Colorado, Kansas and Back

We're barely a week into July and it's already off to a jam-packed start. As is my habit most years, the 4th of July holiday was spent in Colorado. The plan was to be tourists in Denver. We had a charming apartment in an Airbnb located in the historic Capitol Hill neighborhood in Denver. Although I've been to Denver many times over the years, I've actually never spent much time there exploring the city. Kelly and I were excited to play tourists there. 

The trip started with taking in a long-awaited concert featuring Old Dominion, Thomas Rhett and Kenny Chesney with my sister, her boyfriend, my niece and her boyfriend. 

The exterior of our Airbnb

As it turned out, life threw us a curve ball with the death of Kelly's aunt the week before our trip. Our five days of relaxing and exploring the city turned into a bit of a whirlwind, with one night in Denver, a drive to Hays, Kansas for two nights to attend the funeral, then back to Denver for two more nights.

It wasn't the trip either of us planned, but there was still plenty of fun and lots of family time. It was my first visit to Kansas, and also the first time I met Kelly's family and cousins from his maternal side. Although I never met his Aunt Dora Lou, I felt as though I knew her a little from all the stories Kelly has told me about her and times spent with her family over the years. Her obituary details some of her accomplishments, including earning her pilot's license at the age of 16!

Hays, Kansas and Kelly's warm family captured a piece of my heart. I felt like I was in a bit of a cocoon while I was there. The slower pace of life, family meals, and sharing laughs and stories on the patio while the sun set and cicadas chirped was just what my frazzled nerves and anxious mind needed. 

We finished our trip with a quick visit to my sister's in Erie for a 4th of July celebration and a Rockies game on the 4th. We only sampled a little bit of what the Mile High City has to offer during our time there. There's still plenty there left to explore and experience. Denver, we'll be back!

Keicha, Evan, Hannah and Amy

Tailgating with Jewett & Amy's friends before the concert

Powering through after what had already been a 14+ hour day!

The view from our seats.

The Clark family

Kelly's Uncle Russ and a long-time friend.

Dora Lou was married in the same church that her funeral was held in. 

Trying to keep things together to prevent my skirt from 
blowing up and my hat from blowing off!

Kelly outside Coors Field.

Our first Rockies game!

Regrets

Today marks eight years since my sister Julie died by suicide. It's not an anniversary I look forward to, and having it permanently connected to the Memorial Day holiday weekend makes it especially hard to navigate. The weekend is full of sad memories and emotional triggers. Things that I rarely feel or remember tend to get dredged up from the dark, protective places my mind has tucked them into. I've spent quite a bit of time in my head the last several days, replaying memories and revisiting that horrible day 8 years ago and the events leading up to it. 

I've come so far from the broken, grieving, guilt-ridden person I was in the first few years following Julie's death. I truly feel healed and as at peace as I think someone can ever be with prematurely losing someone they deeply love and cherish. I've worked diligently to regain my equilibrium, mental strength and resilience. I forgave myself for not saving her. I've studied and learned about mental health, suicide and suicide prevention. I even changed careers in order to work in the field of mental health. I feel whole again. If there's one thing I still feel though, it's regret. 

Merriam-Webster defines regret is as: 

1 : sorrow aroused by circumstances beyond one's control or power to repair

2 : an expression of distressing emotion (such as sorrow)

Last night I dug out the police report and the coroner's summary report related to Julie's death. I'd only read them once before about a year after she died, then filed them away in my basement. After re-reading them I was struck by some of the details that I'd forgotten. Regret filled me as I read the timeline of events and summary of her phone and text communications in her last few hours of life. 

Surprisingly, I knew very little about mental illness and suicidal ideation before Julie died. Even though my sister had struggled with bipolar disorder most of her adult life, back then I was unbelievably naive and unaware about what that really meant for her. I'm shocked now at my ignorance. As the saying goes, hindsight is 20/20. Despite our closeness and sometimes near daily contact, we almost never talked about her illness or how she was, or wasn't, managing it. I didn't know how to have such a conversation, and I certainly had no idea how to effectively come to the aid of someone experiencing a mental health crisis. 

Today at work I was talking about all of this with one of my employees, who also happens to be an experienced mental health counselor. When she talks to patients and others about mental illness, depression, etc. she compares it to someone with diabetes. They are both diseases that if not properly managed are potentially fatal. The patient should know how to manage their disease, which includes having a good network of caregivers and supporters around them. Most importantly, their loved ones and supporters need to know how to best help them manage their disease, including how to help them if they're in crisis because of it. It's a simple, and I think very accurate, analogy. Sadly, although I think it's safe to assume Julie viewed me as one of her key supporters and helpers - especially that night - I had no idea how to come to the aid of my sister during her time of crisis. 

It's easy to think that knowing how to intervene when someone is suicidal or in another type of mental health distress isn't something you'll ever need to know. But what if you do? Just like medical First Aid and CPR, I believe everyone should be trained in Mental Health First Aid. On that horrible night eight years ago, I was powerless to change the ultimate outcome because of my lack of knowledge and training. I can't change what happened. What I can do is learn from it and share that knowledge with others. Please take the time to learn how to potentially save a life. Here are some resources:

Eight Ways to Help a Friend with Depression from Mental Health First Aid

Mental Health First Aid Info.  from Mental Health First Aid USA

How We Can All Prevent Suicide  from the Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Utah Suicide Prevention Training & Classes from NUHOPE Suicide Prevention Coalition

Love you forever Jules

In her element

In the waves at Cape Cod

Besties - Amy & Julie

Hannah reading to Aunt Julie at grandma's house

Inside the Old North Church with Atticus

Julie, Grandma French, Keicha

Julie and Jason

Sisters

Relaxing poolside after running the Georgetown
 to Idaho Springs 1/2 Marathon

Shopping for running shorts at the dollar store

Liberation

The year I turned 40 I gave myself a new name. When I was born and for some time after, days or maybe a week or more, I didn't have a name. On my original birth certificate my name was recorded as Female Christiansen. Eventually, my parents decided on my name. A month after my birth, my name, Keicha Christiansen, was officially bestowed on me by my father in a Mormon religious ceremony known as a baby blessing. I wasn't given a middle name since my father decided they weren't necessary for girls, as we would eventually marry and have a third name anyway, or some such similar logic. In our family, the naming of the children was a decision mostly made by my father. Sure, my mom had some say, but the decision was ultimately his. In fact, my mom tells the story of her surprise at my younger sister Julie's baby blessing when my dad gave her the name of Julie Ann. For some reason his previous logic in regard to naming his daughters was thrown out when he named her. My mom found out about her youngest daughter's middle name, in church, with the rest of the congregation. Even now I shake my head in disbelief and wonder at my strong-willed mom's submissiveness to my father's authority during the years they were married. 

In the years that followed, my name changed several times due to marriage. I became Keicha Nielsen, followed by Keicha Chapman, and then Keicha Ballif. I changed my name without question each time I was married. It was just something women do, which is a weird tradition when you think about it, at least to me. A name is such a fundamental part of a person's identity. Now, I find it odd that so many women so casually discard their family's last name to take on the last name of their husband's family. 

Changing my name at 40 to what I thought it should be, Keicha Marie Christiansen, was surprisingly liberating. I had always been referred to as Keicha Marie by many in my family, and had I been given a middle name that would have been it. So I assembled all of the necessary paperwork to change what my father had decided was sufficient for me 40 years before. When I called to ask him to sign the paperwork allowing for my name change, I was surprised at his attitude. He did it begrudgingly, and let it be known that in some way he considered what I was doing disrespectful to him and his authority. Looking back, I realize what a courageous thing that was for me to do. I've always feared my father's judgement and have spent much of my life trying to avoid making him angry at me. 

For the last year, I've avoided my father completely. The reasons are plentiful, and complicated. It's been more than a year since we've spoken. My sister and I often talk about our father and our complex feelings about him. We've both decided that for now, it's mentally and emotionally healthier and safer for us to not have any contact with him. It may always be that way. 

My childhood, though often happy, was also fraught with conflict and abuse. The stories of the physical abuse I witnessed my father inflict on my mom are ones I will leave for her to share. The emotional scars I carry from being a witness to it, along with suffering from his emotional abuse, are mine to talk about. I've long resisted talking about this mostly hidden part of my history out of fear, but also due to shame, guilt and not wanting to hurt others in my family by speaking my truth. Even now, as I write this, my heart is racing and my palms are sweaty. There is a part of me that will probably always feel like an insecure young girl seeking her father's approval, constantly striving to avoid being the object of his wrath or disappointment. 

Today I finished reading a recently released book by Tara Westover called Educated: A Memoir. Her story and history is very different than mine, although there were enough similarities in some aspects of our upbringing that reading it left me feeling somewhat emotionally unsettled, but also filled with gratitude and respect for her. She is also estranged from her father. When I read this paragraph she wrote, I felt a shock of recognition. "But what has come between me and my father is more than time or distance. It is a change in the self. I am not the child father raised, but he is the father who raised her."

I've spent much of the last year trying to make peace with my history and my relationship with my father. There is much I love about him. His good side is delightful. He can be funny, charming and extremely interesting to talk to. During his life he's pursued many different hobbies including marathon running, backpacking, macrame, and photography. He is intelligent and well-read. He was an obedient, caring son, especially in the final years of both of his parent's lives. He has been extremely generous to me, and has been there for me many times when I needed help. Yet, he's also deeply hurt people I love, both physically and emotionally. I find his outward devotion to LDS religious principles disgusting and hypocritical given all that I know about him. His lifelong emotional abuse and manipulation of his children is so twisted that sometimes I've thought that physical abuse would be easier to heal from. His love and acceptance always came with a very steep price. Last year I finally decided I was no longer willing to pay that price. 

I haven't written much here for a year or more for many reasons, a primary one being that my writing voice felt strangled and afraid to write about what I've been experiencing. I didn't want to hurt or offend others, or create ill will with my extended family. And, yes, I am also afraid of my father. I fear him reading this and his reaction. I was, and still am, deeply afraid of speaking my truth and sharing my journey. Today I've taken the first small steps away from my fear.