by Jeanette R. Harrison, MPH
I have shared a lot about how alone I was after moving away from Kansas City. How I had to move to Idaho with nothing. And people acted like it was no big deal. Like it was a joke, almost. Like I somehow deserved that because, in their minds, I was "too much" or "too much drama." But moving and leaving your things behind is hard. I didn't just lose my whole family and my social standing, but I lost everything that I was.
Leaving everything behind is more than "stuff." It's a sense of identity. It's the memories you made, the life that you built, the person that you became. All of the "stuff" gives someone a sense of ownership over their life and a sense of worthiness. I've moved a lot of times, 42 times now, and the hardest moves are the ones where I had to leave everything. Because that wasn't just leaving a place. It was losing pieces of me, watching my footsteps behind me get erased. Knowing that I mattered so little that what I had, who I was, and what things represented me didn't matter. That made me feel like I didn't matter.
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| I recently attended a Suicide Awareness and Prevention Vigil. One of the speakers shared how she felt like disappearing and dying after having a serious accident. She inspired me to tell my story. |
Moving to Idaho with nothing was so hard. Lying on a mattress on the floor, sitting on a plastic bench as a couch, and using an end table as my makeshift desk. I was treated like I should be okay with it. The things I left behind, someone else went through and threw away. They decided that I didn't need those items without even knowing or caring what was mine or why I wanted to keep it. I was sent boxes of papers that I had to go through... but the "things" that were actually me? Gone. Donated to someone. And they are just memories now when I walk through a store and say, "I used to have that."
That tremendous sense of loss, that grief, stopped me in my tracks. I tried to pretend I was okay. But I really wasn't. Even after living there six years, I had a hard time accumulating things because I felt I had nothing. I felt hollow by the loss. And I felt almost like I did as a child when I would get a little toy somewhere and think, "This is mine." This is something to call my own.
Because when I first moved to Idaho, I didn't have anything to call my own. I was in a new place, with no furniture and no plans, and wondering what would happen because it was the pandemic. And I was so alone. All I really had were my memories and how I had been abused. I had people who claimed they helped me so much, but they really didn't. No one was there after the first 90 days. They literally gave me not even 90 days to move to a new location and start a new life, and then acted like there was something wrong with me because I couldn't just snap my fingers and make my life perfect during a pandemic. Like that was even possible. The expectations other people had for me were beyond unrealistic. And unkind.
I've written previously about how people helped me those first 90 days and how I was so grateful. Looking back, this neighbor woman was helpful to me for maybe about two months. Not even 90 days. Then it was all about her. I considered her a "friend" because I didn't have any real friends at that time. So I thought. She wasn't friendly at all. I was just someone for her to gossip about and to use to get attention from other people.
I thought people from Missouri would be sad I left, but instead I received a barrage of hate messages telling me it was all my fault. Because one of their friends told them that. Their friend was so worried I was in Idaho chasing after her boyfriend. And we were all in our late 40s and early 50s. It was like being stuck in a high school drama-sode while I was literally fighting for my life.
Here's the truth that I didn't even know at the time. Or maybe I didn't want to admit it. I was at serious risk during that first year, maybe the first two years. Uprooting my life, moving away from my support system, having my sister tell me, "No one wants you here." She even told me, "Go kill yourself" more than once. Maybe she thought I wouldn't, out of spite, because she said that. I don't operate that way. I sat in my apartment working, tears streaming down my face, feeling like I didn't matter. Because I was treated like I didn't.
It was a year before anyone finally stepped forward and really helped me and embraced me. I had little bits of effort here and there, but this person really stepped up. We had connected on LinkedIn because he thought I was someone he had a meeting with once. Maybe he just recognized my name from something else.
We quickly became friends, and he invited me to meet people. That's all he did. He said, "Hey, do you like live music?" As a former musician myself, of course, I do. I went and met him and his friends at a local coffee house/wine bar and listened to music. We did that every week. He started checking in on me, seeing how I was doing. It wasn't hard stuff. He invited me to lunch and to coffee. He asked me about myself and spent time getting to know me. I know this sounds like no-brainer kind of stuff, things you do when you are making friends with another person, but for some reason, no one else thought to even try. They didn't even try.
Needless to say, we did become very good friends and are still friends to this day. Those days are what made the great memories I have from Idaho. I still remember them, all as if they just happened. But the most important part is that he was doing it out of the kindness of his heart... and out of concern.
Because of his personal and professional background, he saw something that other people didn't want to. Or maybe they didn't care. He saw that I had PTSD. He could see the signs. He didn't call me a liar when I told him I was a domestic violence survivor or that my family treated me badly. And I was super alone.
On top of that, I had a lifelong history of trauma, which included being completely uprooted from my life multiple times.
The CDC identifies several factors associated with increased suicide risk, including a history of adverse childhood experiences, violence victimization, hopelessness, relationship loss, high-conflict or violent relationships, and social isolation. Financial problems and loss can add another layer of risk. At the same time, the CDC identifies connection to other people, supportive relationships, effective coping skills, and access to healthcare as protective factors.
The American Psychological Association (APA) has also documented how complicated suicide risk really is. An APA-published meta-analysis of decades of research identified factors such as childhood maltreatment, social isolation, stressful life events and losses, hopelessness, anxiety, and social withdrawal as factors associated with suicidal thoughts and behaviors. At the same time, the researchers emphasized that these factors cannot predict with certainty what one individual will do. That distinction matters to me. I wasn't dealing with one difficult circumstance. I was dealing with trauma, PTSD, isolation, damaged relationships, significant losses, and people who were supposed to be part of my support system telling me things that made an already painful situation worse. The APA has also noted that suicide is influenced by multiple interacting factors, including disruptions in social relationships and financial distress. Looking back, I can see why the combination of circumstances mattered, even though no study could have predicted exactly what would happen to me.
During the pandemic, I also remember thinking about how unfair it was that so many people were dying while so many people loved them and wanted them to stay. I remember thinking that it seemed almost backwards. Some people desperately wanted more time with the people they had lost, while I felt like I wanted to disappear because I felt like no one cared if I was there or anywhere.
My healthcare professional later explained that wanting to disappear can be considered suicidal ideation without intent. I wasn't making a plan to die. I was experiencing the kind of emotional exhaustion where not existing felt easier than continuing to live the life I was living.
So when I look back at that time, I don't see one reason I was struggling. I see a convergence of circumstances: trauma, PTSD, isolation, damaged relationships, being disbelieved by some people, and being told by someone in my own family to kill myself.
Finally, someone noticed. I wasn't screaming at the top of my lungs about it. I was actually saying I was fine.
He didn't necessarily have all the answers. He simply recognized that I was not okay, believed what I was telling him, and paid attention to the fact that I was alone. Sometimes that matters more than people realize.
I get asked a lot what kept me going during that time. It wasn't the cruelty and the hatred. It wasn't a mean neighbor who was a nurse who kept telling me I was mentally ill, calling me names, and putting me down. It wasn't another neighbor who gossiped about me for attention.
We talk about micro-aggressions, but what I experienced was what I would call micro-kindnesses. People I didn't even know helped me. They pushed my car to the side of the road when I ran out of gas. They told me they were watching out for me. They told me they would walk with me or just say "hello."
All I had to hold on to at that time were a bunch of small things. Friends sending me $25 or $50 so I could buy little things I needed. One friend sent me jokes. Another friend listened as I sent him message after message and listened to me cry and vent... a lot.
But all of those little actions. They added up.
But the big one, the big one that made me feel like I could keep going, was that one friend who reached out and reached in. That's what matters. You don't have to be anything but just a decent person. And I'm eternally grateful to that person.
Ten Things I Am Grateful for Today
My dog, who has been my companion through this major transition in my life.
Friends who contact me and check on me to this day.
The faith that I have that things will eventually get better.
My business because it gives me a sense of accomplishment.
That people from Idaho have not stopped contacting me during this transition that I'm currently in. I expected not to hear from anyone. Instead, I hear from someone in Idaho almost every week.
My gift for writing. It's something I get criticized for a lot, but it has been such a blessing to me throughout my life.
People who listened to me. Really listened.
Seeing people for who they really are, both good and bad. When you are going through a hard time, others will show their true character to you. It goes back to the saying to pay attention to how people treat you when they think you can do nothing for them.
All the places I have travelled to. Maybe I should have been a rock star instead of a writer.
Through it all, I have gained some really great people in my life.
Remembering the Blessings of Yesterday
I had a beautiful walk during the day with my dog.
I had a pretty uneventful day, which can sometimes be a good thing.
The weather was a bit cooler, so I enjoyed the breeze.
I was able to get a little work done. Every small step forward is still a step forward.
I had time to relax and meditate.
I had someone to eat every meal with.
I was able to listen to music, and I enjoyed that.
My first cup of coffee in the morning.
Check-ins from people in Idaho. I had more friends there than I thought I did.
Not feeling like I was forgotten.
Manifesting the Gratitude for Tomorrow
I am grateful for the food I eat.
I am grateful for waking up.
I am grateful for the hot shower.
I am grateful for the water I will drink when I am thirsty.
I am grateful for the new people I will meet.
I am grateful for reminding myself that people who hurt me in the past can't hurt me. They don't have power over my life.
I am grateful that every day I work on my sense of self-worth and self-love.
I am grateful for the walk I can take.
I am grateful for how happy my dog is when she wakes up in the morning.
I am grateful for everyone who reads this post. Thank you for being part of my journey.
If you or someone you know is experiencing a mental health crisis or having thoughts of suicide, call or text 988 to reach the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If there is an immediate danger or life-threatening emergency, call 911 or go to the nearest emergency department.
Inspired by The Magic by Rhonda Byrne, this gratitude practice has been adapted into a self-paced 28 Days of Gratitude course for readers who want a simple structure without pressure. An optional guided journal, Bragging About You, is available for deeper reflection.
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