As tempting as it is so stay in the rabbit hole, the outside is much more alluring.
12 posts. 5,324 words. Thousands of views. Hundreds of comments. I’ve been telling Eric’s Story for only a week, and already so much progress has been made. But friends, I’m exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually exhausted.
I’ve descended into the proverbial rabbit hole, consumed by the creative process. My natural tendency is to dig deeper, stay longer, until I have to be retrieved after collapsing in the depths. But this time it’s going to be different. I will only write when the words well up inside me and spill out like water over a flooded dam when my fingers hit the keyboard. When it starts to feel like an obligation, it’s time to back away.
I’m taking a break, a …
She loved him tenderly, and defends him fiercely.
I’ve always known my mother is intelligent. Super intelligent. And I’ve always known she is kind, and thoughtful and selfless. But I had no idea how brave she was, she is, until she stood behind that podium. At a national conference for survivors of clergy sexual abuse, she told the story of her son. Her baby. How he’d been abused and had taken his own life. It could have been prevented. The church had been negligent, and change needed to happen.
Her voice cracked, but did not waver. She shook her fist, she looked the crowd in the eye. She transcended the role of ‘mom’ to woman. A fierce, yet remarkably calm, woman. She was a tiger, poised and ready to protect her children, to protect your children, …
I never knew sheriff’s officers drove red trucks. Not until that night. I could barely make it out, at the end of my parent’s quarter-mile long driveway. Its presence told me my world was about to implode. I froze. No, I had to drive. Dad had called me, and said only one thing, “Catherine, you need to come home.” But what about the boys? (I was babysitting my sister’s four kids in town.)
“Catherine, you need to come home.” It was all he could say. It must have taken all of his strength just to get that sentence out.
I parked. The air thickened. Movements were in slow motion. The mist suspended in the air as I made my way to the door. My father, a large man with broad …
My brother loved me, and our entire family. He took delight in our accomplishments, and was genuinely interested in our day-to-day lives. He wanted nothing but for us to be happy and healthy. If I’d chosen to stay on the path of destruction, he would be heartbroken. And for me to break his heart again, I just couldn’t bear.
Brother, your little sister is happy. She’s leading a full, busy life full of laughter and love. She follows Christ, and yearns to learn more about his teachings, just like you did. The sound of little feet fill her home, and her family fits snugly in the core of her heart. She is happy, so happy. Her children are proof:
She’s such a delight. And you would probably agree, just like me when I was younger. …
He was an awesome uncle. And completely unselfish.
I’ve always bought into the notion that suicide is selfish. That’s what society, and random strangers on the street, tell you. After all, how could you inflict that much damage on your friends and famliy just because you didn’t want to hurt anymore? How could you only think of yourself?
But here’s the thing. When you’re hurting that deeply, when the synapses in your mind have been fried by trauma, you’re not yourself. You’re not yourSELF. So how, then, please tell me, is it selfish? To hell with that. My brother didn’t have a selfish bone in his body. He was generous, and kind, and always thought of others.
He had no idea what this would do to us. He actually thought he was a burden. He heard voices. Now, …
I’m shaking as I write this. Bawling my eyes out. I still can’t quite believe it. Tonight, I began frantically searching for a letter my brother had written me when I was in grade school. Why? I would soon find out. Just when I was starting to doubt my path, whether or not I should continue writing, I found this. It’s like he knew. He knew someday this would be my purpose. To tell his story to the world in order to save others from the same fate. There’s no turning back now. I’m writing a book.
“I thought it was real nice of you to think about writing a story about me. I think you’re a very good writer, better than I was.”
Brother, you were the best ever. You made me this book, …
