The Hard Question

Last night, my 7 year-old daughter came to me, and asked about the "cause" of Bipolar Disorder.

She wanted to know (in the 2nd grade vernacular) if Bubbo (Ryan) had Bipolar because one of my parents gave it to him, like a cold, or if he just "catched it" on his own.

Wow.

I don't think I was giving my girl enough credit. She is obviously way more perceptive than I thought.

So I promptly called the only person I could think of to help me navigate this egg-shell laden path: my mom. She insisted on Face-timing with the inquisitive mind, and tearfully explained that neither she nor Poppy was responsible for Ryan's mental illness.

This made my heart happy, to hear the answer to a question that burned deep down in my own mind.

I have silently wondered for years if they blamed themselves.

The next biggest question I have, now that that one is answered, is if I blame myself.

Now, I know that it is genetically impossible for ME to have "caused" Ryan's BPD.

But the lingering guilt is from the nagging feeling that I didn't do enough to help. And if I didn't do enough to help, did I hinder progress in treatment?

 

I don't know a single person who gets along with their sibling 100% of the time. I surely didn't.

But over the passed two and a half years, Ryan and I had more laughs than fights.

Before Ryan was diagnosed, there was a brief period where we were constantly bickering. Not the "I'm never going to speak to you again" type, but the "you are wrong and I am right" variety.

Looking back, I feel that I wasn't as mature as I should have or could have been. I didn't have to argue or prove my points. I didn't have to.

Did my restless desire to be right 100% of the time push Ryan into the psychotic meltdown that led to his BPD diagnosis? Did I somehow "help" the spiral in it's downward decline? Am I to blame?

 

Who's to say?

All I can do now in Monday-Morning-Quarterback the situation and try to move forward, navigating the pieces of my broken heart with transparency and humility.

And do my best to answer the difficult questions in my heart, and the hearts of my two innocent children.

And hope that I can figure out how to glorify God through it all.

 

Thanks for reading,

 

--Julie--

Validation

A million times over, I have wished my brother to return. To magically appear in front of me, flesh and blood... REAL...

And a million and one times I am disappointed to open my eyes and grapple with the fact that he is not now nor will he ever return to this earth with a heartbeat.

Today is one of those days that I am struggling silently with grief and hope. I miss my brother so bad, that I am sure the tears that are falling are tears of blood- having exhausted all of it's water, my body is pouring my life from my very eyes.

Of course it's not, but this is how it feels. 

 Like a slowly sinking Titanic, I am drowning in my own life.

Ryan was the biggest source of validation in my life. The only one to ever tell me "good job" without the "but" on the end.

Ryan, in his own crazy way, was a life raft sent straight from Heaven to keep me afloat. Ryan "got" me. He understood our parents. He knew just what to say to me, when no one else in the world who ever thought that they knew me, could. He knew how I worked, and how I interpreted things. He humored me when I was emotional. In a very real sense, he was a part of me.

Without him, there seems to be a hallow and uncertain void. A bleakness to life.

It feels like I am walking through the wilderness.

In my own head, this bleak despair is compounded by isolation.

No one "gets" me, now.

No one understands the grief, or knows what to say.

But One.

 

As God watched from the Throne, His very Own Son was nailed by my sin to the cross.

And to comfort me, He rose His Son from the emptiness.

From the abyss, to give me hope in a future with Him.

 

Hope.

That word sounds so small compared to the tragedy of mental illness and suicide.

Hope.

The word speaks volumes to every situation, every trial, and every loss.

Hope.

The single syllable is etched forever in the hearts of the Believer, a foundation for a faith in God.

Without hope, there is no future, faith, or freedom from the consequences of sin.

I am a prisoner to hope, refusing to believe it is not there. Clinging to every letter, to keep even just the top of my head from sinking.

 

So when you see me cry, don't turn away and shun my sadness.

Let me spill these tears of hope, tears of grief, and tears of unwavering faith in a God who loves even the most broken in all the world.

And if you are brave, tell me that you have this hope too.

 

--Julie--

The Little Things

So far I have managed to maneuver some big, messy, emotional events without my brother. 

But the little things that pop up, and remind me of what he is missing- and what I am missing without him- devastate me emotionally. 

One example is this year's football season. Kevin and I have hosted a fantasy football league for years. And Ryan played in our league a few times. Ryan had an uncanny knack for sports facts, and football was no exception. Everyone admired Ryan's 'useless knowledge'- which was useful during fantasy football. Ryan knew so much about players, teams, and schedules. He was a fantastic asset to me, because unlike the rivalry between friends, Ryan would help me make a good, solid decision on who to play, but then his team would beat mine anyways that weekend. He never cheated me and he always helped me out. Always. 

This year we aren't hosting a league and it is heartbreaking. I miss it. But I think I would miss his presence more, making it difficult to play, diminishing my desire to win. 

I can't really put into words just how sad I am. It's a bunch if things all at once- September 1 was the opening of dove season. Ryan always hunted the opener and last year he made me promise to hunt this year with him.

I didn't, he didn't, we didn't, and the world seems more messed up because of it. 

Time seems to be flying by, and I feel like too soon the holidays will be upon us.

I don't even want to imagine how 'wrong' Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years will feel without my brother's goofy smile and antics. 

Soon we will pass through this stage, and time for the plans we made with Ryan will pass, and we won't be as sad. Or maybe we will. 

This is uncharted territory, and we each experience this loss so differently.

All I know is that with each passing day, the hole in my life becomes more obvious and I cry more. This is not a nightmare, this is real life, and I have to keep transitioning and growing.

Time waits for no man, as they say. 

I look forward to our reunion in Heaven, and I am committed to this process of character development that God is refining me through.

Romans 8:28 says "all things work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose." 

So, God, I love You. I am called. And I'm willing to work to see the good. 

--Julie--

Conflict

I've been dragging my feet with this post, because my last one seemed to be a little more offensive than intended. But to be really, brutally honest, I'm sure this one will be worse.

 

Because there is a fine line between total honesty and being offensive. A line I skirt way too often than completely necessary. Or maybe it is necessary.

 

Everyone should be free to grieve in their own way, as long as they don't physically hurt themselves or others. Sometimes the realist in me wants to scream at all of the fake grief floating around out there for my brother. From those people who claim they knew him. Those people who sport the ribbon as if they suffer. Those people who post pictures minutes after I do, who mock my utter devastation by crying out for attention and exploiting the memory of my dead brother.

Nothing NOTHING pierces my heart deeper than seeing the photos and posts with the tag lines like "you were like a brother to me, Ryan."

SHUT UP!!!

 

Ryan IS my brother! MY brother. There were only TWO of us, me and him.

 

Trust me, this cross I bear is not glamorous. There isn't some fantastic support system in place, where people call me regularly to check on me. On the contrary, this road is lonely. Most of the attention is negative- people telling me to 'get over' it and 'move on'...

(not all - there are a select few who show me tenderness and love)

I don't want the calls anyways- I can't really talk about how I feel with people who cannot begin to understand where I've been and what I've seen- but that's a whole 'nother can of worms.

 

 But the compassionate heart inside me wants to cut my tongue off when I try to choke these words out.

If that is what you need to do to feel attention, pretend to cry over someone who isn't around anymore to set the record straight, go ahead - but don't cry to me.

If what you need is to cry to the people who hurt the worst, then maybe you really are suffering.

But I will not bend over backwards to accommodate your tears.

I can barely see through my own blurred vision, enough to function at a minimum-output level.

I do my best to cover the sleepless nights with caffeine, and the permanent heartache with a smile.

I don't have the strength in my soul to lift you from the fog you claim is grief.

I am in the muck, praying my own way out.

 

So grieve, fake grievers.

Just leave me any my family out of it.

 

--Julie--

 

 

Thanks, but no thanks..

I want Ryan back. That much is pretty plain to see. But what you don't see is this little piece of me that dies every time someone tells me, by their own determination, that Ryan would be proud of me, what I have accomplished, or what I will do in the future.

The fact is that you don't know.

I don't know.

No one this side of Heaven knows if he would be proud of me.

No one knows if he would get that twinkle in his eyes and give me the thumbs-up. I can surmise, based on our relationship, if he would or not. But you can't. You aren't Him or him or me.

If I was a good sister, maybe I would have done more. I know this, because I COULD have done more.

If I was a good sister, maybe things would have turned out differently.

Maybe.

But no one can know.

 

So, please, if you care to tell me that you think Ryan would be proud - skip it.

Tell me that you think that I am doing good, or don't.

But don't fool me by thinking that you know Ryan's thoughts. Maybe he would have hated all of this... Maybe not...

I'll find out when I get to Heaven.

 

--Julie--

Team Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund

Today, 47 men, women, and children gathered in Modesto to participate in the Out Of Darkness Community Walk, for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.

47 wonderful friends work our RMLMF t-shirts and sported green, to bear tribute to my baby brother - whom I lost in April to suicide.

 

 

I want to say thank you to everyone who sponsored me, motivated me, supported me,

and walked with me.

I am humbled, blessed, and appreciative.

 

--Julie--

 



Grandma Great

4 months seems like it would be time enough to start the healing process. 4 months seems like it would be ample time to get over the tears and the mood swings. More than enough time to familiarize myself with the loss, the hole in my heart.

BUT then the other shoe falls. The bottom falls out, and the world is looking more bleak than when my brother died.

4 months to the day- and it seems eerily close to the time (within a couple hours)- that my brother passed away, my paternal great grandmother, Grandma Great, went home to Heaven. She was 94 and lived a full life, spreading her contagious joy across the span of 5 generations.

I am not grieving her passing with as much ferocious sadness as I am my brother's, but I am suddenly thrown back into the unstable trenches of death and dying.

I am found a full five paces backward from the progress I had made along this journey through healing, and I have no clue where to go. Or what to do.

 

I am functioning in a habitual state of overwhelmedness.

 

I wish so much that my brother was here, to reminisce and share memories with me. I have no one, in my immediate circle, that shares memories of Christmases past, rope swinging adventures, and bird shootin' with bb guns.

I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that some of my memories would die, with my brother gone. But I had to idea that this notion would be thrust to the forefront of my thoughts so quickly.

And I don't know what to do about it.

 

Here is my Grandma Great's obituary - I wish I could share her love with everyone. She was a treasure, for sure.

 

Lillian Lauchland (1919 - 2013)

Obituary

    

Lillian Lauchland passed on August 25, 2013, after a long, loving life. She was born in Borden, Sask., Canada on January 31, 1919, to Henry and Lena Sawatzky and moved to Lodi, California when she was 4 years old. She attended Garfield, Alpine, Harmony Grove and Live Oak Schools as well as Lodi High. She married before she graduated, but in 1970, she earned her High School diploma. In 1935, she married Ronald Lauchland, which was followed by the birth of 6 children over the next 11 years. She and her husband enjoyed many local organizations and clubs over the years including Woodbridge OES, First Methodist Church, San Joaquin Historical Society, San Joaquin Farm Bureau, Past Matrons and Patrons of OES, N.R.A., and Life Membership of American Angus Association. Lillian was also a member of the White Apron Club, Woodbridge Whist, Lodi Trailer Club, and Town and Country Women. Watercolor painting, writing, card playing, cooking, camping, fishing, and traveling were among the many things she enjoyed. Most importantly, she was happiest when surrounded by her family. She is survived by 3 children, Henry Lauchland, Stevenson Lauchland, and Ronda Mettler. Loving her in-laws as her own, she leaves behind Georgia Lauchland, Patty Lauchland, SherAnn Lauchland, Barbara Lauchland, and Jerry Mettler. Her 11 grandchildren include Peggy Nicholson (Dave), George Lauchland (Lorrie), Bart Lauchland (Jennifer), Cindy Gnos (Craig), Matt Lauchland (Tammy), Sandy Lauchland, EmmyJo Heng (Eric), Cody Lauchland, Cara Lauchland, Greg Mettler (Sandy), and Jennifer Mettler-Hall (Duane). She was blessed with 16 great-grandchildren and 5 great-great-grandchildren.
Preceding her in death are husband, Ronald (1983), three sons, Mark (2002), Clifford (2003), Jeff (2006), and great-grandson, Ryan Lauchland (2013). Lillian will best be remembered for her loving heart, sense of humor, and warmth. A memorial service will be held Friday, September 6, 2013, at 11:00 a.m. at First United Methodist Church in Lodi. There is no visitation, and committal is private. Contributions in Lilllian's name may be made to Shriner's Hospitals, 2425 Stockton Blvd., Sacramento, CA 95817, or San Joaquin Historical Society, or Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund, 1819 Jackson Street, Lodi, CA 95242 Lodi Funeral Home is assisting the family with the arrangements.



Rest in peace, GG. I'll see you in Heaven, too.
--Julie--

 

Julie, you're a CEO??

I don't think that I have really shared with everyone - via the blog- what I am doing with the nonprofit that I started a couple of months ago, the Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund.

 

This non-profit corporation's specific purpose is to be proactive in eliminating the negative stigma of  mental illnesses, to raise awareness for mental health and mental illnesses in San Joaquin County, to raise funds to help and support those living with a mental illness as well as to distribute those funds to other nonprofit organizations who render service to the community, and to provide a network of support for bereaved families.

 

I am excited that things have gone so quickly with the set-up of this nonprofit. Within two weeks of filing with the Secretary of State, we were approved. I am in the process now of filing with the Attorney General, and the IRS.
As of right now, we are an official 501(c)3 nonprofit corporation, with a board of directors, and a great vision to see the community and world changed.

 

A group of 30 people are currently signed up to participate in the Modesto Out Of Darkness walk for Suicide Prevention, on Sept 14, on Team Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund. I am thrilled that this seems to be a cause so many people can rally around.

I have designed T-Shirts, and we have presold 50 so far!

Our fundraising efforts have been successful so far, and we are hoping to make a substantial donation to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention in Ryan's name at the Walk.

Dozens of people came out to support us last night at the first Fundraiser, held at Rick's Pizza in Lodi. Again, I am blown away by the sheer volume of people who came to eat, visit, and smile through the tears with us.
 

I also want to take this opportunity to publicly thank each and every person who has contributed to this Fund with their time, energy, and resources.

I am humbled at the generosity of this group of people who love Ryan so much.

Thank you for supporting my efforts to help people who are suffering.

This is not about me.

It's about US.

 A community of people who are committed to stopping the negative stigma of mental illness.

If you are interesting in helping in any way, or if you know of someone/another charity that can benefit from our support,  please contact me at ryanlauchlandfund@gmail.com

ps- I am still taking T-Shirt orders! Email me ASAP - you won't want to be one only one without an awesome shirt!!!

Thanks!


--Julie--

I'm just one big jumble of emotions [mobile post]

Tonight was the first ever fundraiser for the Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund. I don't know what to think. I am humbled and overwhelmed by the support from family and friends, and at the same time I am angry with people who didn't show up. I don't want your money- I just want to know that you believe in this cause too. 

In some ways, this whole thing just seems so wrong. It is wrong. Ryan, you should be here. I shouldn't have to be doing this. WHY COULDN'T YOU SEE HOW IMPORTANT YOU WERE? This silence torments me down to my core. 

I hate bipolar. I hate it. HATE. I struggle to even find the word 'hate' appropriate. Maybe loathe. Despise. 

I want to murder it. I want to kill it so forcefully, that it will take the rest of the mental illnesses with it to the pits of hell. 

I guess that's what I am trying to do with the Ryan Fund. I want revenge on the mental illness that stole my brother. My best friend. My Bubbo. 

I need so badly to hear him say that he is proud of me. 

So often, growing up and even until this past April, Ryan was a source of true validation. He would never criticize my efforts. It didn't matter if I was puking during a Half Marathon, completing another Bible Study or learning a new craft. Ryan was proud of me. If I lost a pound, or could eat 12 Taco Bell tacos. If I wrote an essay, or finally figured out how to lock the screen rotation on my iPhone, Ryan was proud of me. 

I know my mom is proud of me, but sometimes unconditional love and support is a little lackluster. It's like a failsafe. It's always there, unchanging and unwavering. But this support was different. Ryan never HAD to say it. He chose to, to make me smile. He wanted me to know that he loved me for me. For what I was doing. For who I am. For what I want to be, someday. 

To everyone who came out to Rick's tonight, thank you from the bottom of my broken heart. I wish I could show you all just what it means to me that you were there. 

Sincerely. 

--Julie--

Going on the Offensive

What is the difference between being defensive and taking offense to something?

Is it pride that wells up within me, every time someone "suggests" counseling?

And just what will a counselor do for me?
Most people, let alone counselors cannot identify with the situation that I am in, and will give me textbook psychobabble about grief and being kind to myself during this process, about the journey to "recovering" and "moving on".

After all, this is uncharted waters...
I am a Christian -although that label is vague in this Babylonian culture- I believe in Jesus as the perfect Son of God, Savior of my soul from an eternity in Hell by graciously taking my punishment for sins on Himself. So, I believe that there is nothing that I will ever go through, that my God has not experienced, and He is the best Counselor. In fact, one of His names/attributes is Wonderful Counselor.
I relive those moments, from that day, frame-by-frame. Who knows why? I am not consciously searching for something I could have done differently. I am not replacing what is true with imagined memories. I just think about it. What I felt. What he looked like, laying there while my mom labored in CPR. What I was thinking at the time. How I cried those ugly tears of shock. How I yelled and lamented. How I wished it was untrue.
Why can't people seem to grasp that there is no going back to "normal"? That there is not ever going to be the 'old' Julie again. I will forever be an altered version of myself. A new self. Changed.
Why are people so accepting of changes in the lives of others- when they meet that special  someone, get married, move away, lose a child, lose a husband, or have been through a trauma like rape, kidnapping, etc.?
Grieving is a process. And losing my brother has forever altered the person I am. My personality is different. I am still in the process of this grief. It's only been 3 1/2 months. August 25 will be 4 months.

Why is this the most difficult part of the process - the loss of friendships because there is no compassion or embrace of the 'new', altered me?
Why can't people be more sensitive? Why do I expect people to offer me grace to become who I am? Why can't I wrap my brain around people's extreme selfishness?

So please, if you are reading this, don't suggest counseling- unless you have experienced what I have, and done the counseling thing, and have a positive takeaway.
And if you have already suggested that I "talk to someone" or see a counselor, I forgive you your complete lack of understanding for this experience. I'm not mad at anyone. I just wish that everyone would understand that there is no going back. Things can't be 'fixed'. I'll never be who I was. And as I withdraw into myself and bare down in my grief, if you cannot extend me grace while I heal, please just bypass any communication with me at all.
I will emerge from this season of lamenting. It probably won't be soon- it could take years.
But I will have joy again, I will laugh again, and I will move past crying all the time. Or maybe not. But whatever happens in the future,  I'm ok with it. And if you truly cared about me, as a person, then you should be ok with it too.

--Julie--

Here goes nothin'

If we are being honest, I should say that half of me really doesn't care. Truly. I don't care if I wake up in the morning. I don't care if my kids eat cookies for breakfast, make it to school on time, or make it to school at all. I don't care if we stay in our pajamas all day long, and zero chores get done. I don't care one single bit.

I have no patience for the drama of daily life. People. Responsibilities. Drama with a capital "d".

I wish I could just sleep it all away.

I hurt.

On so many levels. It's hard to get one thought straight, let alone a strand of thoughts - enough to make a person appear to be assimilated in their own life.

Life.

That word seems so generic.

What is "life"? Breathing? A pulse? Does breathing in and out all day while my heart pumps make me "alive"?

Do you cry when you are sad?

Do I have to cry for the world to know that I am sad, so they will stop asking me how I am? Will I live in a perpetual state of sadness until I die? If I don't cry, does that mean that I am not sad?

If I don't cry, does that mean that I didn't love my brother?

 

Something that I don't tell people is that after I had Justice, over seven years ago, I was diagnosed and treated for G.A.D..

Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

I was on medication for nearly 18 months, then I weaned myself off and I haven't had many flare-ups since (with the exception of the rare family event that required a Xanex to participate in).

 

I am acutely aware of my emotions and anxiety levels at all times, and I would be lying if I said that I am "fine".

 

Let me try to explain where the myriad of emotions and thoughts is coming from:

Last night I had the worst panic attack I've ever experienced. And part of me is terrified that #1- I'm forcing myself to 'relapse' to gain credibility (is that even possible?!) and #2- I don't know what  to do with this. It feels like my body is being crushed by this heavy weight, but I am still able to function and have high-level output. Do I see my doctor? These thoughts in particular cause my heart rate to spike.

It is so ingrained in me to "get over it", and that scares me. On the other hand, am I subconsciously overreacting to gain power or attention, when, on the surface, I care less and less about these things every day? In fact, I despise pity and the attention that goes with fake empathy.

I am supremely adverse to even sharing these thoughts, so if you are reading this because I was brave enough to click 'publish', then consider it a stab in the face of stigma.

My panic attack has a very specific trigger.

I can see my solidarity, and I feel so very isolated by these thoughts and emotions. I recognize that not everyone can comprehend what I have gone through or what I am going through, and that causes me to shut down and internalize everything. I had a commonality with my brother. He shared experiences, and so much of our connection was unspoken, which has left a silent hole in my heart that I cannot fill with words or explanations.

Also, I am task-oriented. In my previous life (ie-life before Ryan died), I lived in a perpetual state of overwhelmedness, due to my ability to maintain quality output and my desire to earn affection through works. But now I have determined to prioritize and purposefully NOT overwhelm myself.

See my issue?

I am not performing, on my previous levels, but it is by my own design. I am trying to give myself a break, but the break is the very thing that is causing the most stress.

So what do I do with the stress? I ball it up inside and I say to myself "I don't care".

(see the cycle I have going?)

 

Thanks for letting me get it all out. I don't feel any better, or any less stressed. In fact, I feel more panicked that I am going to be judged harshly for this post.

If I post it at all.

 

--Julie--

Transparency

This life is full of the mediocre and the mundane. The tough questions and the complex answers.

This life is messy.

Ryan always challenged me - he knew my tones and could interpret my inflections. When I said things like "I'm fine", he heard that things are not 'fine' and called me on it. He held me accountable to the transparency I claimed as a way of life.

And I miss that.

No one else is willing to sort through the garbage of pleasantries and formalities, and really get to know me - or anyone else - on a real, true level.

Ryan wanted to know what was bothering me. Whether it was his genuine compassionate nature, or his desire to know that he was not alone in the tumult of trials, I don't know. I'll never know.

But I do find myself constantly questioning the sincerity of people, gauging by their posture and tone whether they truly want to hear how I am.

This juggle between 'putting on a happy face', being fake, and strangling my constant tears for fear of judgment, and being real, open, honest and authentic in my grief is slowly killing me.

Slowly.

Slowly.

From the inside out.

I don't want people's pity, but I want the freedom to cry when I need to. I just can't stand that we are such selfish beings that we are offended by other people's misfortune.

I don't want to be accused of raining on someone else's parade - and that's a feeling that I know Ryan could relate to.

Am I morbid to think that I understand his battle with bipolar so much better through the eyes of grief?

 

The question is WHY? Why can't we be real and genuine? I will have bad days on your good days, and vice versa. I will cry while you celebrate with laughter and smiles. And vice versa.

We will get on each others' nerves and offend each other. That is the result of a sin-filled earth. If our hearts are truly tuned to love, and unconditionally loving, then we are less offended. More sincere. More compassionate. More empathetic and sympathetic. More open, humbled and -dare I say it- honest. More genuine.

Why can't we all live out loud, exposed?

I long for the freedom to be the person God is molding and shaping me to be. And I pray for the courage to accept that freedom, when everyone else is content in their coffin of status-quo.

 

Oh, Heaven.....COME!

 

--Julie--

Color Run [mobile post]

Last year, I participated in the Color Run. I bragged to Ryan about all the fun and he promised to run it with me this year... 

Right after Ryan passed away, Justice and I signed up for the Color Run, in Sacramento. Race day would have been today, and we had been training for the 3-mile event over summer. We were determined not to let our grief keep us captive, and looked forward to the fun... Then, 2 weeks ago today, Justice fell and broke her leg. 

Again, we felt knocked down and held back. 

Yesterday we went to packet pick-up, so that we could at least collect the t-shirt and bib from what would have been a fun time. The sweet and sympathetic people with Color Run put out race bracelets on Justice's cast as an anklet, and gave us a color packet in every color so that we could enjoy some variation of color festivities at home. 

With Ryan on our hearts, we threw colored chalk at each other this afternoon. 

We will not sit back and let life happen to us. We will be active participants. Doing God's will for us regardless of satan's attempts to knock us backward.. 

We love you, Bubbo. And today would have been much more fun if you could have been physically with us. But we know we have a cheerleader in the grandstands of Heaven. 

We miss you. 

--Julie (and Justice)--

the Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund

http://afsp.donordrive.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.team&teamID=48801

 

This is the link to the Out Of Darkness walk in Modesto on September 14, 2013... I have organized a team, called Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund, and is comprised of friends and family that want to join in, in honoring the memory of my brother while bringing awareness to the epidemic that is suicide...

 

There is no cost associated with the walk - you can choose to donate to the American Foundation of Suicide Prevention, or not. You can also contact me directly if you wish to donate to the Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund, which is a registered and fully functional 501(c)3 Nonprofit corporation..

 

I am trying to get t-shirts made for the team, which should be available for purchase at or before the walk.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today is a rough day. I am burdened with my own pride, as I strive for excellence with this Fund. I want so badly for it to be successful, and I want the world to see that I did it.

Which is awful. My heart truly isn't this proud. It's all about Ryan... But there are moments, for sure. Like now... That I want people to see - and I mean truly SEE - that I am capable of this assignment.

My baby brother, if you can hear me in Heaven,

I want you to know that no amount of paperwork or checklists could ever fulfill me like being a sister does. You are not replaced. Never can be. The memory of your struggles propel me to help people. I want someone, somewhere, to see that they don't have to end their pain the way you thought that you had to. There is not a magic pill, but there is hope. Always hope.

I love you.

~Duie~

#5milebikeride

 

--Julie--

I am leftover chicken

Forgotten. Alienated. Cast aside and left out.

 

These are the common feelings of sibling survivors of suicides.

And I am among them.

I grasp the concept of his absence, and I accept the plain and simple facts - (1) I will never fully comprehend, (2) I will always ask 'why' and (3) my mission is to continue on, proclaiming the goodness of the Savior until I can go to Heaven too.

 

"How are your parents?" uuhhhh.....

If I had a dollar for every time someone has side-stepped my own tragedy to emphasize my parents' hurt, I could move to Bermuda.

I am not AT ALL 'ranking' the pain that we are all feeling. But to assume that the burden of this pain is greater for one than the other is ludicrous. Truly.

My brother was a piece of me. We shared DNA. I would have given my life for him - and he knew it.

Although I never nursed him, I did change a fair share of diapers, completed his homework more times than he did in younger years, knelt before God in more pleas for mercy on his behalf than I can count, I took him in, and of course I rescued him at 2am many many times.

I am not Ryan's mom. I am not Ryan's dad. I am Ryan's sister. His only sibling. And I hurt too.

 

To assume that there is some love-scale is unbiblical. Jesus Himself dumped the perceived family structure on it's head in the Gospels of John, Mark, Luke, and the book of Acts.

"It must be so terrible for them." Yeah, it must be.

I pray every night that I will never know their pain. But that doesn't mean that I'm not hurting too.

I'm an only child now, at 29. How in the world does one deal with that?!

A part of me died on April 25. Can't anyone understand that I'll never be whole either?

How do I keep from wondering if my parents secretly wish I was gone and he was here?

How do I keep from getting supremely offended that they give away his stuff without thinking that it might matter to me?

How do I let it all go, and just assume the role of "the sister" who obviously doesn't have a hand in the rest of the process to healing?

How do I "get over it" when I am wounded so deeply by the very people I have to console?

How do I mourn alone, without contempt and blame eating my heart piece by piece?

My mom says things like "I don't know if I'll ever be happy again." or "Life doesn't go on for me, I'll never heal." "My purpose in life was to have Ryan." and what I hear is "Ryan made life worth living" and "he is more important than you."

--These feelings are not new to me, I have been living with this silent agony for a lifetime. But as I got closer to Ryan, the older we got, I was able to overcome my inferiority complex because he always told me that I mattered to him.--

 

How do I express my deepest thoughts, fears, and emotions when I feel like a foreigner in this pain?

Why do I feel like my family is unraveling without my brother here to hold us together?

Well, it's because we are. There are now 2 distinct 'family' units. Us and them. Ryan always included me, always kept me in the loop, and I hate that I am now left wondering.

 

So, Ryan, if you can hear me - I miss you. I miss how you always kept me in the picture.

I miss that I was never "leftover chicken" to you.

I miss my brother. MY BROTHER..

I love you, Ralphy.

5 mile bike ride.

 

--Julie--

A picture is worth a million tears

In an effort to share some precious memories, but not overwhelm you with pictures on every post, I have decided to share a few pictures of my brother and 1. These are happy memories. Moments that I relive again and again in my heart. 

Ryan and I. December 2012. 

Thanksgiving 2012

Christmas 2012

Ryan's high school graduation. 2007

Pheasant hunting with Pop. 2011. 

Video games with Ryan. Jan 2012

Exploring Bear River Reservoir 2012.

Chris Tomlin concert. 2011. 

Gianna & Mike's wedding.

Amanda and Videl's wedding. 2011. 

family pictures. November 2011.

 

 

--Julie--

Secrets

We all know one.

Or two.

They keep us isolated, solitary in our attempt to hide a revelation from someone. But they are poison.

Understand, I am not referring to the 'sshh! Don't tell Daddy what we got him for Christmas' kind of secrets.

I mean those deep dark confidences we are entrusted with- either by a friend or from ourselves.

Yes, we can know something or experience something and not share it. Out of fear. Spite. Principal.

If left unchecked, these seemingly innocent or long-forgotten little secrets can give the devil just enough foothold to warp our judgment.

 

"No one will understand."

"It was so long ago"

"It doesn't matter."

"It's not really a secret."

"No one cares."

"It's none of anyone else's business."

 

These are all fallacies the Prince of the Air conjures to keep us from living in true redemptive freedom.

We keep our feelings from someone because we don't want to hurt them. Meanwhile this wedge starts to form between you and a person, over a probably trivial 'secret'.

We keep our own confidences, to protect our image - and prevent any true, meaningful and worthwhile relationships.

 

What if someone knew your secrets? What if the very person that you think you are protecting, is keeping a deeper, darker secret from you?

What if exposure could lead to freedom, acceptance, and healing?

 

Would anyone drink that kool-aid?

 

I'll start:

I thought it was just a cry for attention.

I thought he just ran off, like he used to, and would turn up, like he always did.

I dragged my feet getting there because I thought that he didn't deserve the attention.

I thought I knew.

Who knows what could have been, had I been there 5 minutes sooner?

Who knows how long he had been gone, or if I could have made a difference in the outcome of his desperate act?

I can live with the questions.

I can live with his result.

But what I can't live with is the cloud of silent torment constantly raining on every bright moment of every day, because I feel guilty.

And I don't have to.

If I can expose this yoke, bring it to the attention of those who love me, maybe I don't have to carry it anymore.

Maybe now that I have 'told' on myself, revealed my own dark secret, I am no longer a slave to its powers of guilt, isolation and destruction?

Can I be free?

 

Without this rancid rotten lie hanging over me, like a noose wanting to rob my life from freedom, I can breathe.

 

The truth is no one will ever understand, completely.

The truth is no one can know what might have been.

But...TRUTH is that it's ok that no one will 'get it' entirely. It's ok to wonder-without guilt.

And it is ok to go on living, out in the open.

Exposed.

Revealed.

It's ok to be authentic, without a veil of secrets protecting me.

Because these secrets prevent true healing.

 

A healing I am desperate for. 

Hope

A short time ago (and I mean short in relation to years) God wrote an affinity on my heart for the epistle of James.

And by affinity, I mean obsession.

And by obsession, I mean I devoured commentary after commentary, scouring paper after essay, seeking to know all that can be known.

Little did I know then, that these 5 chapters would sustain my faith.

108 verses contained my life's story, my hope in redemption, and my drive to move beyond grief.

 

It opens with a punch to the chest, knocking the wind from the proverbial sails of lukewarm Christians everywhere. The NASB translates verses 2-4 like this: "(2) Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, (3) knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. (4) And let endurance have it's perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing."

Ouch.

"WHEN."

A promise that life will, indeed, be full of trials, of various degrees, kinds, and durations.

"JOY"

A fruit of the Spirit. Not to be confused with happiness.

"LET"

Shows that the process is hands-on, offering a choice to participate.

"COMPLETE"

Whole. Entire. Fulfillment.

 

This nugget of Truth does not stand alone, it's cousin found in Romans, chapter 5: "(3) ...and not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance (4) and perseverance proven character, and proven character hope, (5) and hope does not disappoint because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us."

 

So one can surmise that hope can be and should be the silver lining. The goal. Hope comes after the storm. And hope comes from God.

Christian living is a process - one that we can be refined by, or one that we can rebuke and die by. Since my obvious choice is to live through the Refiner's fire, I have resolved to "let" this process have it's course, and vacuum up every crumb of wisdom I can find in it. Let this trial propel me to conform to the image of Jesus, the Messiah. Let this testing of my faith teach me to endure, persevere.

 

The Christian disposition doesn't reflect reality. We too often look to Jesus as a soft of Band-Aid, a cure-all. A promise that life will greatly improve with Salvation, and after ever harried prayer whispered when faced with misfortune.

We overlook the abundance of Scriptural proof that "life" on earth will actually get harder - from the standpoint of our comfort level, the closer we walk with God. Our uninhibited faith in Jesus as Savior is meant to propel us from this comfort level, into a Christ-like suffering.

Please don't misinterpret this for martyrdom.

 

I cling to hope. Hope that I will eventually cry less. Hope that I will see my brother in Heaven.

Hope that I will be found doing that which God calls me to, daily, as I tread the murky trials of life on earth.

Hope that the suffering will end.

Hope that God will sustain me, right now, in an hour, tomorrow, and beyond.

 

My prayer is that as I maneuver this trial called grief, I will be refined by it not defined by it.

 

I will not lose my perspective on hope.
--Julie--

To the masses

Scattered through pages of countless grief books, you will find a common theme: suicide is unexplainable.

There is no "right" and no "wrong" way to grieve a suicide.

There is no way to explain to someone who isn't a survivor, how this brand of loss feels.

The survivors of suicide are unique. The utter devastation they have lived through unites them, millions strong. The loss is radical- incomprehensible, even, on some levels. Death by car accident, sickness, and old age are entirely different, and someone who has not ever experienced the anguish of losing a loved one to suicide will never be able to understand.

 

I get all this.

But living in the fast-paced age we are in, slow healing is hard. Especially with the 'get over it' front most people conjure.

It makes my stomach ache to explain to someone who isn't a SOS (survivor of suicide) why I am crying, why I can't 'get over it', why I still have bad days 11 weeks later, why I can't let go, say goodbye, or move on. And truth be told, it makes me resent the person for even assuming that one day I will wake up and go back to normal. It makes me literally shake with silent anxiety to be around people who just expect me to be happy.

I will never be the way I once was.

Let me say that again: I AM FINDING A NEW NORMAL.

My life is divided into two distinct areas, a thick black line drawn across the timeline of my life. "Before" and "After".

I may never be interested in the things that used to thrill me. I may never enjoy things I previously favored. I may not ever be able to have a conversation without crying.

And all that is ok.

Coming to the realization that my life is forever 'different' was not the hard part. The hard part is realizing that I will lose relationships and friendships that I poured life into, because there is no attempt made to understand my new reality.

There is little compassion.

 

Some day, I will smile. And I will laugh.

Then, because my life is governed by the vicious cycle of human emotion, I will cry.

And that is just how it is going to be.

I'm ok with that.

If you care for me, you should be ok with that, too.

 

So, to the masses who are lucky enough not to be a suicide survivor, let me issue this insight:

if you want to be a friend, don't expect normalcy.

It's a hallow illusion for someone like me.

 

--Julie--

Painting

If you had to paint your feelings, what would it look like?
My answer: every color of the rainbow on a crumpled up and ripped piece of paper 

Justice, my 7 year old daughter, asked to paint. Then she asked me to paint with her. 

I didn't know what to paint, so she told me to "paint what I'm feeling". 

That's how I came up with this: 

I feel everything and nothing all at once.

I feel crumpled up and ripped and holy- missing parts. 

Relieved that Ryan is in Heaven.

Sad because I'm not. 

Angry because he left. 

Happy because I will see him again.

Pissed off at people who took advantage of him. 

Restless because I don't know what to do next.

Guilty that I couldn't save him. 

Bitter because he didn't let me help.

Tired of crying. 

Afraid that I don't cry enough. 

Irritated that I think so much. 

Jealous of people who will never know this pain.

Overwhelmed with well-wishers asking me how I am.

 Shattered because no one seems to really care.

 

Exhausted. Fed up. Dismayed at the lack of control. 

Confused, hurt.

Proud that I got to be his sister, even for a while. 

Devastated that I failed my parents. 

Like I said, I feel it all.

And nothing.

Like I want to zone out and sleep for 5 years. 
But also like I want to run a marathon.

 I don't know.... Maybe God will reveal something profound in that. 

I've heard quite frequently lately that God pours out passion through pain.

So I guess I'm along for the ride... Let's see where this leads.

 

--Julie--

Grief

That word seems so foreign.

Even the definition doesn't make sense: "obsolete. Grievance, deep poignant distress caused by or as if by bereavement, a cause of such suffering, an unfortunate outcome. Disaster, mishap, misadventure..." (Webster's Online).

 

It just doesn't compute in my brain.

 

Is what I am feeling really "grief"? Does this anguish qualify?

Does this gigantic hole in my heart get to be defined by such a small, feeble word?

A word that has been strewn about, even on comic strips for decades?

GRIEF.

 

No. There has to be more to it than these 5 letters convey. My heart and soul scream out at the injustice of this word. No! I am not experiencing "grief". I am smack-dab in the middle of utter and complete desolation. Despair. Uncomfortable loneliness.

 

I am walking through the narrow valley, the valley of the shadow of death. Cloaked in darkness and surrounded by strange sounds that make my heart skip a beat. Armed with a Light that I cannot seem to aim at the shaky ground. Surrounded by deafening silence.

 

In my mind's eye, I can see where I came from. I still experience flashbacks of that fateful day. I still smell dust and death. I still feel the cold, dead skin under my lips in a final kiss goodbye.

In my heart, I can see where I am going. Glorious redemption. Peace and sanctuary. I can almost taste the sweet honey and feel cool air of the very breath of Life that awaits all those who call upon Jesus.

 

But, neither backwards nor forwards, is where I am, right now.

I am here.

And I miss my brother.

--Julie--

Eulogize my ... Brother?

On behalf of my family, I want to thank everyone who has lifted us up in prayer... I am overwhelmed by the generosity of our friends and family that have held us together these past two weeks..

Ryan was born the day after my 5th birthday in June, 1989..

From the moment he arrived, he was "my baby". I'm not saying he was an angel and that we got along famously- Im saying that I was the big sister and tortured him like any good big sister would.

Ryan loved music. He identified with songs that represented any genre imaginable. When he was a little toe-headed boy in shorts and rubber boots, he loved Garth Brooks and he could name a Garth song - and which album it came from - with seconds of hearing the opening chords.

As a little boy in grade school, Ryan's favorite subject was "recess", which meant Mom and I were burning the midnight oil to get those book reports done! Ryan played many sports, t-ball, pop-warner football, wrestling, but flourished in Tae Kwon Do, and earned his Black Belt.

Ryan loved hunting and fishing. As a little boy, he tagged along on fishin' trips with our dad and grandpa. At the time he passed the test, at age 7, Ryan was the youngest in the county to receive his Hunter's Safety certificate. 

In high school, Ryan wrestled, ran track,and joined F.F.A.. Ryan showed sheep, and we had a lot of fun naming them together. Bonnie and Clyde, and Tina (ala Napoleon Dynamite).

Growing up, it was always Ryan and I. We spent what seemed like hundreds of hours either in the back of the truck, or riding in the 5th wheel together, talking to mom on the Walkie-Talkie, or listening to the silverware drawer open and close along the bumpy roads. He slept in my bed with me for years and years - probably until he was in middle school.

Ryan loved sports. He was a walking, talking almanac for random sports facts. He could also quote lines from hundreds of movies, and always had the perfect timing to make people laugh. He was a Raider fan, an A's/Angel's fan, a Lakers fan, and loved Nascar.

Ryan was my best friend - and although Ryan was a lot of things to a lot of people, he truly was my other half. Ryan would spend hours on my couch at night watching chick-flicks while the rest of the world slept. We had so many inside jokes and looks that kept us in giggles while everyone thought we were weirdos.

He taught me how to hunt zombies on Call of Duty, play bones, turned me on to NCIS, and Duck Dynasty.

We were the keeper of eachother's secrets, and he talked to me about everything from girls to dreams, hopes and fears, to the inner termoil of someone facing the grim diagnosis of Bipolar 2 Disorder.

There was a period of years that were very dark for Ryan, prior to his diagnosis. The downward spiral saw my family on their knees in prayer for mercy. After countless sleepless nights, there was light at the end of Ryan's too-short life. Ryan was clean and sober for 28 months. Ryan joined our Dad at Celebrate Recovery,  and in January 2012, Ryan was baptized. Ryan and Dad completed the CR step-study and Ryan was happy.

I am blessed and grateful for these past 2 years. They have been amazing. Ryan was the best Uncle to Justice and Kayden. They call him Bubbo.. He doted on them, and they constantly begged to go to Bubbo's house to play Legos or watch "Gibbs" (NCIS).

Ryan was one of the few people in this world who could listen attentively to a certain 5 year-old prattle on and on and on......and on.

Ryan spent a lot of time with Dad, and with "Uncle" Mondo and Videl- they went fishing together, were on road trips to TDS, did a lot of shooting, and spent time just being boys.. Ryan and Dad (and sometimes me too) liked to pheasant hunt and ride the atv's. Ryan loved his motorcycle and looked for anyone and any excuse to go for a ride. Jay Rodacker and Ryan went on some roadtrips together, and Ryan and Dad liked to explore the backroads in the jeep or tear up the track in the Chevelle.

Ryan went back to school, to Heald College, and was excelling. He was doing all his own work for once, and earning A's and Bs on his way to earning a degree and looking forward to a career in the medical field.. We are unbelievably proud of his progress.

Ryan's 23 years were so full of life that I could go on forever telling you about him without breaking a sweat. It's safe to say that Ryan loved with every ounce of his being. He always found the good in people - even those who drove him crazy..

I will forever miss hearing his ringtone, text tone and voice. Ryan was my go-to guy when I was lonely and needed company. I am a 'click' with no 'clack' ... I will miss the inside jokes like PEARL, and squirrel moments...

While there will never be a replacement or filler for the deep void his absence has caused, I find comfort in knowing that Ryan knows Jesus. That he went before me to Heaven to scout the best hiding places (because I will - and I mean it - rip a wing off <-another inside joke). Ryan and I had this long-standing joke - that he would be the one to take care of mom and dad when they got old(er)... Thanks a lot, pal... 

 Today - June 28. 2013 - the Secretary Of State cashed the check that I wrote for the processing of the Ryan M. Lauchland Memorial Fund 501(c)3.. I am honored to have a team of people dedicated to seeing the stigma of mental illness eradicated from the world, standing alongside me in this adventure to raise awareness.

My prayer is that through my own heartache and grief, I can somehow highlight BPD and mental illness for the world to see.. It is not a communicable disease. It's a disease. An illness. Do we dismiss people or write them off because they have cancer or only 8 fingers? Then why do we treat those with BPD, schizophrenia, anxiety, etc., as less human?

   

 --Julie--

Not a Typical Story

Every story has a beginning. But this is not your typical story.

This is the convergence of love, life, grief, God, and a smile that could light up a room.

 

My brother Ryan..... has inspired me to become the best version of myself. And I want that for everyone.

 

Ryan was and is a lot of things. The most glaringly obviously to me, and to my family, is that Ryan is absent. Physically gone from the earth as we know it. The circumstances surrounding this truth are best left to discuss another time, but let me introduce you to my reality, briefly:

 

On April 25, 2013 - just 8 weeks shy of his 24th birthday, my one and only brother felt so tormented by an inner struggle we can only label as "Bipolar Disorder", that he took his own life.

Even staring at the grim words that I just typed send chills down my spine and tears to my eyes.

 

Maybe over the course of my lifetime, and through the medium of a blog, I can unpack the grief so tightly bound within my heart. Maybe I can shed some light on mental illness, or bring understanding to a world full of judgment and labels. Maybe not.

Maybe this is all too new, too raw, too something-I-cannot-describe. Maybe this will alienate me. Maybe this will free my heart from the responsibility of being a brother's keeper, to a brother who is no longer my charge. Maybe.

 

And while the world doesn't stop for my post full of 'maybes', I trudge on, patiently and faithfully, ever prayerful for peace from Jesus.

 

 --Julie--