My latest book, "Once The Storm Is Over: From Grieving To Healing After the Suicide of My Daughter," is a complete departure from my other books (poetry, and a recovery workbook), all safe and sane subjects. This one is unquestionably different-it's a counselor's autobiographical confessional of her own struggle with the family curse of depression, and a heart wrenching description of her 15-year old daughter's suicide. That counselor happens to be me. A blogger who read an early version said, "It was like crawling up into your soul with you." Writing it was like emptying my soul; evidently it worked-the blogger felt she knew me. Months before the book's launch I started to get nervous. Nervous, because since the 4th grade I've had a star in my eye, dreaming of the day I'd become an author. I'm still that starry-eyed girl, and as I stood at the precipice of launching a new book, I wasn't sure if I was going to soar or fall. Once you've taken a leap of faith and published a book, does it really matter if it's popular? Isn't the act of leaping what matters the most? What matters is the leap of faith you took all by yourself. Those brave moments matter the most; moments when nobody is watching are the moments when character is made. The bravest thing I ever did was to defy the voice in my head that told me to stay quiet, to fade into the background, to bury myself with my daughter.
After her death, something deep inside that I didn't even know existed wouldn't let me die. It pulled me off the ground, picked up all the cracked and busted pieces, and said: You will not run from the fire-you will run straight into it. The crazy fighter gene in me rose up to defy that confused and humiliated voice of shame. I turned to face the blaze that had been nipping at my heels, heat so hot I felt my heart was melting. The shame of all my failures stood before me, immovable and immobilizing, it's fiery eyes defying me. "You'll never do it," it sneered, "you'll never be able to tell the whole truth, because it will ruin you." I was certain it would ruin my career. "People will see how small you are, how powerless," it scoffed. I did feel small-so, so small. It was inching towards me, heat rising like a vat of boiling oil, and as it spewed accusations, it dawned on me that if I was already ruined, I had nothing to lose. I had already flopped and failed in the biggest way possible when I lost my daughter. I smiled because I saw I'd been running from shame so long that I'd never stopped to consider doing the opposite. Running into fear might actually be the only thing that could save me. I held my breath, closed my eyes, and dove. I walked into the flames without any guarantees, without anyone there to rescue me. The pain took my breath away and singed my heart, but as I fell, I didn't burn like I thought I would. The threatening flames had evaporated. As I laid my head back on the ground, hair spilling all around me, I began to laugh. The laughter came bubbling up from the girl inside me. She was laughing because she was forgiven, and because she was forgiven, she was free; girls always laugh when they are free.
My leap of faith required me to forgive myself for my humanity, my shortcomings, and my failures-to defy the shame that had tried to engulf me. When we surrender our self-imposed stories of failure, we become a fresh new page that life can write upon and become untouchable by the past, innocent as a child. We can also set those around us free. Delighted to be let out into the world again, I ran to play, knowing it's okay to look back because nothing was chasing me anymore. I sense my daughter doesn't have to look back anymore, either-ever since the day I ran into the fire.
To see all of Nina's books: http://www.amazon.com/Nina-Bingham/e/B008XEX2Z0
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