I keep thinking about my father’s suicide, partly because of Christmas. I spent Christmas with him when I was a kid during my elementary school years and into my early adolescence. I have good memories of Christmas with him. Although now that I’m almost 40, he’s dead, and I’ve had a lot of time and distance to consider things in retrospect, I’ve been having this underlying sense of anger, like it’s leaking out the cracks of my good memories, not exactly ruining them, but definitely leaving a lingering sourness.

Of course, the main reason he’s on my mind is because the anniversary of his death is in three weeks. I want to go to Texas, but I’m not sure I can work it out. I went for the one year anniversary, but I didn’t go last year. I intended to, but I had some kind of cold type illness. Driving solo, halfway across the country and back, is therapeutic, but tedious, and at the last minute, I decided I wasn’t feeling up to it.

I go back and forth in my mind about should I go or shouldn’t I. When I go, I visit the grave, I take a flower arrangement, I remember the funeral, and how if I’d only come to Texas two days earlier, maybe he’d still be alive. If only, if only, if only. When I go to the grave, I always have this sense that I should talk to him. I certainly like the idea that he can hear me and is getting something from what I say, but you know I’m not a spiritual kind of person, so I don’t really think anyone or anything is listening, and I feel like a dipshit. I might as well go talk to a tree or a plate of hot wings. I never have a sense of resolution, and I suppose resolution isn’t possible. As people told me in the days and weeks that followed his death, there is no going back to what I knew. It’s a new normal that happens to be an open-ended void of inconclusion, which apparently isn’t a word, but should be.

Then there’s all the recent gun talk, so that’s got me thinking about him. It rubs me the wrong way when people talk about mentally ill people being violent towards others as if that’s the norm. Obviously and tragically, that happens, but people with mental illness are infinitely more likely to be violent towards themselves. I know it’s morbid, but I’m a visual person, and my mind reflexively fills with images of him shooting himself, a bullet in his head, blood all over his shower, him slumped in a heap. He lived for a couple of hours. He called 911 right before he did it so the police would come. Then the ambulance came, they took him to the hospital, they tried to save him.

He loved guns. He had a bunch of them. He hunted. He probably belonged to the NRA, or at least supported them. Then he used one to kill himself. It was a small gun, a handgun. I don’t know if it was a pistol. Can pistols and handguns be the same thing? I don’t know. I don’t need to know, so if you know, don’t tell me. It wasn’t registered. I think it was old, or at least old enough that it was acquired before registering guns was a thing. My aunt has it. She wanted it, like a souvenir. That seems weird to me, but under the circumstances, I accept it. She’s a lunatic gun freak who thinks everyone should have an arsenal. I hate guns. I think they’re stupid. I don’t understand anyone’s obsession with guns and weapons. Collect cuckoo clocks. Collect model cars. Collect fucking paperweights. I wish guns didn’t exist.

My father actually did collect model cars, but that wasn’t satisfying enough to give up his fondness for guns. He was a little OCD about collecting NASCAR shit. We have multiple boxes of everything from limited edition NASCAR model cars that are supposedly worth some kind of money to a collection of empty Kellogg’s cereal boxes with NASCAR people on them that as far as we’ve been able to figure out, aren’t worth the cereal that once filled them. All of his stuff tortures me. It takes up space, so much of it has no meaning to me other than that it meant something to him, and because I had such a negligible connection to him for most of the last 25 years of his life, it’s all I have. It makes me mad too. I can’t think about all his hobbies and interests, and all the time and money he devoted to his hobbies – cars, flying airplanes, scuba diving, guns, fishing and boats – without being reminded of his choice to spend his time and money on that shit instead of having some kind of better, more meaningful relationship with me.

I’m reluctant to post about any of this. It’s depressing. No one wants to talk about it with me, no one knows what to say, and if I talk about it, then people feel obligated to say or do something. Plus, I feel like a whiner. I want to talk about it occasionally, like now, but there isn’t anyone I want to talk to. I don’t want to whine to people I know. I don’t want to talk to people I don’t know, like on a forum for survivors of suicide. I tried that, and it wasn’t for me. As I mentioned, talking to his grave isn’t the answer, although that won’t stop me from saying something the next time I’m there, mostly just to confirm that it doesn’t work. I started to post on Facebook, and I decided I’d regret posting. So I’m posting here. I never post here anymore, so I don’t think anyone reads. That’s consoling I guess… I don’t fucking know.

Today is the second anniversary of my father’s suicide. I’ve spent the last year thinking I would go to Texas to see some of my family, be in my hometown, and visit the grave as I had done last year, but when Jason and I looked at our finances a couple of weeks ago, we decided it wasn’t something we could swing. Since my father and I didn’t have a good relationship, being in my hometown is the only thing that gives me any sense of connection to him, although it’s a tenuous connection at best. Still, I can’t put to rest the longing to have a connection to him, presumably because I am no more distant to him now than I was during the last few years of his life. The only difference is that the potential for reconciliation died when he put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

So today, I’m here at home in Philadelphia, and most everything that makes me feel connected to him is there in Texas, so all I have is his stuff piled in my basement and the memories of that day forward. I think about how this time two years ago, I was going about my merry business while my family was trying to figure out what to do, including how to contact me because I hadn’t been in contact with any of them for several years prior to my father’s suicide. I think about the message from my cousin to call my aunt, the conversation with my aunt. “Your father took his own life.” The sheer incomprehensibility of it. I cried. I called my mom. Jason bought plane tickets, and the next day we went to Texas.

I remember the first night we were there, I abruptly awoke in the middle of the night, scared and out of breath after feeling his presence and seeing a bright white light. I have no idea if it was something outside of me or just my troubled unconscious. The funeral home was able to make him presentable for the casket, and I remember he didn’t look like himself. I remember standing at the graveside for the service, and the short stacked heels of my pumps slowly sinking into the soft, moist soil.

I’ve come to see that there is no true healing from this. Residual pain lingers. There are things that comfort me, like acknowledgement from those who were close to him that my presence in their lives is of value because it’s more than I ever got from him. There are things that remind me of him, like aviation, onion rings, and my own reflection. There are things that remind me of his death, like any reference to suicide or talk of guns. Then are the things that remind me of his absence from my life, both before and after his death, which are harder to label because they aren’t things so much as feelings or a sense of who I am. His suicide often feels unreal to me, but then I consider that he was often unreal to me even in life, and the reality is that I will only ever know him as much as I can the contents of the boxes of his stuff in my basement, and he will never know me, which sadly, was his choice.

1. Health insurance woes and worries

I always feel obligated to preface my complaints about health insurance by saying that I’m grateful to have it. People with diabetes who don’t have health insurance struggle to get their minimum health needs met. Because diabetes is such a costly disease to manage, particularly for people on insulin, many people without health insurance end up cutting corners. I do cut some corners to save money, but I know I’m in a much better position than a lot of other people, and I thank my lucky stars for that.

That being said, I think we can all agree that health insurance is for healthy people, not people with diseases who most need it, so when you have a disease, health insurance is a major source of unlimited grief. Health insurance companies will have you pulling out for hair, inventing curse words, and having complete meltdowns.

I know the customer service rep on the other end of the phone line isn’t responsible for their crappy policies so I do feel terrible that I freak out on them. It’s the board members, CEO’s, CFO’s, the big wigs, the people setting policy that I hate. It’s our economic and political system that coddles those greedy jerkfaces. I hate them all, and I wish awful things on them – hydrogen bombs, plagues, John McClane, zombies with a specific taste for health insurance company executives’ brains. I was going to say aliens that rip out and feast on human hearts, but the poor aliens would starve to death if their sole source of nourishment was health insurance officials…*ba-da-bump*. More fitting would be slow torturous deaths while on the phone with their own customer service departments, begging for coverage for medication, supplies and services they need to live with diabetes. Now that would be karmic retribution.

2. Sweaty lows, nauseous lows, befuddled lows, nocturnal lows, unconscious lows, topless lows…

Having low blood sugar sucks. You can’t process information, you have to stop and wait for your BG to get back to normal, sometimes you’re so hungry you end up overeating and then you feel like crap later because your BG soars. It stops you in your tracks, and in turn, often inconveniences others. It makes you feel helpless and frustrated, and it can be really frightening for people with diabetes and their loved ones. It interrupts anything and everything. Hypoglycemia is a disaster waiting to happen at any given moment. The fact that it can easily kill you brings me to the next thing I hate about diabetes…

3. My pathological fear of dying

I think about dying a lot. It terrifies me because I feel like it follows me around like a shadow, waiting for an opportune moment to swallow me whole. Death is an obvious inevitability for everyone, but knowing that my life expectancy is already shriveled because of diabetes freaks me the heck out. I go to bed at night, hoping I won’t die of a heart attack or hypoglycemia or dead-in-bed syndrome, hoping I’ll wake up in the morning. I worry that every little physical anomaly is an early sign of a heart attack. I hate that it concerns me as much as it does, I hate that I think about it as often as I do, I hate that it scares me to such a great extent. I especially hate that people my age without diabetes have the luxury of looking forward to life’s milestones, while all I can think about is gravestones. I know thinking about it now is a waste of time and energy, but I haven’t figured out how to make peace with it.

4. Food and eating is so complicated

I absolutely despise having to eat when I’m full, but sometimes my BG gets low after meals because I take too much insulin. I hate that when my BG is high, I feel like I shouldn’t eat certain things or shouldn’t eat at all. I hate that eating fun stuff like chocolate or ice cream or cookies is a bad idea for treating low blood sugar, and instead I have to drink juice or eat glucose tabs or hard candy. I hate that diabetes makes it nearly impossible to have a purely joyful experience of eating delicious food because before or after or even between bites, I have to think about how it’s going to affect me, what my BG is, and what my BG might do in response to that food. I hate that I have to play pancreas instead of just savoring what I eat.

5. Thinking about it every other minute

This is not much of an exaggeration. No matter what you’re doing, where you are, how you feel, who you’re with, what occasion it is, what time zone you’re in, what hour of the day it is, how tired you are, how busy you are, how emotionally drained you are, you have to think about it. Where’s my meter? What’s my BG? Do I have enough test strips? How many carbs are in that? How’s that going to affect my BG? Why is my BG low? Why is it high? Why won’t it come down? Why won’t it come up? Did I bolus? Did I over-bolus? Are my basal rates correct? Do I need to do basal testing? Did I refill my prescriptions? Do I have refills on my prescriptions? Do I need to get labwork? Do I have lab slips? Where did I put my lab slips? When is my doctor’s appointment? Did I make that appointment? Do I want to keep seeing that doctor? Are my co-pays going to change? Is my insurance going to change? Am I going to lose my insurance? How am I going to pay for all this stuff? Why is my BG still so high? Did I check my feet? Are those shoes going to cause problems? Why is my vision blurry? Why did my foot fall asleep? Do I have glucose tabs or juice with me? Will they discriminate against me? Will they ask me annoying questions? Will they treat me differently? Should I even tell them I have diabetes? Where should I put my pump? Where should I put my CGM? Can I find a handbag that will hold all my diabetes crap that isn’t as big as a suitcase? Does that dress have pockets? Should I eat dessert? Should I have a glass of wine? Should I adjust my basal rate? Did I reattach my pump? Why the frik is my BG still so high?

Why am I depressed? Oh, maybe it’s because I’m constantly thinking about this crap.

6. Feeling like a burden to everyone

I vaguely recall having an exchange with a parent of a D kid who said they make sure they don’t let on that their child’s diabetes is a burden. I told them their kid knows, and their kid feels guilty. She disagreed. When I was a kid, I felt like a burden to my mom, and I felt guilty for it. I think most adults who grew up with type 1 will say they had a similar experience. Feeling like a burden has eaten away at me for as long as I can remember. Now I’m a burden to my husband. Having diabetes is a burden on the people who love you, no matter what type of diabetes, no matter how old you are, no matter how long you’ve had it. There’s just no way around it. I know people put up with diabetes because they love us. I know having us in their lives with diabetes is better than not having us in their lives, but I despise that it affects them as much as it does. I hate that they worry about us dying, having low or high blood sugar, developing complications, or any of the million things that cause worry for people and families with diabetes. My guilt is irreconcilable.

7. Mental illness

Depression runs in my family, so I can’t fully blame diabetes for this one. However, I do give diabetes a whopping credit for my depression. Diabetes is depressing, diabetes is a burden, and diabetes causes guilt, self-consciousness, anxiety, anger, hesitation, worry, fear, embarrassment, and a range of experiences and emotional states. It takes its toll on people’s psychological wellbeing, and many of us experience depression at some point in our lives.

While depression is common amongst people with diabetes, there are other mental illnesses that as associated with diabetes. Diabetes really complicates our relationships with food and our bodies, and for some, that can lead to an eating disorder. For people with type 1, especially young women, insulin omission is far too common, but for some people with type 2, binge eating disorder is a significant issue. People with mental illnesses characterized by psychosis are often at risk for developing type 2 diabetes because of the medications they take to manage their mental illness.

Mental illness of any kind is difficult. Diabetes of any kind is difficult. Having both is that much more difficult.

8. Sex

Diabetes is with you all the time, so you can close and lock the bedroom door all you want, it’s following you in there. And it’s not just going to sit quietly in the corner, or even wait patiently on the nightstand while you do your thing. It’s getting into bed with you and snuggling up. It might beep, it might vibrate, and not in a helpful kind of way. It might interrupt and turn your lovemaking into a picnic for one of juice boxes and glucose tabs. It will have you wondering if you can keep going for just a few more minutes before you have to tap your partner and tell them the festivities will be ending early. It might even make you pass out, also not in a good way. It will never let your thoughts stay sexy because it will interrupt with worries about your pump site, CGM, BG, or how many carbs were in those edible undies. Basically, diabetes doesn’t want you to have a fulfilling sex life, but don’t stop trying!

9. Complications

Most people talk about The Big 3: retinopathy, nephropathy and neuropathy. Those are definitely scary. After all, who wants to go blind, lose their kidney function, or get their feet chopped off? There’s so much more to it than that though. First, the number one thing that kills us is cardiovascular disease, so I’ve already placed bets that a heart attack or stroke is going to be get me in the end. Beyond those biggies though, there are so many other things that can happen as a result of diabetes.

Diabetes damages the microvascular system, and that means every system, every part of your body is at risk. Most people tend to think pretty exclusively of peripheral neuropathy, but that autonomic neuropathy is nothing to sneeze at. It can damage the heart, any part of your gastro-intestinal tract (diabetic diarrhea anyone?), your sexual function, and whatever else your autonomic nervous system controls.

Then there’s the stuff no one mentions until you’re at the doctor asking about some seemingly oddball problem. I have diabetic mastopathy so I have weird boobs. I’ve had frozen shoulder in both shoulders and both hips, and from what I understand, frozen shoulder can affect any joint. Within the last six months, I was diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome, and now I have to wear ugly braces on my wrists when I sleep. So complications can kill or disable you, but they can also adversely affect your quality of life by being a perpetual nuisance.

10. Anger

Do you ever get angry about having diabetes? I spent years taking my anger out on myself because I had so much of it and didn’t know how to constructively cope with it. After lots of therapy, support, and gaining some perspective, I still have an occasional moment, but most of the time, I accept diabetes for what it is, and try to focus on more positive things.

Sometimes though, the anger rises to the surface. The problem with diabetes anger is that there’s no one to yell at, no one to beat up, nothing to blame. Even after you have a monumental breakdown, one that makes you think you’ve gotten all the anger out of your system, the anger never really goes away because diabetes is always there, poking, prodding, instigating. It tends to be unpredictable, uncooperative, incorrigible, unforgiving, and relentless, so even if you feel OK about diabetes right now, just wait because like a fault line, it’s going to slip, and the anger will bubble to the surface yet again.

Last night, I caught that there was a discussion about diaTribe’s interview of the new CEO of JDRF, Jeff Brewer, on TuDiabetes. Mention of a forum discussion on Children With Diabetes (it has since been locked) that had gotten out of hand made me wonder what was so upsetting about the interview, so off I went to read it. As always, I encourage you to read it yourself if you haven’t, but in essence, Mr. Brewer said that JDRF is broadening its vision.

Personally, I was rather delighted by the interview. I’ve had two primary gripes about JDRF for years. First, I felt like they disregarded adults with T1. It’s a discussion I’ve had with countless people on multiple websites during the last 6 or 7 years. During my 20’s when I was struggling to figure out how to stop feeling so resentful about diabetes, I had tried calling my local JDF chapters (this was before they added the R) on several occasions, looking for something, anything that would resemble support. I got nothing. If anyone even returned the messages I left on their voicemail, I was lucky. I felt completely alone with diabetes, was quite desperate to find support and connection, and the most obvious source of support in my eyes couldn’t be bothered with me. Thus, Mr. Brewer’s statements about engaging with and supporting adults with T1 meant a lot to me, and I’m excited about what this means for the T1 community.

Jeffrey Brewer

My second big gripe has been that JDRF has always been so focused on curing T1 that they seemed to completely forget about those of us who have been trudging along trying to live with it. I actually have complicated feelings about a cure, but generally speaking, I know a cure would be a wonderful thing. Lives would be saved and prolonged, people could exercise and eat and live life without a bottle of test strips and an insulin bottle as life support. As long as that cure doesn’t exist though, I think it’s fair to say we’d all like to have a generous portion of quality of life, and we’d all like to minimize the risks inherent to living with T1. In the diaTribe interview, Mr. Brewer talked about the need to look at more than just curing diabetes. He wants JDRF to be more invested in things like preventing T1 (which of course, does me no good, but it’s an example of this broadened vision), preventing and treating complications, and offering support so that as long as there is no cure, people can do more than live with diabetes – they can LIVE with diabetes. As someone who gave up on being cured years ago, mostly for the sake of my mental health and learning to contently dwell on my side of the fence since I can’t get to the other side, this was also a grand revelation to me. JDRF will continue to work on a cure, but for those of us whose chances of being cured dwindle as we grow older, JDRF is also going to work on improving our lives.

I sat back and reflected on the article, and I felt absolutely validated, after years of feeling like my existence mattered naught to JDRF. It really felt like a win-win, and I hope, a reflection of what we can expect in the future. Then, I recalled the reason I went to read the interview in the first place, a reportedly unfriendly forum discussion on CWD. I made my way over to see what was causing the hubbub. I read the first few pages, and felt like I had the gist of the discussion. I chose not to read the entire thing because I didn’t want to read a lot of mean-spirited comments. In retrospect, I probably should have read all of it because I’d like to think that would have deterred my participation. Unfortunately, that isn’t what I did, so I presumptuously thought I could participate, offering my perspective as an adult who’s lived with T1 for 32 years, and have it all be polite respectful. It seems I was mistaken.

The motivation behind my initial post was that perhaps if I could share what was good about the changes at JDRF, from my perspective as a T1 adult, that some parents might find some encouragement, or at least feel less disappointed in the changes at JDRF, namely diversifying their mission beyond just curing T1. Obviously, parents think that their children’s lives will be better without T1, which is why they’re so focused on a cure rather than channeling resources towards other issues of concern to diabetics. If I were a parent of a T1 kid, I’d probably see more value in putting money toward curing diabetes versus putting money toward better treatments for retinopathy, as Mr. Brewer described. That being said, even though I was told I’d be cured within 5 years back in 1978, I’m damn glad someone somewhere was researching retinopathy treatments, because if they hadn’t, the vision loss I experienced 13 years ago would have been permanent, and I’d be blind today. Hindsight is 20/20, and thankfully, my vision is 20/25.

I tried to convey how not being cured doesn’t mean that life can’t be great, not just in spite of diabetes, but it might even be great because of it. That’s how I’ve come to see my life, and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only T1 adult who can say aspects of my life are great because of diabetes. I’m a huge believer in uncovering the purpose of the tragedies in life, and I’m so grateful that the universe eventually allowed me to see how diabetes has enhanced my life. The reality of my circumstances is that growing up with diabetes did affect my personality, did affect the way I relate to others, did affect the choices I made along the way, did affect my career choice. If I didn’t have diabetes, I wouldn’t have chosen the many paths I’ve taken that led me to my husband and my friends and all the things that I cherish in my life. I’d probably still have a great life if I hadn’t had it, but I love what I have, and diabetes had a lot to do with that. What I tried to do was provide a positive glimpse into how life can be pretty spectacular even if one lives with diabetes for decades. For a group of people who appeared to me to be upset that JDRF had identified priorities in addition to a cure, it seemed like a potentially valuable contribution to the dialogue.

I was floored by the responses to my initial post and almost every contribution after that. There was the snarky suggestion from a parent that I sue them because they want they’re child to be cured. As it turns out, I never said that anyone should give up on the cure, although I’m not shy about sharing that I have. I didn’t express it at that time, but I’m happy that there are so many people who are invested in advocating for a cure. Personally, I prefer doing diabetes mental health advocacy, so between my advocacy work and the advocacy work of others, many of our needs will hopefully be better met. My point was that even if there isn’t a cure in any one person’s lifetime, life can still be good, even enriched because of diabetes.

There was also the suggestion that I think parents are dumb because I don’t think they know their children will become adults. Certainly, I had no such delusion. Sometimes I need encouraging reminders about things that are obvious, like that I should be grateful I have health insurance even though it’s crappy insurance and the insurance company is going to be the death of me. Or that an exercise regimen is completely frustrating when you get started because you have to figure out how to keep your BG’s from bottoming out or skyrocketing, but if you persist, you can overcome that rather onerous hurdle. These are things I know, but when I get upset, it’s good for someone objective to say, “Hey, Lee Ann, remember this!” So when I mentioned that these kids with T1 would become adults with T1, and JDRF would be there to support them unlike the way JDRF was not there for me and many others years ago, that’s all it was – a gentle, encouraging reminder.

I also encountered the assertion that I was committing “assholery”, which I will assume means that person thought I was being an asshole. This same individual proceeded to suggest I was being a “sanctimonious asshat”. Not long after that, there was the lady who said, “The very LAST thing I want for my child is for her to be defined by her diabetes as you clearly feel you are. Yuck. She’s so many things before she’s a person living with diabetes,” and the other lady was asked, “Damn right! My kids life today and yesterday and tomorrow is, would have been and could be, BETTER without D. Geez, are you so invested in being a professional diabetic that you can’t see that?”

I responded respectfully to all, and tried to show that there is some middle ground since we all have T1 in common. Maybe the parents are holding the oars on one side of the boat, and the T1 adults are holding the oars on the other, but cripes, aren’t we all on the same boat? It didn’t seem to matter though. Several people offered snarky responses with eye-rolling emoticons. Because I wrote about finding existential peace with diabetes, there were some sarcastic comments about being “zen” with diabetes. I can see how that could potentially seem ridiculous at first glance to a parent of a kid who has had T1 for a lot less time than I’ve had it, but if I can imagine how gut-wrenching it is to stick needles in a kid who’s begging you not to (having been that kid, let me add), is it a lot to ask that same parent to consider that I’m almost 40-years old, and this has been my life for almost as long as I can remember? The mere suggestion that I not embrace who I am and find every ounce of good in diabetes seems very nihilistic to me.

As I’ve expressed to a few people, I know it’s the interwebz, so I shouldn’t take their hurtful comments personally. People hide behind their computers, and think that’s free license to be nasty, but I naively thought the DOC was above that, thankfully because my experience with it has been ripe with friendship and love. It doesn’t matter if I’ve read your blog or participated in your community for years or one day or not at all. If you’re out there in the DOC, I assume you’re my friend because we live with diabetes. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re the patient or the spouse or the parent. We’re all in the trenches, and our relationship to diabetes and the time we’ve lived with it are the variables that affect our respective perspectives, each of which is just as valid and deserving of respect as another.

That brings me to a silly, but fond diabetes memory from my youth. When I was 13-years old, at diabetes camp (“This one time, at diabetes camp…”), my girlfriends Amy, Erica and I sat under a blanket on my top bunk and stuck our fingers with lancets to become blood sisters. It was one of those things kids did, but I remember it fairly clearly considering it was 25 years ago, and as rituals do, it bound us as friends. These days, rubbing bloody fingers with people isn’t recommended, especially strange people who reside in the computer, but all of us sticking our fingers, day in and day out, binds us. It’s a relationship I honor, respect, and value, and I hope that you, my blood brothers and sisters (and parents and spouses and children!), will be kind to each other, taking the opportunity to learn and grow from sharing our experiences, all of which are valid and add something valuable to the dialogue. Let’s never forget that these finger sticks bind us, and we get enough blood on our hands from that, so there’s no need to fight.

I decided several months ago that I wanted to be in my hometown for the first anniversary of my father’s death. The thought of staying home made me feel very disconnected, and I felt like I would likely regret it if I was in New Jersey pretending it was just like any other day. That’s simply not how I operate, sentimental goof that I am. After a delayed start due to the rather nasty coughing/snot monstrosity that overcame me New Year’s weekend into last week, I packed up the car, and headed to Texas so I could continue my search for healing.

I think marking anniversaries, both for joyous and for sorrowful occasions, is an important process. Reflecting on these experiences enriches us, and helps us find meaning in the events of our lives. I had a very meaningful discussion with my aunt over the weekend, and I expressed to her how I believe things happen for a reason. It’s diabetes that led me to that conclusion not so many years ago. Finding the meaning in my disease was a life-changing revelation to me. Reflecting something my aunt said to me in response, I have come to see the accumulation of my life experience, including the “bad” stuff like diabetes and depression, as ultimately having led me to all the wonderful things in my life now, most notably my marriage to Jason and my career as an art therapist. So good things eventually emerged from what seemed like nothing more than misery and misfortune once upon a time.

I believe that the meaning of my father’s suicide will become clear to me someday, just like it did for diabetes. It felt senseless a year ago today when I sat on my sofa scrambling to make plans to come to Texas for the funeral. It still feels senseless. I don’t think it will always be so though.

For information about depression, I found this slideshow at WebMD via the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.