The fact that I haven’t written anything in a month has been an annoying tug of inconsistency. It feels a lot like a toddler would snag the edge of their momma’s coat and repeatedly yank to get her attention. Sure I jot lists, phrases and paragraphs down in my head, but I haven’t been practicing putting anything to paper for the last 30 days. I think I like what I say to come out organically and like a flood of consiousness of the tongue. I wait until it feels like someone has tied a red string around my heart and gently pulls it towards towards my laptop and when I open the lid, the words just spill out.
Until last night, I also haven’t cried. You know the kind. The cry that catches you so off guard that you don’t have any kleenex waiting and then you’re left to just well, wipe your nose on your sleeve? Don’t get me wrong, I have let a few single stray tears travel down my cheeks and I’ve swallowed several large boulders that continue to take up space in my throat. But last night the flood gates opened wide. I had a few quiet moments on the couch, scrolling through social media and one post stood out. Someone I know of lost her husband 3 months ago to brain cancer. She and her kids were celebrating his birthday by making his favorite cake. I could hear the the 3 month ache in her voice, the exhaustive treatments that preceded his death, the fear and heaviness that exists knowing her partner is gone. Our losses, while very different, are like connective tissue linking us together.
Ian’s birthday is on the 7th and the ninth month without him is on the 8th. Through my sobs all I could say to Kat was that I didn’t know what his favorite cake was. How could I not remember what he liked? When you start forgetting these little things it is scary as fuck. She reminded me that he didn’t like cake. Oh yes, right. Ice cream. It struck me that I have been so busy working on the Live Hard Movement that I had forgotten to frequently sit still with my sadness and honor the depth in which I love my son.
I am not at a loss in understanding the reasons behind the infrequent sob sessions.
There is work to be done.
January is when the Live Hard Movement was born. It’s as if Ian is writing this next chapter himself. Ian left us an everlasting message in his note. I dont think I had heard him use the phrase “Live Hard” before. But almost immediately this became our community mantra. The intimate details of the letter will remain private and saved for our family archives. But the spirit in which Ian crafted this message will grow enormously through the efforts of family and friends that he loved so much.
This Live Hard Movement is a space dedicated to the overwhelming but vital work that’s needed to wrap a warm blanket of love and support around our kids affected by depression, self harm and suicidal thoughts. Our hope is to raise awareness to the silent struggle of our children. Our desire is to build an army of peer support groups willing to extend a hand. The critical objective is to teach our children to seek help. I expect this movement to grow and we can water it with our tears and feed it with our on going message to Live Hard.
There are several projects that will start taking shape soon. Make sure you sign up with your e mail to receive updates so we can start building our Live Hard Army.