On Doodles, Notes, and Honesty

I knew the training could be tough—the topic was “Common Mental Health Disorders in Schools.” So yes, there was potential. The day’s speaker had presented to our teachers earlier in the year and I’d benefited from what he had to say, so I talked myself up, stocked a pencil bag with colored pens (yes, really), and sat with a safe and gentle friend who can . . . handle . . . the person I’ve become. I was ready to learn and armed to doodle while I listened.

I lasted twenty minutes into the initial two-hour session before I whispered “I can’t” to my table mate, grabbed my drink and keys, and made my way out of that room and into my own classroom.

Of course, I was at the far end of a crowded room, so everyone saw as I squeezed my fat self behind chairs and between tables, desperate to get out of that room without sobbing or hyperventilating. I made it out, but barely. It was all I could do to unlock my own door and get inside, choking out an apology to my bewildered-but-concerned principal who’d followed me from the meeting. I don’t know if it was the mention of suicide and suicidal ideation or if everything was too close to home, but I couldn’t handle it. I thought I could; I was wrong.

Why was my principal bewildered? Well, in all the months (19, to be exact) since Cooper’s suicide, leaving that meeting in tears was the first time I’d broken down in front of everyone. Not my best day. Oh, I’ve cried at school many, many times, but not in front of all the teachers at once. I left that meeting defeated, frustrated with myself, and convinced that facing everyone again would be like starting over—the puncture of curious, nervous looks, the bellow of whispers—any progress I’d made, lost.

I spent an hour and a half in my room, crying, cleaning, working up a sweat, and listening to my Feel Better playlist. Early on, I decided rejoining the meeting when there was a break—whenever that break may be—was my goal, and that’s what I did. Nobody really said anything, but I didn’t attempt eye contact, either; I knew I was still on the brink of tears. I settled into my chair and waited for the meeting to start. On her way to her seat, a friend put her hand on my shoulder, asked if I was okay. I just nodded; speaking would’ve brought tears.

And I was okay, I guess. I made it through the next session, through lunch (“forced on me” by a thoughtful friend), and through the afternoon meeting without coming undone. Back to the one-minute-at-a-time approach, if only temporarily.

When I left the first session, I left my open notebook and colorful pens on the table; taking the time to pack would’ve pushed me solidly into the ugly-crying stage, and I was trying to maintain a scrap of dignity. When I returned, my notebook was closed. I won’t pretend the notebook was for note taking; I always doodle as I listen in these meetings. Sometimes I scrawl commentary or questions, plenty of snark and sass and irreverence on my pages. That day, I’d written only a few words before I fled the meeting—the presenter’s definition of mental health (the lens we see the world through), a question for myself (Can I do this?), and the reason I should be able to handle the presentation (He wasn’t a child. This is about children). I know—I’m not so great at note taking.

In response to my written question, in a hand not my own, was a reassurance. Yes you can, followed by words I needed to read. Words I’ve read countless times in a week.

Yes, I can.

But . . . “Yes, I can” looks so strange now.

How many times each day do I ask myself that question? Can I?

Can I walk back into a meeting, finish out the day, greet teachers in the hall, thank a few for their kindness, and somehow carry on, even though they finally saw me fall apart? Yes, I guess I can. Until Friday, I hadn’t realized I’d been trying to keep it together around my coworkers. After Cooper died, I went back to work and tried to do my job. I knew my reality made people uncomfortable—most of the teachers knew Cooper—so I tried to stay under the sympathy radar. Now I keep to myself more than before; I’m quiet unless I have something worthwhile to say. I don’t look like the Tonya people knew (and still expect); I’ve aged a decade in a year. I know I’ve changed and I don’t apologize for those changes—they tell my story.

I’ve been transparent through this process, but I guess not at work.

Transparency forthcoming.

Honestly? Every day is still a challenge, some more daunting than others. Every day, I think it’d be okay to lie in bed and stare at the wall instead of getting up and going to school. Every day, I find myself resting my head in my hands, eyeglasses shoved to the top of my head or dropped onto my desk. Every day, I wonder if I’ll be able to sleep that night. Every day, I ask myself what I missed, what I should’ve done, what I shouldn’t have done, what could’ve mattered, what the hell happened. Every day, WHY?!? caroms about my mind.

Our spring musical was Thursday through Sunday. We’ve been working on the show since January—two solid months of adjustments and rehearsals and winter weather and stress and that’s just my face. I used to say the spring musical saved my life every winter, an exaggeration that is no longer funny. The musical didn’t save my life this year, but it did keep me occupied and provide a creative outlet. I did my usual production tasks and problem solving. I designed the lighting for the show and nagged until the venue’s tech people got it right. I did the things I do, but I’m not sure I had fun. I’m proud of our work and thrilled for the students’ success, but my joy hasn’t returned, at least not to its former level. Will it? I guess we’ll see, one show at a time. Transparency. Honesty.

Monday was my first day of post-musical freedom. I hadn’t visited Cooper’s spot since December and really needed to spend some time there. After school, I stopped at home long enough to grab a blanket and pick two flowers, then headed to the cemetery. The tiny willow branch wreath I’d tied in the cedar tree in November was still there, dry but intact. I cut the string and set the wreath on the blanket, lay down, placed a daffodil and bloodroot (my favorite spring wildflower) at the base of the tree, and sobbed. Sobbed my mascara all over my face and arms. Sobbed until I was done. Eventually, I sat up, faced the tree, smoothed the frayed bark, talked, and prayed. Told him about the show and the weather and his sister’s visit, apologized for not being able to save him, and uttered one of Anne Lamott’s big three prayers: Help. (Thanks and Wow will have to come later)

I got it out of my system. Mostly.

Can I go on to town and get groceries?

Yes, I can. Might not be pretty, but yes, I can.

It’s exhausting, even all these months later. Some days just suck. I trudged up and down the grocery aisles, backtracking because my brain was still caught in the loop of questions, and eventually saw a friend. I slowed and asked her how she was (good), but didn’t stop. As I passed her, she asked the same of me. In response, I shook my head, wobbled my hand, and kept going. Later, I messaged her and apologized for my rudeness. She understands. She recognizes a mom on the brink; some days, she sees that mom in her own mirror.

I was so frustrated with myself for leaving the meeting, embarrassed for drawing attention, but I’m trying to give myself a break. I think from the outside, it must seem like a long time to be so sad, so demolished, so obviously affected, but here I am, so sad, so demolished, so obviously affected. I expected to have all three kids with me the rest of my life. I did not expect a next of kin notification. Nineteen months is nothing. I’d be okay with not crying in front of everyone ever again, but I won’t discount this loss by hiding. Hiding, lying, minimizing—they all feel so wrong. Sometimes, “right” is ugly.

Can I be honest in my grief? Can I acknowledge the wreckage that is my heart? Can I keep clawing my way back to joy? Can I do this?

I’m choosing to take my friend at his word: Yes you can and yes you do.

Yes, I can.

That’s just my face.