Meghan and Me;

A number of lifetimes ago, I found myself in a bad place in life. Trapped. Couldn’t see my way out of it. Couldn’t see where to go, what to do, or how to do it. Surrounded by a horde who didn’t appreciate me. In fact, the crowd around me had become spiteful and hostile.

I hated me. Felt useless and good for nothing. I didn’t have anybody I could trust. Because I had no one safe to confide in, I stuffed it all down deep. Back then, my family and I weren’t really on good speaking terms.

Despair hit. Hard. Stayed. Twenty-four hours a day. If you don’t really know that feeling in your gut, consider yourself blessed. If you do know what its like, then you aren’t suprised that I attempted suicide. I survived.

What does that have to do with something that makes me happy? A great deal. Stay with me.

It all started a few months ago with composing a letter. You know, one of those old fashioned ones? Written out by hand. In cursive. It ended up being six pages long. I wanted to write the final draft out on paper I’d made myself, because I knew just how much my audience would appreciate such a thing.

I researched how to make it. Bought screens. Experimented. This was during the tail end of the plague.

During the actual shutdown period of the pandemic, I was busy. Life had a great deal going on for me. I wasn’t cooped up like the mass of society. Being a food delivery driver kept me on the road when the rest of the country was forced indoors.

I had just begun a new relationship. I spent the shut down with him and his family. They are not a boring family. Needless to say, the first year of the plague wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.

As the months dragged on, though, I fell into an awful place. Unfortunately, I had been dealing with a back injury. All the stereotypical issues came right along with that. Feeling useless and hopeless. I’d constantly consume whatever I could find to escape the pain.

Add onto that, my usual seasonal depression. Usually, I’m better by February. However, it didn’t happen that way this year. My depression got worse, instead of better. It was bad, folks.

Still, they did fix my back; I got off of the pain meds. The coffee shops were letting guests in to sit, so I was writing again. The world was looking up, right? I should have felt better, but I didn’t.

I’m not alone in my experiences with mental health during this pandemic. You would think there would have been a huge rash of suicides during the first year. However, partially into the second year of this crisis, we've had many suicides in my city. People have just been strung out too long, too far, and too hard.

I’ve been concerned since this whole event began about what the aftermath was going to be as far as mental health. Because I was already dealing with depression issues before it started, I knew that the mental health community was booked solid. Counselors were overloaded. Everywhere.

What would happen after? During the recovery period? Would our mental health system be able to cope with the load? It made me wish I could become a counselor myself to try and fill in the gaps.

I have way too many projects as it is, and I’m too old to take on such an endeavor. But that’s how I am. Always thinking I have to be a superhero or something, and save the world. I have to tell myself constantly to worry about saving me first. That’s a big job.

I understand how people are breaking now, instead of “back when.” We all have a tolerance threshold. Sort of like limbo. How low can you go?

I turned to my health care professionals. Now, I have an entourage of professionals. My primary care, a counselor, a social worker, a psychiatrist, sleep doctors…

The psychiatrist in the mix placed me on a new medicine. The new medicine amplified all emotions, good and bad alike. I stayed on that medication longer than I should have. I wouldn’t wish that experience on the worst human. Don’t ask how bad it can get, because it can always get worse.

Throughout the Covid aftermath, though, I was learning how to create homemade paper. Remember that? For that letter I was hell-bent on hand-writing. It gave my mind a distraction from the angst and something else to focus on. A break from the angst.

It was and is fun. Yes, it is messy, but not as messy as clay. The paper pulp doesn't leave powder film over everything in your workspace. Cleans up easier. Hasn’t been clogging the drains.

Of course, I didn't have a paper press or anything fancy like that. I was just trying to make do with what I could find around the house, or buy at a second hand store. In the end, I came up with a lot of interesting artwork and no letterhead.

Nonetheless, I still play with it. It’s a positive outlet. An anchor to my day. And I’ve always wanted to build those 3D ceramic tiles. They could be made out of paper and hung on a wall. That’s my next project, after managing usable stationery.

I am better now. Oh, I have my bad days. More like bad moments, on some days.

It’s a harsh world out there right now, so how can you live here without a whole lot of bad days? We live in a warzone. The world faces a new kind of war.

To make matters worse, when Meghan Markle came forward publicly about her suicidal experiences media massacred her. Referring to them as ‘The’ media takes responsibility away from individuals. ‘The Media’ is a nameless, faceless monster living somewhere out in the ether. It leaves no one accountable. So I won’t use ‘The.’

The media is as much to blame as Covid-19. People taking advantage of the trauma others are suffering, just so they can make a buck or make a name for themselves. Prince Harry calls it a humanitarian issue, and he’s right. We are humans, but we’re behaving like savages. Too much fighting, too much anger, too much hatred. And many are falling into an abyss of despair.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m guilty. I’ve succumbed to the negativity more frequently than I want to tell. Recently, I was driving behind a newer model vehicle. The driver was going under the speed limit. She had dirtied that pretty little car with the words, “If you run into the back of my vehicle with my babies inside, I’ll whoop your ass till the cops come.”

First of all, not a great example to set for those said babies.

Second? It’s violence. The woman is doling out violence to every person who reads her ravings.

Third, violence begets violence. I wanted to rear end that sweet ride of hers. I restrained myself. However, I rode her tail until she turned off.

What can I say? I was weak, overheated, and near the end of my long day. Excuses? Yep.

Back to Meghan, though. Some of the reactions I caught on the net saddened me. She did such a great thing for those of us out here struggling with suicidal issues. The princess was brave. Meghan didn’t just tell her counselor and family, but told the whole world. One of the most important steps to take when you’re suicidal is to talk. And keep singing. Don’t stop.

Meghan showed others the way, even though she knew.

She knew the online community would take every word out of her mouth and rip it apart. Take it out of context. Cause her to look bad. Ms. Markle stood up and shared her story anyway. By being frank about her despair, she gave others hope.

Several individuals only regarded her interview as an entitled princess crying about her ‘oh, so easy life.’ Me, I beheld a warrior, with strength maybe didn't think she had. Within that soft spoken woman resides the courage of a leader. I witnessed hope. And I observed Harry, standing beside her gripping her hand.

I also recognized her outlet. Meghan had something then to get her out of the house. Something safe. Something positive. She’s building on it now. Princess Meg is experiencing growth and fulfillment, instead of being trapped in a cage.

It’s a horrible paradox, when you’re suicidal. You perceive yourself trapped. Closed in. At the same time, you absolutely don’t want to be around anyone. You WANT to be closed in. Your only wish is to be in some dark room balled up in a safe little cocoon. Nowhere is safe. So, you wall yourself away where nobody and nothing can reach you and hurt you. Elsewhere, non-human humans can stab you in the back or rip your heart out.

But, Meghan and me; we just keep going, despite what our feelings or the negativity that the world is throwing at us.

We are all so hard on ourselves as it is. Some of us hide our self loathing better than others. Some hide it by pointing out all the flaws in others.

When the immediate mortals who surround you, and the public at large, seem to be constantly confirming those negative thoughts, you sink. You shut-down. You lock yourself away from the tribe who could help you.

Why do we, as a society, now value ripping the weak to shreds? Verbally. With our body language. With our media. Why does viciousness now equal strength? Viciousness is not cool, or strong. It’s just outright ugly.

If you’re in a bad place mentally and emotionally, and want to be dead, find an outlet. A positive one. Find positive folks to spend seasons with. Not fake persons, who just try to inflate your ego so you’ll do whatever they want. Real humans. Your kin, who appreciate you for who you are. They are out there. Search until you find them. Those are your people. Find your people.

And communicate. Chat. Verbalize. Speak. Who cares if it’s articulate? Get it out.

Obviously, I recommend playing with some paper pulp. Mushy paper goop can be quite therapeutic. It doesn’t talk back. It listens. It lets you be you. Pulp doesn’t punish you. Or guilt trip you. Or even irritate the piss out of you. It's a pleasure to have in your hands. Mostly. Alright, I’ll admit that, sometimes, pulp just feels slimy. I’ve learned how to formulate it without it being slimy.

You can express all the bad emotions through it. If it’s ugly, toss the paper back in the blender with water. Boom. Paper pulp again. A brand new beginning.

Plop the paper pulp down on a clean counter. Just plop it there. Run your hands through the mess. Squish it. Shape it. Mold it. Yell at it. Speak to it. Cry into it. Flatten it. Roll it. Make it your own. Scissors are better, but tearing paper into itty bitty pieces is good for the soul.

I should add a warning here. Be careful with the scissors. Do not use them if there are tears streaming down your face, or you are angry. Fingers are necessary. Oh, sure, you could live without one, however….let’s try to keep them, alright?

Try not to get too attached to any one piece. They may feel like your children, but they aren't. Some will come out. A number more will not. You gotta find your own rhythm and style. That takes repetition and goof ups.

The goof ups are important. Sometimes, we forget how to remake ourselves after a failure. Or, forget that we can. Then, of course, there are those who keep trying to make us believe that we are that failure. We’re only a failure if we don’t put our paper back into the blender.

See, Meghan and me; we found things to hang onto. Whether it was a hand clasped tight, or the picture of a loved one. Maybe the laugh of a child. She found her animals; I found the paper mache art. She had Oprah; I had my daughters who adopted me. And we were both lucky enough to have that hand to cling to.

And, we clung. Meghan doesn't have to tell the world she clung. I noticed it in her eyes and on her heart. She's still clinging. So, I'll cling too. And, if you're out there clinging, we're clinging alongside of you. Don't you dare stop. Hang on tight. Find your people, and find your outlet.