"Cosmic Journey" and "Introspection" follow my first Grief/Art Journal titled "a Journey".These journals contain a collection of artwork and journal entries describing my thoughts and feelings following the death by suicide of our beloved 32 year old son Christian. Unable or unwilling to verbally discuss the depth of my feelings and the hurt, pain, and rage I have endured these journals have been my salvation. My world destroyed I struggle to find peace and my place in the universe.
When the page is blank and there are no more words to write, it is time to close the book. For the past three years you have walked beside me on this journey. You have taught me much and helped me to grow.
This long and difficult journey has lead me to wonderful people previously unknown; to people whose silent cries, like my own, go unheard; and to raw, heartfelt personal stories that we, as survivors, can feel and understand because we have been there too. We have each faced a sudden and devastating loss in our lives, we have traveled through the same valleys, we have laughed at the happy, funny times we shared with our loved ones, we have cried together over their/our loss and our empty arms and our broken hearts.
We are a family; brothers and sisters born in pain and bound by grief. We may not always be on the same page in our Journal of Grief and Survival but we are all in the same chapter. In the same chapter and trying desperately to turn the page, to add a new chapter. Perhaps even begin a new book of our lives. We try but never quite succeed.
This journey has forced us to discover ourselves as we never would have previously. We have been forced to come face to face with our own realities. The knowledge of who we really are, beneath all the pretense, swirls about us like the wind, and falls on us like the rain. We look inside ourselves and see who we are, where we've been, but we don't know always where we're going. And that is part of journey - rediscovering who we are.
During these past three years I have learned some valuable lessons. With your indulgence, I will share a few:
When we share our innermost thoughts and deepest emotions - be it sadness, anger, frustration, guilt, or the depth of our love, we are learning to trust.
As we listen to and are touched by the stories of others, we are learning about compassion and empathy.
When we extend our hands to another to help them up and give them a shoulder to lean on when we ourselves are also hurting and needy, we are learning what it means to be selfless in our service to others and from that we gain strength.
When others unintentionally offer hurtful platitudes and we fight down anger and seek instead to understand, we learn patience and forgiveness.
And in death, we learn the meaning of life. This is perhaps the hardest lesson of all to learn. Grief causes us to look inward and often times downward because our hearts are so heavy and our grief is so great. The journey can be very long one indeed before the clouds separate and we can see our beautiful world again; and in seeing it, want to be a part of it once more. I try to remember that in spite of the darkness of today, there is hope for a bright tomorrow.
Henry Miller wrote: "One's destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things."
I want to thank you for walking beside me these last three years. I honestly don't know how I would have made it without the knowledge that you were there. I have been greatly blessed and formed deep friendships and lifelong bonds with some of us. You came into my life when I was weak and venerable and wandering. You reached out, lifted me up, and continue to walk beside me every day. You've shown me compassion and love and I return that love tenfold.
I want you to know that I have welcomed and appreciated your comments. You have touched my heart with your sharing of your stories and thoughts with me.
I do not know where this journey will take me but for now I must travel on alone. As I continue on, I know there will be many more lessons to be learned but at this moment I do not feel there is anything left in me to share. Now I will become the reader and I will let your wisdom guide me.
From the song "Dancing with the Angels" by Ed Cash, Trent Monk, and Michael Neagle
When I planned my trip to Nevada to visit my Mom, I was only thinking of my need to be with her. As soon as I had seen my doctor and had two of my four scheduled infusion treatments, I was getting on a plane come hell or high water. I thought nothing of the date. I was worried about her deteriorating memory and I was concerned that she was not taking her medication properly. She hadn't sounded like herself on the phone and she seemed to be getting worse.
It didn't dawn on me that my visit would fall on the third anniversary of my son Christian's death by suicide when I made the reservation. Why is that of particular importance? After all, the days leading up to and especially the day of January 18th are always difficult and painful. The reason is because that is where I was on the day that my son died; on the day that the nightmare that consumes me day and night began and never ended.
HENDERSON, NV, JANUARY 18, 2010
Early morning the first phone call comes in. Christian, anxious, emotionally distraught, and out of control, screams into the phone "Today is the day. The day I end it all." Five a.m. - the first phone call. Ten thirty-one a.m. - the time the coroner documented as my precious son's time of death. The time between: a suffocating, soul crushing, heart shattering hell. Did I even breathe during those five hours and thirty-one minutes? I must have but it seems impossible.
EARLY MORNING, JANUARY 18, 2013
Everyone in the house is still sleeping and I am alone with my memories of that cold, windy January 18, 2010, morning.
My mind's eye, disembodied, looks down on the events of that morning as I travel trancelike through the sights, sounds, and movements of those five hours and thirty-one minutes three years ago. Time moves slowly as each event unfolds anew.
My cell phone rings and wakes me from a sound sleep. I see me answering that call and each proceeding phone call as I beg and plead with my son to no avail. I hear again the sound of gun shots. I see me sitting by the phone in the kitchen waiting and waiting and waiting for news. Neither my husband, Patrick, nor Christian has answered any of my desperate phone calls home.
My brother and his girlfriend arrive at my Mother's house. I feel the cold tiles beneath my bare feet. I see each player exactly as they were on that morning. Each in their appointed places. I watch as they engage in unimportant conversation. Words were spoken but unheard by my traumatized and distraught mind. I wonder how they can be talking about nothing when I am dying in front of them.
The phone rings and it is Christian. My last conversation with my cherished son. His voice is soft and so full of peace and love. He tells me that he loves me more than anyone but he is calling to say good bye. He is at peace with his decision. Don't cry Momma. I will always be with you, watching over you. If you need me, just call and I'm be there. Good bye Momma. I'll always love you." I never hear his voice again.
After just a short time the phone rings again and I hear the dreaded words that pierce my brain and heart like a hot searing sword. Christian's girlfriend tells me that Christian has shot himself. She heard his final words and then a gunshot. Patrick is with him but was unable to stop him from placing the gun to his head and pulling the trigger.
I wait for Patrick to call me but he doesn't. Finally, being unable to wait any longer, I call him. "Did Christian shoot himself?" "Yes. Yes he did. The medics are working on him but it doesn't look good. The police want to talk to me. I've got to go." "Call me when you know something. Okay?" "Okay."
My anxiety keeps the world turning. Hope keeps me breathing. After what seemed like a life shattering eternity, I spoke with Patrick again. The only thing I remember of that conversation and the only thing that repeated itself over and over in my mind was me asking Patrick "Did he die?" and Patrick answering "Yes." I wept uncontrollably at the memory of those words but on that morning I didn't.
I see their faces, Mom's, Steven's, and Kay's, when I announce "Christian died." My brother: "How do you know?" Me: "Patrick just told me."
Mom and Steven rush forward to embrace me. I stop them with "Please don't touch me." Why? because I thought I would explode into a million tiny pieces if they did. A million tiny shards - like the most fragile glass dropped on that hard tile floor and I knew that no one would ever be able to put me back together again.
My world stopped turning. There was no air. I was lifeless - deflated, crushed. I don't know how or who placed the chair beneath me but I found myself sitting in the kitchen and staring down the hall seeing nothing, feeling??????? in shock I guess. The tiles were frigid, icy cold beneath my feet now. My blood ran equally cold within my body.
I demand my mind, my body to "Stay in control. You have things that must be done. Telephone calls to my children that must be made."
Today, January 18, 2013, I do not have to remain in control. Tears burn down my cheeks and sobs catch in my throat. The tiles are still cold beneath my bare feet as I stand in my mother's kitchen looking down the same hall I looked down three years ago.
I am thankful to be alone so I don't have to pretend. I've become an expert at pretense but I don't want to play that game now. Later in the day, when I am with my Mom and daughter, Robyn, will be soon enough. Now I just want to cry and to let all the hurt come to the surface unhindered. I need the freedom to do that.
Most of the time I live in a gray world that pulsates between pitch black, blue, purple, and charcoal gray. I am lost in the deep woods of stolen moments and lost hugs. I can see my son's face in the distance but his voice is silenced. In the darkness, I walk into trees of pain and stumble over exposed emotions. I grope for the door which will free me but can't find it. I try to find the light but it isn't there. Most of the time, but not all the time, this is my world.
My sweet husband can pry the door open with his kindness and special way of making me laugh. When my children come to visit the door automatically opens a crack and light fills the void. When my grandchildren come the door is thrown wide open. To hear their excited cries of "Nana!" is like the bright midday sun on a hot August day. My heart lights up with joy and the sadness melts away. My Mom can do that too with her smiling face.
Before Christian took his life, he told me he had left a song for me that would explain everything. After searching for a long time without finding it, I eventually gave up and forgot about it. About a week before leaving on my trip to visit my Mom, I accidentally found it. I would like to share it with you now. It is called "I Am Going" by Randy Travis. It is followed by a song called "Nothing Hurts" by Catatonia. This song has special meaning for me because I choose to think of it as how Christian's world is now.
