Confession: During my first four months on staff at TWLOHA, I mostly cried when I wasn’t at work.

(And, sometimes, even when I was.)

It wasn’t TWLOHA’s fault that I wasn’t okay. I should have been perfectly happy: I had a job in a difficult economy; I worked for a cause I believed in; I had people who loved me back home and people around me who were ready to continue the friendships I started during my internship. I shouldn’t be allowed to be hurting or upset, I told myself. I should be grateful for what I had.

I locked myself up with my expectations to steep in unhappiness. And I cried about it because I wasn’t who I thought I should be, feeling what I thought I should feel.

When I try to think about just what the hell was wrong with me during those first four months on staff, a few things come to mind.

1. I was in a transition, and I don’t do transition so well. Change is hard, and settling in requires grace. I didn’t know how to give that to myself yet.

2. I wasn’t sure I made the right choice in moving away from my community at home, and missing them was like a physical ache.

3. I was in a position at work that was born from necessity but not really on sure footing yet, so my schedule didn’t have the structure to which I was accustomed.

I didn’t choose to feel these things, and yet they are shining truths of that season.

Things changed in May. I traveled to New York for my first TWLOHA event and connected our mission with faces and names. When I returned to Florida, I started training the interns to answer messages, the desire to share my passion for words and empathy finally fulfilled at work. I moved into The Yellow House with new roommates. I threw the notions of “I should feel” and “I don’t deserve” in the trash and reached for “This is the truth of right now” and “It’s okay not to be okay.” I took space for me and read books to soothe my soul. I sat on my front porch until all hours of the night talking about everything and trying not to laugh loud enough to wake the neighbors. I made sure distance didn’t dissolve the community I loved back in North Carolina.

And I gave myself permission—to leave, to stay, to feel whatever I was feeling.

Something I love about music, and all art really, is the meaning of it is actually up to the person experiencing it. When I listen to this year’s HEAVY AND LIGHT Encore, it’s impossible for me not to move back and forth with the melody when they sing, “Any day now, any day now, I shall be released.” Those few lines make me think about the prisons we keep ourselves in. Although it takes my mind first to prisons, the song doesn’t leave me there. When Abby plays her solo on the violin, her bow across the strings is like a breaking of chains for me.

Yes, I shall be released, and I have the power to release myself.
I don’t have to be trapped.

I have a choice,
and I choose to be free.



--whitney

Comments (12) | Posted in General, Music by Whitney Wilson

A few years ago, when I was in college, I wanted to work at TWLOHA.  I dreamed of a life sleeping in a van or bus, traveling around the country telling people about this vision I believed in.  Then, I arrived, and my job wasn’t really about traveling at all.  I also learned I’m not really designed for being on tour; it is a life of movement, and I am actually a fan of being still.

But sometimes, I get to represent TWLOHA outside of our small Florida town.  Like a couple weeks ago when I went with Jessica to California to visit four organizations and counseling centers.  It’s really important to us to create and sustain a relationship with the organizations and counseling centers we recommend to our supporters.  We hear from people working with resources, and we were very fortunate that last year, four separate centers in California reached out.  I worked with them for months to organize a trip where we could visit all four places in just a few days to get a sense of the work they do and who they are as teams.

I should tell you about the amazing people I met, people who are changing the world with the care they are providing on the west coast.  I should talk about how I met a couple of people who are a part of TWLOHA’s story, people I have heard about for years and finally met in real life.  I should explain how awesome it was to travel with Jessica, who understands when I need to just read a book and not talk to anyone.  I should detail my love for California’s mountains and how its slightly cold weather made a smile spread across my face and stay.  I should tell you about the peace I felt looking out at the Pacific for the first time in my twenty-four years, the quiet way the wind whipped around, and how grateful I was just to be breathing.

But this what I want to share:  “Home is: where I will lay my bones when I die.”

I saw this quote at A Home Within, the first organization we visited.  It was on the first page on an art book, with “Home is:” as a prompt at the top, and there were several sentences that followed that line, scrawled by a child in the foster system, whose age I don’t know and whose face I will never see but whose words stayed with me all the same.

I was reminded that we bring our lives, memories and baggage and aches and chances and expectations, to the table when we color in the lines and add definition to our stories. What would the world look like if we encouraged the differences and appreciated them in each other?  If we made an effort to look at the world from a perspective we may not understand at first?

I don’t know what it’s like to be switched around from family to family without feeling like I belong to one or becoming attached to people only to be taken away from them without warning.  I don’t know what it’s like to live in a group home with other kids who are in the system.  I don’t know what it is to live a life of movement with change an ever-present reality on the horizon.

But I know what it’s like to long for home, a place to feel rooted and safe.

That’s the beginning, this tiny common ground, a small overlap, a thread that connects my story to this stranger’s story, a signpost to remember to share grace.  I am a fan of being still, but these moments on the road are some of my favorite TWLOHA memories, the moments when I remember that sometimes our stories run together.  Thank you, California, for letting yours run into mine.

--whitney

Comments (7) | Posted in General, Journal by Whitney Wilson

Four months ago, a 14 year-old named Jonah Mowry made a video. He wrote on index cards and held them in front of the camera, one after another, owning his words bravely for the world to see. The world is seeing it. The video is seemingly everywhere this week, and we think it's great. We are proud to share it with you.

Jonah is in eighth grade and no stranger to being bullied at school. He shares his journey through school, how bullying started in first grade and never stopped. There at the end, he acknowledges that things can't keep going the way they've been going, but his recognition doesn't imply defeat, rather it fuels his fight for his own story. He is stronger than giving up. He is worth more than giving up. He has a million reasons to live. In the dark, tangled up in his fears, Jonah seizes his own strength.

It is a hard road to find and hold on to the truths Jonah finds and holds in his video, and some of us don't know how to get to the strength locked within ourselves. And it is in this place that I'm reminded that we need each other, that hope and goodness and truth and love, definitely love, can change a life.

People need you.
You need people.

What would the world look like if we lived like we believe in that? What would the world look like if we helped each other find the strength locked up within us? If, instead of tearing each other down with hate, we built each up with truth and love?

What would happen if we simply used our words for kindness?

Your words have power, and the way you shape them matters. Use them carefully, and use them often.

Wishing you hope and grace.
whitney

Comments (42) | Posted in General by Whitney Wilson

Sometimes the things that tear us down can lead us to freedom. Battling demons within ourselves is a vicious work. We may even get beaten down to a point where we don't know how to fight anymore. That's what Allie talks about in her "Adventures in Depression" post on her blog Hyperbole and a Half. If you follow Allie's blog or take a look at her archives, it's clear that she's hilarious. She creates these terribly awesome pictures on her computer and uses them to tell a story. 

In this post, as the name implies, she discusses what it was like for her to struggle with depression. I wanted to share this with all of you because of just how well she tells this story about her life. Her sadness seems to come out of nowhere, the impact hitting harder for all that she didn't see it coming. Then, she carries us through the moments she shamed herself (and although it's serious, it's serious in a funny way). The shame starts inside of her, because of what she believes, because of the story she lived, because she thinks she doesn't deserve to feel the way she feels. And yet, through all of that darkness, she finds freedom. The freedom presents itself in a situation, and she has the option to pursue it or to further cultivate her self-hatred. She chooses freedom. That's my favorite thing about the post--the way she saves herself. May we all find the courage to do the same.

Happy reading. :)

whitney

Comments (7) | Posted in General by Whitney Wilson

We live in a world where brokenness is a reality, not a possibility. TWLOHA began as a response to that reality, as a way to confront a certain brokenness head on regarding mental health—specifically depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. We have learned that most people don't talk about these things. There are thousands of people, people with faces and families and stories, who never get the help they need because they feel there isn't a space to talk about their pain. TWLOHA is an attempt to create that space.

Starting today, we join twenty-four other charities in Round 1 of the American Giving Awards presented by Chase, a voting contest on Facebook to honor the past winners of Chase Community Giving. Voting ends next Wednesday, October 5 at 12 p.m. EST. We hope you will join us by liking the American Giving Awards presented by Chase Facebook page, voting for TWLOHA, and then asking everyone on the planet to do the same : )

We often talk about TWLOHA as a bridge to help. Taking the first step to talk to a friend about something painful is scary, as is packing a suitcase to go to a treatment center for the first or fifth time. We exist as a safe passage offering hope and encouragement along the way. Winning the American Giving Award will allow us to strengthen that bridge, to take our message of hope and help on the road to more places and in more creative ways than we've ever been able to do before, such as:

-- Investing in building an interactive platform that will allow people to contribute directly to treatment and recovery in their local community. 

-- Providing more widespread counseling scholarships for people with little or no insurance, alleviating the stress of a financial burden that often accompanies treatment and recovery options.

-- Expanding our vision by taking HEAVY AND LIGHT - an evening of songs, conversation, and hope - on the road. There is a unique kind of community that happens when people gather in a room with songs and honest stories that resonate. Nights like this can change a perspective for people, and that shift could be the beginning of change or even a life saved.

-- Strengthening the launch of our brand new high school campaign called The Storytellers, a way for high school students to bring the story of TWLOHA and message of hope to their own campus through organizing and engineering community events.

We're honored to participate in this contest and excited to have the chance to work with Chase to carry out this vision. Thank you for being a part of it.

Please vote.

Comments (4) | Posted in General by Whitney Wilson

On a morning in August, I was checking Twitter.  It was a regular Thursday morning.  Then, I saw that John Green, a writer and vlogger I follow, tweeted, "Go read @johnmoe's twitter feed."  I did the only sensible thing and clicked through to John Moe's profile.  

We shared his series of tweets on our Behind the Scenes Tumblr later that day.  John Moe's brother Rick died by suicide four years ago, and his birthday was August 24.  He would have been 49.  As a way to honor Rick and prevent other people from losing their older brother, John promised himself that he would talk about Rick and his life, that he would encourage people facing the same kind of darkness Rick faced to reach out to someone instead of trying to walk that road alone.  

I was incredibly inspired by John's honesty.  He doesn't shy away from how suicide affects the people left behind and that it might take more than one try to get help.  His words stayed with me in the days following, and I wanted to hear more of the story.  Below is an interview John was so kind to do with me.  It's a glimpse of his experience in losing his brother.  It is not light reading, but then suicide isn't a light topic.  We should talk about it anyway.  Talking about suicide is a start to breaking the silence that sustains the stigma.  Let's break it together.

whitney
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What was Rick like?
Most of what I remember of Rick is him as a kid, a slightly older kid than me. In those days, he was incredibly energetic, really funny in the kind of dry way that our dad pioneered in the family. He was charismatic. But he did really poorly in high school. Part of that was, I think, what might be diagnosed as ADHD today. Part of it was that he fell in with a crowd that smoked pot and probably did some other drugs too. I don’t know if he was trying to medicate himself for depression or what. He had a strong intellect, boy he was smart, but it was intentionally defiant against school. He’d read science journals but bomb in science class.

In later years, he was a screw up. He was a meth addict. He drifted from job to job in San Diego, different living environments, I’d lose track of him for extended periods. And he’d try to get money from my parents or my sisters or me.

He was nice when I talked to him but I never knew if he was trying to manipulate me to get more money for drugs. That’s something you learn about addicts, their disease makes it so nothing matters more than getting more drugs. So he’d call me up and leave a message talking about hearing me on the radio and how much he loved it and I would just delete it.

But he was evidently clean for several years leading up to his death.

He was your older brother, yes, and therefore a superhero of sorts.  But you talked about his struggle with addiction in your Infinite Summer post.  Can you share a bit about how you learned about his addiction and how/if he sought help before his death?
Well, like I said, he was a pothead in high school. I kind of bristle now when people talk about pot like it’s no big deal because in my experience, with Rick and with other people I know, it was absolutely a gateway to harder stuff. So I saw Rick do that.

In later years I know he got picked up on DUIs. Then I heard about the meth, this was before I even knew what that meant.

But he entered treatment and by all accounts he was sober. He volunteered at a sobriety hotline, he went to NA. A lot of people at his funeral were from that kind of sobriety community.

Still, the damage was done and he wasn’t quite tethered to the world any more in the time leading up to his death. I don’t know if he was getting real medical support or not. I think if you do the kind of drugs he did you sort of blow holes in your brain that you can’t recover from.

What is it like for you to talk about Rick now?
It’s incredibly painful. Because I have a hard time bringing back the fun memories, the human memories. When I think of Rick, I think of one thing: him covered in bandages and blankets lying unconscious in an emergency room after he shot himself. His brain was dead, his body would soon follow. But his hand was still warm. That image – they tell me I have post-traumatic stress- is the one I always go to because it burned into my brain.

Is it difficult to talk about the nature of his death?
Yes. But it’s vital. It’s important. I decided, literally at his funeral, that I needed to talk about it as much as possible. There’s this horrible stigma associated with suicide, like it’s a shameful thing, a moral failing. But it’s more complicated than that. It’s a symptom of an illness. And the shame contributes to the isolation of the person suffering and it compounds the problem. The way we treat suicide makes for more suicides, I’m convinced of that.

As for talking about the specific nature of his death, he shot himself at a gun range. There are a lot of details about that. How he joined the range weeks before but never came back until the day he died, indicating a high level of premeditation. He left his car there and I had to drive it away, knowing that the radio was not on. These are horrifying details and human details. I am actually thankful to talk about them because I want people to know that this is the kind of horror you leave behind if you make this horrible choice.

I’m a writer and I know that details in a story are what bond people to the characters and the action. I hate talking about the details of Rick’s death but I have to. I just have to.

In what ways do you advocate for suicide prevention in your life?
It’s hard to know what to do, frankly. I have something like 13,000 followers on Twitter but I earned most of those through jokes. So I like to keep that source consistent. Still, once or twice a year I talk about Rick and urge people to get help if they need it. If you had a broken leg, you’d go to the hospital, I say, and you should treat your depression just as seriously. And oddly, when I post about this, I get this huge outpouring in response. Celebrities retweet what I say which brings a lot of people in. And that’s all great. I also do the occasional public event and I write about it when asked.

At the same time, I have to be careful. People come to me for help with depression and I can’t provide that. I’m not a therapist of any kind and I can’t and won’t accept responsibility for these people’s lives. I provide resources, phone numbers, web sites, anything I can. But that kind of speaks to the heart of the issue. You can provide help but everyone needs to help themselves, ultimately. They need to take ownership of their health and they need to get better. They owe it to themselves, to the future, to other people who need them.

What do you say to a person who has lost someone they love to suicide?
Rick died four years ago now and I’ve talked to people who’ve lost someone recently. I’ve told them, first of all get help. You can’t do this alone. You aren’t strong enough. You’re just simply not. Get a therapist, not just a friend but a professional. There are options for low/no income people in this regard too.

And I tell them that this path is just beginning. It’s a long road, you’ll walk it forever, and it’s going to suck. It doesn’t travel in a smooth trajectory. You might feel fine a month after it happened and immobilized with grief in two years. Generally, it gets better. You get more functional, you talk about it more, you find joy in other places. But it’s never cured and you never get over it. Life just gets different from that point on. You just have to keep walking. 

Comments (6) | Posted in General by Whitney Wilson