College sucks, recent grad says

As the former editor-in-chief of my college's newspaper, I was recently asked to write a "Life After Lyon" column. And since Gideon has been lazy about helping me with a blog post I'm super excited about, I'm going to share my second column today. I didn't give it a headline, but I imagine the editors will use something like "College sucks, recent grad says."

Here it is:

When you're in college and stressing out about an exam, there are people who will inevitably tell you to "wait until you get out into the real world." These people insist that it's much more difficult to hold down a job and pay bills than to live in a dorm and go to school.

Screw these people. As a recent college graduate who struggled with everything from weight issues to anxiety attacks in college, I can tell you that it definitely gets easier in the dreaded "real world." In the real world, you don't have to come home from work and study so that you can be prepared for work the next day. In the real world, you don't have to take on student loans just to live comfortably. The real world is a haven, and I am quite upset with everyone who told me anything to the contrary. 

Last year at this time, I was balancing an internship in Lyon's marketing and communications office, a job in the writing lab, an editing position on the school paper and 15 credit hours. It was absolute hell. I remember finally getting home after a long day at work and thinking to myself, "If this is the best time in my life, I should probably start slowly poisoning myself with arsenic." Fortunately, I was too poor to afford arsenic (my jobs earned me enough revenue to pay Lyon tuition at the end of the semester and really nothing else) and eventually graduated into the real world I had heard so much about.

You know what's great about the real world? I can eat pizza for dinner every night. I can comfortably pay bills with the help of my boyfriend. Most importantly, my salary allows me to put back $500 a month, which will help me pay back all those student loans I took on during the alleged "best time of my life." 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that you don't have to take something to heart just because it comes from someone supposedly older and wiser. Obviously I am not including myself in this category, as I am only 22 and know little more about life than any of you do. (That said, if you need advice on setting up Source Gas billing, I can totally hook you up. That is my one true life skill right now.) 

College is tough. Don't let anyone tell you it isn't. Don't let anyone devalue the struggles you might be facing right now. Just know that it will get better. Someday, you'll be able to come home and hold your adorable yellow tabby cat and not have to worry so much about what the next day holds. 

Until then, try to live for today. It's not easy; I know that well. Still, I think it's important to take life one step at a time. While college is a difficult step, it is minor in comparison to the rest of your life. I know this because the day after I graduated from Lyon, I no longer cared about three quarters of the stress I had carried with me for four years. .

It gets better when you get a job and graduate from college life, I promise. And if it doesn't, I can at least promise that you'll get paid to be miserable, which is a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

This is actually kind of timely for me, because today I went to a work event and interviewed some people from Pulaski Tech College. They asked me how I enjoyed college and I laughed and said, "I enjoy it now that it's over." 

Seriously, college is the worst.

It is Monday.

I got to work at 7 a.m. this morning and I just got a break right now. I have another meeting at 5 p.m. today so I actually have only 30 minutes to write something substantial for the blog. And, of course, I am coming up drier than insert-obvious-inappropriate-metaphor-here.

I know I cultivate kind of a positive image for myself online, but you should know my life isn't always great. Sometimes I come home and yell at my cat for meowing and at my boyfriend for doing the dishes when he damn well knew I was planning to do the dishes. While I make myself seem like a pretty awesome person online, I rarely live up to the image I create in real life. (Gideon and my friends might disagree and that's really sweet of them. But they are wrong.)

It gives me comfort to think of this when I see my Facebook friends post about all the happy things going on in their lives. "Just bought my first home!" their status will read. "My mortgage is a bitch," I will mutter for them, hoping to supplement their happy news with a bit of reality and to also give myself some relief at having just gotten rental insurance (and only because my mother did it behind my back, which I am secretly grateful for even though I will grumble if she asks how I feel about it) after living in my apartment for over two months.

So the next time you see me go on and on about how happy I am, keep in mind that sometimes I lock myself in the bathroom with a pint of gelato and watch Keeping up with the Kardashians and cry. Life is never perfect, and I know that because this mundane post I wrote about not having time to write morphed into me confessing to watching Kim Kardashian's wedding special on the toilet.

High-drocodone

For the three days following my surgery, I was so heavily doped up on hydrocodone that all I did was take selfies with the cat and watch reality television. (Otherwise known as living the life.)

On Saturday, I interrupted these activities for an online-shopping interlude. Gideon described it the day after as "the most responsible high shopping [he had] ever seen." I started by bitching about how everyone says I never spend money on myself and finally deciding that I would buy something for myself and I would do it right now. After coming to this decision, I checked my bank account to see how much money I could spend without taking anything out of savings and having enough left to pay rent and utilities with.

I decided on $30. Then, I cross-referenced two websites - Forever21.com and thredup.com - before choosing to shop at Forever21. It started small - a beanie here, a pair of Minnie Mouse socks there. And before I knew it, I had spent $31.50, including shipping and handling.

This is what I ordered, since I know you're absolutely dying to know:

• a pair of Minnie Mouse socks
• a black and white striped beanie
• a pair of stud earrings (that cost $1.50, so I'll probably be buying more in two weeks after they break)
• a headband set
• a head wrap (I think this was the dumbest purchase because I am not a slave in the antebellum period and, in turn, definitely cannot pull this look off)
• elastic hair ties 

And yes, I was upset that I went $1.50 over my budget. 

The Things I Said That My Way-Too-Serious Nurse Did Not Find Funny

• "Naked time!" (Upon returning from the bathroom and being told I would have to change into my gown at this time.)
• "Only when I drink coffee." (In response to, "Does your urine ever smell weird?")
• "You want to see me naked, don't you?" (After she told me I'd have to change into my gown soon. This was before I realized she had no sense of humor whatsoever but I continued making jokes in the hope that she would break. She did not.)
• "Where's the whiz palace?" (Asking about the bathroom's location - this was a joke from Parks and Recreation, so I'm especially convinced she has no sense of humor now.)
• "Besides all the cocaine?" (When she asked me if I engaged in activities prior to surgery.)
• "The six figure salary." (When she asked me what my favorite part about being a journalist is.)

She did smile when I complimented her glasses, but I suspect she was just humoring me at that point. 

My Lump, My Lump...You Know Where This Is Going

Sitting at my desk about ten minutes ago, I thought of how abnormally tired and headache-y I am. "Oh," my subconscious informed me, "it's probably because you had major surgery four days ago." So yes, I have returned to work merely one business day after having my neck cut open. How do I do it? I just remind myself of all the happy drugs I can take once I get off work at five. Don't tell me these drugs won't last forever. As far as I'm concerned, we have a love affair for the ages.

(My writing is really suffering in this post-surgery lag, so please forgive me for a lack of structure or witty jokes. I'm only human, after all.) 

I want to write a more comprehensive post about my surgery, but I can't do that right now for multiple reasons. First, I am at work and am using my 15 minute lunch break to write this blog post. More importantly, though, I am still moving past the haze of being medicated all weekend and I'm finding it difficult to combine letters into words and words into sentences and sentences into...well, you understand what I'm saying here. 

Here is a small excerpt I have written that I will include in my surgery recap. (I have to keep you guys reading this blog somehow, and since you know I'm alive, a Lost-esque cliffhanger won't cut it.) 

As I woke up from surgery, I heard voices all around me. I realized pretty quickly that the surgery was already over and, amazed at how numb my whole body was, I exclaimed, "Holy shit, I can't feel a damn thing." The doctor answered me in a low voice, asking that I refrain from cursing near the other patients. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry," I responded. 

Also, for reading this terrible mess of a post, I'm including two photos of myself post-surgery and post-hydrocodone.

I Am Still Here...

but recovering from having my neck cut open and not really capable of forming words and sentences, much less a somewhat well-thought out blog post.

So I'm alive and I know it because I'm watching 30 Rock and eating a snicker-doodle cookie.

This post is a disaster.

Let my hydrocodone-induced high play me out. (Also, aren't we grossly cute? Like I don't even know I got to be a part of this equation but I'm crazy happy about it.)

Mawwiage

While cleaning up my college email to collect important information - and also to relive my glory days as editor-in-chief of my school newspaper, where I totally ruled the roost - I found an article I wrote about Kim Kardashian's 72-day marriage. I thought it was funny and I also thought that I didn't want to write anything original today, so I'm going to copy and paste it and go about my day. (The headline I wrote, in my opinion, is brilliant.)

BEGIN ARTICLE

Can we divorce modern marriage already? (Ed. Note: I am so clever.)

Just a week before Kim Kardashian's lavish $6 million wedding to basketball player Kris Humphries, Joel McHale joked on E!'s comedy clip show The Soup that the marriage would last only 75 days. McHale's bet was off - by three days. 

Kim's 72-day marriage isn't the first celebrity coupling to die fairly quickly after saying "I do." Britney Spears married Jason Alexander (her childhood friend, not the actor from Seinfeld, which makes this story all the more depressing) and Eva Longoria of Desperate Housewives fame divorced her athlete husband Tony Parker after nearly three years of marriage. Even couples that I strongly thought would make it, namely Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins, eventually called it quits. 

I wish I could say that this concept of an impermanent marriage is confined only to Hollywood, because then I could at least blame it on the fact that celebrities are under constant scrutiny by tabloids and fans alike or even the fact that their excessive living accelerates their lives exponentially. But the sad fact is that I do not know many couples that have lasted a long time after getting married. Many of my family members have a record that rivals that of Elizabeth Taylor, and those that have not married seem too jaded to attempt it. 

Not pictured: Kardashian's dignity

If this phenomenon isn't confined to celebrities, does that mean that this nonchalant attitude toward marriage has been bred in Americans? It can't be a coincidence that while divorce rates steadily rise, discontentment with the United States economy and political system only increases. Perhaps the increased cost of living (both financially and psychologically) had led to Americans becoming less and less dependent on each other, something that does not seem properly facilitate a marriage.

Kim Kardashian has been mercilessly accused of spending an over-the-top amount of money on her wedding, which she did. In the wake of the Occupy Wall Street movement, her excessive spending does seem offensive to working class Americans. But I don't think that Kardashian's heavy spending, or even the fact that she didn't know her soon-to-be-ex-husband Kris Humphries even a year before marrying him, attributes to her divorce. Kim's divorce brings up a very serious issue in America - the desensitization of Americans to divorce and the seriousness of marriage - and it is an issue that relates to every American living today.

END ARTICLE

I don't like the way I ended that article, and I half-considered editing the ending to be more dynamic. But I am lazy. More than that, I think the way I ended the article in 2012 reflects how I viewed marriage in 2012. I didn't believe I'd find someone I could spend my life with. I didn't believe anyone would want that kind of long-term future with me. Holding these opinions, I couldn't bring myself to admit how cynical I was and chose to leave the article open-ended. Two years later, I have changed completely and I think it's important to point out that change.

Because now, I know I'm going to get it right when it happens. 

The Value of a Liberal Arts Education

I'm writing an article that requires me to contact my alma mater (that's Lyon College if you're wondering) and it has caused me to reflect upon my liberal arts education. Did I learn anything from attending Lyon besides the fact that everything is stressful and there's never time to watch E! News when all you want to do is watch E! News?

According to the lead of this article I wrote yesterday, yes I did. (I actually am really proud of the way this lead turned out - almost as upset as I am that my well-rounded education produced it. You see, I would much prefer to jokingly beat up on my alma mater than to emotionally admit that I actually learned something there.)

You don't have to tell me. I know I am brilliant.

An Open Letter to People Who Restrict Their Social Media Profile to "Private"

Hi,

Why you gotta be that way, girl? Just because I don't want to be your friend doesn't mean I don't want to stalk your profile to see what you ate for dinner, what your boyfriend bought you for Valentine's day and how you feel about The Voice finale. I know, I know. It takes so little effort to hit that button and friend request or follow you, and I promise you that I have the perfect excuse for avoiding this.

I have done this and you have rejected my friend request. Either that or we were once friends and you decided to delete me. Now, I'm not too proud to beg; I'll send you at least two more friend requests before sighing deeply and telling Gideon, "Why can't so-and-so leave his/her profile on public so I can creep on him/her in peace?" (Yesterday, I canceled a friend request I made last year just so I could make it again. I am creepy and I own it.)

But really, what's the harm in having me around to see everything you do? I just want to know how many cavities you had at the dentist and who designed your wedding dress. I don't understand what's wrong with that.

Just so you know, I do practice what I preach. My profile is so public I might as well sky-write all my status updates and my blog is public and I'm pretty open about my life in person, too, if you ever wanted to hang out, get some coffee and tell me about that kitten you just adopted and why you named her "Flipper."

I let you in, boo. Why don't you do the same for me?

Love you (even though you don't love me back and I'm not upset about this at all),
Sam

Anything You Can Do, I Can (Maybe, Probably, Maybe Not) Do Better

I read somewhere once that there's always going to be someone better than you, no matter how hard you try or how many people you sleep with. (This is the only thing that has prevented me from promiscuity, crushing my childhood dream of having so many baby daddies that I have to sort out my business on Maury. I figure I can still drag Gideon and our clan on the show once we procreate. We can bring two of our male friends to play the other baby daddies. While not what I have always dreamed of, it's a pretty nice trade-off in the end.)

The older I get, the more I agree with this statement. I am not the funniest person in the world. I don't have the greatest fashion sense of all time. The only thing I probably have over other people is the most split ends in the universe, but that's not really a thing to brag about. If it were, I would have already ordered a large statue in honor of how much willpower I exhibit in refusing to pay for a haircut. 

Seriously, I need a haircut more than my cat needs dry food. I am poor.

Even though I'm fairly intelligent and have done well in school, I've always felt as if I'm underperforming compared to others. Yes, I graduated from college cum laude. I had friends who graduated with even higher honors. Sure, I have pretty quality potty humor. My friend Chris, though, has told the best poop joke of all time. 

When I began my freshman year at Lyon College, I was surrounded by go-getters just like me. These people wanted to be involved in everything while simultaneously succeeding academically. I did, too, but I became more realistic about my goals after my first semester. (My lovely friend Clinical Depression visited and wanted to hang out non-stop for a couple years, making it difficult for me to tear myself away to focus on school and work as much as I wanted to. We talk occasionally now, but she's a little too high maintenance for me.) After I received my first semester grades, I felt as if I had failed. I wasn't in the top ten percent of my class; I don't think I even made the top fifteen. It absolutely killed my spirit, and I have never really been the same since.

I won't paint this as a negative. I would have a year ago, but I am not the same person I was a year ago.  Doing less well than I expected that semester taught me that I'm not necessarily special. I probably wouldn't stand out in a large group for anything other than my knowledge of the television series Lost, and I'm okay with that. It's a relief to know that I'm not a prodigy. I'm a human who makes mistakes and watches way too much reality TV sometimes - okay, most of the time. 

I may never be the best journalist who ever lived. Statistically, this definitely will not happen. To combat the crushing feeling of being inferior to everyone in the world - if I am great at something, it's hyperbole - I'll just focus on bettering myself. I'll stop focusing on superlatives and start focusing on how to achieve minor goals, hopefully eventually leading to a large-scale goal. 

And if all that fails, I will try promiscuity. It could still work out for me. 

Runner, Runner?

I have taken up running. Don't worry; I won't become one of those annoying running enthusiasts. I hate running, jogging speed walking and any other form of outdoor exercise. There's no air conditioner. There's no attractive older man next to you. There's not even a water fountain or a bathroom. Still, I have decided to try it, mostly because it lifts my mood to do physical activity after a long day at work and I don't really have the funds right now to get a new gym membership.

Yesterday was my first official run. In lieu of narrating it in long paragraphs - I do want to keep your attention, after all - I'll present a timeline of the run. (Keep in mind that I gave myself only 35 minutes because I had to pick Gideon up from work at 7 p.m. and didn't have the time to run for an hour. Also, I didn't want to.)

Timeline of My Thoughts During My First Real Run Ever

• 6:05 p.m. - Wow, this isn't too bad. 
• 6:08 p.m. - How long has it been? Five minutes? Ten? 
• 6:10 p.m. - It's nice that I can finally see all the scenery in Eureka Springs I'd miss otherwise.
• 6:12 p.m. - Oh, look, a deer! 
• 6:16 p.m. - I should probably start walking on the opposite side of the road to avoid being hit by a car.
• 6:20 p.m. - Yay, time to turn around! That was fun. 
• 6:25 p.m. - I've seen this tree already.
• 6:26 p.m. - That mailbox is no longer interesting. 
• 6:28 p.m. - HI DEER YOU ARE BORING NOW
• 6:30 p.m. - I have to be almost home.
• 6:32 p.m. - THIS WAS A TERRIBLE IDEA. THIS SCENERY IS TERRIBLE. I HATE EVERYTHING.
• 6:34 p.m. - I think I am dying.
• 6:35 p.m. - I wonder if I can just curl into a ball and roll down the parking lot to my apartment. 

It was terrible. I am going to add 15 minutes to it tonight.

Cut Me Up (Alternate Title: Jawbreaker)

I have my first major surgery on Sept. 19 and I am absolutely terrified. When I say "terrified," I mean that I'm scared enough to puke in my mouth every time I think about being cut open but not so scared to stop joking about dying on the table. (For some reason, Gideon's a real killjoy and never plays along with these jokes. My mother, on the other hand, just laughed and said, "Samantha, you're not going to die." She gets me.)

 I wish I could tell you the operation is some elective plastic surgery, preferably a nose job. I love my dad's family, but I definitely have the Jones nose and I am not pleased with this at all. Unfortunately, my surgery is a run-of-the-mill cyst removal. I have had a cyst, which is currently the size of a golf ball, growing under my jaw line for a while now. Since I know you're all super worried about my welfare, I can confidently tell you to relax.

It is likely benign, or, as my doctor said, "50 percent of the time these tumors are not cancer." Even though I could have cancer, I am not freaking out. Even though the doctor could nick a nerve and forever paralyze my jaw muscles, I am not freaking out. No, I'm fine. On one hand, I could die. On the other hand, I got this rad sonogram of the tumor:

I really abused this poor sonogram. I have been keeping it in my purse, and any time I see someone I haven't shown it to, I exclaim, "Look what I've been growing this summer!" and then thrust the sonogram in their face. People love it. I think. (On a related note, I am going to be the most annoying pregnant woman on the planet. No, Mom, I'm not pregnant. No, Gideon's mom, I'm not pregnant. But when I am someday, I know I will be totally obnoxious about it.)

Where was I? Oh, yes. I'm being cut open in two weeks. I would ask you all to keep me in your thoughts, but you should probably think more about my poor mother and Gideon, who I plan to whine at every minute of every day during my recovery.

Laugh with (okay, at) Me

I tend to gravitate toward dead-pan humor, which means that people don't often laugh out loud at my jokes. I am totally fine with this. It's not like I plan jokes in advance in an effort to make people laugh. I don't end up hysterically crying in the bathroom when said jokes don't elicit audible laughter. As you can see, I am completely well-adjusted about this.

Adding insult to injury, it is super difficult to make Gideon laugh out loud unless I tell an incredibly stupid joke. (Gideon is very smart, so he balances it out by laughing at terrible Photoshop and other stupid things.) Last night, though, I did it. I made him laugh really loudly and for a fair amount of time. I'll set the scene for you:

We were snuggling on our futon with the cat between us - apparently it offends him when we touch - and discussing if we should get up and do something or just go to sleep. It was 9 p.m., so clearly I was leaning toward sleep. "We could stay here and sleep," I said, "or we could get up, drink some soda and eat a cigar on the balcony."

I was really tired, so I said this in the same tone all the way through. He started laughing. He called me "cigar eater." While I didn't enjoy the ridicule, I did enjoy having someone laugh at my (unintended) joke. So I went along with it and I laughed louder than him and I think my outburst surprised him into being all sullen and dark again.

I plan to reuse the joke tonight to see if he laughs again, because, of all the things I believe in, beating a dead horse is the most important.

The Cardinal Rule of All 80's Slasher Films

That police car you see driving up is not a real police car. Do not run to the car screaming "Help me, Officer!" because the person in that car is not a police officer. It is, in fact, the crazy redneck who just killed one of your friends.

How to Find Yourself in One Really, Really Complex, Uncomfortable Step

My life changed for good and for the better last October. After dating the same person for nearly four years, I realized that we weren't going to work out and we mutually ended the relationship. I would love to say, "Oh yeah, I totally ended that relationship on my own and made him cry and I am such a strong, independent woman that I didn't care at all." But that would be a huge lie; after we broke up, I did cry. I cried a lot. I cried in my college's library. I cried in my car. I cried at the Sonic drive-thru, and the car-hop thought I was crying because my order wasn't correct. (She gave me an extra peppermint and I regret nothing about this moment.)

I thought at the time that I was crying because I had lost out on a future with my ex-boyfriend, but when I was rejected from Teach For America a few days following the break-up, I realized that I wasn't upset about breaking up with my boyfriend at all. (I don't want to sound bitter toward my ex, because I am not. Sometimes people don't work out and know they won't work out but stay in a disintegrating relationship for three years too long because that means they have a date to all-you-can-eat spaghetti night on Thursdays. I am these people. I stayed in a relationship purely on the promise of having someone to look at while I slurped on spaghetti noodles. The spaghetti was good and I learned a lot about myself from it - like how I will hang out with anyone if they like the same kind of food I do - so I have no regrets.)

When I got the email informing me that Teach For America did not want me, I realized all at once that I was upset about the huge life change facing me. I was a senior in college with no idea where my life was headed. If you told me then that in merely a year I'd be insanely in love with an incredible person - a person with whom I'm compatible in nearly every way - and working in the field I love and living with the best cat in the world, I would have laughed hysterically to mask the onslaught of depression. Simply put, I was more comfortable being consistently unhappy than taking a chance on happiness and falling short. For this reason, I helped start - and later quit -  a shitty sorority (I chose the adjective "shitty" because I like the alliteration and also because it's true) where I was treated poorly. I have horror stories from my experience in the sorority, but I won't share those out of respect for the few people in the sorority who treated me kindly. (You will know who these people are because they're the only ones I kept as friends on Facebook.) 

Much like in my relationship, I was disregarded and often belittled in the sorority. So many people talked about me behind my back that I began to suspect that I was constantly sitting in wet paint without realizing it. I lost two family members to suicide in a two-week span and it was still more pleasant than my first three years of college, two of which were spent in this sorority. 

I quit the sorority. I quit my relationship. I quit trying to retain a sense of stability in favor of taking a chance on new friendships, relationships and life paths. Because of this, I became better friends with Kelby, one of the best people I have ever known. I gave a relationship with Gideon a chance after knowing him for four years; this, I am sure, is the moment I will relay to my grandchildren someday as the greatest decision I ever made. (Either that or the time I resisted the urge to purchase Kris Jenner's tell-all memoir.) 

Today, I am happier than I have ever been in my life and I know it is all because I stopped worrying and started living.  Now if someone will put that on a bumper sticker and quote me, I would love to be famous. 

You know it's love when he tries to eat the back of your head.

A Note on a Suicide

Full disclosure: This blog post will not be funny. It's about a rather sober subject. So sober, in fact, that I didn't exactly want to write it sober. Unfortunately, the wine train left the station earlier today, meaning that I don't get paid until Friday and can't even afford toilet paper, much less wine.

An acquaintance of mine committed suicide Tuesday morning. (I told you this was not funny.) I didn't know him well and I'd never claim to, but he did live in the house Gideon and I lived in before we moved to Eureka Springs. He killed himself in the room adjacent to ours with our friends in a nearby room. While I was not his  close friend, we were nice to each other and I can't think of anyone I ever met who disliked him. Normally I would not write about an acquaintance's death, as I don't want to appear to cash in on someone else's tragedy. You shouldn't feel bad for me. You should feel bad for his family and for his friends.

I am writing this for two reasons:

1. Suicide is a hot topic right now.
2. I have been personally affected by suicide and have never really talked about it until now. 

These reasons are obviously intertwined. Many called attention to suicide following the death of Robin William's a couple weeks ago, nearly everyone posting articles defending his final decision after a FOX News anchor called Williams "cowardly." My news feed on Facebook was full of people wishing Williams well or lamenting how depression goes unnoticed until it has tragic consequences. While I liked Robin Williams, I felt too little connection to the actor to write something sincere and too much connection to the subject of suicide to write something light. And yesterday, my acquaintance made the same choice Williams did and I felt I had to say something. 

My personal connection to suicide began ten years ago. Having struggled with cancer for years, my grandfather gave up and shot himself in the wee hours of morning. I was 12 and had just finished the sixth grade. I actually intercepted my nana's phone call delivering the news, but she just asked me to pass the phone to my mother and didn't tell me what had happened. Around noon later that day, my mother came home and sat next to me on our porch swing. 

"Your papaw died," she told me as tenderly as she could. I wasn't too surprised, having seen him in and out of hospitals for the past two years. His closest friend had died from cancer only two years prior, so I knew what death was and I knew how easily cancer caused it. When I asked her how he died, I fully expected her to tell me he had died in his sleep. I wasn't prepared for her to tell me he had killed himself. No one is prepared for that. (A week or so after he died, my uncle and his brother also committed suicide due to depression and bipolar disorder. It was a bad month.)

In the day, weeks and months following his death, I became hyper-paranoid about death. I remember breaking down in tears when my mom was driving home from my nana's house and exclaiming, "I'm just afraid that you're going to die and nana's going to die and everyone's going to die." My mom paused, unclear on how to respond. "Do you think you need therapy?" she finally asked. I thought she was attacking me and told her I didn't need therapy. Now I realize she wasn't attacking me. She had just lost her father - the man who had raised her - in the most unexpected and confusing way possible. She was devastated, but I couldn't see that. 

When I got the news of my acquaintance's death Tuesday morning, I forgot to breathe for a minute or so. I felt the same terrible weight on my shoulders that I felt the morning my mother told me that my grandfather had shot himself. I had to excuse myself to the bathroom to cry, because I didn't feel I had any right to cry about this person's death in public. He was not my friend, and I didn't want to receive pity from his death. Anyway, I wasn't crying about his death specifically.

I was crying because suicide devastates everyone. Robin Williams' death shows that more than anything - with the massive outpouring of support worldwide - but I don't think it ever hurts as much as when it hits this close to home. Suicide hurts because the survivors constantly question how they could have eased the situation or maybe prevented it. Realistically, I know there is no way I could have stopped my grandfather from killing himself. He was exhausted. He was sick. He wanted to die at home, and he made that happen. But an irrational part of me insists that I could have done more to help him, to make him feel loved and safe. 

My best friend Dora gave me a card following his death that comforted me greatly; I'd like to extend her wishes out to all those affected by suicide. Inside the card, she wrote, "The last thing he said to you was, 'I love you.'" She was right. She had been with me that day visiting my grandparents, and as we left, my papaw called after me - and it was difficult for him to speak at this point - "I love you." She reminded me to remember him as a person who loved his family and was loved by his family, not as a victim of suicide, sickness and depression. 

I don't believe I can single-handedly stop suicide, but I do want to encourage everyone who has lost someone to it to remember that person fondly. (Unless that person enjoyed kicking yellow tabby kittens, but I'm pretty sure no one enjoys that.) When a loved one commits suicide, you don't just lose that person. You lose a bit of yourself, too. 

So please, remember to be kind to others. Remember to love the people you love as loudly and fervently as you can, when they're alive and when they aren't. Remember to remember those you love before the sickness and before the depression. And while you're doing this, remember to cut yourself some slack, too. I could have used that last bit of advice a very long time ago. 

(Tomorrow we'll be back to regularly scheduled programming, with all the reality show commentary and references to my cat I can fit in one blog post. Thank you for sticking around to read this sad story.)

What They Don't Tell You About a Three-Day Weekend

Tuesday is your new Monday. The phone doesn't stop ringing, and you feel bad about not blogging on Monday when you had all this free time but thought, "Screw it, I'm on vacation and I'll post something really substantial tomorrow." And then your "something really substantial" is this, a post lamenting how you cannot post anything substantial because you spend your Monday off eating pizza and chocolate chip cookies and then bloating so much from all this food consumption that you took off like that house in Up. 

So yeah. I didn't blog yesterday because I was too busy floating in the atmosphere following an hour-and-a-half long stint at a pizza buffet. Gideon was on our balcony calling out to me, "Sam, Sam, come back! Can I give BJ two wet foods today?" Of course I was too busy blimping it up to deny this request, meaning that my cat will now expect two wet foods tonight when Gideon is at work and not around to hear BJ meow incessantly for hours. 

On the bright side, I made friends with lots of birds. (Yes, they do purposefully poop on your car window after you've left the car wash. I envy their sass.)