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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“I feel Yasmeen’s energy surrounding me

and I smell the sweet and bitter scent of Clementines.” – 

East of Mecca

Lately, I’m reminded why I write—why I write my blog and why I wrote my novel East of Mecca. One reminder came April 17. I was at a concert at SPACE, a local venue, when a woman asked if I was “Sheila.” When I said, “Yes,” she said she’d read my book and recognized me from my picture. This was the first time anything like this has happened to me, and I was surprised and pleased. She said lovely things about East of Mecca, but also told me how much she liked my blog posts—how they spoke to her on a personal level—that she recommended my blog to friends. Then she said, “You haven’t written much in a while.” I agreed, “It has been a while.” When I asked her name, I realized she had written a wonderful review on Amazon back in January, giving East of Mecca 5 stars. I thanked her, hugged her, and walked away feeling elated. Sherry Swaggart made my day!

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“Profound joy of the heart is like a magnet that indicates the path of life.”

 ~Mother Teresa

I am weary of winter—and I’m not alone! Thanks to polar vortexes, joy has been in short supply this season! Even those of us who normally enjoy the unique gifts of winter have had enough of snow and ice and wind and way below zero temperatures. How naïve, I think now, looking back to December 9, 2013—when I rewarded myself for shoveling with a snow angel!

Like most people in Chicago, I’ve spent the worst winter on record hunkered down indoors as much as possible. To venture out is to first spend an inordinate amount of time layering up to protect against the very real danger of frostbite! No long walks by the lake for me! My cross-country skis languish on the back porch because I’m far too thin-blooded to brave frigid temperatures for the joy of skiing. I’m locked in polar misery.

Saturday morning, it was a balmy 19 degrees when I drove to my Zumba class and joined a gathering of other die-hard Zumba-fanatics. In the midst of this crazy winter, those of us showing up for Suzy’s class enjoy an immediate sense of camaraderie. And Saturday, one of the women was celebrating her birthday, so Suzy had created a special playlist of her favorite songs. It felt like a party. And, moving my body to the music in the company of thirty other laughing, dancing, sweaty women—I felt joy.

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December 14, 2013

Today is a year since Sandy Hook. Friday, December 14, 2012, my husband and I were at the Christkindlmarket located in Daley Plaza in downtown Chicago. The open air old-world German market is a holiday tradition for us. We feast on bratwurst and potato pancakes and drink hot mulled wine and hot chocolate while navigating crowds of tourists and office workers on break. The atmosphere is festive. An enormous Christmas tree towers above colorful booths where mostly German vendors sell toys and holiday ornaments. Everywhere are delicious aromas of food and roasted candied nuts. There is a menorah, a nativity scene, and a Santa house. Entertainment includes brass bands, dance troops, and Christmas choirs. Music fills the air—along with the sound of children’s voices and laughter.

On Dearborn Street, directly across the street from Daley Plaza, a jumbo television screen is mounted on the side of a building. Last year at this time, breaking news of the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut was playing out on the screen. The story unfolded slowly and there was a continuous video-loop of terrified parents arriving at the scene and crying children being led from the school.

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