in the paint, the cold night, a beetle disease, or maybe it was just his time. In two days this creature went about 16 feet across, 8 feet up, and 16 feet upside down, I confirmed it with my tape measure. I have no idea what his purpose was and think perhaps he didn’t either.

As I was standing outside a while ago I thought about the pointless miles I now walk in my house, sitting, standing, laying down, getting up, eating, and suddenly remembered the beetle. I remembered the last job and the two years I was like a beetle there too. I realized I hadn’t noticed when it was gone, (the beetle, not the job) the wind took it I suppose. I started thinking about how alike my life is to the beetle’s, how little difference there is, except that I think.

Now I’m writing a post about my thoughts on myself, earthworms and one little black bug. It’s possible someone who has better things to do will read it and think about it too. As I thought about it I smiled, and wondered what I would think about as I crawl around tomorrow. I also wonder how far I’d have to walk for it to equal his 40 feet.

*********

Today was a two piece day. I also wrote a post a while ago that was more relevant to our times and interesting to me. It will probably get thrown away like hundreds of others but I needed to write about Wall Street. I write a lot, the crap just flows out so it's nice to get it down and be done with it. I chose to post about the beetle instead. I really enjoy watching bugs and birds and being in my garden.

http://open.salon.com/blog/lheure_bleue/2011/10/04/a_pointless_post_about_a_beetle

Drawing Women

Sun, 12 May 2013 16:05:50 -0400

Last summer I needed to heal a broken heart and work through feelings that came up during my father's final illness and death. So I took an art class at the local Senior Center. I didn't know I needed to bring supplies. It wasn't a formal instruction, more of a laid back place where the elderly sat at tables doing their own thing of painting or drawing and the instructor wandered around guiding and encouraging. I bet after a career teaching high school students it was a breeze.

In response to my lack of any supplies, the instructor handed me a photo of an old run down building, a pencil and a sheet of paper and told me "draw everything you see." So I drew everything I saw. It was therapeutic to outline, shape and shade everything I saw. I loved the sound of the pencil on the paper. Then I grabbed a cheap tablet I had at home, and kept drawing. I drew a bowl of fruit, a teapot, and a butterfly. My daughter then went out and bought me some art pencils since I was using a No 2 pencil I had at home. I drew 3 parakeets and a tufted titmouse on a branch.

Drawing last summer allowed me to step out of the world and into the picture.

I felt the urge to draw again this winter so I thought it might be fun to draw something other than a photograph, I looked around and thought it might be fun to draw the statue of the Goddess Selket that my mom brought me from Cairo. We have the same Egyptian thighs (hahaha!), it's all good.

I think mine has a face shaped a bit more like Liz Taylor in Cleopatra than an Egyptian Goddess but I like my drawing. It was fun shaping the roundness of her breasts and belly button under her sheer gown. I am going to have to figure out how to do faces. And hands! Oh, what a challenge, I'm looking forward to trying to draw hands. To be honest, every time I look at a statue I have the urge to sculpt, I love touching things. But I can be clumsy when I get too absorbed in something so perhaps it's best I avoid tools.

Right after I started drawing Selket, a friend from OS sent me some of her extra colored pencils (thank you again!) and I suddenly had so many in pink and rose that I decided to try drawing my favorite avatar ballerina. She is like a bright pink flower frozen gracefully in a grey world, it was pleasant looking at the picture but it was a struggle to get the color smoothly on the paper. I need good paper as the cheap stuff is not conductive to the colored pencils. It was hard to lay down the color at all and instead of a pleasure it became a chore. Still, it was fun stretching her up and out and following the lines of her body. She is slight but powerful in that moment where she went up en pointe. Maybe you can see how the flesh color didn't cover well on the ridges of the paper. Ugh. It's a shame, her feet came out so lovely and my home scanner doesn't do a good job, it doesn't show the details.

It's strange and pleasant to watch the picture appear as I move the pencil across the paper. It's as if I'm watching some other me draw it, at the same time I'm immersed in the picture, I become detached and connected at once. Designing jewelry for my father's whole$ale busine$$ was very re$trictive, not really fun at all. You know what I mean.

This is all strange for me, maybe I was artistic as a child and no one noticed, maybe I wasn't. No one recalls much about me or what I did as a child. I will say it was astonishing to pick up a pencil at age 55 and find out I could draw more than stick figures. I thought I couldn't draw but I was so busy just trying to keep my kids and I alive, I guess I never had time to waste. I don't usually like surprises but this was a good surprise.

If you missed them, these are the pictures I drew before I decided to try drawing women.

My first; the lopsided cabin (I dislike lopsided and hated working on it)

The second; a bowl of fruit with an orange that has no dimples, how do you make dimples? I should go back and ask the instructor.

The third; a lovely aqua teapot except I still had only a #2 pencil.

The fourth.

The fifth; green, blue and white lineolated parakeets. Still no colored pencils. Oh well, still pleasing.

The sixth; a tufted titmouse, I don't think I posted it but am quite fond of this one.

This is what I'm drawing now, a photo of my hand from a few years ago with a collar style necklace I made. I chose to wire-wrap connectors in the ancient Egyptian style. The beads are from the fringe on an old lampshade of my grandmother's, only the beaded fringe made it out of Egypt. The necklace pleases me though I've never worn it. It pleases me that I'm drawing my hand holding something I made. It also pleases me that the knuckles are challenging.

I like that I can draw what I want, when I want, or not draw at all.

A quote I don't fully understand, anyone want to help me?

Sat, 30 Mar 2013 20:03:53 -0400

“We should do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest. The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living. We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian Darwinian theory he must justify his right to exist. So we have inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors. The true business of people should be to go back to school and think about whatever it was they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living.”
â€• Richard Buckminster Fuller

It’s my personal belief that people should not have to “earn a living” to justify their right to exist (especially those physically or mentally unable). I find it hard to reconcile the thought that the only value Stephen Hawkin has is his mind and should he lose it, because of his physical condition, he would become valueless, I feel the same about a person who is born mentally or physically unable to care for themself. My personal belief from inside my heart is that all humans in any state have equal value and a right to exist and be cared for. I can give no logic for this belief, it's just my feeling.

Putting my feelings aside, I want to know what others think (or feel) about what this quote is saying? It blew my mind but what’s written seems like it should be right, as in good and possible, but I don’t have the knowledge to fully understand if it’s possible. I didn’t even know what Malthusian was until I googled it just now. Of course I'd never heard of Richard Buckminster Fuller either, sigh. So I’m asking the only people I know who might know about such concepts to help me understand.

What do you think of it? Would anyone care to expand? If you don't know anymore about it than I do, what do you think about what he's said?

Failing at suicide or, living with mental illness

Sun, 17 Mar 2013 00:03:11 -0400

I know what a lot of things feel like, feelings I wish I didn’t know. I know what it feels like to be suicidal. I know what it feels like to build up the resolve and feel the relief of thinking I was killing myself. I know what it feels like to survive after secretly planning it meticulously and wake up still feeling powerless and hopeless, and the despair at having survived. There is the secret anger you can't speak at the person who came home when they shouldn’t have and robbed me of the one power I had.

I am one who failed to cheer up and be happy no matter how many times I was instructed to. After seeking treatment and failing to cheer up in response to medications, I tried it again. Different situations, different decades, different methods, same feelings.

I know what mental illness feels like, how it feels to have pictures and memories flash through my mind endlessly and not be able to stop them, even if I bang my head or fists against the wall until I injure myself. I know how it feels to not have my moods match what’s going on, and not be able to understand it or change it. And disappoint everyone around you because of it.

I know how it feels to never give up, and fail each time I try. I know how it feels for nothing I do to be good enough. I know what it feels like to hear I am not trying hard enough. And not know what else to try.

Mental illness is a terrible thing. The person who is suffering is a huge inconvenience, annoyance and burden to others. And they tell you in many different ways. Sometimes it seems like if you just killed yourself then no one would be annoyed, inconvenienced or burdened by you. Except then you are a bad person because other people who don’t deserve to be hurt would be hurting.

The only person who is supposed to suffer because of your mental illness is you. And you should do it unobtrusively. That’s mental illness.

There is nothing admirable or acceptable about mental illness. If you have an acceptable illness like cancer and you’re fighting to beat it, you’re supported and admired. If you have a mental illness or disorder and are fighting to beat it, you can be mocked. If you get cancer treatment and it doesn’t work, it’s not your fault. If you take your meds and they don’t work you’re asked if you’re taking them right, or on time, or in the right dose. You must be doing it wrong. You have to keep proof of everything you do and answer a lot of questions, like all the different drugs you’ve taken, and why they didn’t work. You also have to answer what you felt like on waking, when at work, when with friends, when alone, or when something good happened or something bad happened. Every detail that is so insignificant to others you must note in case you're asked. If you forget to note a detail or don't know how you felt, then you didn't just forget, you've failed to take responsibility for your illness.

The illness is not the problem, you are.

When you have cancer and it’s misdiagnosed, it’s the doctor’s fault. When you have a mental illness misdiagnosis it's your fault, because you didn’t tell the doctor the right things, or enough things, or some thing that you should have known about.

Cancer patients are allowed to cry or get angry. People with mental illness who cry are weak and a downer to be around, or they're mean and out of control. Cancer patients are not told to try harder if they're not getting well, people with mental illness need to try harder if it’s taking too long. At the same time, you have to be patient and keep taking the drug because it takes time to work. Until they decide you should take something else.

When you have cancer your loved ones cry. When you’re mentally ill your loved ones get mad at you, or sigh. I am not supposed to cry or get angry, so I have learned to sigh, we are allowed to sigh as much as we want. When you have cancer the cancer is blamed for making your loved ones suffer too. When you have a mental illness it’s your fault your loved ones are suffering. When you have cancer your fears and complaints are understandable, you’re encouraged to be courageous and express them. When you have a mental illness you’re a whiner or a baby if you say you’re hurting or afraid. You learn to shut up to protect yourself if you know what's good for you. Suffering in silence is the only acceptable suffering.

People with mental illness are silenced.

A few weeks ago a friend who loves me told me that sometimes talking to me was very depressing and tiring. I felt guilty because I know how awful it is, I have to be inside me all the time. I try not to call my friends when I’m hurting, but then I’m letting them down because they want to be there for me.

Mental illness means either way, whichever thing you do, you're responsible for hurting those who love you.

I know how it feels to hear the therapist say “you’ve had a lot of traumas but your goals are achievable” I have hope but don't know for certain if I can make myself better. There is no timeline for getting better, or guarantee, but it’s possible so it's all your responsibility. If you fail, it’s your fault because only you can fix yourself by “doing the work.” You cannot just sit there and let drugs or surgery do the work. I know how it feels to search endlessly for other people with mental illness who got better, and on the rare occasions someone speaks about it and what it took, I still don't know if I will.

I know what it’s like to have multiple disorders which means twice the explanations I have to give and twice the burden and annoyance for those around me. Twice the reasons for those who love me to sigh. I know what it feels like to be mocked, dismissed or blamed because I had multiple traumas as a child and as an adult. I'm twice the loser as another guy.

I know how it feels to wonder every day if I will ever trust people again, or ever feel safe, or even peaceful for a moment. I know how it feels to live in uncertainty with mental illness and tell myself I will get better, and wonder if I’m kidding myself. I know what it is for the only other choice is to tell myself I won't. I know what it's like to be a constant disappointent to myself.

People with mental illness are an embarrassment to their families, people with cancer are not. Strangers often can’t tolerate exposure to people with mental illness, people with cancer are welcomed or at the very least, not shunned.

I know all the terms to mock, shame and belittle people who have a mental illness because it bothers others. I don’t know any of the terms to mock, shame or belittle people who have cancer because it bothers others.

People with mental illness are an unneccessary burden and inconvenience for their families, friends, co-workers, the taxpayer, on society, and often an eyesore, or a danger. People with mental illness are not grateful enough for what others give them, or tolerate.

Talking among friends about mental illness is often done for entertainment, especially with celebrities. Talking about other illnesses is admirable, beneficial or interesting. Information gets out, different solutions are sought, you get to share your experience of what works and what doesn’t with others. People listen to be prepared in case it ever happens to them or a loved one, or just to understand. There is no shame if parts of the person who is ill don’t work right, weakness is allowed. It’s unacceptable for a person with a mental illness to not behave perfectly. People get mad if someone makes fun of a person who falls down becauses they have an acceptable illness.

People ignore it if someone makes fun of someone suffering from mental illness.

Sometimes people, even family members, are cruel when you're suffering and claim it's an effort to toughen you up. No one takes a pneumonia patient to the chemo ward and claims it's to toughen the cancer patients up. If you have cancer, your friends and family may want to learn everything about it to find every possible solution. If you have a mental illness, your family might become enraged, or simply not want to waste their time reading available literature. People who have cancer have a justifiable need and deserve help. People with mental illness are too needy and not deserving.

Many don’t want to waste time, patience or understanding on those suffering from mental illness.

Even the most uninformed are right when they say mental illness is all in your head. Unfortunately, it can’t be seen, and can’t be cut out like a tumor. A head cannot be amputated to help the patient survive. The only good thing about mental illness is that it won't kill you. Unfortunately, it's hard to find joy or comfort in knowing you might have to live with it for 20, 30, 40, 50 or more years and be the person responsible for all that misery and inconvenience you cause everyone. Sticking your head in an unlit oven starts looking appealing.

If you suspect you have a mental illness, or any unacceptable defect, you might not seek treatment because you’ve seen how other sufferers are treated if they were fool enough to speak up. Or you may have tried to let some out only to get a cruel taste of things to come. It’s excruciating to not let it out, and you don’t want to be the target of shame if you speak. And in staying silent you lose your only power, and the hopelessness overwhelms you. It appears better to kill yourself and avoid all the things that could happen to you too. Based on my experience, I can certainly understand those that skip talking about it or seeking treatment and go directly to suicide.

In fact, that's exactly what I did as a young person over 30 years ago.

Three decades later, a friend’s family member had terminal cancer with other co-morbidities and it was near the end, but it was going to be drawn out. He was in unbearable pain drugs didn't alleviate, guilty because his loved ones were hurting watching him suffer but powerless to help him, and there was no hope for his recovery. In excruciating pain, guilty, powerless and hopeless, he took a cab to drop him off away from home, and shot himself in the head. Naturally, without him saying so, everyone understood his reasons. Like it or not, they were reasonable reasons to everyone else. To me too.

I don’t know what having cancer feels like, but I know the despair of all the other feelings he had, some feelings you never forget. There are people who become furious with those who commit suicide and think that the suicidal person should have been able to stand their pain so that those around them could avoid pain. In my case, both times my parents response was anger that I would try to bring shame and suffering down on them. Upon reflection the past few years, it seems hypocritical of them because they were absolutely fine with my shame or suffering, just not their own.

I do not have all the answers. No matter what the illness or injury, no one can know what another feels or determine how much suffering another can stand, you can only try to understand. I'm lucky to have a high tolerance for physical pain. Things like appendicitis, labor & delivery and root canals didn't bother me much but I empathize when others have physical pain and understand it might hurt them more. I don't presume to know what their nerves deliver to the pain area of their brain.

Maybe not everyone can understand how it feels when that pain limit is reached, but I understand why so many kill themselves. I don't know exactly how other people who are suicidal feel, but I understand why their reasons felt reasonable to them.