It’s been hard to come up with posts the write these past couple of days, and I didn’t really want to delve into the reasons why. The more I try to avoid it, the more the it stands in the way.

Lee Thompson Young.

I didn’t know him personally. When The Famous Jett Jackson debuted, I was 10 years older than the target audience. I watched it anyway. I wanted to support a show that had a strong African-American family at it’s center. Plus, there was something about his eyes. They were kind.

Throughout the years, I saw him in other shows. He popped up on Scrubs and Smallville. I continued to watch Rizzoli & Isles week after week because he was a series regular.

As far as I could tell, Lee Thompson Young avoided the pitfalls that derailed other child actors. I imagined there was a content, mild-mannered soul behind those brown eyes.

But you never really know anyone.

While I was growing up, I was enamored with my older cousin Evan*. Tall and handsome, he moved with a confidence I wished I had. He had friends and teenaged adventures. Evan was the responsible one. The one parents entrusted to keep an eye on the younger kids. The one who never got into any trouble.

He too, had kind eyes.

But you never really know anyone.

I was 12 when my mother got the call to inform us that Evan attempted suicide. Momma grilled the person on the other end of the line. Dissatisfied with the answers, she headed to the hospital to see Evan for herself. We sat with him and talked about everything from upcoming holiday plans to the latest episode of The Cosby Show . The “Incident,” as my mom would later call it, was not discussed.

A few months later, the family pretended as if the Incident never happened. I tiptoed around my cousin, but I felt like I was only one doing so. To me, Evan was smaller, less jovial. His eyes held no sparkle.

Whenever our family gathered, I watched Evan closely, fearful that he would slip into another room and try to kill himself again. I wanted to ask him if he was OK, but I was afraid to do that too. I didn’t know the source of his sadness, and I didn’t want to be the one who reminded him of it.

I asked my parents and a few others about his recovery. I was stonewalled.

I haven’t seen Evan in 20 years. I never learned why he attempted to take his own life, and I have no idea how he was able to move past it or if he ever did. Something I remember most about that time is the state of mass confusion and the overwhelming pressure to keep things quiet. There was a lot of effort spent hiding the Incident instead of dealing with it. No one wanted Evan labeled as “crazy.”

The stigma associated with seeking mental healthcare is still prevalent. I recently heard during a sermon that people should get on their knees instead of going to therapy. I was stunned by the number of folks who clapped in agreement. I wanted to jump up and scream that it’s not that simple. Some of us need a relationship with God AND help from a mental health professional.

As we move through our day and interact with others, we don’t know what another person is going through. We toss out words like “crazy” and “bi-polar” without fully considering their impact. I know I’ve been guilty of doing so. Even these small moments can perpetuate the stigma and impact a person’s decision to seek help.

Since Lee Thompson Young’s passing, there’s been an increase in dialogue about mental illness and treatment. I pray that it will encourage those who need help to reach out for it.

(*I changed my cousin’s name out of respect for his privacy.)

This is the second half of an essay I submitted to Real Simple a couple of years ago. Check out Part 1 if you missed it.

I was in college the next time I thought about crocheting. Some friends and I were watching a moving in my dorm room when my mom called to say my first cousin was pregnant. I hung up the phone, beaming.

“I’m going make a baby blanket,” I announced to no one in particular. My friends looked confused.

“You sew?” someone asked.

“No, crochet,” I said.

“Crochet? You mean, like knitting?” another friend asked. “Don’t old ladies do that?”

“Yes,” I said. “Some old ladies do. That’s how I learned.”

The next time I came home, I found my green hook, bought 6 balls of yarn (three yellow, three white), and set about the business of making an afghan. It had been at least seven years since I held a crochet hook, but I was surprised by how quickly my fingers fell back into the routine. There was a comfort in feeling the yarn glide through my fingers and a growing sense of accomplishment as I built row after row. The finished product had five thick stripes connected with a delicate lace stitch. It was the most complex pattern I had ever completed. I showed it to Aunt B. Her vision wasn’t as good as it once was, and arthritis had attacked her hands, but her mind was still sharp.

She fingered the picot-stitched hem. “You made this?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” I said. “You taught me, remember?”

“I remember,” she said even more quietly this time. “I just didn’t think you did.”

Words had never affected me so deeply. In that moment, I understood love better than ever before. Love is about time spent. Love creates memories. Love forges a connection that lasts even after someone is gone.

Memories of my days in the duplex came flooding back. Pa Pa crafted a loop-and-loom rack out of scrap wood after he heard I wanted to make potholders. Aunt B. sat with me at the kitchen table every afternoon while I drank orange juice from a flowered plastic cup. And when my mother wasn’t able to buy a Barbie Dream House, Pa Pa made one out of a cardboard box that once held packages of toilet paper. I called it the Charmin Cottage.

“No, Aunt B,” I said as I gave her a hug. “I didn’t forget.”

I made that afghan 19 years ago. The baby who slept beneath it just left for a second year of college. I’ve made several blankets since then, and with each one, I felt like I weaved my favorite memories into the stitches. The blankets are both a connection to the past and a celebration of life, love, and future adventures.

I have a little girl of my own now, and her bright smile reminds me of Aunt B. A few months ago, I handed her a peach crochet hook and a ball of blue yarn. Her first creation was a thin, crooked scarf for her stuffed puppy.  I think Aunt B would have liked that.

What experiences have helped you gain a deeper understanding of love?

A couple of years ago, I submitted an essay to Real Simple about the meaning of love. I didn’t win. I was going through some old files, and I ran across my final draft. It may have been a little off the mark for the contest, but I think it’s good just the same. It’s a little long, so check back for the second half tomorrow.

When I was a kid, people sometimes said I seemed old. I knew it was because I spent the first ten years of my life in a house with two senior citizens.

My great-aunt Addie, or Aunt B, as I called her, was short and stout. She wore thick-soled shoes and carried her purse in the crook of her arm.  Her voice was high but not shrill or unpleasant. She spoke with the unhurried pace of someone who was raised in the South. When she smiled, her eyes crinkled tightly behind a pair of tulip-shaped oversized frames.  If Aunt B wasn’t with a church group or her ladies league, she could be found at her dining table turned craft station, stitching together scraps of fabric for a new dress or weaving yarn into doilies and toilet paper cozies. She lived on the second floor of a two-family flat. My grandfather, mother, and I lived below.

Pa Pa, known to the world as Ezekiel, was long and lean. He kept his reading glasses in the front pocket of a crisply ironed shirt.  He walked with an easy, slew-footed gait, and he was never in much of a rush about anything. I think life in the military and years of working at a factory made him allergic to speed.  He grew the juiciest tomatoes, made delicious peach fried pies, and dabbled in home remedies. Whenever I had a cold, I tried to hide it from him, lest he give me a piece of rock candy. If you haven’t had the pleasure, count yourself lucky. It felt like a lit match traveled down your throat.

Spending post-school afternoons and summers with Pa Pa and Aunt B made my life a little different than most. I didn’t ride bikes or play tag. Arthritis and other ailments precluded my sitters from vigorous activity. Instead, I learned to shuffle cards better than a Las Vegas dealer, to keep birds out of the garden with string and tin pans, and to buff a pair of leather shoes until they shined.

Those lessons, especially the card tricks, have served me well over the years. My lightning-fast style of shuffling is a great conversation starter at parties. The greatest lesson, though, is one Aunt B taught me when I wasn’t paying attention. She used a crochet hook to help me understand the meaning of love.

The summer before I started kindergarten, Aunt B handed me a fat green crochet hook and a ball of yellow yarn. She twisted a loop around the hook and placed her hands over mine. I sat on her lap and was mesmerized as loose yarn transformed into a golden chain. My chain had to be just right, she explained. If I pulled the yarn too tight, I wouldn’t be able to reinsert the hook for the next link. If my chain were too loose, the work would be stretchy and full of holes. Day after day that summer, I sat under her craft table and practiced making the perfect chain.

Aunt B would inspect my work with her glasses perched low on her nose.

“It’s close,” she’d say as she unraveled my tangled attempts.

It was fall before I got the hang of it. After that, I learned to join the ends of my chain and add on stitches. The goal, I think, was to make a cap. I crocheted round and round. Somehow, though, the circle morphed into an oval. I kept crocheting. When I ran out of yellow yarn, Aunt B handed me a ball of chestnut brown. By the time I was finished, I had a lopsided scarf that resembled a braided rug. I wore it to school every day until I lost it on the playground. I cried for days.

Over time, my stitches became more precise, and I was able to use smaller hooks. I never graduated to doilies and toilet paper cozies, but my Barbie dolls had a wardrobe of sweaters, caps, and skirts. And I still made the occasional scarf. Aunt B praised everything I showed her, and she always had an extra hook or ball of yarn for me to use on the next project.

My mom got married when I was 10, and we moved into a suburban neighborhood. While contending with the challenge of being the new kid, I made friends and found other interests. By the time I hit junior high, crochet was a thing of the past. Every now and then, Aunt B would ask me about it. I don’t remember what my answers were, but I’m sure they had the disinterested tone of a snotty preteen.

Part Two Posts Wednesday!

Welcome to the new and improved DivaScript!

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been participating in a writing challenge, where I am to post new content every day. I entered this endeavor fearfully. I worried my writing would suck and that no one would bother reading it.

I’m over that. I LOVE writing, and I am proud of the work I’ve done over the past few weeks. If you haven’t had a chance, check out a few of my favorite posts. If you’re not inclined to do so, that’s fine too.

• A Look Back
• The Talk
• Icees and Insults

My boost in writing made me feel as if I had outgrown my blog. The previous DivaScript was too bare bones. I was tired of the look, the user interface, and the administrative functionality. I tried some enhancements, but I ended up frustrated.

So, it was time for a major change. Enter WordPress. I’m still learning, but so far, I’m much happier.

To celebrate DivaScript’s new home, I’m conducting my first contest! Click on “contests” in the top nav for a chance to win a Circa Notebook sampler from Levenger.

Thanks for stopping by!