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As Thanksgiving approaches, I once again find myself thinking of my grandmother. Some years are worse than others. This year, It's been twenty years. It still feels like she just left, that she's going to be sitting in her favorite chair when I come home from work, or that she'll be in her bedroom and I'll hear her snoring when I go to bed.



Twenty years. I can't believe it's been that long. She would've turned 107 in September. She was 87 when she died. It's never enough time, is it? I read a post by a friend today that said, "Grief is the price of love." The love never goes away, nor does the pain. It just changes.



My Geology professor was talking about the loss of his mother the other day. He said that after she died, the world was not, and could never be the same for him, and that it was a colder, harsher place without her. I know how that feels.



Grief is the price of love? I know I would, and will, pay it again.

A friend of mine, who I don't talk to as much as I used to since she moved away, posted that her daughter had attempted suicide. The daughter had posted on facebook about giving up. I left my friend a long message telling her I knew how her daughter felt, and that it was friends, and kind therapists and doctors who helped me through, and that I was glad her daughter was getting help.



I have never met her daughter, who is now a teenager, because the family has been away so long, but I cried when I read her daughter's post.



It is hard sometimes to keep in mind something my cousin has said, and which I've heard elsewhere:"Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem." The real problem is that the pain doesn't feel temporary.



Your mind lies to you. The illness lies to you.