Shaping My Identity

This week in my psychology class, we're talking about personality. The idea my proessor shared with us the other day is that who we are has an effect on what kind of personality we have, which begged the question that she wrote up on the board. Who are you?
Underneath the question, she wrote, "I am...". She asked us to finish this sentence twenty times. Sounds like a lot, right?
So I started writing.
I am...a wife.
I am...a mother.
I am...a Mormon.
I am...a daughter of God.
I am...a suicide survivor.
I stopped, and I literally almost cried. Right there. In the middle of class. I just needed a break. I couldn't believe I had literally just taken pen to paper and had written those words. I've blogged about my experience with being left behind because of suicide, but there's just something about seeing the phrase handwritten in my personal script.
In trying hard not to release any tears, I looked down and saw that I was not only wearing my most recent Out of the Darkness t-shirt, but I was also wearing the jacket I had earned as an incentive for raising a certain amount of money for the organization.
I picked up my pencil and continued writing.
I am...an advocate.
I am...the change.
I did feel a little silly giving myself so much credit, but that thought went away rather quickly.
When my brother died, the only thing that kept me going is advocating for those who struggle with the same things he did. His death and the way it happened--as much as I hate it--is a part of my identity. I will never be the person I was before his suicide. Never.
But why be dealt a card that you have to live with for the rest of your life and not make something worthwhile out of it?
I've literally decided to take the sourest of lemons and make lemonade, and that's through being the change in how the world views suicide, and how it can be prevented.
The shift in my identity since Christian died is the sole reason why I drafted post after post asking for donations to a foundation I truly believe is making a difference. It's the reason why I changed my major. It's the reason why I share so many mental health articles on social media. It's the reason why I'm so concerned with my friends when I know they're having a difficult time--even if it is just because of an upcoming exam causing unrelenting stress.
Just like with any of the other "I am..." phrases I came up with, my identity drives me to act. Being a wife leads me to check in with my husband to make sure he'll be okay if I go out with a girlfriend. Being a mom means putting my child before myself, talking mostly about them on social media, and missing them even when I'm gone for a few hours. Being a Mormon means everything in my life is centered on my beliefs--what I wear, what movies I see, how I spend my Sundays. Being a daughter of God means that I come from heavenly parents, who love me, that I am divine, and I try to treat myself as such.
Being a suicide survivor means I can't stand idly by and watch other families suffer the way mine has. It's who I am, and it's who I've been shaping up to become over the past year and a half since I was struck by suicide.
What experiences have you had that have shaped your identity to be what it is today? Who are you?

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Saturday

Sunday morning rolled around and my eyes grew heavier and heavier as I tried to wake myself up to get ready for 9 a. m. church after a long night with the baby. I turned to look at Corey as he slept soundly next to me and then to the baby in her crib -- out. I allowed the drowsiness to claim my body and I opted for another hour of sleep. We would go to the eleven o'clock ward again.
When I woke up, my phone read that it was nine thirty. The baby had woken up. It was time for a bottle. I fed her. I burped her. I needed to shower.
I handed Charly off to her dad while I greeted the hot shower with glee. I needed to be rid of my sluggishness. The high-and-sometimes-uncomfortable water pressure could do just that in a matter of mere moments, and can be oddly refreshing although painful.
As I tried to make myself presentable enough to sit in the chapel, I heard the baby begin to cry from her swing. I set my curling iron on the ground and gave Charly her pacifier to calm her just long enough for me to get one more wave in. Getting ready would prove to be challenging.
By the time we made it out the door, church had already begun and the baby was still in her pajamas. She would definitely stay in the car seat during sacrament!
We pulled into the parking lot, reverently walked into the building, and sat down on the sofa by the entryway just in time to sing along to the sacrament hymn. I found my stress from the morning swept away by the Spirit I felt as we prepared to renew our covenants.
We chose to remain in the foyer for the duration of the meeting while Charly tried to fall asleep. The previous week she had gotten fussy while the sacrament was being passed, and my anxiety flared up. I had raced out of the room with her in tow as to avoid collecting judgment from those who expected absolute silence. Anxiety told me it was better safe than sorry.
As we listened to the speakers, I felt peace, but it was quickly interrupted by a few straggling members of the ward we were supposed to attend. I wasn't bothered by their conversation by any means, but rather the volume at which they spoke to one another. Corey and I continued to sit quietly, it becoming increasingly difficult to hear what the speaker was trying to convey to his audience. The Spirit was gone, and my stress came racing back.
Usually I am not one to become irritated when I am in the foyer during sacrament meeting and people decide to socialize at a high decibel. So why was I particularly upset yesterday?
It's the week.
That week.
The week I've been dreading.
I have found my patience to be very limited in several capacities this month. This was one of them. Perhaps I thought that if I listened intently, I would hear or feel something that would make getting through the week--especially Saturday--a little easier, a little less grim.
Driving home from church was anything but pleasant. Apologies kept finding their way out of my mouth after turning a cold shoulder to my husband numerous times in less than twenty minutes.
But how could I turn my attitude around when I am mentally shivering at the thought of even acknowledging what Saturday is and what it means?
I unbuckled the baby from her car seat as soon as we set her down inside the apartment and took her straight to the bedroom to change her diaper. I buttoned her onesie up and saw she was rather alert so I put her hands in mine and started to play with her arms.
She smiled for the first time as a reaction to me--and she kept smiling as I moved her arms up and down, side to side. It was just what I needed to make the day more pleasant and be reminded that the Lord is in all the details of our lives--meaning He sent Charly to us just in time.
Honestly, I have no idea what I would do this week while Corey's working if I didn't have our little girl to keep my mind--for the most part--occupied. Based on what I saw myself conform to yesterday when only the thought of Saturday instilled fear in me, I know now that the Lord didn't bless me with pregnancy just to comfort me during nine of the months following my brother's death, but He blessed me with Charly when He did because He knew the year mark would be unbearable without her.
This month, Charly has grown in so many different ways. It has been nothing short of a blessing to witness her different milestones the past few weeks.
I wouldn't be so bold as to say she's been a distraction from the fact that my brother is gone, but her being here has helped me in various ways to lessen the pain grief has brought over the last year.
I never thought motherhood would be entirely healing--and it's not--but the Lord knew that this calling would give me the ability to better navigate the road of loss and alleviate some of the emotional suffering.
I do not know how I would get through any of this without the knowledge that God exists--and more than His reality, that He loves me. I barely made it through the first few months following Christian's death when I let my anger cast a shadow over His outstretched arm. I will say it again: He is in all the details of our lives. I know He's been in mine.
Even sitting in the foyer of the church while loud conversations were taking place, I felt His hand--I felt His hand because I was there. The gospel gave me a reason to be in the building at all to partake of His goodness. I felt His hand because I took the sacrament. I renewed my covenants.
That was enough to be grateful for--and I was reminded that I can rely on the Atonement this week, on Saturday, and always.

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Absolutely Terrified

Can I be honest? Like brutally honest? Okay good, because I'd be shocked if anybody told me not to be considering my blog is built on honesty.
I'm scared to have this baby. Like terrified. But not for the reasons you might think.
I'm not scared for the contractions that will make me want to scream in someone's face. I'm not scared to push a baby out of my body. I'm not scared to be a mom.
What am I so afraid of then, you might ask?
I'm terrified of bringing Charly into this world--a world without my baby brother. I've been dreading the day she'll come...but with anticipation no less.
It literally makes no sense to me that I would be so focused on the negative than on the positive, and believe me, I'm trying to flip the script, but it's easier said than done.
My mom had posted on Facebook earlier that she can't wait to welcome this bundle of joy fresh from heaven, and I guess that's what sparked the feeling that I should share my thoughts with you.
To feel with every fiber of my being that heaven is real has been the single most comforting thing in the wake of my brother's death. I've been given witness after witness that there is a place we go after we leave this life, and because of that, naturally I've been thinking about where we came from. And that answer, too, is heaven.
So why am I still so terrified?
There will never be pictures. No memories. She'll look at a family picture when she's able to put names to faces, look at Christian and say, "Mommy, who is that?" I don't think any amount of time can or will pass before that question will stop me from making a run for the first pillow I can cry into.
Sure, I've been told time after time that Charly's getting to know Christian now, and while that's comforting, it's equally disconcerting that she will forget any encounter she might have had with my little brother upon coming here to be with my family.
But then my mom said something that struck me and made my heart a little more grateful.
I've been having false labor contractions, but my parents didn't want to take a chance of missing the delivery of their grandbaby if said contractions were to shift into true ones. As my mom talked with me on the phone about leaving earlier than planned she said through choked back tears:

"I don't want to miss this because...Charly will be the last one to have seen my son." 

While I feared for the future of my child stripped of the privilege to know her uncle--or rather fearing for myself welcoming a future for my child who will never know her uncle in this life--my mom instilled gratitude in me with her words. My child will be the last one to have been with and interacted with Christian, and for that I am truly grateful. I suppose I need to learn how to stomp out my jealousy and anger with gratitude.
It's been a long, rocky road the past ten months. Regardless, I am reminded as I write this post how lucky and blessed I am to have been afforded the opportunity to carry this baby for the last thirty-eight weeks--something I know so many women are not able to do.
This is why we have moms. They help us change our perceptions on situations that may otherwise cause emotional chaos.

Thanks, Mom.

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Mending the Cracks

I often wonder why I never gave up on the gospel while I was going through my anger phase for roughly six months. Although I didn't have burning questions about the history of the Church, or whether Joseph Smith saw God and Jesus Christ or made it all up, I am still confused as to why I didn't leave when I was so angry with God.

This was a thought that entered my mind while the spirit was tormenting me during sacrament meeting to bear my testimony, but I declined to do so. Why? 

This is still of a very personal nature to me as I tackle head-on my challenges with Heavenly Father--although, they were never with God, but with His opponent.  

However, I digress. 

I didn't follow the prompting to bear my testimony because I simply am not ready. The Lord may know I am, but I don't yet. I'm just not there. I'm not at the point where I can vocalize my thoughts, but only translate them into writing. 

I have never thought as promptings as "little commandments" but instead, I have always seen them as the Lord giving me opportunities to make changes whether in myself or instill impressions in others. I didn't take that opportunity to change anything in that meeting, and maybe I should have, but I feel more comfortable doing it from this outlet for the time being.

Instead of walking up to the pulpit, I allowed the spirit to fester, and I pondered the strength and position of my testimony. I thought about how it was possible that I stayed in the gospel when I didn't want God to be part of my life after "what He did". Why did I still listen to the prophet? Why did I still admire the temple? Why did I still pick up my scriptures from time to time? 

It just didn't make sense to me. 

Allowing time for meditation during sacrament meeting today gave me an opportunity to reflect, and put the pieces together.

I stayed because Jesus Christ is my foundation. 

Because I didn't care to see to my testimony being nourished during this time, each building block of my testimony got a crack or two, but my foundation remained in tact. With a solid foundation, it was more difficult, near impossible, for Satan to break my tower of faith. 

Instead of having to build my testimony again, I just needed to mend it. By having a sure foundation, the blocks didn't crumble, and I was more easily able to simply mend the cracks--of course with the help of the Savior through His Atonement. 

I think all too often we give up too quickly. Perhaps had I allowed the anger to fester longer my foundation might have crumbled eventually leaving nothing but spiritual dust. But I saved my own testimony in time before the destruction could have transpired. I am so grateful for that.

I find it interesting that, for me, my problem was with God, yet I still trusted His son--and it literally makes no logical sense because God is the one who sent Christ out of pure love for His children. 

This just serves as a testament to me that I am too vulnerable as a mortal to just choose to walk away when I have a spiff with some part of the doctrine, or in my case, a person. I cannot bring myself to do so because I know I would be making the wrong choice--even if my relationship with God is or was weak. 

Jesus truly does save. 

He saved me from choosing the wrong path. He saved me from abandoning my worth as a daughter of God. He saved me from the torment I would have experienced for the remainder of my life from throwing away the hope of a life after death, or that eternal families is a true principle stemming from his earthly ministry. He saved my testimony. He saved me from deserting the one pure thing in my life: the gospel. 

The gospel of Jesus Christ is the only thing that can bring everlasting peace. 

The road has been so incredibly rocky since last summer, but despite the ditches and the bumps, Christ has been there through it all. He knows me personally, and because of this, He understands exactly how to succor me.

Although it was a process, I'm there. 

The cracks are mended, and not with glue. The cracks are literally gone. 

I'm beginning to feel more like who I was before it all went wrong. I'm beginning to see the joy in my demeanor when I get ready in the morning. I'm beginning to acquire that fire I left behind at the onset of my grief.

The cracks are mended, and I am changed. 

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Be the Change

I'm in awe at the response my last few posts have received. I am happy to note that my life has been less in shambles and the pieces are being put back in place with a little help from on High. The past month and a half has been difficult with school weighing on my shoulders, though much more bearable now that I'm on speaking terms with the Man upstairs. He's the key to travelling a bumpy road with joy.
It's quite obvious that life isn't all rainbows and butterflies. I've always hated the phrase: "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade"...especially since my family, immediate and extended, has lost so much in such little time. However, I've come to appreciate that phrase. Life handed us the sourest of lemons last summer--two, in fact. As my soul purses its lips in aspiration to be redeemed from the sourness, I begin to think, what can I make of this? 
Many of you know I've been studying English as an undergraduate, and I thought for the longest time it was the right degree to pursue. I love to write. I love to share my insights. But as the time passes, especially since grief was thrown in my basket, I took inventory of my passions.

English--as a whole--is not one of them.

It is true that I love books, and I love blogging, but that's basically where I hit a block in the road. I don't feel like there's anywhere to go from here--at least not for me.
How can I take my two passions, words and insight, and do good?
Gandhi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."
I never felt that I could really be the change with the degree I had chosen unless I were to sit at home and be a mommy blogger all day. Except my posts aren't suitable for that sort of career--neither is my mindset. We all know the most successful mommy bloggers are those who generate new ideas for decorating a home or spicing up a relationship--both of which are so not me, and let's face it, when I do have those ideas, they're entirely recycled from others (especially from Pinterest).
It's not ingrained into my personal being as a young woman in today's society to be a stay-at-home mom for the next thirty plus years. I personally believe that motherhood and a career can be complimentary of one another. I plan to merge the two--and when I set my mind to something, I achieve it. I want more for me, and I want more for my children. There's no doubt I'm a woman of action.
Since being hit in the face with depression from the outside and its opposite, I have decided that I want to shift gears a bit--okay, a lot--and focus my career on preventing other families from suffering a loss such as mine. Even more so than preventing grief, I want so badly to help adolescents like my brother who are fighting strenuously to combat and cope with their mental illnesses and other trials which could lead to depression, anxiety, and other disorders.
Today, I changed the course of my life; I changed my major. I changed my major to something that will allow me the opportunity to exercise my passion of advocacy for the mentally ill. I changed my major to something that will allow me to make hands-on change--to be the change. I have chosen to pursue a BS in Marriage and Family Studies, then go on to receive my Masters in a similar area, if not counseling.
Never in my high school career had I thought to engage in any coursework outside the realm of English, yet here I am four years later going against my adolescent judgment.
I have found it increasingly interesting that out of all my English courses that I have drooled over in boredom and disinterest, the one that ever intrigued me was my Young Adult Literature course where I learned how to use literature to help teens in various aspects of their lives. I didn't know then why I felt that way. All I know is it led me to where I am today: an aspiring counselor for adolescents.

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Walls

Since the end of high school, I've always been one of great faith and devotion to my religion, and have always carried an immense love for God. I studied my scriptures to the point of the binding losing its strength. I served a mission for thirteen months where I lived and breathed the gospel of Jesus Christ. I was adamant about praying to God day, night, and times in between. I walked the walk, and talked the talk. Why? Because I loved God.
And I still do.
But I've had a minor (okay, quite major) setback.
Up until now, all the experiences I've shared have revolved around my brother's tragic passing--which, understandingly, is the underlying reason for my spiritual withdrawal and every little struggle in between since that horrible day.
My last blog post revolved around my anger towards God for not telling anyone that Christian was struggling and how to help him--and quite frankly, that sent me running far, far away. I began to build walls between me and God, and I most likely did it as a result of being hurt. I receded into a spiritual hole that consisted of nothing but me and darkness. We've become rather close, Darkness and I.
See, when I decided to shut off communication to and from heaven, I've always felt lonely. Sure there'd be times of laughter, and little bits of happiness here and there, but ultimately every inch of sunshine had been hidden behind a great mountain--one that I created as a result of fleeing because of my pain for which I blamed God.
I've fought myself about building these walls to keep God out. After I wrote my previous post, I finally had it with the loneliness and silently cried to myself, "I don't want to feel this way anymore!"
I still haven't prayed. I still haven't read my scriptures. I haven't been to church in weeks.
In all honesty, I felt like I couldn't do any of those things with this anger weighing on my shoulders. It didn't feel right sitting in church and feeling angry at God when I was supposed to be there to worship Him. How could I worship Him when I felt He was to blame for everything going wrong in my life?
Little by little, the walls have come down and I'm beginning to feel guilty for ever blaming Him at all. I'm ready for a reconciliation. I've stopped trying to tell myself to forgive Him because, well, there isn't anything to forgive.
I've still been scared of going back, of putting my trust in Him. But today, I had a boost of confidence. Here's why:
Elder Oaks was a guest speaker at BYU-Idaho's weekly devotional this afternoon, and the words I use won't do justice to the feeling of love I felt emanating from God when he walked in the room.
College students are noisy--especially when there are over two thousand in a single auditorium--but as soon as this apostle walked into the room, it fell silent in mere seconds. We stood out of respect as he entered, and I felt something inside me that I haven't felt in months. I knew in that moment that the spirit was telling me that I am loved by a Heavenly Father who has called this man, among many others, to ensure that I will make it through this life and all my struggles with as much help as possible. Immediately following that inspired thought, I felt that there is no way God doesn't love me if He has provided all the resources He has--His Son being the most vital and precious--for me to find everlasting joy and eternal peace someday. There's absolutely no way.
I've yearned for this feeling when I've attended church and religion classes, but I haven't felt anything as a result of those walls.
I find it no coincidence that just days before I had this experience, I plead with myself to start breaking down the barriers and letting God back in--and instead of calling Him "God", start calling Him by what He is and has always been to me--my Heavenly Father.
This has been the toughest journey to travel, and I know without a doubt that God is there, and He did not allow my brother to take his life out of spite for my family or Christian. I know that God loves all of His children, and He will never leave us even if we turn our backs on Him--which I have been doing.
For months, He has been waiting for me to run back to Him, and tonight, I'm sprinting. For the first time in five months, I'll pick up my own scriptures and read because I want to. For the first time in five months, I'll kneel down and pray because I want to. For the first time in five months, I'll call God by His rightful title and rely more fully on His son's infinite Atonement.
Tonight, I'm grateful for my Heavenly Father.

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When the Promptings Don't Come

Finding it an utter bore after staring at the television for five straight hours, watching the tissues collect in the nearest trash bin, my nose needing to be "snifflled" every few seconds, unwrapping cough drop after cough drop, scrolling through memes on Facebook that seemed to have given back my laughs, I began to think. That's usually what happens when you're sick. You get cabin fever, and your mind begins to race. But if that's not what happens to you, perhaps you aren't human!
A good friend of mine shared some of her thoughts and experiences on following promptings today, which--ironically--prompted the thought: Well, what if the promptings don't come?
I feel like in the Church, we only talk about what to do when we feel prompted, but seldom--if ever--talk about what to do when the promptings don't come.
I haven't yet voiced my frustration about none of my family members receiving promptings to help my brother when he was in his darkest moment before he ultimately took his life. Well, here it is.
We're leading into the sixth month since his death, and the one thing that continues to bother me most about Christian's passing is that God seemed to be absent. Where was He? I find myself beginning to relate more and more to the popular song by The Fray.

Why'd you have to wait?

Where were you? Where were you?

Just a little late.

Sometimes I feel like I'm being suffocated by these very ideas when they pass through my train of thought. Everything was falling apart. Why didn't God tell me to text my brother that morning? Why didn't God tell my mom not to leave the house? Why didn't God tell my dad he needed to come home early from work? Why didn't God tell one of my siblings to stop by the house? Where were the promptings?

I've always assumed since I've been baptized and was given the constant companionship of the holy ghost that in every instance and if I was worthy, something would whisper in my ear, and I could be a hero.

Such isn't the case. In fact, when my older brother called, Corey and I were talking about going to the temple that evening. 

I guess this is what confused me even more. I was so excited for the temple, to be closer to God, only to have my brother ripped away from this life without so much as a little godly intuition that something was wrong. How is that fair? Wasn't I promised to receive promptings?

I received them all the time on my mission like what to say--or what not to say--during a lesson, whose door to knock on, that I needed to come home early, that I even needed to serve in the first place. 

Why would God give me a prompting to knock on a door of someone's home who wouldn't even accept the gospel during the time I was there but refrain from sending my brother any assistance during his time of need?

This is the level of rawness that's been affecting my relationship with what I would refer to as the "almighty God"--quotations inviting sarcasm. The phrase "mighty to save" must have carried a much different denotation.

Of course, I'm working to overcome this spiritual setback with the Man upstairs, and for the most part, I'm beginning to understand just where He was when we were all going about our days as normal while Christian was losing his fight with depression.

As hard as it is to say, my little brother had his mentally ill-stricken mind made up about dying--the pain going away for good--and God can't strip us of our agency. Isn't that why we're here? 

I look back to that day and realize that God was with Christian, and with all of us, but there wasn't necessarily a need for someone to physically rescue him. But I know he was aided by some on the other side of the veil. Perhaps the need for Christian to be helped came from somewhere we can't see. 

The promptings won't always come. 

While God is no respecter of persons, He respects our right to choose. 

When the promptings don't come, don't blame God. Don't blame yourself. When the promptings don't come, know that God was never absent.

When the promptings don't come, know that God is still God and He sees the bigger picture.

The only thing we can do when the promptings don't come is ask ourselves, "What can be learned from this?"

Death doesn't seem at all like a learning experience--especially when it's tragic. But it is.

I have learned in the past year since losing three relatives, close and more distant, how crucial it is for me to accept Jesus Christ as my Savior and Redeemer and follow Him. Because of Him, the Plan of Salvation isn't just a blueprint sitting on a table waiting for its Architect to take action. 

It is in full force, and I couldn't be more grateful for the knowledge it brings that despite what I have previously felt are discrepancies in the Lord's actions regarding my family, He knows what He's doing, and He will reunite us with my brother again.

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