Category: death

blogging, culture, death, life, mental health, music, writing

The “S” Word

Derra Nicøle

This life is definitely not for the faint at heart. This life is a whirlwind of luminosity and darkness, however when that darkness sneaks in it becomes all we can see. The light seems burnt out and we feel as though there’s nothing left, that we have nothing left in us. This life, in all of its beautiful chaos, is worth living. đź’›

Never silence someone’s depression, anxiety or suicidal thoughts. I understand that these topics may be uncomfortable for you to discuss, but please remember…your discomfort is our reality…your discomfort doesn’t outweigh our lives.

Talk…listen…support. đź’›

I know who I truly am, I truly do have a chance…I’m fairly local, I’ve been around, I’ve seen the streets you’re walkin’ down… -Twenty One Pilots

blogging, creative writing, death, life, writer, writing

Beating Flatline

Derra Nicøle

The latter part of the year is nearing. Summer is phasing out as Autumn begins to slowly sneak in. September through the new year is my favorite season, from birthdays to the holidays, something about this time of the year makes my heart glow as if Christmas lights were strung around it.

A sense of magic is embedded into the crisp Autumn and Winter atmosphere, I’m grinning just thinking about it.

However, this part of the year also has a few “hold back the tears” dates sprinkled in. These dates, once heartbreaking, now represent a content nostalgia. Two anniversaries, one of life and one of death.

Your life is not your own, keep your hands off of it… -Sherlock Holmes

September 23rd will mark four years since that day I found myself sitting on the sand processing my test results along with the sentence, “I don’t know how it is that you’re still alive…” as the sun glowed a bright pink behind those purple cotton candy clouds…the day I found myself reminiscing down memory lane then pondering about all of the dreams that I hadn’t breathed life into yet, all of these glowing bulbs in my head that hadn’t yet been plugged in…the day I allowed tears to gush down my cheeks as my heart was drinking in the realization that it would never find its mate, that a genuine love would never be found, that a family would never be born in the future…the day I contemplated between once again fighting for my life or calling Grim to let him know that I’m ready to permanently sleep.

What is a beautiful life without a beautiful death… -MGK

I continue to contemplate if what I read is true, if in some cases we aren’t given another day of life for ourselves, but because someone out there in this chaotically beautiful world needs us. While I no longer want to end my own life, I did stop fighting for myself long ago. An unknown force keeps my lifeline beeping, I believe that I’m fighting for someone else, I just wish I knew who. This does indeed keep me up with the moon.

October 15th marks eleven years since my Popee passed away. The big “C” spread its toxic cells throughout his liver, taking him much too soon. However, my Popee also had Parkinson’s which was rapidly growing. That first year of him being gone fed my anger emotion, in a time where I needed him most he was taken away. Shit, two weeks after his death was hard, the feeling that was racing through my entire body as I read the birthday card he had set aside for me is a feeling that is indescribable. Oct. 15th flatline…Nov. 2nd “Happy 23rd Birthday kiddo!”. The bday money that was placed in that card could only be spent one way, at our favorite place, the ice cream shop.

Every Oct. 15th I smile as I flip through old photos. Frozen moments that have captured every adventure, from the beach to Disneyland. Every Nov. 2nd I order an ice cream, cheers to you Popee.

It’s been a long day without you my friend and I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again… Wiz Khalifa

Yeah, I do love this time of the year. It has a magic embedded into the atmosphere. A flatline that’s still beating being watched over by a beautiful soul.

blog, blogger, creative writing, death, life, love, mental health, music, relationships, Uncategorized, writer, writing

Graveyard Moon…Sand…Ocean

Derra Nicøle

Today I am in desperate need of some serious beach therapy. Today’s session though is different, I need it to be different. Today is not the typical session scheduled with dimple revealing laughter, inside jokes with friends, stories from long ago with family or beach favs like a bonfire at sunset alongside toasty ooey-gooey s’mores.

Today doesn’t consist of building sand castles, jammin’ to some sunshine tunes, flippin’ through the salty waves or walking into the sunsetting sands while collecting sea shells.

Today I am singular in my company hoping that I will find myself sitting next to your ghost. I need to chat… I need to vent… I need your sage advice.

Shakin’ hands with the dark parts of my thoughts…-Twenty One Pilots

Upon the warm sand I sit with a coffee in hand and blue tunes soaking into my eardrums. Around my skinny freckled neck hangs your dog tag from your Navy days. This oval stamped piece of metal keeps me company during the chaotic sun.

Caught in a daze of the waves crashing in and out keep me lost in my thoughts. I’d like to tell you that I am ok and that everything is fine, however, I’d be lying. Lie to myself to deal with my life, sure. Lie to you, never.

While everything appears fabulous on the outside, I can’t escape from this gnawing sensation that a storm is on the horizon. And not just any storm, but rather the big bad wolf type of storm. This stitched ticker of mine fears no concern, for after everything it has endured, pain is truly a force that can be beat. However, this twisted mind of mine senses that this storm is an old familiar enemy, no good will come from this. My gut has no stabbing sensation, there for no sirens have blarred.

Domingo en fuego…I think I lost my halo, I don’t know where you are, you’ll have to come and find me… -Twenty One Pilots

In my gut I will trust because my mind and heart tend to go round after round with one another.

A ringing in my ear drones through, the tone of your calming voice seeps into my pulsating brain. If your ghostly lips could speak, they’d advise me to have patience. “Stay calm and breathe. If something wicked is coming this way, then you’ll feel it deep down in your gut. You’ll know, so stop fretting about what you have no control over. You’ll drive yourself crazy. Get out of your head and focus on the tasks at hand. Breathe.”

Love…I continue to struggle with what to do. Should I still keep my heart open or is this a mere dream that isn’t meant to be? The ink on my back continues to glow, however, my fear of lightening striking twice suffocates my mind, even though I keep reassuring myself that not every guy is wearing an evil mask in this world masquerade. But, how do I know?

October marks eleven years since you’ve been gone. My heart wishes that you still lived here on earth. Selfish, I know. So, until you and I meet again, I’ll make do with these beach therapy sessions. I’ll find comfort sitting here sippin’ on this coffee, listening to these blue tunes and enjoying your ghostly company as the sun sets into its twelve hour graveyard.

“You can’t catch a falling star, it would burn up the atmosphere…” – Spencer Reid

advice, anxiety, blog, blogger, creative writing, culture, death, family, Uncategorized, writer, writing

Uncrossed and Undotted

Derra Nicøle

That one person…that one human in your life that knows your inner-workings better than you do. That one wise mind, having a knack for dishing out the best advice with perfect timing. That one platinum heart that loves unjudgmentally  and unconditionally. We all have the one person, at least I hope everyone does.

My person was my Popee… he was one of the most amazing humans that resided on this spinning marble. Caught in a whirlwind of self-doubt and dark thoughts, he always found a way to pull me out of my crushing storms.

10 years since his passing, yet my mind has installed all of his given knowledge from my youngster years. Any rabbit hole moment that I begin to spiral down, his voice projects throughout my mind, giving me a hand to grab onto, pulling me out.

Lessons from fighting for your silver lined dreams to purposely set aside time to be 7 years old again. Life, as beautiful and full as it is, is over in a mere blink. When I am 80 years old, at the beach with my husband, kids and grandkids, I want to have so many memories to reminisce over  while the bonfire crackles that we simply can’t recall them all. A “shoulda, coulda, woulda” ending is not the cherry I want placed upon my sundae.

Tendencies of my t’s becoming uncrossed and my i’s becoming undotted still occur from time to time, especially during those endless midnight black skies. However, while in the thick of my darkness, I hear my Popee’s calming voice and with the sunrise I am once again crossed and dotted.

“Home, a place where I can go to take this off my shoulders…someone take me home…” -MGK 20171119_172029.jpg

blog, creative writing, death, dreams, life, love, Uncategorized

The Louisville Slugger vs. The 22 Glock

Derra Nicøle

Far too long… this has gone on for far too long.

Too many nights comprised of only a mere two to three hours of broken slumber. Too many intentional sleepless nights brilliantly wasted staring up at that popcorn ceiling, conjuring up endless thoughts while trying to ignore your mental presence. Thank goodness for coffee and concealer, the essentials needed for any Mr. Misty-eyed thug to hide one’s star lit vortex night.

Four weeks, this is the exact time frame that I have been having the same dream looping throughout my sub-duded mind. In this clear plexi-glass cell I sit, starring into your deep eyes trying to see if I can get a read on what thoughts are spinning in your process. I think you’re playing the same game with me as well, but trust me, you won’t gain access to this guarded cerebral of mine.

Four weeks you and I have been playing this game of “Don’t Blink” and for four weeks that damn baseball bat has been mocking me as it’s conveniently propped up against the outer left wall of my prison. Between trying to piece together as to why you’re in my hellish dreamland and how the hell to get my hands on that bat to smash my way out of here *along with life in general*, I am mentally exhausted.

Last night brought two changes to this beautifully twisted plot, one a saint and one a sinner. As I momentarily shifted my gaze from your handsome exterior, two items grasped my attention. That mischievous bat was now inside of my clear cell along with a shiny hand held gun. Without an ounce of befuddlement I knew what each item’s purpose was. The only question left gnawing away was which ending am I going to attach to this seven month tornado.

Do I take that bat and smash away at these entrapment walls, channeling my inner Hulk or do I grab that shiny gun and aim that barrel where it desires to be. Fifty percent of my heart wants to favor the bat, smash and walk up to you to see what may happen. Fifty percent of my mind knows what must be done, grab the gun.

The Louisville Slugger vs. The 22 Glock…

Tonight should be fun, if I fall asleep that is…

advice, anxiety, awareness, blog, broken heart, culture, death, depression, doubts, emotions, fears, life, mental health, suicide, Uncategorized, writer

Suicidal Me

Derra Nicøle

Hey guys, I hope the night or day is finding you well. It is currently 10:55pm here in beautiful SoCal and this comforting autumn breeze is a soothing 68*. So many thoughts are racing through my mind, from those in the destructive path of Hurricane Irma to those repairing from Hurricane Harvey. Thoughts of undeveloped pieces for my next project to thoughts of this unknown image that refuses to leave my brain *no matter how deeply I ignore it. But, on the flip side a piece of me is okay with that, his unfamiliar appearance injects a tiny peaceful moment within this cerebral storm.* 

So, tonight I’d like to share a piece with you that I wrote earlier this spring. Allow this thought of mine to either help you or open your eyes to the suffocated silence. It’s about time that the light illuminate our warrior scars.

**Suicidal thoughts… fragments of negativity that only a select few struggle with. These select humans are easily spotted for they wear all black, listen to Emo tunes and have razor stitched arms hidden in plain sight.

Mentally murdering themselves while attempting to morph thoughts into physical actions.

Why does this happen? How do we select few end up in a point in our lives where moments of peace are only found stitched in the Grim Reaper’s shadow?

Allow me to break the stereotype.

Allow me to slash the “select few” myth.

Allow me to make you feel as uncomfortable as I possibly can.

Allow me a moment of conversation with the silencers.

Allow me a moment to have a hopefully helpful suicidal head case session with my people.

Suicide stereotyping kills. Suffocating a suicidal voice because you want to avoid the discomfort that’s attached to that life preserving conversation kills. Keeping the topic of suicidal sessions under lock and key because it’s something older generations only spoke about under hushed tones kills.

Let me inject an image into your closed off mind…

I was a happy kid who was always smiling and laughing in the presence of family and friends. I loved having video game wars with my Dad, cooking in the kitchen with my Ma’, dancing and singing along to all of my favorite songs/bands, and playing board games with my siblings. My fashion style was jeans, cute and fun T-shirts, Billabong-Roxy-Fox-Clandestine Industry hoodies and Vans/ DC shoes. An adorable porcelain freckled skinned teen with sparkling hazel eyes. The shy nerd who loved school and curling up with a good book. Shopping at the mall and going to the movies. Helping others kept me sane.           

Now say cheese as we take a photo with my introverted camera.

Hmmm, something seems off, the inside image doesn’t seem to match the outside image. Perhaps we should take another shot. This one turned out to be our first pancake. Okay, here we go. Say Cheese!! Hmmm, same outcome.

Guess what, you can take a hundred snapshots, you can take a thousand snapshots. They are all going to develop with the same image. A heart that’s been beaten down, yet beats on. A soul at 50% flickering capacity, for the outsiders keep trying to completely blow it out. A sharp mind with bleeding stab wounds and vacancies filling with tears, doubts and monsters. And veins that once were filled with deep blue plasma flowing through them now have black venom poisoning this tiny skeletal body.

Finally, let’s look at the invisible marks that your naked human eye would have never picked up on. Translucent wings that are scorched and a cracked tilted halo to match.  Clear tears streaming down freckled cheeks. Silent blaring screams for help are booming yet will never form into visible sounds. Self-esteem and confidence are shot to unrecognizable pieces.

They say that ignorance is bliss. Is it really?

To those who are seeking for the golden point to life, I know what you’re going through. I’ve stood at the end of the pitch black street, pondering whether I should turn around or walk in the darkness. I chose the latter and I’ve lived in that dark place you’re residing in at this moment. I lived there for far too long, became far too use to the faceless voices lurking underneath every pothole. Days mixed into nights, my eyes seeing better in the black than the light. I know that you’re silently screaming for help, yet are apprehensive about an actual conversation. You don’t want to be judged for the damaging thoughts that are dining on your brain like Hannibal Lecter.

I won’t tell you to keep your pain to yourself. I won’t tell you that you’d never intentionally hurt yourself. I know that you’re 100% capable of hurting yourself. I know that you’re capable of ending your life. I know that you’ve convinced yourself that there is no one out there to help. That there’s no one out there who knows what you’re going through. Survival mode is what you’ve cemented yourself into.

“This is my problem and only I can fix this. Only I can stop this.”

“There’s no hope, I’m a goner.”

I know.

I know what it feels like to have the world shooting you down. I get it… I get it when you just want the pain to end and the only result you can think of is to take that silver savior and slice a bloody gash into your jugular.  I understand… I understand just how worthless you feel when you gaze at your exhausted reflection.

But, before you depart from this spinning marble, I’ll ask you to freeze for a moment, take my hand and lend me your ears. All of that negative energy electrocuting through your bones, let’s inject a positive charge into your skeletal frame.

Allow me to inquire as to what your escape is. What is that one thing that keeps your flame slightly ignited? We all have something and that something is actually the answer to one of those gnawing questions taunting you brain. Do you find temporary peace in books? In music? Shooting hoops or tossing the pigskin? Is your peace found in the kitchen amongst the spices and herbs that add the finishing touches to your delicious concoctions? Or, is your peace found in the freshly inked words that fill notebook after notebook? Perhaps movies and video games aid in numbing the insanity.

I know that this may sound crazy, even implausible, but that escape of yours is your ticket out of the hell you’re living in. That temporary escape is your future. That escape is the point. So ignite your pain into becoming a legend.

Ignite that pain to become the next Stephen King…

Ignite that pain to become the next Eli Manning or Rhonda Rousey…

Ignite that pain to become the next Van Gough…

Ignite that pain to become the next M. Night Shymalan or Tim Burton…

Ignite that pain to become the next Eminem, T.O.P or Beyonce…

Ignite that pain to become the next Sir Anthony Hopkins or Julia Roberts…

Ignite that pain to become the next Vera Wang or Tom Ford…

So tonight I dare you to allow the silence to speak volumes. Tonight, gleam out of the window and see it for the beautiful scene as it is meant to be seen instead of the suicidal door that eludes your fragile mind. Find the calm within the studded ambient sounds. Find luminosity in the brilliance of the moon and refuge in the rising sun.

And now a message to those who suffocate the silent suicidal voices. I may not know what your mind is pondering when confronted with this type of uncomfortable discussion. I do, however, know what it feels like to be in an uncomfortable position. I have a piece of advice that I hope you find helpful should you find yourself in the discomfort corner. Listen. That’s it, just listen. More times than not, when a friend or family member comes to you with their suicidal thoughts, they are simply in search of a kind shoulder to rest on and a pair of open ears that they can vent to. We suicidal head cases are not necessarily looking for you to have the answers to our dizzying questions, we just need a kind heart to listen. That’s it, just be there in the moment and listen. So please, never shut up a suicidal voice. Never assume that we are doing this for attention. Never look at us and say that we don’t appear to be suicidal, suicide isn’t a fashion style. Never tell us to just stop thinking those diminishing thoughts, because we can’t. Lastly, never disregard a suicidal self because you don’t want to feel uncomfortable. Our discomfort is killing us while yours is just slightly freaking you out.  

P.S. If you need someone to listen while you vent, I’m always here for you, my ears and shoulders are yours.

“Never, never, never give up…”

Winston Churchill

blog, death, emotions, family, food, football, life, Uncategorized

Coffee and Conversation

Derra Nicøle

So, it’s been quite sometime since we’ve just had a simple cup of coffee whole catching up on each other’s lives. The minutes tick away so quickly these days that it’s almost a crime to blink. It’s been almost 9 years since you’ve passed and even though my angry tears have lightened there are moments when I wish you were here. I know that you’re in a much better place and no longer sick, but I do indeed miss having a cup of coffee and conversations with you…

If we were having a cup of coffee I’d tell you about how exciting it’s been working on my first major book. I had been submitting my manuscript to every publisher I could find online for about 8 months. Opening up the infamous, “Thanks, but no thanks” e-mails or simply not hearing back from publishers at all was becoming more and more defeating. Even though I took that rejection and used it towards working harder on the outside, discouragement was growing more and more on the inside. Thoughts that I wasn’t good enough kept sneaking into the middle of my mind. Persistence, I guess, does indeed pay off. Last year, a week before Christmas, I had received a package via snail mail that consisted of contracts and a letter that stated, “we thoroughly enjoyed your work and feel that it deserves to be on the shelves in bookstores everywhere…”. Best Christmas gift ever, even better than all of the gaming systems and Gameboys.

If we were having a cup of coffee I’d let you know that I have learned the meaning of love, well, at least what love doesn’t mean. I no longer go out with just any guy so that I’m not alone. My last relationship taught me that two can definitely be much more lonelier than one. I have also learned that love doesn’t lie, cheat nor hurt the heart, humans do. Love is the purest form of actual magic and should be honored and protected as such. Trust and being an open person are hard for me, however, you once told me that the signs will place themselves right in front of my face when the right guy comes along. So, as impatient as I may feel some days, I know that the wait will definitely worth it.

If we were having a cup of coffee I’d reminisce down memory lane with you. Afternoons gardening in the front yard or holidays helping you make your infamous bourbon sausages. Trips to the “hardware” store aka Baskin Robins and many a trip to the movies. Oh and that dollhouse, how I loved that dollhouse that you built me as an early Christmas gift.

If we were having a cup of coffee I’d tell you that my health has never been better, in fact it’s pretty spectacular. I haven’t felt this good physically or mentally since I was ten years old. There were a few scares and a couple of times that the Grim Reaper and I almost shook hands, but for whatever reason there seems to be a greater force keeping me breathing. I’m not sure for what or why, but I’m assuming that I’ll figure it out when I’m supposed to.

If we were having a cup of coffee I’d tell you that I still carry on the tradition of making those delicious bourbon sausages every Thanksgiving and Christmas. I think of you every time I have a butter pecan shake. I always root for your Philadelphia Eagles when they’re playing and I wear your Navy dog tag on a chain around my neck every time I leave the house. I make trips to the beach and stop at In-N-Out afterwards. And I still and will forever enjoy a good cup of coffee.