My Gutsy Story contest - redux

I take it all back. So many people came through for me and voted that I have no complaints at all. Please forgive my last rant.

As of today with just over two days to go I am leading by fifty-one votes. Though I don't want to rest on my laurels, and I know how easy it is to surge ahead like I did with your support, I'm feeling very good about my chances now.


I'd also like to share My Gutsy Story here. I hope piece about what I did to survive my son's death will help others going through their own tragedies. Some of the material here is also in my memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On. 

Sonia Marsh - Founder of The Gutsy Story contest

My Gutsy Story

When my older son Paul died by suicide in 1999 after a seven-year battle with bipolar disorder, I knew I had to find ways to keep myself busy and productive or else I would wallow away in my grief. At the time of his death I was writing grant proposals for a homeless shelter, but I found too many reminders working from my home office. The solution, I thought, was to work outside my home.

After two false starts at part-time jobs outside – writing grant proposals for our local free clinic and managing capital campaigns as a fundraising consultant – I decided the way for me to live with the death of my older son was to get rehired by the aerospace company I retired from in the mid-1990s where I had worked off and on since the mid 1960s. When a job opening came up in January 2003, I jumped at it and was hired.

My job was to help my company produce proposals, a huge document or set of documents, meant to persuade the government to hire us to do their needed work. The job was challenging, meaningful, and very stressful – all necessary to keeping my mind so occupied with other things I would have no time to grieve. Each proposal project had a defined beginning, middle, and end so it gave me the opportunity to work with ever-changing proposal teams. I thrived on that socialization, the respect others had for my work, and the challenges of training engineers how to write in English.

Meeting stringent deadlines made me stronger, and keeping my mind on the job stopped me from dwelling on my loss. Plus, I gained skills in setting goals, organizing work and the people I worked with, and managing to a deadline – all skills necessary to my writing career now.

But I kept feeling the draw of creative writing. I had studied journalism in high school and college, I had taken many writing classes and workshops, and by 2009, I was already shopping a memoir I had written (in my “spare” time) about the death of our son and how our family survived. So I started to think about retiring from my day job again. Except I kept hesitating. I was afraid to take that step. I was afraid I would fall apart without my full-time job crutch.

Even though I asked myself: why was I doing my company’s work – of taking men and women back to the moon? Why should I do this work instead of working on my own writing projects? Why was I sabotaging my creativity and healing? I rationalized that I needed the structure, the socialization, and the money. I rationalized that I wouldn’t do well working from home again – alone. But it was none of those. I just plain refused to find out if I could live and survive on my own and as the full-time writer I so longed to be.

Well, I finally did retire, but it took me until April 2010, to do it. When I look back at all those years of indecision, I realize I just couldn’t make the final decision until I was good and ready. Until I felt comfortable enough with myself. Until I stopped carrying around the grief and sorrow.

And the timing was perfect.

Two months after I retired I got a publishing contract for my memoir Leaving the Hall Light On: A Mother’s Memoir of Living with Her Son’s Bipolar Disorder and Surviving His Suicide that I had been pitching for over two years. Almost immediately I was knee-deep in revising my book and getting it ready for publication and getting more and more involved with the social networking necessary to publicize my book. Best of all, after my book was published, I was able to move on to the career I’ve wanted to have since I was a teenager: as a journalist and creative writer.

I like to think that Paul’s death gave me the gift of this new career and a new mission in life. I created a book with the goal of helping others who have experienced a loss like mine; I am working as a web journalist for several online sites that deal with survival, healthy living, and being a vibrant over 60-year old; I’m busy writing a novel, and I discovered my most important work of all: helping to erase the stigma of mental illness and prevent suicide with the hope of saving lives. If my writing helps attain that mission, it will all be worth it.

Learning to compartmentalize

Someone on Twitter recently asked me what the hardest thing I had to do while writing my memoir. And I responded – keeping the tears from smearing the words on the page. Then, I had to concentrate on the writing and now on the marketing, leaving any emotions I have about Paul’s death outside the scope of my work. So, I have become a master of compartmentalization.

Now besides being a mother whose son died by suicide, I’m a survivor. I’m a strong woman. I’m an advocate for erasing the stigma of mental illness, of putting a face on suicide, of telling my story so others can know it’s possible to heal after the death of a child. 

Next Tuesday I have another radio interview where I’ll be asked to discuss Paul’s and my story – how can I get through that on the radio? The other parts of the interview won’t be as hard. But going through what we went through especially during his years with bipolar disorder will be gut wrenching. I hope I won't fall apart. And next Saturday I’ll be reading from and signing my books almost all day at Barnes and Noble in Long Beach. I’ll be on my feet and wearing a big smiley face most of the day. How do I do that?

The answer is being able to compartmentalize, and that may be no different from my thoughts about playacting one year after Paul died:

One Year

It’s a year, they say,

time to stop mourning for your dead son,

get on with your life.

Okay, I will, I reply.

Look – I work, I work out, I write, I travel,

I read, I go to movies, I make love, I eat out,

I enjoy the company of friends.

And – I nurture myself with new hairdos,

makeup, massages, and manicures.

After all, Paul took his own life a year ago

He didn’t take mine

At least not completely.

What they don’t know is

my life now is just playacting

meant to fool others as well as myself

into believing that I can move on

and begin to live my life again.

Finding healing support and hugs on Facebook

The ocean's mellowing effect

I recently joined a couple of groups on Facebook. One is called Grieving Mothers (there is a Grieving Fathers as well, started by the spouse of the woman who started the mother’s group), and Loss of an Adult or Young Adult Child. After joining both groups, my first question was: where were these groups when I needed them in September 1999? People post on them all day and night to share a story about their child who died, tell about the terrible time they are having just doing their daily lives, and ask questions – about how others are coping or what medications help them or how do they keep the memory of their children alive. They console each other, they give hugs (((((hugs)))), or they just rant.

They also use the word angel for their lost child and call a new child conceived after the death of a child, a rainbow baby (the rainbow after the storm concept). I love that term and I only wish I had been young enough to have one after Paul died.

Of course in 1999 there wasn’t even a Facebook. I had a cell phone that I hardly used and an email address in those days and that was the extent of my social networking through electronic media. Plus I didn’t take advantage of self-help books, therapy, or support workshops – except for an eight-week group at Didi Hirsch Mental Health Services http://www.didihirsch.org, called Survivors After Suicide. I found SAS very depressing.

Would I have used and found solace in the Facebook groups going on today? I really can’t say. Writing was my way of taking care of myself. I didn’t reach out a lot or talk to people about what was going on with me. I also filled up my life with diversions: working, writing, working out were my top three. I also went to the theater, the opera, and the movies; I read one book after another, and we travelled, and had dinners out with friends. I learned very well how to playact, meant to fool others as well as myself into believing that I could move on and begin to live my life again. Turns out that that playacting became a reality. I did move on to have a productive life after Paul’s death; however, I still grieve for him and continually find ways to keep his memory alive.

So I log on to these Facebook groups and marvel that the people there have bonded. They have found virtual support and consolation and love and friendship from people they probably will never meet in person. Some of them aren’t even Facebook friends. That is such a wonderful thing.

And I’m in there with them. It’s never too late to find people to love and care for.

Don’t go there. You don’t need to imagine it.

When people want to know the details about my son's death, I try to avoid specifics; not to protect myself, I already know all the gory details. No, I want to protect the asker, especially if he or she has children. I want to protect imaginations from going to a place where they have no reason or need to be. People can’t help asking these questions. They feel their interest is comforting to me, but I find it more of a burden. The tables get turned, and I feel the need to comfort them. It’s happened over and over. When they say they just can’t imagine losing a child, let alone losing one the way I lost mine, I say, “Don’t go there. You don’t need to imagine it.”

I love Anne Lamott's books. And she's a great public speaker as well. That's why I decided to use a quote from her book, Operating Instructions (Anchor Books, 1995), to start off my memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On http://www.LuckyPress.com/madelinesharples.html. The death of a child is a parent's worst nightmare, and she put down her fears about that so aptly:

"When I held Sam alone for the first time…, I was nursing him and feeling really spiritual, thinking, please, please God, help him be someone who feels compassion, who feels God's presence loose in the world, who doesn't give up on peace and justice and mercy for everyone. And then a second later I was begging. Okay, skip all that shit, forget it – just please let him outlive me."

Using exercise to heal

I've worked out almost all of my life. After my son Paul died I became almost obsessive about. It just seemed to help me get through the pain.

Here's another poem that will appear in my memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On http://www.LuckyPress.com/madelinesharples.html. It was one of the first I wrote in Jack Grapes method writing class.

Making It Hard

The bright room is almost full.

All four walls of mirrors reflect women and men

in baggy shorts and sleek black tights.

The music is so loud

the woman in front of me stuffs earplugs in her ears.

Lisa G says, “work from the core;

your workout relates to your real life.”

I want to get on with it.

I don’t come here at 6 a.m. to listen to a lecture.

The neon sign on the wall says “sweat,”

and that’s what I want to do.

The woman behind me complains.

I don’t know her name, but here she is every week

always in the same spot, always complaining, always in black.

Black tights, black sports bra, black thong leotard,

black headband on her head of black hair.

Even her lipstick looks black.

A drill sergeant in baseball cap and high-top aerobic shoes,

Lisa begins her litany.

“If it were easy, everyone would be fit,” she shouts,

“Don’t come here and expect it to be easy.”

She doesn’t know my name. I like it that way.

I like the feeling of being anonymous here.

I don’t know anyone and no one knows me.

No one knows about Paul, that he died

or any other thing about me either.

Being anonymous is a benefit.

It keeps me in shape, calms my mind,

gives me the space to be myself.

It’s a mini-vacation from the horrors of my life.

So I thank Lisa G

for getting me moving,

for making it hard,

for making it hurt,

for showing me how to

trade one pain for another.

Next steps to book launch

I've finished my final review of my book's design and galleys and sent off my notes to my Lucky Press publisher. Next steps are sending out review copies, getting back comments and hopefully some good blurbs for the back of the dust jacket, and then the book's Mother's Day release. Right after that I have my first scheduled book signing - May 12 at our local Manhattan Beach bookstore, Pages. I'll be sending out invites to that soon. http://www.LuckyPress.com/madelinesharples.html

So, in the meantime I'll post a few of the poems that are interspersed throughout. Here's "Leaving the Hall Light On," originally published by The Muddy River Poetry Review under the title, "What Is Loss?"


Leaving the Hall Light On 

I lose my keys or sunglasses

and find them in my hand all along.

I lose my little boy in the department store

and he pops out squealing with laughter

from under the clothes display,

I lose important papers

and find them

in the stack of other papers on my desk.

I didn’t lose my son, Paul.

Paul is dead.

Death is forever.

There’s not a chance of finding him.

The light I’ve left on in the hall for him

every night since he died

doesn’t show him the way back home.

There are no more piano gigs out there for him.

The Sunday paper entertainment guide

doesn’t list his name at any jazz club.

He can’t join the young guys at the Apple Genius Bar

and help people solve their computer problems.

Paul would have loved that job.

He was made for that job,

but he checked out too early.

The new meds and surgery for manic depression,

the new information about mental illness

are not for him.

Why do people refer to death as loss?

Maybe just to encourage

people like me.

Maybe just to keep me looking for him.

Maybe so I can pretend he’s still out there.

Maybe that’s why I long to mother

the strong young men at the gym

who hardly notice me

and the bright ones at work.

They are the right age.

They have the same look.

They have the same appeal.

Every time I see a young man

with close-buzzed hair,

well-worn jeans,

a white t-shirt, and a black jacket,

sitting outside of Starbucks,

sucking on a cigarette,

every time I see a skinny guy

walking fast across the street

carrying a brown leather bag over his shoulder,

I look to make sure.

Thoughts about Tucson

I’ve been so down lately. Yesterday it was so bad I actually succumbed to sleeping half the afternoon away. And that is not like me, at least not lately.

Perhaps it was because my ankle was hurting such that I could barely walk up and down the stairs – imagine me side-stepping my way up and down? And I’m the one who never ever complains about aches and pains.

Well this morning the ankle is better. I forced it to be better by working it out at the gym. I think the vibrating power plate helped.

But my mood isn’t better. And when I looked at the lead photo in today’s LA Times I realized why. It’s that tragic shooting in Tucson last Saturday. Today was the first funeral for the victims – the young girl, nine-year old Christina Green. It breaks my heart. I cry when I think about her and how much her family is grieving. I know what it is like to grieve for a dead child, so I am grieving with them. I cry with them. Every time I think of her death, I start crying.

I’m also grieving with the parents of the young shooter. I don’t know anything about them and whether or not they knew something was very wrong with their son and if they did, whether they ever tried to help him. I know the father drove after him that morning when he saw him leave with a big black bag. He must have had some feeling that something was up.

I had bad feelings about my son in the last few days of his life. I felt that he was in danger, but he wasn’t violent against others. He was only violent against himself. And when I spoke with him the night before he took his life, he looked good, calm, and he was very sweet with me. So I felt a little better that night. It turns out that was the last time I ever saw him – either dead or alive.

I also know that if the shooter’s parents tried to get him help, they would have had a hard time of it. My son who was mentally ill was a master of talking himself out of being locked away in a mental hospital. We called the police several times but Paul could make himself look like there was nothing wrong with him. So how could the police justify taking a guy who didn’t look like he was a danger to himself or others in?  It was so frustrating. We knew he needed help, we called for it, and our son knew how to get out of it every time. He only went into the hospital on his own terms. So I suspect the shooter’s parents might have had the same experience as my husband and I in trying to get their son help.

And now they have to live with the fact that their only child, a 22-year old young man – killed six people and wounded many others. They will have to live with the guilt and the grief and the remorse the rest of their lives. I don’t know how they can.

After my son died I didn’t think I could continue to live. But I have. And right now, today, I know it could have been worse. I don’t have to live with the effects of the harm he did to others, only the harm he did to himself and the emotional harm he did to his family and friends. That’s bad enough. It’s just not as bad as what those Tucson parents have to live with. At least not in my mind.