Grieving 2.0

We have survived one year without Isabel, a sad, traumatic, bittersweet yet uplifting year. I want to try and focus on the uplifting.

It feels like mental health issues - the seriousness of untreated depression and overcoming stigma, in particular - are moving towards the forefront of public conversation.

The Isabel Whitcomb Stay Strong Fund was established at UNC Hospital, thanks to the generosity of so many people.

Our beautiful cousin, Annie Phillips, honored Isabel by running a marathon and raising a lot of money for the Fund.

I recently gave my first public talk on the role of the Fund in emphasizing family-based therapy to treat eating disorders in the state of North Carolina. While I was somewhat terrified, I found it incredibly energizing, and look forward to doing it again.

Family, friends and strangers have reached out to us, offering support, shoulders to cry on and much appreciated kindness, as well as asking for advice and sharing personal experiences with mental illness.

I got my first (and only) tattoo that reminds me everyday to Stay Strong.

On October 2nd, the anniversary of Isabel’s death, people sent us photos of her that I’d never seen before. Of course I cried but I also smiled a lot. Genevieve found two short video clips of Isabel laughing her trademark laugh.

I’ve read through several books about suicide and how those of us left behind -the survivors - struggle to learn how to cope. One of them suggested that the second year was actually worse than the first. When I read that, it felt like a kick in the stomach. There is absolutely no way I want to feel worse.

I refuse to feel that way. While Isabel couldn’t see a way forward for herself, I can continue to carry on her mission of addressing the shortcomings in the treatment of anorexia and overcoming the stigma of mental illness. Her goal in life was to become a motivational speaker. I am not even going to try to achieve that but I can at least continue to be her voice and speak out.

On the first anniversary of Isabel’s death, a friend asked if Isabel had sent me a meaningful song. A lot of songs held meaning for her but I didn’t feel one that day. A song did show up though, not long after.

I was at a conference in Washington DC last week which was dedicated to the memory of a special woman. The person speaking about her mentioned a line from a song by Peter Yarrow called Sweet Survivor. I didn’t know this song before but I do now.

Carry on my sweet survivor, carry on my lonely friend
Don't give up on the dream, and don't you let it end.
Carry on my sweet survivor,
Though you know that something's gone
For everything that matters carry on.

That last line - for everything that matters, carry on - is going to be how I move into year two of the grieving process.