We Need to Talk about Suicide

Karen Prive

1 Oct, 2024

According to the CDC, in 2022 nearly 50,000 Americans died by suicide. Over 13 million Americans reported seriously considering suicide that year – and it safe to conclude that others did too but wouldn’t admit it. Most people will have suicidal thoughts at some point in their lifetime.

We need to talk about suicide because too many people suffer alone with these thoughts. Isolation and shame increase the risk that someone will try to take their own life. Stigma associated with silence makes it even harder to ask for help.

As a child, I struggled with suicidal urges. I would hold my breath until I passed out, and I seriously attempted suicide when I was just six years old. When I was 16 the state of Vermont sent me to a therapist. When she finally asked me if I was suicidal, I told her I’d already tried twice since we’d been seeing each other. I’d never talked about wanting to take my life. I didn’t know I could. I didn’t know that I wasn’t alone.

Some people fear that asking someone if they’re suicidal will plant the idea in their mind. Chances are if you have reason to question someone’s safety, they may have already thought about self-harm or suicide. You won’t be encouraging them to take their life – you’ll be inviting them to talk about something they likely feel shame about. While shame feeds suicidal thoughts, connection with a caring person could save a life.

When that therapist heard I’d already attempted suicide, she was able to have a compassionate conversation with me. It was clear to me she cared. She was more interested in my wellbeing than I was. She asked me if I could stay safe until I saw her again.

She was also required to talk with my parents, who did not share that same supportive response. My father, especially, was violently angry with me. I wasn’t supposed to feel that way. While my therapist helped me feel worthwhile, the anger I encountered from my parents left me feeling more ashamed and alone, particularly when I was told the topic was not to be brought up again.

Sometimes a person considers suicide once in their life, after some tragedy or other difficult situation. Perhaps the pain is too much to bear. Some people – like me – have persistent mental illness, and struggle with these kinds of thoughts on a regular basis. Most days I have the thoughts, but it doesn’t mean I’m necessarily going to act on them. However, I’m much less likely to attempt suicide when I can talk about how I feel in the safety of a nonjudgmental relationship. That might be with a professional, a family member or a friend. You never know when you might be able to save someone’s life.

People at risk of suicide are not the only ones who need to be able to talk about the subject. Our loved ones need to be able to talk about their fears and experiences as well. My biggest supporter is my husband. Ed loves me dearly (it’s a mutual thing). When I’m in crisis, he is too. He should be able to talk about what we are experiencing in our family, and get the support he needs.

Those who lost a loved one in this way also need to speak about it, without shame. Several years ago we lost our nephew, Hoyt, to suicide. I rushed to my sister-in-law’s house to stay with her for several days, as I didn’t want her to be alone. The grief was raw. After he died, many people didn’t speak of him again, which only deepened our pain. If you know a suicide loss survivor, ask them about the person they have lost. Listen to the stories and share a little of your own. They need your connection as much as the rest of us.

Be brave enough to have these conversations. Don’t let suicide be a taboo topic.

Don’t do it alone! If you or someone else if having a mental health or substance abuse crisis, you can reach out for help at 988, or if in New Hampshire, call or text the Rapid Response Access Point at 833-710-6477. Help is available!

Meditation: A New Awakening

Karen Prive

19 Aug, 2024

I last wrote of a commitment to spend more time in mindfulness meditation, specifically looking inward. How am I feeling, and where am I feeling it in my body? What are my thoughts, my intentions, my desires? What is my inner experience like?

I’ve been actively meditating for over thirty years – ever since I got sober. In 12-Step recovery, Step Eleven states, “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us, and the power to carry it out.” When I was in early sobriety, I believed God hated my guts, and I refused to pray to that god. I refused to pray at all. I was told to take what I could use today, and leave the rest, and I did. (I do pray now, to the loving power of the Universe, but it took a long time for me to get there.)

When I went to rehab, I was introduced to meditation and took to that like a duck to water. (See my early post, “Mindfulness: Guns, Rehab and a New Nudge,” for more about my early meditative days.) At first, I could only sit quietly for a few minutes, when listening to a guided meditation with just the right voice. I would picture myself in a safe environment, and follow the journey suggested. The racing thoughts in my brain and the terror in my soul would soften, and I found some degree of peace – without drugs or alcohol!

I quickly began to study meditative practices – starting my day with the I Ching and reading all about Buddhist thought. Soon I could sit quietly without guidance, just noticing the sounds all around me, the feel of the floor underneath me, the smells in the room or the great outdoors. Sometimes I’d be so peaceful I’d fall asleep – an act my sponsor called snoring meditation. I’ve tried a variety of methods, including chanting, and found them all helpful. Suffice it to say, meditation has been a core activity of my substance use recovery.

Then why is it still so hard to sit with me? When I asked, I didn’t like the answer. For most of my adult life, I’ve used meditation as another escape from myself – even going so far as to dissociate, calling it a deeper form of meditation. I could justify focusing on the outer experience as connecting to the world around me, but really, I was further disconnecting from me.

Disconnection from myself shows up in so many areas of my life, including my chronic struggle with suicidal thoughts. Being truly mindful means I must be part of my awareness. So I have been spending time with myself.

It’s not all rainbows and unicorns.

As I began this process, I dipped into what felt like another deep depression. I slept twelve hours or more a day, had to force myself to eat, and lost my motivation. Still, I thought about suicide less. I found myself generally more hopeful. It was hard to explain, but didn’t feel like my past depressive episodes.

Because it wasn’t depression.

I am exhausted because I’m not used to this kind of self-awareness, and it’s really tiring. Emotions! Oh my, so much ugliness. I am angry – enraged even. My arms are hot and I want to hit things. I am sad and everything feels so heavy. My thoughts are full of self-loathing. No wonder I didn’t want to sit with myself. It’s a dive deep into the darkness.

Yet ahead, there is light. I see it. It shines brightly even though it is relatively small. As my husband says, like you’ve got two flicks left on your cigarette lighter and you better pay attention. I AM paying attention, and in spite of the crummy, awful emotions and thoughts, I can see ME in a way that I’ve avoided before.

I’m going to keep up this experiment, with a few modifications. I started journaling after each meditation session and sharing some with my therapist. At first, I just wrote about what I noticed – the ugliness, really – but now I’m countering the ugly thoughts with more positive reflections about myself. This is like wrapping it up with self-affirmations. I’m also looking to move some of that angry energy out of my system with physical exercise. I can’t do much, but even a little is better than letting it fester.

I guess I was ready for this new awakening.

Healing from a "Softer" Addiction

Karen Prive

5 Jul, 2024

I am a woman in long-term recovery from substance use issues. When I got sober I had just graduated high school, so I have never had a legal drink. Yet I managed to accumulate numerous consequences in my young life due to my consumption, including health, legal and relationship issues. I couldn’t stop on my own (I tried) but I finally asked for help. From the day I accepted help – June 30, 1989 – I’ve been clean and sober.

It’s been a bumpy ride – not a straight line, but rather a three-dimensional journey, with highs and lows and all sorts of weird squiggles in between.

Getting sober did not take away my mental health challenges. I still struggle with suicidal thoughts, depression, nightmares and even hallucinations. But sober I have a chance.

A few years ago it was suggested that I start considering my suicidal thoughts as an addiction – perhaps even, as my primary addiction. After all, I’ve thought this was for as long as I can remember – and first attempted when I was in first grade. When my feelings seem unbearable (and mind you, I really struggle with emotions) my head goes right to the thought of killing myself. In that way – much like my alcoholism – it is about not wanting to feel. Not only do I not want to connect with other people, but I also don’t want to connect with myself.

Even thirty-five years away from drugs and alcohol, I still have a propensity for wanting to disconnect. I’m getting better at it and am developing an awareness of what’s going on inside of me, but I still have these thoughts on an almost daily basis even when I don’t feel compelled to act on them. It is a way of shutting down – finding that same kind of relief that first tumbler of rum gave me.

I recently have been listening to The Adult Chair podcast by Michelle Chalfant, who referred to the “softer” addictions – thought addictions, such as codependency, love addiction, or in my case, an addiction to suicidal thoughts – as being very similar in nature to more concrete ones, like substance use disorders or gambling addictions.

I have begun to understand that if I want true relief from my suicidal thoughts, I need a deeper connection – not just to mental health services, friends, support groups and even God – but with myself. I need to be able to sit with myself in a loving and honoring way, even when I dislike how I feel.

What an order! I can’t go through with it!

Yes, I can. Starting this week, I’m committing to sit in quiet meditation at least three times a week, not focused on the world around me but rather what is inside of me. I’m not looking to quiet my mind, but to notice my thoughts and feelings. To see them, feel them, and maybe even address them. This time is not even about connecting with the Loving Energy of the Universe (although I probably will), but rather, about the loving energy inside of me. I am nervous, but feel like this commitment is the beginning of a new level of healing.

Here’s to connecting!

Friends Who Are Not Fooled

Karen Prive

9 Jun, 2024

While I identify as being an introvert (and feel safest when alone), I’ve been blessed since I was a teenager with good people who have carried me through the toughest of times. When I was still in eighth grade my friends gathered together to confront me about my drinking, expressing their concerns. (I didn’t seek help at that point, but recognized later the love in this pseudo-intervention.) In high school, when I reported my uncle for sexual abuse, my friends witnessed my rage and fear and shame, and cared for me right on through all of it. When I finally decided I needed to clean up my act, my best friend gave me a ride to rehab – and yanked me back into the car as we travelled at 55 mph and I had decided to exit the vehicle. (Thank you Karis – I’m forever indebted to you.)

When I was a young adult, my peer group continued to support me, but also the oldtimers saw through my rough exterior and dragged me into the middle of the recovery community. Years later, when recovering from a terrible car accident, people I didn’t even yet recognize as friends showed up at my house to make sure I was ok, bringing me food, cleaning my home and keeping me company. Later, while still recovering and rather immobile, I moved to New Hampshire, where I was soon surrounded by new people, who helped with rides and offered friendship. I found loving, supportive people in college, in my work life, and amongst my neighbors.

I know that part of the reason I have been so blessed is I have worked hard to be that friend – the one who someone can reach out to for love and support. When I say the Peace Prayer of St. Francis, I ask to “seek to love, rather than be loved … for it is through self-forgetting that one finds.” In fact, this prayer resonated with me long before I could accept any kind of god into my life.

I often do the right thing for the wrong reason, or maybe the wrong thing for right reason. I’m not worried about heaven or hell. I’ve lived through some really tough stuff, and I sometimes believe in hell on earth. I don’t think some of us are chosen (that would mean some of us aren’t), or that we’re suffering for some greater purpose (what kind of loving god would do that?). I do slip up, though, and carry immense shame and guilt inside of me. I set my own bar very high.

Mental health professionals will concur – perfectionism is often shame-based. Mine sure is. I could spend hours reciting all that I’ve done wrong in the world, and all the ways I’ve failed to measure up. I spent my youth believing that the abuse I suffered was because God hated my guts, not because the perpetrators were sick themselves. I thought it was all supposed to happen that way, and proof that my soul was marked. I believed I was evil incarnate.

Core beliefs are difficult to overcome, and I’m working on it. Yet there’s still this inner little one that believes God hates me. I overachieve not to prove that I’m better than, but to prove that I’m good enough. I cannot achieve perfection, however, and when I fall short it taps right into that 6-year-old who sees my shortcomings as evidence of brokenness, unworthiness, and failure. The shame cycle repeats.

But today – as it has been for decades of my life – I’m surrounded by friends who carry me through. The inspirational author Alan Cohen has said, “Those who love you are not fooled by mistakes you have made or dark images you hold about yourself. They remember your beauty when you feel ugly; your wholeness when you are broken; your innocence when you feel guilty; and your purpose when you are confused.”

And while I truly believe that it is better to seek to love rather than to be loved, I am still deeply grateful for all the love and grace that is extended to me, especially when shame overwhelms me. I can feel that today, and appreciate it.

A Touch of Joy - A Poem

Karen Prive

1 Jun, 2024

I was recently given ten minutes to write a poem. A Touch of Joy is not my best work, but I thought I’d share it here. Feel free to tell us about your touch of joy.

A Touch of Joy

Today I’m wearing special socks gifted by my niece.

They say, I love SPAM.

I mean, SPAM’s all right and all,

But I really love my niece.

I called Maddy one day and

She didn’t recognize my number.

She thought I was spam and blocked my call.

Since then, I’ve been Aunt Spam.

So I cut out coupons for

The famed meat-product

And send them to her with little love notes.

She buys me SPAM socks.

Joy can come from the weirdest things.

I needed a touch of SPAM today.

Hope Is Real, and Still Lives Here

Karen Prive

27 May, 2024

“Karen, you’ve had depression for your entire life,” my therapist recently said. “It’s not going anywhere.”

I know this is true. Still, I looked at my shoes. Taking a deep breath, I replied, “People say that I’ve given up hope when I say I know my depression isn’t going to magically disappear. I’ve had suicidal thoughts my entire life. I’ve given up the idea of not thinking that way.”

Logically, I have given that up. I know that when life is hard or my emotions are uncomfortable, my mind reminds me that I don’t have to do this anymore. It’s my first thought.

But the name of my blog is Invincible Hope – and where’s the hope in a lifetime of suicidal ideation?

I have hope because in spite of the way my head works, I’m still here. I have chosen life. I know that the voices inside of me that beg me to kill myself are hurting, and I choose a life of healing rather than giving up.

In spite of my rational acceptance, my emotional self desperately wants these thoughts to go away. That’s normal. No one would choose to suffer with a brain that wants them dead.

Sometimes I feel incredible shame about how my brain works, but the best way to alleviate shame is to talk about it – or for me, to share publicly about my inner life. Invariably, when I share this stuff, someone says, “Me too,” or, “I lost my father to suicide,” or, “My sister has mental illness.”

I know my experience isn’t universal – not all of us struggle with persistent suicidal thoughts – but it is also not unique. When I realize that others struggle too – people who I respect – and feel the love I have for them, I’m able to feel a little bit of love for myself too. That inner compassion and self-love has to be nurtured and grown.

Sure, there are skills and tools – I take my medications, participate in therapy, meditate and pray, and work on radical acceptance. I walk the healing path.

Three years ago this month I chose to start Invincible Hope in order to share my story, perhaps inspiring hope in others. I didn’t do this because I had all the answers, but because I find inspiration in others who have similar journeys.

As a teenager I was miserable. I felt the barriers to happiness in my life were insurmountable, and that no one could possibly understand. I thought my therapist – who seemed pretty happy and was hopeful I could be happy too – was an idealist do-gooder who had no idea the damage trauma could do. She finally broke the therapeutic “rules” and told me her story. I won’t repeat it here, but suffice it to say she’d had her own dramatic story, and that day a little bit of hope was born in me.

Hope is not born of lack of suffering, but in the healing from that suffering. Healing does not necessarily mean there is an absence of pain. For example, I had a head-on collision in 1999 and the surgeons didn’t know if they could save my leg, or if it would even be usable if they did. Many surgeries later that limb is functional, and I like having two legs that both work. I still struggle with pain, however. It is much better than it used to be, but that leg hurts, and it doesn’t work as well as most people’s.

It is the same with my brain. I am grateful for the fact that I have one, and that it functions – but just as my leg bears scars from the damage of the accident, my brain bears the scars from years of trauma and my persistent mental illness.

So I heal. As my very first blog post stated, hope is real and it lives here.

A Tribute to My Friend and Cheerleader

Karen Prive

14 May, 2024

I belong to The Sisterhood of the Traveling Stories – a small women’s writing group where we share short narratives on our personal histories. These women have supported me for nearly a decade in learning to write my story – they are my accountability partners, my cheerleaders, and my closest writing buddies. The Sisterhood encouraged me to start my memoir, a dream I’ve always had but never sat down to begin. That’s right – this writer wouldn’t write her own story.

That changed with the Sisterhood. I began by writing to prompts with a coach we shared, Michele Brown who at that time ran the Tell Me Your Story Now Life Story Workshops. While not trauma-focused, Michele’s prompts gently took me back to my younger years and let me explore many aspects of my history. Soon, a clump of us started sharing with each other, and the Sisterhood was born. My sisters insisted that I must start writing my memoir, rather than dreaming about it.

A few weeks ago we lost one of our sisters, Connie Kratky. Connie had run with the idea of the Sisterhood, becoming our agreed-upon leader. Soon she was providing us with new prompts – including many dynamic pictures that sometimes jogged our memories. She was a teacher – literally, a retired special ed teacher and administrator – who had a zest for finding a way to help us overcome barriers (excuses?) to reaching our writing goals.

Her brother wrote in her obituary, “The one word missing from Connie’s massive vocabulary was ‘quit.’ Her contagious enthusiasm and loving heart were her currency, and her sheer strength of will and character were her superpowers.” Connie lived a life of enthusiasm and love. She lived with post-polio syndrome but used her difficulties to connect with others and encourage them to persevere. She did so with beautiful compassion and empathy.

Connie loved Invincible Hope, providing me with encouragement and feedback every step of the way, and did the same with my work-in-progress memoir. I shared chapters with her and she let me know her thoughts, and how she might approach certain things differently. Along with others in the Sisterhood, Connie prodded me to continue writing, reminding me that the hope I had to offer others who suffered childhood trauma was vital.

When I heard of Connie’s passing, I was in disbelief. I thought the message I received was a cruel hoax. How could this person who was so full of life, be gone? Even in retirement, she was up to new adventures, including establishing her own life story coaching endeavor, and starting her own health advocacy business. But within 24 hours it became clear this was real.

As I’ve mentioned before in Invincible Hope, I struggle with my emotions – especially sadness and grief. Losing my closest writing buddy was too much for me to handle, and I shut down. There were no feelings – I was just numb. But then, as my sisters wrote of their own memories in emails on our site, I started to feel anger. She wanted to live – she was the epitome of life! And here I am, struggling with persistent suicidal feelings, and I’m left here to muddle on without her. I was not just feeling anger, but a lot of self-pity. It all came out sideways, and I was very impatient and irritable.

A few days ago I let myself sink into the emotions, and found out that there indeed is a lot of sadness underneath the numbness and anger. I finally let myself cry. I haven’t yelled at anyone since (although inside I’m still rather grouchy). I can almost feel Connie’s hand on my arm, telling me to write about it. So I am.

I hadn’t worked on my memoir in many months, and then I drifted away from my blog as well. I’ve still been writing, but in small spurts for few eyes. Even with the Sisterhood I’ve shared very little. Today I write to honor Connie, but I also pulled out the memoir too. It’s time to get to work. That’s what she would have wanted.

Technology Can Be Good for Mental Health

Karen Prive

2 Mar, 2024

We hear about reducing screentime for mental health, but what about intentional use? For over two decades I’ve used technology to support my mental well-being.

I began in Yahoo Groups, when a friend formed a group for women in twelve-step recovery from substance abuse who wanted to use those lessons in dealing with co-occurring mental health challenges. At any hour of the day or night I could log into my computer with my dial-up modem and connect with others who faced these issues with tools I knew – reading messages about this experience and posting my own words in reply. Alone in my living room I didn’t feel so all alone after all.

The 2000s birthed a number of targeted social media platforms. My first foray into these websites was with My Depression Team, in which I could connect with others who have depression and share about our symptoms, questions, solutions and triumphs. I already used Facebook, and sharing my health information online with others was something I’d been doing in my Yahoo Group for a bit.

I also found another social media platform called Patients Like Me, and signed up for their PTSD group. Not only could I share, but these platforms offered digital assessments that rated the severity of my symptoms, helping me decide when to reach out to my providers for extra care. Mood trackers were offered, helping me understand that perhaps I was just having a bad day, or maybe instead that I’d suffered far too many bad days in row.

In 2017 I developed my own mental health symptom tracker in Excel, that provides me measurable data about my trends. The tool helps me partner with my psychiatrist to figure out my goals in my treatment. I can print a report that shows what has worsened since my last visit, what has improved, and what symptoms have been especially severe. The report also allows me to include information about factors that may need to be considered – for example, if I was physically ill over that time. I’ve since incorporated a DBT diary card into the tracker. I fill out this tool on a daily basis.

In more recent years mental health apps have proliferated. Calm and Headspace are two apps that promote meditation. I’ve been using Finch for over a year – a fun little app that allows you to earn points for self-care activities such as setting goals, journaling or meditating. These points help you take care of a pet birb as s/he grows into an adult. You can dress your birb, decorate their bedroom and send them on adventures all while connecting with your Finch friends.

I was just introduced to another mental health app that was developed by the VA. Virtual Hope Box was so successful with vets that the Department of Defense has made it universally available, to vets and civilians alike. The app offers tools to help ground a person in crisis, distracting activities, or breathing exercises. Many of these tools can be customized so that the user is able to create their own personal Virtual Hope Box to turn to when support is needed.

I would love it if you left us all a message about tech solutions that have improved your mental health. What works? What helps? Share your experience with other Invincible Hope readers!

The Need for Social Connection

Karen Prive

19 Dec, 2023

That topic came up in therapy again last week. One of the really hard ones.

Identifying needs.

I hardly know the difference between wants and needs. Needs are necessary, whereas wants are things I desire. When I look at the examples listed on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs chart, I can see even the lowest category of basic “needs” as things I merely desire.

At one point in my early adulthood I was homeless – sleeping on my friend’s couch most the time, sometimes sleeping under a bush by the lake. I rarely had food. I ate once or twice a week, buying a granola bar or two with money made from picking up bottles and cans on the side of the road. I didn’t need to eat, I thought – it wasn’t like I was going to die today if I didn’t eat. I refused to go to the soup kitchen or the food shelf – that was for people who needed help.

I didn’t need shelter – I wasn’t going to die if left outside. I’m not going to die today or tomorrow if I don’t sleep tonight (as evidenced by the all-nighter I accidentally scheduled for myself a couple weeks ago). I even struggle with the idea of breathing air – taking shallow breaths, afraid to take more than my share.

(I do need clothes – not for protection from the elements, but because my modesty is severely heightened from being abused. Ding ding ding – a need I acknowledge!)

I have a core belief that having a need means I’m desperate and vulnerable.

Yet I’ve changed my mind. Or I’m trying to, anyway.

When I found a job and could pay rent – having shelter and food – I noticed how good it felt to have security. I didn’t fully comprehend why I had refused to ask for help, but I began to slowly understand that I would have urged a friend in the same situation to partake of the resources available in the community. Why would Sally or Linda be worthy of having needs, but not me?

The shocking short answer: I lacked humility.

How could someone so beaten down and broken – so full of unworthiness – be reeking of pride?

Humility has a purpose. If I understand I cannot single-handedly meet all my own needs, I begin to look outside of myself. I ask for help. I might look to family, or friends, or community resources. I may even look to God. Humility is about being right-sized and for me, understanding that I need help – which is the foundation of my spiritual life.

One of my needs I’m able to recognize is that I need social connection. While I don’t crave connection, I tend to spiral quickly into depression when I isolate myself from my community, often landing in a psychiatric hospital. I don’t particularly like being inpatient. My desire to avoid hospitalization motivates me to connect deeply with trusted loved ones. I have a goal of touching base honestly with at least two people daily.

The middle sections of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs are all about needing connection – even the need for self-esteem, which is about how we feel about ourselves in relationship to others. We can’t reach self-actualization without being in relationship to the community around us. Some of us also find connection with a Higher Power – some source of energy or love in the Universe that feeds our soul. But we need human connection as well.

This has turned into a bit of a ramble, so let me get to the point. Love one another. Reach out and let yourself be loved. Connection is a psychological – and spiritual – need.

Even for me.

Taking a Moment to Touch Hope

Karen Prive

6 Dec, 2023

I often start my day by taking sweet Gracie out to do her morning business. I look at the sky and quiet my brain for just a moment, then thank the Universe for giving me everything I need for the day ahead.

It’s remarkable that I can say this prayer, but at some point in my life I started to focus less on being a victim. I don’t have to focus entirely on all the things that have gone wrong. Instead, I can honor the things that are right – the beauty, love and peace in the world around me. By taking that moment to breathe deeply into my faith and gratitude, I start my day in a positive way.

This isn’t toxic positivity. It’s not about denying the tragedy surrounding me. I know there is massive suffering. I’ve experienced it, and sometimes still do. I am deeply aware of the wars, hatred, and pain in this world. Heartbreaking. Some believe that our world is ruled by Satan, and that perhaps the only hope we can have is to be resurrected into a new world ruled by God himself.

Yet there can be hope today – in this imperfect world – whether you believe in God or not. No matter how grievous our circumstances, if we are alive hope lives inside of us. It is waiting to be realized. We have the power to decide whether to seek hope or concede to suffering.

In writing about surviving the Holocaust Viktor Frankl described enduring unimaginable horrors, yet he discovered that he still had the power to decide what kind of attitude to bring to his situation. He acknowledged he could not avoid suffering, but he still developed some sense of self-empowerment by noticing he had choice over his attitude.

Today, as I expressed gratitude and faith to whatever higher energy is out there, I chose to reach inside and touch my hope. I walked into my day believing that I have or will be given the resources I need to move forward, or at the very least, survive.

Hope lives inside you. Take a moment to touch it.

A Dream and a Step Closer to Forgiveness

Karen Prive

28 Nov, 2023

I don’t usually write much about my dreams, but they are often vivid and sometimes disturbing. As part of my PTSD I have nightmares a few times a week.

Yet sometimes my dreams are powerful and healing. These dreams often bring clarity about what I want in my life. I’d like to share one I had this week.

In the dream, I was in a crowd of random people I’ve known at different times in my life – family, friends, the guy in the McDonald’s drive-thru. One of my old classmates was bullying me, and I had a complete emotional breakdown. I began hitting myself while screaming and crying hysterically. The crowd begged my classmate to leave me alone, but instead he made fun of me.

That’s when my father emerged from the crowd, taller than everyone else, with a thing ring of white hair around his head. I cowered in fear, but instead of the violence I expected, he said, “Leave her alone. Part of why she’s like this is because of how I treated her.” The crowd silenced. So did I. He wrapped his arms around me and said, “I’m sorry.”

I was in heavy tears when I woke up. Those are the words I most wanted from him, and never got. I’m sorry.

I’ve had a few days to reflect on the dream, and what strikes me is that in his very late years, my father was a different guy than the man I grew up with. He changed. He grew. He tried.

For me, it was too late – there was too much damage done. I’ve struggled to let go of my bitterness toward him, but I’ve come a long way from the outright hate I felt as a teen and young adult. I noticed when he started to change, but there was no way I could trust the man after our history.

I’ve never thought of forgiveness as a goal as it felt so out of reach. I read somewhere that forgiveness isn’t a decision – that it’s something we journey toward and often are surprised when we realize we have forgiveness in our heart. I’m not quite there, but I’m sure on the journey. I’m feeling compassion toward my father. I can admit that late in his life, he was a good man. I can’t forget, but perhaps it is possible for me to forgive.

I was able to care for my mother on her death bed. One night she awoke and asked for a bath. As I gently scrubbed her tired body, she began to sob. “Bad mom, bad mom,” she kept repeating. I cried with her, but I also lovingly recited all the memories of her being a good mom – playing games with us, teaching me to read, answering all my “why” questions, cuddling with us, teaching me to work hard and love others. She had an amazing sense of humor – we laughed a lot, and never at someone else’s expense. As I spoke of these memories, her sobbing subsided.

Those were Mom’s last words. She died the next day.

I couldn’t be in Vermont with my father when he was dying, as I was with my son in the ICU here in New Hampshire. After this dream, I have the realization that he may have had the same kinds of regrets. He just never spoke of them.

My inner teenager is convinced that her father had no conscience – he always justified his most abhorrent behavior. He seemed incapable of caring for anyone but himself. That teenaged self is where my anger is stored. But my inner little one still craved an apology, and she finally got it the other night in her dream.

Hope Is Real, Take 2

Karen Prive

15 Nov, 2023

At 8 am on November 15, 1987 I found myself sitting in the high school office conference room, surrounded by my parents, my brother, my guidance counselor, a social worker from Vermont Social and Rehabilitative Services, and two detectives from the city police department.

I had done nothing wrong and neither had my brother.

I had, however, told the school psychologist about my uncle sexually abusing me over the course of 12 years. I had done so because I thought my little brother might be experiencing the same thing.

He was.

I thought if I reported it, no one would believe me, but they’d have to investigate and maybe that would make my uncle stop.

They did believe me, and they did investigate.

My uncle was supposedly a pillar of the community – a veteran of two wars, a disability advocate, and the longtime state commander of the DAV.

He was also involved with the Boy Scouts.

The investigation quickly mushroomed into a much bigger deal, as the police uncovered a child pornography and trafficking ring. A number of men were arrested in three states.

I was told I was a hero, but I didn’t want to be one. I sure didn’t feel proud of myself. I was embarrassed and ashamed, and seeing the case all over the news didn’t make me feel any better. I wanted to crawl under a rock and disappear.

But that day, 36 years ago, we sat in the conference room, while our classmates wondered why the cops were questioning my family. To this day, I don’t have words for all the rotten emotions I felt. Less than a month later I attempted suicide. When it didn’t work, I tried again, and again and again. I had no hope.

Like previous November 15s, today I spent a lot of time reflecting on my path. So much has changed. I’m not a teenager anymore. I trust my therapist today. I no longer think God hates my guts. I have (step)kids of my own, and grandkids, that I love to pieces. I still struggle sometimes, but I ask for help.

I still carry that old shame inside of me, but beside it is also a realization that I was brave. Courage isn’t the absence of fear, but rather moving forward anyway. I really was a hero. So was my brother, in choosing to tell his story too. We protected other kids from fates worse than our own.

Today I know hope is real. It lives inside of me.

My very first Invincible Hope post was called, “Hope Is Real, and It Lives Here.” Read it here.

If you are thinking about suicide, help is available. In the US, call or text 988. Please don’t fight these thoughts alone.