It's hard to believe 8 whole years have passed since Jon left us. Sometimes it feels like yesterday and sometimes it feels like a lifetime ago - I'm sure you can relate. Thank god time has worked its slow and subtle magic and smoothed some of the sharp edges of the pain. It's been so long since I've taken the time to write about it, but I've been thinking about Jon so much during this imposed isolation. At first, my thoughts were focused on how dangerous all the alone time and constant stream of bad news would have been for Jon. But recently I realized that so much of what we are all experiencing these days is how Jon lived his life for a long time -- isolated, socially distant, anxiety-filled, and seeing no end in sight. This would have been all too familiar of a way of living for him. The difference between how he lived and the situation we find ourselves in today is that we have the ability to recognize that it is not ideal to live this way, we see the danger of being isolated, feel the impact of the lack of connectedness, and we look for ways to combat it each day (as evidenced by the fact that many of us now use Zoom as a verb). We also can see (at moments anyway) that this is temporary, and we can picture a day when we will not live or feel this way. Kaya for example is actively planning the party we are going to have when this is over, and she describes it as a party where everyone is hugging, a lot. She sees better days and believes they will come. But imagine if you could not envision a better day, or find ways to ease the pain of the moment. The feelings of isolation, anxiety, and hopelessness would swallow you whole. When I really think about that, I feel like I catch a glimpse of how Jon felt. This past year I attended a talk about mental health where the speaker said about suicide: "It's not that they want to die...it's that they cannot find a way to keep on living." Cannot. We have all found ways to keep on living through this, but after such a long and exhausting battle with depression and anxiety, and without the proper help and supports, Jon could not find a way. I believe he really tried, but how many times can any of us fail before giving up?
One of the things that has never left me (or even diminished) since losing Jon is my conviction that I could have done more. With time, that feeling doesn't torture me as much as it did, but I will never stop believing that I could have done more, and I will never stop wondering if something more - maybe even something small - could have made a difference. At the core of this self-torture, however, is the strong belief that there ARE things that can make a difference in the outcomes of those dealing with depression, anxiety, and other mental health challenges. Eight years offers a whole lot of days to really think about this, and I'm so grateful that with time, the horrible feeling of regret has slowly been overshadowed by determination, and the focus has shifted from what could have been to what can be. What has been building inside of me is a wave of energy that I want to spend on helping change the outcomes of others for whom it is not yet too late. This eighth year is the one in which I began to use this energy to start to formulate plans, and I'm both excited and scared to say that this coming year will be the one that I start to put them into action. I have never stopped wanting to honor Jon in some big way -- a way that will give more meaning to his story and to ensure that it lives on, since he couldn't. Sharing my intentions here is probably a slightly selfish way of hoping you'll hold me to it. Stay tuned for more on this over the months to come.
In the meantime, let's hold Jon's memory close even as time threatens to distance it. Let's honor him by remembering that this strange isolation that we all find ourselves in is how so many people live for years on end, and ask ourselves, what more can we be doing to help them, to ensure that we never ever have to wonder that in vain again. Yesterday, I spent the better part of my day (deep) cleaning my office, and in going through some boxes that were stashed at the very back of my closet, I came across a small photo album that included the photo below. Today, while we are reminded of both of these enormous losses, I can't help but think they both want us to smile, knowing they are together, connected...in peace.
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