secret-n. 1. Something concealed from others. 2. Something not readily understood: mystery - as defined by my good friend Mr. Noah Webster. This is a topic I have not only been reluctant to write about but one that I try to avoid thinking about.
When I first gave thought to writing a blog about my experiences as a mother of a victim of suicide, I had to give a lot of thought to if my writings would be a betrayal of confidence. Would my son be angry and hurt if I shared his story - our story. (I never think of him as gone. I choose to think instead of him as a silent presence in my life - always here with me.)
There were a lot of pros and cons to weigh. He was such a prideful young man. His image was of the greatest importance to him; but on the other hand would he be alright with it if in the telling it might help others. I would like to think, and I've told myself over and over again, that he would be okay with it; but the doubt, the uncertainty lingers on.
Our stories are so intertwined that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to separate the two. It was not until I decided to really, really evaluate the varying pieces of what makes me exclusively me that I dared to drag this part of my life out for close personal examination. I have mentioned it briefly in previous posts but it wasn't until this week that I finally opened myself up enough to fully feel the deep impact my own words or rather my own thoughts have had on me.
Before I bare my soul I will give you a brief history of what happened before I did what I did. It is not an excuse - just an explanation.
The two years preceding Christian's death by suicide had been unbearably difficult for him. He was suffering from severe depression and as time went on it became worse and worse until it consumed him.
After he and Kristen broke up and she took his little son away, he continued to live in his house. It was a cute little house that set on a hill and was directly across the street from the blue, blue waters of Hood Canal. Because the house was on a hill, he had an amazing unobstructed view. But the house, which had once been so full of life, energy, happy laugher, and love, was now oppressively silent.
For a while he tried to continue working in the music industry and traveled back and forth to New York, Las Vegas, San Francisco, etc. But due to a lot of unfortunate happenings (his business partner embezzled all the funds and left Christian deep in debt; the love of his life left him for another man and took their child with her and wouldn't let him see his precious little boy) his depression deepened and even though he tried to work soon found that he couldn't.
This was when the suicidal thoughts began to control his life and I lost my son the first time. It was as though he now existed in a different world than I did. He could hear my words but they couldn't penetrate the force field he had erected around himself. In his heart he knew how much he was loved but it no longer mattered.
Christian and Kristen had a detached garage and Christian had planned to convert it into a home office/music studio. He had completed the room but after Kristen left he never moved anything in or set up his studio. Another dream dashed.
In wanting to preserve the memory of our children we don't always want others to know that they weren't perfect. In fact sometimes we make them out to be super humans and that is not what they were. They were human beings with courage, love, and kindness but they also had weaknesses and faults. Characteristics that we all have. That is what makes us uniquely human - the vastness of our emotions and the ability to act on those emotions.
I have never shared this with anyone but he now turned his studio into "a suicide room". I didn't know anything about it until my other son, Bobby, told me. He moved a bed in and set up his music. He installed the pipes and whatever else he needed to pump carbon monoxide into the room. He thought that he would turn on the gas, lay down in bed, listen to his music until he fall into eternal sleep.
He didn't use the room right away. It was just there. Waiting.
Then came the day when he found a foreclosure notice on his door. His world turned black and he couldn't see the sun any longer or any hope. He went into the room, turned on the gas and his music, and laid down in his bed. He had given up on life and felt that life had given up on him. Eventually he did fall a sleep; and eventually he woke up. He didn't have enough propane in the tanks. He woke up with the worst headache he had ever had. Severe headaches plagued him for the rest of his life. After he told his brother what happened, Bobby tore out all the piping and the pump to his "suicide room" and Christian moved back home with us.
Two times he tried to pump the exhaust from the exhaust pipe into his car but on both occasions friends just happened by and pulled him out of the car. Then there were the pills - all kinds of pills - that he, without success, tried to end his life with. On several occasions his brother and I had to fight him to the ground to stop him from ingesting them. Then there was the time that he found a drug dealer more than happy to sell him a very large quantity of heroin. He took all of it at once and this time we almost did lose him.
He was institutionalized once and was seeing two different counselors - on and off - but he was never honest with either of them (he had to maintain his image) and they never suspected how deeply troubled he was. I had called the emergency operators to summon help on at least three different occasions. He always said he was okay and they would leave.
I was just so, so tired of worrying about it every single day. I was beginning to feel as though I would loss my mind if something didn't change but nothing did. I was in a constant state of flux. I could never relax. I always had to be vigilant incase he tried again. Seldom did I leave the house unless someone was with him or he came with me. Every time I heard a sound at night I got up to check. He had promised me that he would never take his life inside my house so every time he went outside I began to panic.
Two days before his death he called me while I was in Nevada visiting my Mom and he told me that he had a gun and was going to end his life. I was so worn down by the struggle to keep him alive that I was emotionally and physically exhausted. In the middle of his declaration, telling me what he planned to do, even though my words said I love you, please don't do this, I thought to myself "If you're going to do it, just do it and be done with it!" In two days my son was gone and now I have to live with the shame and regret of my thought.
How can a mother even think such a terrible thing? No one can even begin to guess unless they, too, have been in that place I was in. I would like to tell you that when I thought it, I didn't really mean it but I can't do that because at that moment in time I did mean it. Of course, I didn't want him to take his life but I did want the madness to stop. All I wanted was for the madness to stop.
I imagine that most of us find reasons to blame ourselves. Reasons to feel guilty. One counselor told me that most guilt is irrational. She liked to use this question: Can it stand the test of reality? She said to first figure out exactly how you think you wronged your lost beloved and then determine if you actually did anything that directly caused the death. This, she said, is reality testing.
And that is why I am not a good candidate for counseling. All good words but for some reason I want to scream out at her "Be quiet, go away, and leave me alone. Don't tell me quilt is irrational. I already know that. Tell me instead that it was okay to think what I did. Tell me that a lot of people that have lived under daily stress for a long period of time might have the same thought. Tell me that it's okay to release the shame, guilt, and regret I feel over thinking it. Tell me that I'm okay as a mother. Tell me I that I did my best. Tell me that I can let go of this secret I hold in my heart and in my soul that is killing me emotionally. Please, please tell me that my son understands."
secret-n. 1. Something concealed from others. 2. Something not readily understood; mystery.
