I remember the place, the moment, the book, and the transformation that happened within me when I read: Pain in life is inevitable. Suffering is optional.
 
I was reading a book on Buddhism and trying to find a way forward in the months following my Dad’s suicide – 17 years ago today. His birthday is tomorrow. He would be 79.
 
When I read these words all those years ago, my heart and my mind and my consciousness and even my body were being consumed with questions, ravaged by noise:
 
How could it have been different?
Could it have been different?
Did I say what I needed to say?
Where did he buy the gun?
Who sold it to him? What did he tell them?
I wonder what they'd think now?
How long ago did he buy it?
When had he made the decision to finally do it?
What was going through his mind?
What was he thinking about me?
Was he thinking about me?
Who am I now? 
What about Mom? My Sister? Brother? Their kids?
How do I process that I’ll never get another hug?
How do I hold on knowing I will never here “I love you, son” again?
What about everyone else? The ones who didn’t know he struggled with Depression? Who didn’t know about his childhood sexual abuse?
Why don’t I want to see anyone? Talk to anyone?
Why does a crowded place give me anxiety?
Why does the world seem so noisy?
 
I could write 100 more easy, but you get the point. When I read those words - that suffering is optional - it clicked. My mind slowed. The questions quietly faded. They were still there, just not so loud, so dominant, so consuming. They had been manifesting my suffering and my struggle. The more I struggled, the more questions, the more I suffered. And, the more I fed that suffering, the less I had within me to invest in healing, in reconstituting myself in a new reality. Stuck. Not living.

Those words started my life over.
 
There was only one undeniable set of facts, without question, that I needed to accept: he was gone. I was here. It hurt like hell. And, it’s inevitable, and it’s life, and it continues.
 
If I couldn’t own the pain, the pain would own me.
 
These simple words also offered insight into my Dad’s suffering with Depression and the harsh and confounding reality of mental illness for those of us who do not struggle with it ourselves. For my Dad, pain was definitely inevitable. But, for him, suffering was not optional. Given his Depression and trauma, it too was a fact. Inevitable. Life. He made the choice to seek help, to go to therapy, to change his diet (sometimes), to take his medication. While these at varying times and in varying ways offered him some reprieve, his suffering was still there. It was as persistent as the beat of his heart and as pervasive as the blood it circulated throughout his body.
 
As I look around at the world today, I find myself coming back to these words again. I find myself suffering. I tense with anger at the chosen-state of gun violence. Of murdered children in schools. I feel despair at the self-centeredness that drives our society and distorts our democracy, which, after all, is built on a premise of we – we the people. I mourn the world my daughters live in and will have to manage when I’m gone. I cry for them. And, I don’t know what to do. I do know I’m suffering. I am very aware that I’m still feeding that suffering. I know it is optional, and I must make a different choice. I just have to figure out how.

For the last two weeks, since the senseless massacre of three young children and their caring adults at Covenant School in Nashville, I’ve been perpetually one thought away from crying.

When I think of the absurdity of defending military assault rifle access for the mentally ill or whoever the hell really wants them and that being more important than protecting children, it’s almost more than I can take.

When I observe the willing blindness that suggests murdering children isn’t about guns when the only country on the planet that systematically murders its children is the one dead-set on defending guns (all countries have mental illness by the way), is the only country that thinks having an AR-15 is a more important right than being safe at school, it’s almost more than I can take.

When my friend writes and asks for any advice on how to talk about it all to his second grader who had friends at Covenant - and I think about all of those difficult conversations for parents and, more importantly, the horror of the fact that our children have dying on their minds, it’s almost more than I can take.

When I think of my 3rd-grade daughter telling me, “it’s really scary”, it’s almost more than I can take.

When I watch the outrage of two young, black, male officials who were duly elected being removed from office by the white, male, politi-christian patriarchy in an attempt to silence their nonviolent voices, simply because there is a white, right, political super majority and a spirit of revenge that lacks empathy, understanding, Christian values, and common sense, it’s almost more than I can take.

When I see yet another massacre yesterday, this time at a bank, and persistent inaction by white, right, politi-christians, it’s almost more than I can take.

And, when my daughter’s school’s front porch ends up the crashing end-point of a car chase in which one car was shooting at the other, it’s almost more than I can take.

And, when my other daughter hears gunshots as she lies down for bed and comes down crying in fear, it’s almost more than I can take.

And, again, when politicians defend policy that has made “the car an extension of the home” and led to thousands of new guns on the streets of Nashville, easily stolen from cars, ignoring pleas from the police who are now under-staffed and under-armed, because guns are just that important to politicians, it’s almost more than I can take.

When I look at my children and the world they are already having to face and will inherit when I’m gone, it’s almost more than I can take.

And, in the silence of a stoplight, these thoughts come crashing in and the tears begin welling. In the fleeting flash of panic when I drop my daughter off at school, smile, chase away horrific thoughts, drive away, and then crumble, the tears rip through me. In the moment I get to silently gaze at my daughters without their knowing, the tears surge. On the walk or the run when it’s just my thoughts and my head trying to clear, my throat tightens and the tears roll out.
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I have nothing much to offer here other than to let you know that I see you. And, I know it’s almost more than you can take.
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