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.

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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.


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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?

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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.

IN THE EYE OF THE STORM

IN THE EYE OF THE STORM
May 21, 2011

Inside my mind behind my eyes
A storm is raging.
Dark purple skies
Grief as tall as mountains
and as low as the valleys
Wind blows, lightening flashes
Eyes cry a river of tears
Teardrops radiate out
in never ending circles of pain.
You are gone and there is nothing I can do.
I live in the eye of the storm.


Outwardly calm
But inside is chaotic chaos
And the threat that I will outwardly explode
and show the world the depth
Of my rage and sorrow.
Screaming. Ceaseless, never ending screaming
Falling on the floor unable to
move pain. Exhausted with
no more tears to cry pain.
A helpless, pathetic lump of humanity.

But despite of it all I still cling to hope.
Hope that you are safe and are at peace.
Hope that I can come to terms with my grief.
Hope that there will eventually be
more days of sunshine than
dark, stormy ones.
Hope that the depression and despair
will come less often.
Hope that I can once again
have a solid connection
with our Heavenly Father.
Hope that with God's help
I can reach out
and help others with
what I have learned on this journey.
Hope that I can have an
understanding and forgiving heart
so I can put aside any feelings
of anger I have towards
those that I perceive hurt my son.
I pray for the strength to let all that anger go
When I have done that,
then, and only then can I move forward
on this journey of healing.
Thank you Heavenly Father
for that understanding.

I celebrate the knowledge that we,
my son and I, will be together again
when my time on earth is over.
What a joyous day that will be
When the storm ends
and we are eternally at peace.

THE FACE OF GRIEF: When There Are No More Tears to Cry

What do we do when there are no more tears to cry
What do we do when we feel empty and dead inside
What do we do when joy and happiness have withered and dried
What do we do when nothing helps after all has been tried?

My heart is bleeding. So many tears I have cried
So why am I now being denied
The right to shed tears. Why do they hide
So deep inside?
Who reached inside and squeezed my heart dry?

Invisible hand why do you throw my emotions aside
Why am I tortured and made to ride the tide of implied lies
That say I feel nothing. Hurt bubbles and boils inside
The emptiness and sorrow will never ever subside.

What do we do when there are no more tears to cry
What do we do when we feel empty and dead inside
What do we do when joy and happiness have withered and dried
What do we do when nothing helps after all has been tried?

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"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They're the messengers of overwhelming grief ... and unspeakable love." ~ Washington Irving

Artificial Manipulation

Shadow people. That is what I call them. Shadow people. Those people who live behind the scenes in your shadow. They don't know what is happening in your life - don't really care, don't understand where your heart is, or what hardship you're living with. Then they show up and tell you how to live your life, what to feel, what not to feel, and if you do exactly as they you tell you, everything will be alright and you'll be back on track. They do their best to manipulate you into believing they know what is best for you. They bend your thinking this way and that way. Twist your thoughts. They try to make you feel incompetent and weak so they can feel stronger and superior. They want to be your savior and your hero.

In this artificial act of "kindness" they are actually attempting to crush your spirit and mold you into something they think you should be. And consciously or not, they confuse you into not being true to yourself. After all they wouldn't be saying what they are unless they really care about you. They usually begin their onset with "I really love you (or care about you) and don't want to hurt your feelings but...."

Grieving people are especially vulnerable to such uncaring people. Because they approach under the guise of kindness, their actions are especially hurtful. They, who have never lost a loved one to suicide, presume to know how we feel, how long our grieving period should last, and when we should put it all behind us and "live in the present".

It is these people that try to silence us. When we speak, they are uncomfortable because suicide is an uncomfortable subject. For so long it was a taboo subject. A forbidden topic of conversation. If spoken of at all, it was spoken of in whispers. Families of suicide victims were shunned. There was a social stigma attached to it. Society said it was disgraceful and a sin. We have now found our community voice. Our collective voice is loud and firm and it says "you are wrong". There is a new understanding of suicide because we are no longer silent.

I recently had an unpleasant experience that did, for a while, crush my spirit and made me question myself and the worth of this blog. Thankfully a lot of sincerely caring family and friends - some new, some old, some survivors of suicide like myself - encourage me to continue on. They lifted me up after I had been torn down.

He wrote: "Your posts about suicide I have found very unnerving. After your last one, I blocked them. That night I did send you something about living in the present and stop living in the past. Do you really think that Christian wants you dwelling on his death or would he prefer you to celebrate his life? I have no desire to hurt you or I would have written something to you about it then but since you sent me this I will speak my piece. "I believe" that dwelling on his death diminishes him and depresses you. Your writing about it constantly depresses me. Linda I do love and care about you. Please take this to heart."

My response, in part: "Thank you for the advise and your concern; however, there are many, many survivors of suicide that would disagree with you. I get so many emails stating how my blog has helped them. They need to know that someone else is feeling the exact same way they are. It gives them permission to open up and share their experiences and their feelings. This journey includes new travelers and ones that have been on the journey for some time. The new travelers need to know they are not alone and those that are not so new need to know that it is okay to still be in a state of grief - that there is no time limit on the grieving process.

My blog is not everyone - absolutely not for everyone - Some, like you, will find it uncomfortable and depressing. But for tender hearts that have suffered the loss of a loved one, there is a very great need for a place to go and know that they are not alone. That someone else is hurting in the same way they are. Something positive must come from Christian's death and this is my way of hopefully helping others.

In no way is Christian's death being diminished. I think of him every day, many times a day. We were so close and loved each other so much. He was a kind, loving, caring human being and he helped others in any way he could. He would want me to write this blog if it could possibly help ease someone through their pain.

It helps to keep his memory alive. He already knows that I am hurting but he also sees that I am getting stronger and moving forward and this journal and this blog are helping me do that. I am not living in the past. I am living in my present. And that present is one where grief and sorrow are my constant companions. They always will be. Christian is my son. He will never be part of my past. He will always be in my present and in my future.

So while I care about your opinions, I am choosing not to take your advise."

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We are not mannequins that can be manipulated at the whim of others. Sometimes hurtful advise is given with the kindest of intentions and we must realize that it comes from a place of inexperience and lack of knowledge. At those times our responses must be tempered with understanding and kindness. We may be grieving but we are still strong and courageous and beautiful. Never allow yourselves to be discouraged or crushed by "kind" intentions.

A NEW JOURNAL, THE SAME JOURNEY

Today I started a new journal. My mother ask me what I would write in it. I truly had no answer. When I began my first journal, "a Journey", I didn't know exactly what it would include but I did know that it would be both an art journal and a way for me to express my journey through the grieving process. I was right in realizing in that first journal that this process will take a very long time and will, indeed, never be over.

So what will be in this new journal? I hope the messages will be more uplifting and positive but I can't promise that. I will go where my heart, mind, and emotions take me and that is all I can promise. I know where I have been but I don't know where I am going. The future is blurred.

BEFORE: I looked at the world with an unsophisticated eye.

DURING: My eyes could only see shades of gray.

THE FUTURE IS BLURRED

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.

COSMIC JOURNEY

This first journal entry in my second journal "Cosmic Journey" is a metaphor for the morning of January 18, 2010, when I was awaken early, early in the morning with a telephone call from Christian telling me of his intention to take his life. The sound of gunshots and later in the day a phone call telling me Christian had shot himself in the head and had died.

I lay deep in slumber. Lost in the darkness of dreamless sleep. Had I been capable of conscious thought, I would have been thankful for this thoughtless sleep. This escape into the realm of soft, buffered nothingness.

Laying in my bed wrapped in blankets warm and secure, a sudden and violent bright light pierced my silent mind. The blinding light and deafening sound bounced around inside my head and slammed into the back of my eyes. Searing pain. A magnetic force pulls the breathe from my lungs.

I struggle to remain earth bound. Then a gentle voice in my head whispers "Why? Just close your eyes and let go. Let go." Suddenly I am numb. I feel nothing. I allow myself to be carried on the wings of energy into the cosmos. Shhhh, no words, empty your mind. Let only timeless energy fill you. Weightlessly drifting through and around stars and past the moon. That same soft voice whispers "The answers lie out there. Quiet your mind and soul and take a comic journey and you will find your place in the universe."

FIRST ANNIVERSARY

FIRST ANNIVERSARY

January 18, 2011

One year since Christian left us.  One year since we've had to face the worst tragedy a family can experience.  One year today.  I don't want it be one year.  That's too much time.  I don't want that much distance from the time you were here and I could touch you, hear your voice, your laughter.  Hug you, kiss your cheek.  One year.  Okay I can accept one year.  But one year and one day I cannot.  I rebel against one year and one day.  My heart screams against one year and one day. Tears, so many tears.  My heart is shattering again - like it did on that first day.

Today is cold, very cold, and it's rainy.  It seems almost appropriate.  We will go to Christian's roadside memorial.  The family has come together like we did for that first roadside memorial service.  My mother is here from Nevada; my sister from Virginia.  They are here to support us just like they did a year ago.  We will support each other.

The cars are filled with family members bundled up against the cold.  The caravan begins the thirty minute drive to the memorial site.  Mountains covered in snow are visible in the distance capped with low hanging black clouds.  A storm is coming.

When we arrive, we see that someone has placed a beautiful little angel with out stretched arms on one of the flat stones.  It warms that cold place in my heart and makes me feel human again.  Whoever left it will probably never know how much it means to me to know that some caring person visited my son's memorial site.  My heart is bursting with love for this unknown person. 

Even in times of sadness, children can still find time to play.  Bless her little heart and thank you God for this little jewel.

Just before our service was over it began to rain a freezing cold rain.  No one seem to notice this rain that would have normally sent us running to the warmth of our cars.  Only concern for my Mother's well being made us leave.  At home a warm stew was waiting.

Chapter One comes to an end.

TAKING A TIME OUT

Taking a Time Out

January 14, 2011

I am taking a time out.  I have placed myself in a mental corner.  My world consists of two walls that intersect.  That corner is my new world.  In my solitude, mentally curled up in my chair and wrapped in the softest of blankets, I sit and try to figure out what I am feeling.  After emptying my mind of all thought and sinking down into that secret part of me, I allow myself to be bombarded with only emotion.  Or perhaps I should say all the emotion of the past year.  In doing this I have discovered that there are no words.   No words that can properly explain the depth of my feelings - not to myself, nor to the reader.  No words for my sense of loss or lostness.  No way to explain the vastness of the void, the endless drop into emptiness, and that huge place in my heart where there is only hurt and pain.  No way to explain that "thing" - that dark black "thing" - that covers me totally and completely.  The "thing" that drains me of life and the desire to be part of life.

I cannot explain, or understand, why, when I am so loved, that that is not enough.  Why is the impending birth of my new grandson not enough to bring exhilarating excitement and joy to me.  It should.  I don't understand it.  The thought of holding that precious little baby in my arms and cradling his warm body against me should lift me out of this dark place.  This black void that I find myself drifting and floating in.  No light, no air.  The memory of Persephone and Benton's hugs and laughter should do it.  The sweetness and devotion of my darling Brandon should do it.  The deep love of my children and husband and my Mom and sister and brothers and all my extended family and friends should do it.  But nothing does.

If I could close my eyes and drift away forever, I would.  I cannot say that Christian's death is totally responsible; but I cannot say that it is not.  I love each and everyone of my children with all my heart.  This is the part that is so hard to figure out, so hard to understand.  Why when I love so much do I feel so numb, so out of touch.  I just feel so tired and so empty and so weak.

While it is true that I have been physically not well since this Fall, I can no longer tell what is causing this mental and physical failing of my body and mind.  Is it mental? is it physical? is it both?  Or is it because January 18th - the first anniversary of Christian's passing - is just a few days away?  I don't know.  There is no understanding.  There are no words of explanation.  What I must do is ......

Take a Time Out

Ah, sweet solitude

Soft pillow, warm blanket

Cuddle up.  Shut down.

Drop out.  Turn off.

CONTINUANCE OF LIFE: Respect for the Fragility and Importance of Life

It was a warm fall evening.  Soon the sun would be setting and would light up the evening sky with vibrant colors before disappearing behind the rolling Nevada hills.  My mother and I were just beginning to open her sliding glass door so we could step out onto her back patio to enjoy the lights of Las Vegas and the setting sun.  We heard the loud chirps of a bird obviously in distress followed by a loud thud against her living room window.  As we stepped out, we saw a flurry of small downy feathers settling all over her patio and a hawk landing in her neighbor's yard.  While we didn't see the victim, we suspect it was one of the many quails that visited her backyard and roosted in her neighbor's tree.

Understanding the balance of nature means an unconditional acceptance of life and what it brings.  In our human experience the acceptance of what life brings is far more complicated.  During those times when we are wildly and acutely miserable and racked with sorrow, acceptance seems far away if not altogether  impossible.  But they say acceptance is an important step in the grieving process.  I bounce in and out of acceptance.  I know Christian isn't coming back but I'm having a difficult time letting him go.  Sometimes I wonder if I'm keeping him earthbound by not releasing him.  Death and the transition from one plane to another is such a mystery to me.

This I do believe: out of every situation, even one as devastating as the loss of a loved one (especially a child) to suicide, we must at some time in our struggle to go on living, make some positive choices if we intend to live a meaningful life.  For us the statement "there is life after death" takes on a whole new meaning.  How do we go on living after such a loss?

Frederick F. Flack wrote:  "Most people can look back over the years and identify a time and place at which their lives changed significantly.  Whether by accident or design, these are the moments when, because of a readiness within us and a collaboration with events occurring around us, we are forced to seriously reappraise ourselves and the conditions under which we live and to make certain choices that will affect the rest of our lives."

Writing this blog has given me purpose and helped me find my way through the grieving process because it has forced me to evaluate and define the emotions that wash over and threaten to drown me.  By necessity I must then put these emotions into words.  Never easy but necessary if I am to connect with myself and others.   Although at times, as Martin Luther King, Jr., said, "Their meanings can only be articulated by the inaudible language of the heart."

Tragic loss reduces us to the baseline of our existence.  Everything emotionally has been striped away and left us bare.  The only things we can feel are hurt and pain.  We are left with this incredible empty hole in our heart and in our soul and in our lives.  At first we are numb, unable to do anything but breath.  Eventually overwhelming feelings of grief and sorrow bombard our every sense.  Even breathing becomes hard.  As the days, weeks, months, and even years pass we discover that we can and will survive.  What then to do with the rest of our lives?  "You desire to know the art of living, my friend?  It is contained in one phrase:  make use of suffering."  -Henri-Frederic Amiel.  When I first read this quote, I had to stop and think about what it meant.


This is what I decided:  from suffering we are able to really understand the human condition.  We are able to sympathize and have empathy is a way that previously we couldn't.  We have gone through the worst pain and suffering we have ever known.  Don't we now have a responsibility to help others in  a way that only we can?  We can share our experiences and our knowledge with the newly and not so newly affected.  We can hold their hands, hold them up, and give them a place to entrust their "real, raw" emotions and thoughts.  We will give tender hearts all the time and love they need and will never abandon a fellow traveler.  We will travel this road together, side by side.  Through our own loss we have learned to respect the fragility and importance of each individual life.  Each person, each life so dear, so precious.

THE END OF A BEGINNING

A beginning, a very short but magnificent middle, and then the dying begins.  What am I talking about?  What else could it be but life and the life of a flower in particular.  All of this energy goes into the creation of the flower bud.  The bud opens and for a few short days it is in its glory of perfection.  But then, all too quickly, it begins to fade.  Then it withers, its petals fall, and it dies.  So sad.  But for a short time it was awesome and during the growing and dying process, it produced seeds that will fall to the ground and if the conditions are right, life will begin again in the spring or summer of the next year. And that is nature's plan.


To me, it is not the length of one's life that matters (be it animal, flora, or human) but how that life is lived.  At my son, Christian's, memorial service, his friend said that we should not think about how Christian died but how he lived his life.


Sadly while I know this is not true for all children,  it is true of my son and hopefully for the majority of children:  in the beginning they are happy, they are nurtured and loved, and they grow from beautiful children into adventure and knowledge seeking youths and finally into fine young adults.  They are our proud and our joy.  And along the way they leave their imprint not only on us but  on others they come in contact with.  These children give us memories of good times and not so good times but in growing and maturing that is bound to happen - would be oddly wrong if they didn't cause us some heartache and worry.


But OUR children, spouses, brothers, sisters, parents, loved one, and friends are different.  For a variety of reasons, and even though they fought the good fight, their lives were cut short.  Their zest for life faded, their desire to live withered, and they fell to earth.  But unlike flowers, the seeds of their existence have been planted in our hearts, in our minds, and in our souls.  And as long as we live, they will live.  They will live in the spoken word and in the written word of all of that knew them.  But most of all they will live in our hearts and our memories.


Even now after only a year and a few months have past, I realize that there are so many things I am beginning to forget about my first year of living without my beloved child.  Thank goodness I have kept a journal.  It not only helped me sort out my feelings but it gave me a place to vent without being hurtful to others.  As they say, you can't know where you're going if you don't know where you've been.  That first year was spent in a state of numbness.  It is only now in rereading my journal that I understand how far I've come in this journey.  I have become a strong advocate for journaling and would encourage anyone that is going through a loss to start putting your thoughts, feelings, and memories on paper.  It really, really helps.


During a time when I was thinking about how fragile life is, I wrote the following:

I  AM

October 20, 2010

I am the first flower of Spring

I am the early morning dew on blades of grass

I am the starlight in the night sky

I am a shooting star

I am a falling raindrop

I am the dust in dry desert winds

I am the mist off crashing ocean waves

I am the wind that sways the branches of trees

I am a gently falling snowflake

I am a rainbow

I am the clouds overhead

I am the sunlight through trees

I am the light of a candle

I am the smoke from a fire

I am ice, I am snow

I am an echo heard from mountain tops

I am the crash of a tree in the forest

I am a lightening bolt and the roll of thunder

I am the radiating rings caused by a raindrop in a rain barrel

I am light reflecting in the lake at night

I am a moon beam

I am a first kiss.

I am here briefly and then gone forever-

a whisper in the wind.

Dried roses from Christian's Memorial Service

TRAGEDY, DRAMA, COMEDY

November 11, 2010

 Tragedy, Drama, Comedy.  We are all actors in this great play that we call "Life".  We show the world only what we want them to see.  But if only an actor, what is the reality of this thing we call "Life"?

For me, it is this:  Inside each of us there is a soul.  The complexity of the soul is where you will find our true selves and the essence of who we are.  That part of our being where we place our love,  our sadness, our memories - good, bad, and sad ~ All of our pain, our sorrow, our despair,  our grief, our depression.  It is also the place where we store all the anger and hurt we don't want others to know exists.  It is where we place our fears and our shame and our guilt.  It is what makes me exclusively "me".

One day our three year old granddaughter, Persephone, came for a visit.  She arrived while her Papa was still at work.  That evening she heard the front door open and began running down the stairs to greet him.  He called out "Who is it?" and she replied "It is me, myself ... Persephone."  And that is what my soul is.  It is "me, myself ... Linda".  There you will find my strengths, my weaknesses but mostly it is the place where you will find all the things I hold most dear - my children, my husband, my family, my friends, my home, all my sweetest and most cherished memories, my dreams for the future and my respect for the past.  MY FAITH.

I will continue to be an actor in the play of Life; and I will only show you what I want you to see but if you are quiet and look and listen closely, you may be able to peek into my soul.  Where you will find the real me.

William Shakespeare - All the world's a stage

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exists and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts.

................................

OCEAN CITY MEMORIES

The boardwalk at sunset - Ocean City, MD

"Seeing with the eye of memory, not the eye of our anatomy, calls up days and seasons past and years gone by."   ~  Allen Lacy

My Mother and Father (Grandma Verity and Grandpa Jack) bought a condo at Ocean City.  One year my Mom's family would go and the next year Grandpa Jack's family got their turn.  Even though there were three bedrooms, there wasn't enough room for me and my five children, my sister Debbie, her husband, and their two daughters (and later their two granddaughters), plus my Mom and Dad.  So that meant I could only bring two of my children and, of course, it was always the youngest two - Christian and Tiffany. My Mother generously purchased our airline tickets or we wouldn't have been able to go at all.  We stopped going to the ocean when Christian was about 11 years old and Tiffany 10.

MEMORIES OF GOING TO OCEAN CITY

Ocean City.  Our joyous escape from the stresses of being a single mom, escape from the stresses of being a child of a single mom.  For just a short time, two weeks, there were no worries about finding the money to pay bills, no long hours at work, no coming home exhausted but still needing to be the mom you all needed.  This was our time to just relax and put worries behind.  No one will ever know how difficult it was for all of us - five children and me.  Never, never enough money for what we needed.  You all sacrificed so much and rarely ever complained.  So Ocean City was the reward.  The thing to look forward to; and knowing our turn was coming made life a little easier and gave us something to look forward to.

You** and I would go off by ourselves and just enjoy being together.  That never happened at home so this, too, was something we looked forward to.

Do you remember how I saved and saved and saved for four years so we all - Stephanie, Bobby, Robyn, you, Tiffany, and me - could go on vacation together.  I had saved $600.00.  A fortune!  We talked about the vacation and where we would go for over a year.  The destination changed many times but the joy in thinking about it and planning it filled many conversations and warmed our hearts and gave excitement to our lives.  Then just weeks before we were going to go, the car broke down.  It took every penny I had saved to fix it.  The entire $600.00.

I cried and cried.  You would hug me and say it was alright but you had tears in your eyes too.  I was thankful I had the money to get the car fixed but that didn't mend our broken hearts or soothe our disappointment.  We never did get that family vacation for all of us. Even now it makes me sad.

Ocean City.  Such happy memories.  When I am sad thinking about you not being here any longer,  my mind goes back to those happy times spent at the beach.  Those memories never fail to cheer me up and in my mind I get to spend time with you all over again.  Holding your hand and looking down into your sweet smiling face.  I miss you so much my precious child.

**Christian

I HAVE BEEN WONDERING

written October 5, 2010

I'VE HAVE BEEN WONDERING.......

why of late I have ventured into this world of whimsey.  It seems out of place in this journal or even in my life.  Then it dawned on me.  At this time, right now, the grief is so great that there are no words, no pictures that could possibly begin to describe it.

My mind, in an attempt at protecting me from myself, has refused to let me go into a dangerous place.  The pain is so great that I cannot live with it.  To open myself up to it might lead to a complete break down.  I have not yet allowed myself to fully grieve over Christian's death.  I have felt terrible sorrow, depression, emptiness but the full impact of losing him has not hit me yet.  I loved him so much and was so close to him.  I have wondered many times why I don't seem to grieve like other mothers.  Why I am not totally devastated.  Why they take to their beds unable to function from their grief and I do not.  Why I do not cry.   I mean really, really cry.

I felt it today beginning to creep in, breaking down this barrier against my emotions that I have erected.  I was at the insurance agent's office reinstating the insurance on my Honda.  The agent was rewriting the policy and came to the part about the exclusion on Christian driving the car (because of his DUI).  I said that wouldn't be necessary because he had died.  Tears began cascading down my cheeks (and hers too). It was all I could do to not completely come undone.  This is the first time I've allowed strangers to see my grief.  I am never that transparent.

I think "transparency" is the operative word.  I have been hiding the depth of my feelings from everyone - including myself.  Being transparent is a scary thing for me.  I have spent my whole life hiding my feelings.  How do I now open up and let anyone see this red hot pain that burns within me. Burns to the very core of my existence.  I truly do not know how to do that.  It is beyond the realm of my understanding.

I have come to the conclusion that I need professional help in learning how to work through these feelings.  Ignoring it certainly isn't helping.  I have all the symptoms of post-traumatic stress syndrome.  I've come to realize this over the past seven months.  I thought it would get better but it hasn't.  I feel stuck like a fly on flypaper.  I can flap my wings all I want but I'm not going anywhere.