Stay.

* Content warning: mental health; suicide; grief; loss.

It's the holidays. It's the most wonderful time of the year. 

And it's also the most difficult time of the year. For so so many people. 

So I want to take a moment to speak about the *check on your strong friends* posts, AND the *please talk to me if you need someone to talk to* posts.

Mental illness knows no truths. People die by suicide because mental illness takes control and teaches us to believe the things in our head we cannot seem to question. We can't seem to fight hard enough against.

People do not die by suicide because they don't have loved ones checking on them.

They often DO. 

But they just don't have the capacity to feel that is enough. They don't have the energy to keep fighting. They don't believe they deserve to. 

I know these types of posts are shared with love. I've shared similar ones myself. This time, though, I remind you. Remind every single one of you. 

Please stay. 

Stay.

Even if you can't talk to someone in this very moment. Even if you're scared. If you don't know how to let someone help you. Try. See yourself as others see you. 

Stay. 

If you are in need of support, please call the national suicide and crisis lifeline at 9-8-8. 

Stay.

Or text HOME to 741741 for someone to talk to without having to actually speak with your voice. 

Stay.

Please let someone see you, hear you, help you. 

Please. 

Stay. 

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Eleven Years.

Eleven years. 

How is that even possible?

Eleven years.

The math doesn't work. 

It only makes me angry.

Sad.

Hurt. 

Heartbroken. 

Eleven years. 

Without you. 

Momma is with you now. 

You are whole again. 

Complete.

I'm still angry. 

Sad.

Hurt. 

Heartbroken.

Eleven years. 

Can feel like forever. 

And then forever times two.

When she's gone, as well. 

It's not supposed to be this way. 

I'm supposed to have you both. 

Here. 

With me. 

To lean on and into. 

To laugh with. 

To hold me when I cry. 

Eleven years. 

Feels like a lifetime.

Without someone who was so very much of your world. 

I miss you, Daddy. 

Love you always. 

And forever.

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It's Still Your Birthday

Happy birthday, Momma.

You're not here, but it's still your birthday.

I don't quite understand how we got here.

To this day. 

Without you. 

My heart hurts. 

I look at the calendar. 

I don't believe it.

Six months. 

You've been gone that long. 

And it doesn't feel real. 

And yet. 

It is. 

But. 

It's still your birthday.

So I celebrate you today. 

I'm not sure how I'll do that just yet. 

I just know you deserve it. 

The cake, balloons, fruit baskets.

Surprise presents that make you smile. 

It's still your birthday, Momma.

Even though you're not here to celebrate. 

I'll forever honor you on this day. 

I'll forever sing to you. 

And I'll forever miss you. 

With love, from me and my broken heart. 

Your *Million Dollar Baby*.

I love you. 

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Passover 2024

Passover hasn't been the same for my family in years. A decade - to be exact. 

This year is even more difficult. I don't host a Seder. I don't attend one. But still, I miss the ones we grew up with. The ones where my father sat at the head of the table and he and my mother maneuvered around the kitchen throughout the night - serving and plating - and welcoming. 

Over the years so very many of our friends and loved ones attended Seder at my parents' home. Having a dad who could make most anything from scratch meant we never went elsewhere. A dad who cooked so well that other people bought his food for their holidays (it wasn't his store but we know who did the work!).

And though my dad did most of the cooking (minus the pot roast or chicken - cutlets or barbecue), my mom did everything else. And I do mean everything. 

Not having her here to reminisce with hurts something awful this year. To laugh and cry with. To send pics of matzo balls and ask if they looked even close to my dad's. 

My heart hurts and my memories help me grieve and heal, and I watch as another holiday comes and goes.

Happy Passover to those who celebrate. 

May yours be blessed, may our hostages be returned home safely, and may we each witness the strength of the Jewish people as the days go on.

Zeissen Pesach.

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February.

I count the days. 

They make no sense.

Mere weeks ago you were commenting on Facebook posts.

Texting or messaging.

And now.

Now I ask myself.

What is time?

How is it a new month without you here?

February.

My baby's birthday month.

We're supposed to talk about how you left me a message and I called you back from the hospital.

How you made Daddy stop playing the damned claw game and yelled, *Babe!*

Baby is coming.

You're supposed to tell me you've never seen anything like my reaction to being told to push. 

Baby is coming.

How you washed all the baby clothes in the closet (look at that, maybe you knew).

How you went shopping with their dad for their going home outfit.

And made me put a bunting on them in 54° for the ride home. 

I can still see the temperature on the clock in the car.

I can still hear you laughing every year as we remembered.

How you were there for every minute. 

February is here.

You are not.

What is time?

And how do I get through the minutes without you? 

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