“In the silence you don’t know, you must go on,

I can’t go on, I’ll go on.”

~ Samuel Beckett

Though I’ve never read Samuel Beckett’s novel, The Unnamable, I recognize the above quote as describing a place I’ve been all too many times in my life. It is that place of loss or illness or tragedy where, despite the support of loving people, you feel totally alone. It is that place of darkness where screamed and whispered cries of “Why?” are met with deafening silence—because there are no answers. It is that place with no road map out. It is that place you feel is impossible to survive—and yet, you do.

It is in places such as these, where the seeds for extreme gratitude are sown.

Last week I wrote about the power of mindful gratitude—how a practice of intentionally seeking out experiences for which to be grateful can bring us peace in stressful times. In previous posts, I’ve written about the value of perspective. It is in looking back that we often see the gifts that our disappointments and losses eventually brought us—valuable experiences and relationships that we would not have had without going through the pain—and which we would never choose to give up.

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“Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings, turn routine jobs into joy, and change ordinary opportunities into blessings.” —

William Arthur Ward

The week of Thanksgiving has arrived, ushering in the most stressful and emotionally complex season celebrated in the Western world. Already, my patient load has risen!

None of us reaches adulthood without carrying baggage from childhood. And disappointments and losses continue to accumulate over the years. It is inevitable—we cannot live and love in this world without experiencing pain. And although we would so love to be able to neatly compartmentalize the different seasons and stages of our lives, it is not possible. The truth is, no matter how circuitous our life’s path, our lives are lived on a continuum. Every joyful memory remains to be triggered by something in our present. And it is the same with every loss. Even wounds we think have healed nicely can be ripped open without warning during the holidays.

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“The instinct to survive is human nature itself,

and every aspect of our personalities derives from it.”

~Robert A. Heinlein

Because my last blog post was the hardest and most personal I’ve written, I had to step back and take some breathing room before following up. I’d struggled with opening up—being so vulnerable and disclosing. As a shrink, I walk a fine line. Over the years, I’ve selectively shared my stories with patients when they’ve felt relevant to healing. But I’m still new to sharing my most personal experiences with others, especially in a public forum.

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I attempted suicide when I was sixteen. Over the almost fifty years since, I have told very few people. I’ve only shared when the importance of disclosure felt greater than my desire for privacy. I have shared with others who have survived suicide attempts. I’ve also shared with those in danger of succumbing to their suicidal urges—when the sharing of my personal experience would have more impact than my professional experience—when it might save a life.

Suicide is not a conversation-friendly topic. Like most provocative subjects, it makes people uncomfortable and can generate rigid opinions. But, there has never been a greater need for education on the complexities of suicide. One thing shrinks know for sure about suicide is that it is contagious. Hotlines and ERs have been on high alert since Robin Williams committed suicide. If someone who has so much going on for him cannot go on living, why should I? Maybe opening the discussion is Robin’s last gift to us—not through laughter, but through tears.

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On July 25th my purse was stolen, and I’ve been locked in a tangle of emotions ever since. The only things that help are all the lessons I’m learning, and sharing my story with everyone I can so maybe it won’t happen to them.

I’ve never considered myself the victim of a crime before. Two years ago, my Rav4 was vandalized—a window smashed in a grab and run. All I lost were a bright pink coin purse holding a few dollars in change, and the hundred dollars and time required to replace the window. I wasn’t happy, but it felt like such a random, spontaneous act that it was easy to move past. And my favorite tooled-leather coin purse remained buried deep in the console, so I didn’t feel any sentimental loss. The only losses were time and money. The lesson learned was never leave anything valuable in plain sight.

The theft of my purse was neither random nor spontaneous. It was a deliberate act perpetrated by a team of professional thieves. It has cost me time and money, peace of mind, and great sentimental loss. Suddenly I understand the experience so many robbery victims relate—that of feeling violated. And I also realize that the process of recovery is much like the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

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