Tag Archives: Suicide

SELF-COMPASSION

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BE COMPASSIONATE WITH YOURSELF

CARPE DIEM

What are you beating yourself up about these days? If you have the energy (and you won’t always), address the problem head-on. If you can do something about it, do it. If you can’t, try to be self-forgiving. (Alan D. Wolfelt, PhD, HEALING A PARENT’S GRIEVING HEART: 100 PRACTICAL IDEAS AFTER YOUR CHILD DIES, 2005)

What am I beating myself up about these days? Same as always…shoulda, woulda, coulda. If someone came to me with my story, I would be horrified for them, at the trauma of finding their dead child. I would give them grace, listen with compassion and empathy.

But for myself, no. There is nothing I can do about it now. He is gone. Can I forgive myself? That is the hard part. That is the journey I am on now. Because until I do, forgive myself, I cannot get to the grief that lives inside me, externalize it into mourning, and develop a new relationship with my deceased son. I cannot believe that he forgives me. That last day plays over and over in my mind…wishing for a different outcome…

He had made multiple attempts in the past that had no relation to anything I said or did. But that day, the day he died, was after I told him he needed to find somewhere else to live. We had an agreement, no drugs or alcohol. I had found empty packages of cold medications with DXM, dextromethorphan, his drug of choice, robo-tripping. Big deal breaker. I gave him the rest of the weekend to get out. I had locked him out of the house while I went to work…at a psychiatric children’s home…I had offered to give him a ride somewhere. He said he had “no place to go”. In retrospect, that was a big red flag. I had reached out to his sisters and his father, letting them know what was going on. I left him sitting on the deck, using the wifi on his phone. 

We took the teens at the group home to fireworks that night. I left work telling a coworker that I had to go home and deal with my son. I had trouble getting the door open and when I finally did…I screamed and screamed…had difficulty getting through to 911. I will spare you the gory details. One comment only…a police officer kept saying, “Calm down, calm down”. I looked at him as I tried and, in my mind, said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He had found a way in. I could not understand how, but later found my garage unlocked. He must have done that before we walked out of the house.

I have two other children with mental illnesses, who have made attempts in the past. One was living in my house with her husband and son, while I lived and worked in Germany for over a year. She had lost her job shortly after she moved in, so the plan for her to save money and buy a house by the time I came back did not happen. I was not prepared for the condition of my house when I returned…a filthy, hoarder situation. It took me two days to clean my bathroom…a whole bottle of bleach just to get the scale out of the toilet bowl. 

All of our communication while I was away was pleasant. The first indication I had that anything was wrong was a quick pan through one room in our last video call before I came back. I asked if the house was clean, but realized later that she never answered me.

I reached out to my county’s Intensive Family Support Services (https://naminj.org/resources/intensive-family-support-services-ifss/) for help. I had a wonderful consultant, who managed the program, and I attended support group meetings.  About a month after my return, my daughter had a psychotic episode and ended up in the hospital. While she was there, I went through her stuff and got rid of garbage, unused medications, including ketamine she was getting through the mail, and THC vapes. I created a contract, which she refused to sign, but, I informed her that by coming back to my home, she had agreed to it. 

As you can imagine, the history with my son loomed large over the situation. Fortunately, I had the support of my IFSS consultant, who even came to the house to meet with us. After a while, my daughter got herself a hotel room. Her son was staying with his father. I was left with her husband, for whom English is a second language, and all their stuff. After about a month of this, I gave her 30 days notice to vacate. It was a difficult decision, but one I needed to make for my own sanity and well-being. I rarely hear from her, but I reach out via email from time to time. I have learned that I can make plans through her with my grandson, which is a blessing.

SURVIVING

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In my neck of the woods, there is an organization called Stephy’s Place (https://www.stephysplace.org/sp/). It’s a support center for those who grieve. Last night they sponsored a talk by Alan Wolfert, PhD, of the Center for Loss & Life Transition  (https://www.centerforloss.com/). I attended. 

Before the talk, I picked up a couple of his books. The one I’m using for my renewed attempt to regularly write this blog, starting today, is entitled, “Healing a Parent’s Grieving Heart: 100 Practical Ideas After Your Child Dies”. My son, Joseph, died by suicide 11 years ago, July 5, 2014. He would have turned 34 this month, which is probably why I am feeling the ”urge for going”…(https://youtu.be/ZvSvTRhAJxg?si=jNr174FC02Brv7rF).

So…excerpt:

KNOW THAT YOU WILL SURVIVE 

Many newly bereaved parents also struggle with feeling they don’t want to survive. Again, those who have gone before you want you to know that while this feeling is normal, it will pass. One day in the not-too-distant future you will feel that life is worth living again. For now, think of how important you are to your remaining children, your partner, your own parents and siblings, your friends. (Wolfelt, 2005)”

I am not “newly bereaved” but I still struggle, at times, with feeling like I don’t want to survive. At those times,I don’t see my importance to anyone. Two of my surviving three children don’t speak to me. I have no partner. My last surviving parent, my mom, died in January. My siblings…we’ve never been close…although I do talk to one brother and my sisters from time to time. My closest friend died in 2020. I do have other friends, one is struggling with dementia. I have a couple of support groups I attend sporadically.

I get most of my self-worth from work. When I’m engaged in work…I am a Licensed Clinical Social Worker, by the way…I am in the flow. I love helping people. I am semi-retired now, taking assignments from time to time. I’m considering an assignment for a school-year position 10 hours from home…that “urge for going” working on me.
But…I have survived eleven years. I will continue to survive. I am hoping this exercise results in exorcise of the demons within.

Even Emperors Lose Kids to Suicide

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Tonight it will be nine years since I came home from work, at a psychiatric children’s home, to find my youngest son, then 22 years old, dead by suicide.

So far, the days leading up to today have been harder than today itself. Of course, I worked today, so I was distracted. I anticipate the coming days will also be hard as the anniversary of the aftermath, and his funeral, commence.

Usually I take this week off from work, but I don’t have that luxury this year. I did take a couple of days off to make a long holiday weekend and traveled to Slovakia, Hungary, and Austria on a bus tour. There were moments I found myself in tears as the memories popped up; and, when quite unexpectedly, while touring Schonbrunn Castle in Vienna and listening to an audio guide, I heard that Emperor Franz Joseph lost HIS only son to suicide.

What I find most overwhelming, this time, is this sense that I don’t have the RIGHT to feel such overwhelming grief – because I wasn’t enough. I didn’t love enough, didn’t do enough, that I failed him, and my other children, in so many ways. So I don’t DESERVE to grieve. The accusatory guilt rears its ugly head again and again.

I wish I could give myself just a fraction of the grace I give to others. I’m trying. I’m participating in a course, more like a retreat, dealing with healing trauma. And, I have reached out and scheduled an appointment with a new therapist here. My trauma therapist died tragically a few years ago. I have also reached out to my spiritual director, in the States, and we’re working on setting up phone sessions.

I do feel blessed to have this graced time to work on healing. I look forward to the next chapter.

Two Years Gone

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Two years ago today I buried my youngest child.

On July 5, 2014, at about 11:20pm, after getting off my shift as a residential counselor at a psychiatric children’s home for adolescent girls, I had difficulty opening my front door. The key and the door knob turned, but something was blocking my entry. I pushed against it, imagining the doormat had somehow turned up. It wasn’t the doormat. Someone had moved my ottoman in front of the door.

I don’t remember if the light was on or if I turned it on. I think I must have turned it on because there would have been no one home. To my horror, I found the cold, stiff, dead body of my son hanging from a beam in my living room.

I SCREAMED and SCREAMED. I muttered, “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God”, “No, no no”. And screamed. No one heard me. No one came. I’d dropped whatever I was carrying, looked at him, felt his body. I ran around in circles trying to find the house phone. It didn’t occur to me that I had a cell phone with me when I came in. 

I finally found the phone and dialed 911. It rang and rang. I tried again. Again it rang and rang. It was like one of those dreams when you’re calling for help and the call just won’t go through. Third time I finally got an operator. “911, where’s your emergency.” I answered her questions. Then she directed me to cut him down and start CPR. I knew he was gone. This was no longer my son. This was just the shell of who my son used to be.

Obediently, I found a pair of scissors. I held his body with one arm and cut the rope with the other. I lowered him to the floor and cut the noose from his neck. There was a deep, red groove. I tilted his head and began compressions. His mouth wouldn’t open. His jaw was clamped shut, no space between his teeth. I had the operator on speaker by now and asked if I could breathe through his nose. She said ok. I tried. I continued compressions until the police arrived, the whole time just hearing air escape as I pressed down. 

I was aware that he did not look distressed. There was no sign of struggle.

When the police arrived, an officer took me into the kitchen and directed me to sit down. I rocked and rocked and hyperventilated. He told me to “calm down”. I looked at him and heard what he said. I tried. In my head I said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” He was young.

Another officer took me upstairs. I tried to get into my bedroom, but I’d locked the door after hiding my son’s antidepressant in my nightstand to prevent him from taking another overdose. He had made three suicide attempts two years before. I couldn’t find the “key” to get in. I don’t think I ever found it.

And so I sat in his bedroom, on his bed. Still rocking. By myself. While police were downstairs. A detective came up to speak with me. He asked if he could call anyone. Did I want him to notify anyone? Did I want my cell phone to call anyone? I answered no to all. I finally found something…a screw driver, a paper clip…I don’t remember…and got my bedroom open. I grabbed my rosary, pulled out my meditation cushion and sat, praying the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. The detective popped his head in to ask me something. I responded.

At several points, the detective asked me if there was someone he could call to take me out of the house. I said no. I wasn’t leaving the house while my son’s cold, dead body was still there.

At some point I started making calls. I don’t remember in what order. I called his father ‘s cell phone, no answer. I left a message requesting a call back. I called his house phone, no answer. I left the same message. 

I called my oldest daughter and told her her brother was dead. She asked how he did it. I told her. She hung up on me.

I called my other son. He was horrified and continued to call me back throughout the night to check on me.

I called my other daughter. No answer. I don’t remember if I left a message. She recalls seeing the number in the morning as a missed call and thinking her brother had reached out to her and she missed him. So, maybe I didn’t leave a message. 

I called my neighbors, hoping to spend the night with them after everything was settled. No answer. I don’t think I left them a message.

I called my church and spoke with a priest who told me not to worry, that the funeral home would contact them and everything would be taken care of. He’d pray. I thought about asking him to let the deacons know but couldn’t put the words together.  

Finally, I called my ex-boyfriend, at work, an hour away. He said he’d come.

I hadn’t wanted to call him. He’d relapsed on alcohol earlier in the week. I’d been away on a (almost) cross-country trip. I called him the night before I was flying home and realized he’d been drinking. He picked me up the next day. I’d decided I didn’t want him completely out of my life. He went and got a script for Antabuse. That was June 30.

On July 4, I knocked on my son’s bedroom door. He wasn’t home but had left his air conditioner on. I went into the room to turn it off and opened a drawer looking for a shower curtain I’d put there while he was living elsewhere. I found drug store bags and empty cold medication packages. His drug of choice was DXM, dextromethorphan. He had relapsed as well. The receipt was dated the same day as the drunken call with my ex.

I went to work that night intending to discuss it with him when I got home. The discussion didn’t happen that night. He was either asleep or pretending to be.

Next morning, or maybe early afternoon, I knocked on his door, told him what I’d found – though I hadn’t been looking for anything. I asked him for his key. I told him he couldn’t be in the house when I wasn’t home…and I was leaving for work in a little bit. I told him, “My heart is broken”. I told him he had to be out of the house by Monday. This was Saturday.

When I was leaving for work, he walked out with me and sat at the table on the deck with his phone, which was not active for calling, but he was able to use the wireless internet connection from the house. I asked him if I could give him a ride anywhere. He said, “I have nowhere to go.” Those are the last words I heard from him.

I texted both of my daughters and his father letting them know what was going on. My daughters both responded that I was over-reacting. No response from his father. None of us had any sense of his being in trouble that day. And we have pretty good sixth sense.
I don’t know for sure how he got into the house. A couple of windows were unlocked, but the screens were in place. Some days later I found my garage was unlocked. I think I must have left it unlocked the last time I’d been in there. 

I was sure that I killed him. Although, intellectually, I know that’s not true, I still feel responsible from time to time. 

This year the anniversary seems even harder than last. Perhaps I was still in shock then. My then ex is back in my life. We’re living together now. He showed up that night. I cut him off for a while after the funeral, but we’re trying to make it work. He’s the only one, besides me and the police, who saw my son’s body that night. He’s sober.