Attempted Suicide, Twice, Spurs Writer Into Action

Not content with attempting suicide once, Sheryl Aronson tried it twice.

Both times she failed.

Which is how she ended up being a finalist in our creative non-fiction category with her heartfelt story, ‘Down to the Grave.’

Born in North White Plains, New York, Sheryl moved from east coast to west to live in Los Angeles, then right back again to Boston where she attended university there, with a goal of working in the entertainment industry.

Now having just entered her seventh decade, she is currently single, having tried marriage twice, with two grown children from the second marriage – Neil (33), in San Diego and Claire (30), in NYC.

Though she works in the entertainment industry, Sheryl has expanded her horizons, becoming a Marriage and Family Therapist since 1985, beginning her career at the Anaheim Police Station working with adolescents.  

Now in private practice in Laguna Niguel, Los Angeles, she has worked for the Fusion Care Group, based in San Diego, for the last six years, counselling couples and adults.  

Sheryl is journalist/photographer for Agenda Magazine, Schmooze Jazz Magazine and Chic Compass Magazine, writing feature articles on artists and cover concerts/theater/red carpets/award shows throughout southern California.

Her story idea for ‘Down to the Grave’ emerged from her first published book, ‘Passing Myself Down To The Grave,’ which she describes as “a personal memoir that retells my spiritual journey through the Hades of my existence when I received the devastating news I had breast cancer. I created the flash non-fiction story from my recount when I was in intensive out-patient treatment for the second time due to a suicide attempt.”

In writing it, Sheryl said the single greatest challenge was “relaying a poignantly written story that left the reader feeling complete at the end in five hundred words or less.”

In terms of title choice, she had only one. “I chose ‘Down to the Grave’ because of the painful journey through my emotional/physical/spiritual death; then God truly sparing my life… I was given the miracle to rise again,” she said. “I knew the horror of going down to the grave and will forever be of service to others, helping them deal with their suffering.”  

Luckily, Sheryl learned about ‘Ireland Writing Retreat’ and our ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards’ (WAWA) through an ad on Facebook. “It caught my eye because I was planning a trip to Ireland in September and the writing retreat seemed a perfect fit for me.  Then I realised a writing contest was involved too!”

As for learning she was a WAWA finalist, “Being a finalist in a creative writing contest is thrilling because although I’m an award-winning journalist, I haven’t won any awards for my story-telling or creative writing. I’ve reached another landmark in my writing career and want to keep developing this side of my writing skills.”

Asked what her writing strengths and weaknesses were, she replied, ‘Strength - a passion and connection to the creative spirit that guides me. Writing weakness has always been my grammar and sentence structure.” 

An avid reader, Sheryl is particularly attracted to spiritual/visionary fiction. The three books she enjoyed most are ‘The NeverEnding Story’ by Michael Ende; ‘Walden Pond’ by Henry David Thoreau and ‘Exodus’ by Leon Uris. 

Down to the Grave

by Sheryl Aronson

No plans of being alive next week.  Two failed attempts with pills and alcohol. Hoarding now. I hear death whisper my name.  

Scanning the other patients, my stomach knots with anxiety.  People appear zoned out. Desperate. Drugged.  Time to speak with this psychiatrist to receive meds, attend classes, group sessions. 

“Next,” a male voice calls to me.

The bald spot on the top of his head stares up as he leans over my file.

“Are you still thinking about hurting yourself?”

“No.”

His head jerks up. “Good. How’re you sleeping?”

“Not good. I need a refill on Ambien.”

“You got it. I'm going to refill your Ativan and Wellbutrin.”

Counting pills in my mind.

“Need anything else? What are you taking for the follow up with breast cancer?”

“Nothing.”

“Hmm. I'm giving you a prescription for Klonipin to help with the anxiety.” 

Why not?  More pills to swallow.

“Come back next week.”

“Sure.”

In my first class, I tell my story by rote: Had cancer. Chemo.  Fell into depression. Left marriage. Couldn't work. Had no purpose. 

I’ve led these groups. I’ve taught these classes. I know the psychological principles I’m being fed but have no power to act upon them.  

My only plan: collect pills from the abundance of meds. Swallow every pill. But this time, write a note.

Night arrives. Walk calmly into the kitchen, open drawer and pull out three Ziploc bags. Enter the bathroom. Close the door. Open the cabinet drawer. Pour pills into one plastic bag at a time. With all the bags fill, hide them in my purse. My unsuspecting boyfriend sits at his computer in the den. 

I tell him that I’m going to my sister's performance. 

“Have fun.” He doesn’t look up. Never does.

Drive the car to a gas station. Buy two bottles of water. Park my car. Scribble a note to my boyfriend. And my children.  Apologize. Thank my ex-husband for being a good father. Tell my children I love them.  Swallow pills. Drink water. Swallow more pills. The black, gaping hole that tortures my soul swallows my pain. 

I surrender to death.

***

Suddenly, I’m sitting in a theater, alone, on stage. I hear voices whispering. In my hands, a book opens to a scene.

Satan looks up at God imploringly. "Why didn't you let her die?”

God smiles. “I promised her she wouldn't die.”

Satan yells, “You’re lost to her. You took everything away.  She wanted to die!” 

“She will rise again –- emotionally naked, spiritually strong – embracing darkness and pain with love.  Without fear. As I’ve shown you, dear one. As she will show others."

The book closes.

My eyes open.  Boyfriend holds my hand as I lie in a hospital bed.

Passing myself down to the grave…  time to rise.

Meet Julie Evans, former London-based human resources manager, Mum and homemaker and a finalist in our flash fiction category with her irreverently funny story, ‘Hey, Author!'

Born in Manchester, Julie, in her early 60s, now lives in a pretty village near Guildford, Surrey, with her husband, Martin, and their dog, Mouse. Her three children, Millie, Max and Bella are “all grown up” and she has “two beautiful grandchildren, Ellis and Sylvie.”

Interestingly, her finalist story is about writing itself. “I always find it hard to end stories myself so I thought the idea of a character criticising the author’s ideas about how to end a book would be fun to write.”

While writing her story wasn’t plain sailing, she said, “It wasn’t that difficult once I had decided that the ‘character’ would have plenty of attitude and sass. It was great to write in her voice.”

As for her title, “It came straight away,” she said. “The character wants to get the author’s attention, so ‘Hey, Author!’ seemed apt.”

Being a member of a Facebook group in her area for local writers helps her to develop her writing skills. “It’s run by a lovely teacher who regularly posts details of competitions. I liked the theme ‘endings’ and found it useful to have a buzzword to start me off.”

As for her feelings in learning she was a WAWA finalist, “It’s great to have a positive acknowledgement of something you wrote – it gives you a little personal boost and the confidence to keep on going with writing even when you don’t feel inspired.”

Her writing strength, she said, “is probably my ability to look at things from slightly alternative angles,” adding, “My weakness is self-doubt.”

Julie enjoys literary fiction, and within that genre, historical fiction, particularly Gothic.

The books she has enjoyed most were ‘The Secret River’ by Kate Grenville (and its non-fiction companion book, Searching For The Secret River); ‘Starve Acre’ by Andrew Michael Hurley; and ‘The Quincunx: The Inheritance of John Huffam’ by Charles Palliser.

Hey, author!

by Julie Evans

Hey, author! A word.

 I heard you telling that group you go to on Thursdays that you’re ‘struggling’ to finish the book. Well, what do they know? The ‘problem’ with my character is that you don’t really understand me. I mean, that scene where I go all doe-eyed talking about my childhood. Yeah, Dad buggered off when I was four. I didn’t miss him. We were alright, Mum and I. You see, you’ve been sitting there too long in your chichi writing shed, all Birkenstocks and wheatgrass shots, making up my trailer trash tragedy, psychoanalysing me. Actually, poor as we were, I was a happy kid. You don’t have to be all screwed up to do what I do. Make me choose it rather than drift into it. The drugs, the backstreet bars, the arrests – they’re all clichés. 

And you could have me do more highbrow stuff really. I’m pretty smart. Though I’m okay with the film chapter. It’s just acting, after all. Like Shakespeare. But sometimes – honestly! – I cringe at your descriptions. I know sex is meant to be hard to write well, but you’d be best sticking to basics rather than all that kinky stuff. You don’t know what you’re talking about. 

Thanks for those Casselloni stilettos, by the way. In the real world, such a low-budget movie wouldn’t stretch to that expense, but I guess that slow, sexy scene at the start where he peels them off is quite effective. Not keen on the toe-sucking though. He’s quite a looker, Stefan, isn’t he. Muscly. Is this your personal fantasy? Is it what you’d like that dull husband of yours to do to you?

You should get rid of Sadie, my so-called friend. She’s a bitch. And that guy – what’s-his-name – the stalker. Oh yeah, he’s actually called Guy – a bit unimaginative that. It’s nice to be admired, but he went too far, worming his way into the flat to rummage through my knicker drawer. I don’t know how you let him get away with that. Should’ve called the cops. 

Now let’s get on to my suggestions for book two. I’ve come up in the world. Chelsea maybe; a penthouse with a wraparound terrace and a view of the stars. Imagine that. And I’m an actress in a proper film, with a film dad who looks like Hugh Grant. I like how he wrinkles when he smiles.. 

Okay, I guess it’s late now. Close your screen. Have a drink and a think about what I’ve said. 

Hang on, I’ve just spotted your prep notes for tomorrow: Sadie crying in Chloe’s hospital room. What’s she crying about, silly cow? Oh – now hang on! Don’t even think about it! We’re in this together, you and me. It’s a heroine’s journey through twists and turns towards a happy outcome. If you think you can polish me off in the final chapter, you’re very mistaken.

You should know this: I don’t give in easily. 

A family doctor for 30 years with her own practice in Meath, Ireland, Helen O’Neill was a finalist in creative nonfiction category with her poignant story ‘Losing Your ECCOs.’

While born in Liverpool and raised in Nenagh, Tipperary in Ireland, Helen, now in her early 60s, has spent all of her adult life in Dublin, in Clonsilla with her wife Nuala with whom she has been together 23 years and for whom she is now a full-time carer. She has two grown up children and two grandchildren.

Her story, she said, “was prompted by real life experience of throwing out a pair of Nuala’s old sandals. While she recounted tales of her travels that predated our own relationship, I reflected on what it meant to me, the end of our retirement travel dreams in the finality of discarding those shoes. 

Referring to our story prompt ‘endings, she added, “Story prompts often hide in full view and I write when something moves me.”

In terms of story challenge, she said, “As with all memoir pieces, it is important to honour my own truth but at the same time, to be sensitive to those who may read it. Finding that balance is the most difficult thing.”

Helen’s title was chosen “because it has a few meanings. ECCOs are Nuala’s preferred brand of sandals but the piece describes how she is losing even the echoes of her life with her dementia. I felt it was a fitting title. I didn’t have another title…I often wait for days until the right one comes, and when it does, it lands.”

As to her delight in learning she was a finalist after finding the competition on line and “enter on a whim.” 

“What an honour! I have been writing since I retired and have been going through a bit of an arid patch recently, trying on different things for size and not being sure of my direction,” she said. “I keep returning to non-fiction/memoir as that is where I find the most joy and where my words flow the easiest. This has confirmed for me that I should play to my strengths.”

Continuing the discussion on strengths, she acknowledged, “My single strength is that I am able to tap into emotions and bring them onto the page. As for my single writing weakness, I have so many and so much to learn. At the moment, I abandon pieces too easily instead of sticking with them and honing them.”

Magical realism is her favourite fiction genre and memoir her first choice in non-fiction. The three books she has enjoyed most recently are ‘Poor: Grit, courage, and the life-changing value of self-belief’ by Katriona Sullivan; ‘Flowers for Algernon’ by Daniel Keyes and ‘Standing in Gaps’ by Seamus O’Rourke.

Losing Your ECCOs

by Helen O’Neill

‘Oh, no!’

I hear your distress before I see it, that edge in your voice. The frayed end of a blue strap hangs from your hand, separated from the sole of the sandal. 

‘Can we fix it?’

I know that this is one I cannot mend. As the shoes lie in sacrilegious state on the table, we stand in silence. Your eyes meet mine and for a second, you see me. 

Those sandals predate you and I. They were a heavy investment for your student trip to Kenya in the eighties. There are photographs in a box somewhere of your younger toes crossed with those blue straps and dusted with sand beneath the red hem of a Maasai Shuka. And on the Great Ocean road with Audrey, dangling out the door of a camper van. 

When you and I began packing together, the sandals were always the first item you laid out. Old friends. Worthy companions that would never blister you or cause you to misstep. 

On your feet they crossed bridges over the summer-fetid canals of Venice, were dampened by the thunderous spray beneath the Iguacu Falls, protected you from the parched red earth of Uluru and the uncertain ground beneath the inky darkness under the Southern Cross. You were nimble as a goat on the rough edgeless tracks far above Aguas Caliente, laughing at me as I hugged the sheer cliffsides in terror. You walked ahead of me then, fearless and surefooted. 

Even when you weren’t wearing them, the stripes of sunshine between the straps marked your skin in testament. Always longing for sunshine. We crossed those lines with matching tattoos when we married, sunflowers on our forefeet, intertwined with love and plans for a future together.

‘There is no cure,’ he said. ‘Just keep living your best life.’

And we’ve been doing that, you and I, haven’t we?

Pretending that your tremor is just a wee shake; that your increasingly faltering gait is caused by obstacles in your pathway; that you don’t mind me doing all the organizing and flight bookings and packing. Isn’t that what I like doing, after all? Pretending that you are holding onto my arm as we walk just for companionship. Pretending that we are going to new places on new adventures when we go to the same resort in the same town on the same island…

You living your best life in innocent denial, me living mine as your knowing accomplice. 

‘We’ll get some new ones.’

You nod, then carry on with the book you think you have been reading. 

The next pair will be made for your feet, in sexless brown felt and Velcro. The therapist will remark on your tattoo in passing. I will strap them on for you, then watch your skin for blisters that you don’t know how to report. 

I take the sandals outside to the bin. 

‘Thank you,’ I say to them, marking this moment for both of us, like I promised you I always would.

Shoshauna Shy spends most of her days with the alphabet.

For Shoshauna, a finalist in our flash fiction category with her story 'Now I know Why There's This Big A Crowd At My Funeral,’ is an editor, copy editor and proofreader for a publishing house, two literary journals, and other clients.

Born in Elgin, Illinois, she currently lives in Madison, Wisconsin, where she is married with two grown children.

“The idea for this story came from… yep, a funeral,” she told us. “Looking around the room, I knew a lot of people in attendance were not that intimately acquainted with the deceased, but were there for a variety of reasons.”

Her most difficult challenge, as it is with some participants at our writing retreats  was choosing the right character point of view (POV for short). “I first wrote it from the POV of an attendee, then realised I should try writing it from that of the deceased herself. Then the whole story snapped into place.”

Story titles do not come easy for her, “Titles cause me utter agony. I can write a flash fiction story in six days but the title can take six weeks. This one, however, declared itself early on in the revision process.”

As for writing strengths and weaknesses, “I can work on several stories and/or poems at the same time. But because I truly love the revision process, I spend way too long on a story and then it shoves me away in exasperation.”

Shoshauna has a love of poetry and has even conducted her own contest, Woodrow Hall Top Shelf Awards for her Poetry Jumps Off the Shelf program. Her favorite five are, ‘Instructions for Traveling West’ by Joy Sullivan; ‘My Life in Brutalist Architecture’ by John Gallaher; ‘Bonfires & Other Vigils’ by Colleen Alles; ’Today's Specials’ by Sara Ries Dziekonski; and ‘Decent Exposure’ by Edna Shochat. Her website is 

Now I know why there’s this big crowd at my funeral

by Shoshauna Shy

Let me tell you, it helps to keel over unexpectedly when in your mid-50s on a sunny morning in June. Catch everybody by surprise–“Aurora? God, no!” But while folks are stunned, hushed and graceful in paying their respects, there is that cougar in the cerise shawl and stilettos whom I never saw once my entire life. She’s here because she had a secret crush on my youngest brother back in 2013, and she’s hoping Clark is divorced by now. (He’s not.)

The skinny man with the silver ponytail who didn’t even know me, came because he needs hugs and events like these are where they happen. Mine is his second funeral since Sunday.

That pudgy woman from my church with the Brillo hair, her lips in a permanent purse, came expressly to note which of my daughters did not show (yep! Linda!), and of those who did, which one doesn’t join her sisters in the front pew (Lucy).

The woman I roomed with our sophomore year whose braid is still blonde courtesy of Clairol, is hoping to discover an ex who has either maintained his musculature or sports a Rolex (that’d be Ben fifth row; Everett by the exit), and who will want to go for a drink after the service.

The heavyset man with a fedora loitering by the poster boards has come to make amends with my aunt Lorraine. They had a nasty falling-out back in March.

And yes, folks who knew me as a child or knew of me or wished I had given them the chance to know me better, file in like extras for a movie set. Meanwhile, those who traded blue jeans with me their teen years or traveled to my beach house throughout the seasons are celebrities-of-the-day standing at the podium, one of the in-crowd privy to a special kind of mourning. Their eyes mist over with the rehash of my antics and ambitions, sharing anecdotes that coax the relief of laughter (good going, Greg!). The extras envy them, yet get the splash of contact tenderness, a cleansing in the communal well of grief, encircled by the gladiolas I loved, their bouquets filling an array of vases.

And there are mothers of my friends in the elderly bracket–like that one in an orange chiffon dress by the refreshment table gazing around the full room nervously sipping a cup of punch. All her friends are old as she is. She hopes to go soon–not next, no, not that–but sooner than later, because eventually there won’t be enough folks left to attend hers, she assumes. Ponytail Man over there (just look at him!) is due a big crowd, she figures, since he obviously is popular, as if that’s what it takes. Because she has no clue.

None of them do. And neither did I.

Until now.