SUICIDE - WHEN LOVE ISN'T ENOUGH

There are times when we, out of circumstance, must make a long and difficult journey alone. It is not that we choose to do so but because there is no choice. We take with us a suitcase full of sorrow, grief, guilt, depression, tears, and endless pain. A suitcase that we try to put down and leave behind; but one that keeps reappearing in our path over and over again. But more importantly we also bring with us memories. In my case, 32 years of memories. Some good; some very, very good; and some not good at all.

This story began long before January 18, 2010, the day Christian, my greatly and dearly loved child, my youngest son - took his own life. It began long before that single gunshot rang out over the meadow that morning. I could write long glorious accounts of his accomplishments; of his beautiful, sweet spirit; of his love of life, family, and friends; of my dreams for him, of his dreams for himself. I could tell you about his agonizing descent into depression; about the events that brought him to his knees; about all the times he unsuccessfully attempted suicide. I could tell you about how all these attempts damaged his brain so that eventually he was unable to discern reality from fantasy. But what would be the point? The outcome would be the same. My son died by suicide.

My journey with my son into the darkness began almost two years before his death. As difficult as it was, and it was unbelievably difficult, I have come to realize that it was a blessing that we traveled that road together. Although I can tell you now that it sure did not feel like a blessing as we were living it. Nonetheless I am thankful that he did not make the journey alone. And even though it wasn't enough, he knew how much I loved him. And I know how much he loved me. But sometimes things are larger than love and so it was with him.

This child that had once been so happy, so full of light and life, so full of promise had now become so angry, so full of despair and bitterness. There were times I felt as though I had to run away from him just to maintain some degree of sanity. He overwhelmed me with his anger over things that had happened only in the depths of his troubled mind. I found myself daily struggling to figure out what was indeed reality and what was only reality to him.

He fought with me about getting him help until the very end when help was too slow in coming - too many agencies passing responsibility back and forth, too much paperwork to process. He had had himself institutionalized once and thought it was all a big, wonderful game. He had tricked them all. He left with the counselors telling him he should be a counselor himself and the patients crying at his departure. Oh yes, he was bright and clever but he was also very sick when he went in and he was still very sick when he left.

I believe with all my heart that he knew he was in trouble mentally because he spent so much time denying it. Times when out of the blue he would say things like "I'm not crazy. There's nothing wrong with me. I'm not bipolar. The doctors told me I'm not bipolar" and I would reply "Honey, I never thought you were crazy." These are the same doctors that told him and me that he was well enough to go home. Actually what they said was that he was either perfectly sound mentally or he was extremely, extremely good at deceiving people. Always the trickster.

If love could have saved my son, he most definitely would be alive today. But depression and anxiety are larger than love. So overwhelming and so all encompassing that love is buried beneath its weight. If it wasn't so, this child that loved me so much, cared about me so deeply, worried about me endlessly, and who had promised to always, always be there for me would never have left me the way he did. Would never have taken his life. Would never have caused me and the rest of the family and his friends so much pain. These things I know for a certainty.

So I will not question why love was not enough to save him because I know there are things larger than love. Things that demand an end to pain and an end to an existence that no longer has value or meaning or direction - at least in his mind. These things called depression and anxiety are what killed my son - more so than the bullet that entered his precious head and took his life on that cold January morning in 2010.