THE WINTER OF MY DISCONTENT

Journal entry written April 18, 2011


In William Shakespeare's play The Winter's Tale, the royal heir, Mamillus warns "A sad tale's best for winter." And so it is. For me it began on January 18, 2010. The day my son died and my world froze over.

*************************************************************************************

Unannounced and full of fury a January wind blew in and with it blinding snow and rapidly descending temperatures. Upon coming into contact with any solid object, the snow immediately turned into ice. So sudden was this assault that there was no time to prepare. Even if there had been time, there was nothing warm enough to withstand the frigid temperatures and raw blowing wind that made its way through any crack or crevice. Doors and windows were no barrier to this determined enemy. No clothing was adequate, no shelter constructed well enough to protect from this brutal assailant. I found myself so cold that I could not move or even speak. My blood ran cold. My skin blue, my body shaking without control.

For days, months, and over a year relentlessly the snow fell and the wind blew. I had entered into the season of everlasting winter. And so the winter of my discontent began and continued. In the beginning I was sure that I could not, would not survive. But somehow my heart kept beating just enough to power breath through my lungs and blood through my veins.

My dwelling is covered in thick walls of ice. There is no escape. I sit inside cold and alone. I can find no comfort. No small place where I can curl up and find warmth. The only sound that reachs my ears is the sound of crying. Low and mournful. So full of pain and misery. It goes on and on. At times it issues forth like a howling wind across the prairie, uninterrupted and unrestrained - only fluctuating in the pitch and depth of the cry; and other times it echoes through the canyons of my mind and bounces around inside my head.

Long I have sat in my ice cave feeling nothing and feeling everything. I am acutely aware of the pain that has stolen my body. I breath it in and I breath it out and breath it in again. My skin has grown pale and is cold like death. I have no blanket or fire to warm me. And there are times that I do, indeed, long for a final and fatal end to my icy isolation.

I dress in blue and white to remind myself of the blue skies and white clouds that I know are still out there. Still out there and being enjoyed by those whose worlds have not imploded and been destroyed by tragedy and death. A tragedy so severe that it has encapsulated me in its icy, cold grip. I am unable to find relief or even to begin to know how to seek escape from this endless entrapment. Today is exactly one year and three months that I've lived this way.

Yesterday I thought I saw it but knowing that it wasn't possible, I turned and walked away. But today I am sure. Yes, there it is - a small crack in the ice. I strain my eyes trying to peer through that small blurred break. I think I see fractured prisms of yellow, blue, and white. Is it possible that the sun is warming and slowly thawing the frozen place I now call "home". I place my finger on that fine line of light and it is wet - not frozen. My heart leaps with joy. And as I stand there watching the cold water as it begins to wept from that warmed spot, I suddenly realize that the ice is melting from the inside, not the outside in. I stand back, bewildered, to reflect on how this can be.

As I watch, the yellow grows brighter and stronger, the while more clear, and the blue more the color of the sky. As I watch and wonder, the answer, as though on the wings of a hummingbird, swoops in bright and crystal clear. That warmth, those colors are not coming from an external source. They are coming from within me and radiating onto the walls of ice.

It had been there all along waiting for the right moment; the time when I was strong enough to believe. To believe that escape was possible and I could break through the walls of ice and step out into the Spring of a new day. "IN the depth of Winter, I FINALLY REALIZED that within me LAY an Invincible SUMMER." (Albert Camus). I take a deep breath, place both hands on the walls of my icy tomb and begin to push.

And as the ice cracks, breaks, and falls away, warm hands reach out to me and smiling faces greet me. As I step out, I am embraced. I am wrapped in a blanket of love. I look into their faces and find comfort and understanding there. At last I am no longer alone. They take my hand. We will journey together and find strength in one another. The sun is shining. Spring is waiting. Summer is eternal.


************************************************************************************

For survivors of suicide, help and friendship can be found at the following sites:


American Foundation for Suicide Prevention
http://www.afsp.org/survingsuicideloss



And on Facebook where you can interact with other survivors:


"One Life" Bereaved by Suicide

Never.another.you (suicide support group)

In Loving Memory of... for Parents who lost children to suicide

Stepping Stones - Surviving the Loss of a Loved One to Suicide

Letters to Heaven

Collateral Damage: Images of Those Left Behind by Suicide

THE OAK TREE

THIS POEM IS A TESTAMENT TO THE STRENGTH AND ENDURANCE OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT. WE DO NOT KNOW HOW STRONG WE CAN BE UNTIL WE ARE FACED WITH TRIALS AND TRIBULATION OF INFINITE MAGNITUDE. THEN FROM SOMEWHERE DEEP INSIDE US, WE FIND THAT EVERYTHING WE NEEDED TO SURVIVE WAS THERE ALL ALONG. MY WISH FOR YOU, MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS, IS STRENGTH, PEACE, AND LOVE.

Watercolor by Linda DuBos


THE OAK TREE
By Johnny Ray Ryder Jr.

A mighty wind blew night and day.
It stole the Oak Tree's leaves away
It snapped its boughs
and pulled its bark
until the Oak was tired and stark.

But still the Oak Tree held its ground
while other trees fell all around.
The weary wind gave up and spoke,
"How can you still be standing Oak?"

The Oak Tree said, I know that you
can break each branch of mine in two,
carry every leaf away
shake my limbs and make me sway.

But I have roots stretched in the earth,
growing stronger since my birth,
You'll never touch them, for you see
they are the deepest part of me.

Until today, I wasn't sure
of just how much I could endure,
But now I've found with thanks to you,
I'm stronger than I ever knew.

THERE IS A REASON THAT WE TELL AND RETELL OUR STORY

Why I continuously allow people to hurt me is anyone's guess. I say "allow" because that is exactly what I do. I allow them to hurt me. Even when friends told me to break off all contact with a person that I use to think of as a very dear friend, because of his increasingly negative impact of my life, I didn't. I have always been one to give everyone the benefit of the doubt until there is no longer any doubt whatsoever as to their intent.

Today I deleted him from my facebook friend list and from all my email accounts. No more will I have to hear his repeated admonishments that I "just get over it"; to put Christian's death in the past where it belongs; to quit using Christian's death as an excuse to feel sorry for myself; to quit being involved with other parents/adults that have loss children or loved ones because they will "only drag you down"; and most especially to quit writing in my journal or on my blog because it keeps me trapped in the past and in my grief. His thought is that I have chosen to remain in grief and not move forward and on with my life. He said we could no longer be friends if I continued to wallow in my son's death.

What an absolutely asinine thing to say! I have concluded that it is he that is not worthy of my friendship. So today I deleted him from life. How beautiful that delete key can be. I didn't think it would be easy to do because he was my high school sweetheart and I still felt a closeness to him; but you know it was surprisingly easy. Just pushed a button and he was gone. Poof! Like magic - gone. What a relief! I can honestly say I will not miss him and his viper's tongue.

The first thing, and it goes without saying, is that none of us "choose" to remain in grief. It is not a choice. It might be nice if we could just turn it on and off at a whim but it doesn't work like that. Grief becomes a part of the fiber of our being. We don't want it to be. We hate feeling like we do. It just is and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, we can do to change it.

Secondly, there is a reason that we tell our story over and over. To tell it makes real the most horrendous event in the life of a survivor. We understand, to a degree, what mental illness is; and we can see that our loved one is hurting but we always hope things will get better. We never envision that someone we love and cherish will take their own life. It is inconceivable. Even when I thought that it was a possibility, I could not accept that it would ever actually happen. I thought my love would be big enough and strong enough to stop it. But when it does happen, the real nightmare begins for the survivors. We do whatever we can to survive this tragic blow to our psyche - our soul, our spirit, our mind, our heart. By telling and retelling our story, it helps to ease us out of the denial stage and into acceptance. And that is a hard transition.

Eighteen months later and I am only part way into acceptance. For me part of acceptance means letting go and I cannot do that. Not now, and most likely, never. I cannot and do not want to release my son. I had to do that to his physical body. I cannot do that to his spiritual being - and that part of him that is still so alive to me. We are bound together forever. That may not be everyone's definition of acceptance but it is mine.

Not wanting to burden others, we begin to pretend to be "normal". We bury the depth of our feelings, our hurt, our pain, our depression, our anxiety, our unhappiness from even our closest family members. We laugh, we smile, we do "normal" every day things. But underneath that is not who we are. We are lost souls just drifting through, around, over, and under life. We begin to isolate. And in our loneliness we begin to seek out others that are feeling what we are feeling because we know that they will understand, support us, and give us the unconditional love that we so desperately need. We need them to help validate our feelings and tell us we are okay.

The internet makes it easy to find other tender souls that are trying to deal with the reality of losing a loved one. People that become our friends in a way that no one else can. Friends that don't mind if you repeat your story. They will cry with you and understand if you feel like ranting. These are friends that you wish you didn't have but are so grateful that you have found.

We tell our stories in many different ways. At times we verbalize it. Sometimes we express our feelings in poetry. Some of us write in journals or share our experiences in a blog or with loss groups that we belong to. And there are times no words are necessary at all. Our story is written on our face. It is reflected in the tension in our hands. It is there for the whole world to see if they take the time to look close enough.

Grief is not something that you "just get over". Not in a day, not in a month, not in a single year, and not in a hundred years. During that time we learn how to live with the pain and it may lessen over time but it never, ever goes away. Rarely do I verbalize my feelings to others. In fact I never do. The only way I have of expressing the depth of my feelings and thoughts is through the written word - in my loss groups, in my journal and then in my blog. And even if no one reads it, I'll keep on writing because it helps me to cope with and understand what is happening to me throughout this grieving process. It helps me maintain a degree of sanity.

I miss the person I once was but it helps me appreciate the new me that struggles every day for more tolerance and understanding of those that do not understand what it means to be a survivor of a devastating loss. I have even been exposed to a degree of prejudice from others that have loss a child or a loved one to other forms of tragedy - and that really hurts. I have learned to have patience with those that tell me suicide is an act of a coward and is a moral sin.

I am afraid, however, that I will never understand the motivation behind such statements to a parent, grandparent, sibling, family member or friend that is already suffering. They are not changing the event, stopping it, or preventing it by their words. There is no love or understanding there. It is already too late for such useless talk. I don't expect anyone that has not walked in the shoes of a survivor of suicide or murder or a deadly disease or an accident or an overdose to understand or comprehend the impact of a death of a loved one on those left behind unless they too have faced such a loss. It just isn't possible. But I do expect respect and perhaps a little compassion.

I will tell my story over and over again and share my feelings and my reactions to those feelings. Grieving is the most personal emotion we will ever experience. We each grieve in a way that is right for us. No one else is part of the equation. Individually we struggle to accept, to overcome, to heal, and to honor the memory of our loved one. We don't need anyone's approval or disapproval. Our story is ours. It belongs to us. It is part of us. It is burned forever in our memory. We live it and relive it. We decide if we want to share it and with whom we share it.

I will not allow a negative, hurtful person to become part of my life's story. If you have such a person in your life, I hope you will make use of your own "delete key". Keep doing what you know is right for you and never allow anyone to make you feel guilty for that.

TRAPPED

Where once there was
sunshine
Now the sky
of my heart
is purple-black
And rains down
Red hot tears.
A whirling destructive
vortex
cuts a line of destruction
across the landscape
of my mind.

Lacking control
I am sucked inside
a gyrating vacuum
of violent
pulling, twisting, and turning.


Flashes of exploding
emotions
Pierce the darkness
Ominous and frightening.
Feelings of helplessness.

The harder I struggle
to break free
The more confined
I find myself.
I am a recluse
Locked inside my house
Trapped in time
A prisoner to loss.

When will the storm
end?
When will I be released
So I can once again
walk in the light
and feel the sun
on my face
And sunshine in
my heart?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I find comfort in these words:

"Where is God when emotions run raw and a great hole of hurt embeds in the heart? We don't always understand the ways of God, but we can count on Christ's comfort. The Lord lingers close to those caught in the pain of great loss. What others cannot totally understand, your Heavenly Father fully comprehends. Grace soothes aching hearts. The Lord's comfort is limitless in it's capacity to cure."

- Wisdom Hunters -

NIPPING AT MY HEELS

It is 6:33 am and already I'm having a xanax kind of day. You know one of those days when you're filled with anxiety and can't identify the cause. That terrible feeling that some ominous thing is nipping at your heels and because you don't know that it is, you can't escape it.

I'm usually not one to worry about things. I learned a long time ago, when I was a single mom with five children and a lot of financial problems that worrying does no good at all. It only produces a lot of sleepless nights. I'm use to taking action when faced with a problem so this being filled with anxiety is new and unsettling. It is especially unsettling because it has been coming and going for the past month in the most intense way.

Being obsessive compulsive I tend to over analyze things; and this is no exception. I also find that putting things into picture/story form helps me to understand it a little easier. (I was always better with story problems in school than abstract thinking.) So this drawing is my visual interruption of what is happening with my run-away, up tight emotions.

No matter how fast or long I run, this "thing" continues to chase me. There is no "rabbit hole" or safe place I can take refuge in. If I stop running or slow down, I will be overtaken and devoured. My heart is beating rapidly, I am short of breath, my legs are growing weak but I can't stop. I must keep running - propelled by fear and anxiety.

I could take a little beige, oblong pill and make it all go away - hopefully permanently - but I hate to give in to a chemical for relief. But do I want this to continue? For me, it's a hard decision. When Christian died a little over a year ago, my doctor gave me the xanax prescription and I've only taken two pills since it was filled.

Crunching up my face, squinting my eyes into little slits, tapping my pursed lips with my index and middle fingers, and finally scratching my head, I come to a decision. I think pill number three might be okay.

VIELED EYES, CONFUSED MIND

The full impact of Christian's death has finally hit me.... seventeen months it has taken. I cannot begin to tell you how painful it is. How deep the depression. How great the despair. How strong the desire to join him. If I were brave enough, strong enough, I would. Yes, it takes strength to take one's own life. To those people that say suicide is a sign of weakness, the act of a coward, I say you are so, so wrong. It is only now that I have come to know just how wrong you are. To overcome the natural, overwhelming desire to survive, to thrive, takes a monumental amount of determination and courage. I do not possess that strength. I am the coward.

Do not misunderstand, I am not an advocate of suicide. Most definitely not. But the last several days I have given it some serious thought and am now seeing it from a different prospective - a personal prospective. I came close - really close. I had what I needed at the ready but when it came down to the actual act itself, I couldn't do it. I wanted to. Told myself all the reasons I should. Every hurt, every slight amplified, multiplied.

And love? Love has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. When you are in that dark place, you aren't thinking about love. It is not that you don't think about the people that you love and those that love you in return. As harsh as it sounds now, in that moment love takes a back seat to stronger emotions. You are only thinking about ending pain and ending the depression that accompanies it. When I say a dark place, I mean that in the most literal of ways. Life feels heavy. Every act, every movement difficult. The world is gray and overcast with gloom. There is no color, no music, no joy, no diversity of emotion. Only two emotions exist: unbearable pain and black, suffocating depression. Nothing else. The only thought, how to end it.

No longer living
Just existing.

Looking out
Through veiled eyes
Life blurred
Out of focus.

Imperfect hand and mind
Create through paintbrush
and pencil
an imperfect lie.

Boundaries erased
The mind takes flight
Fact, fiction
Sane, insane
Disillusion, confusion.

Swimming in the blackness
Drinking in nothingness
Gagging on hopelessness
Drowning in the voidless void.

Waiting, waiting, waiting
For the final tragedy
That will swoop in
and pick the flesh from my broken bones.

DEPRESSION.

THE FIRST YEAR HAS PASSED

Pierced, Bleeding, and Bruised
Human words inadequate to describe the Unbearable, Inescapable Pain
First Birthday, First Memorial Day of your passing, Each holiday
Stabs, Tears, and Rips my already Broken Heart
Your place at the table left empty
Your absence Intensely felt
THE FIRST YEAR HAS PASSED
Time has no meaning
I am trapped in yesterday.
I will survive.

I just need time to find my way through all the emotions
All the hurt, the anger, the pain.
I have faith in tomorrow.
Faith that a loving God will clear my path
And lead me to a safe place
He will soothe my broken and battered heart
and
Help me find peace.