Suicide is loss of hope.
And certainly after you lose a child by suicide, your sense of hope is hard to find. What do you do after you lose one of the people that gives your life meaning?
The pain of losing my child by suicide was relentless at first until I just went numb and catatonic. That numbness is your body’s only defense to the onslaught of unbearable agony.
Yet through all that despair, I desperately held onto that tiny shred of hope that was going to keep me alive, keep me moving forward. I held onto it with everything I had. That awful night, my son and the rest of my family helped me do that.
My husband and I both decided that very night that we were still alive, that we still had a lot to live for despite the fact we were emotionally crushed. Giving up was simply not an option.
We did not, could not let that pilot light of hope go out.
Even after the most devastating loss of my life, I still have hope–hope that I can make a difference. Hope that I can help another family avoid standing in the shoes I stand in now. Hope that I can and will find joy in my life. Hope that I will learn to redefine myself and my life after Charles’ death.
If you are reading this now and feeling like you have nothing left, you have to find that tiny flicker of hope and hold onto it.
You found this article for a reason and I’m asking you to dig deep and make it just one more hour, then another and then another.
Whatever plagues you, you can rise from the ashes of despair and find your way. And you can grow from it. Learn from it. Move with it or past it.
Use your pain as inspiration. Funnel it into a passion that gives your life meaning. I am rooting for you. As I know you are for me.
2 thoughts on “To those who need it now, don’t let that pilot light of hope burn out”
I’m trying to find my way out of thickets with sharp thorns. But it’s more and more painful. Hope is something I can only imagine right now. And the answer to that which I hope remains buried. Where is even a flicker of hope? What I see is Dylan’s death in front of me; nothing else is visible. What I see For life remaining has been stolen and swallowed by death’s pall. Go on I must, but all seen is now through this horrific filter called grief.
It’s so intense at first it does completely take over. But that is not permanent. It feels like it. But because it’s so all encompassing, you can’t see anything in front of you. It all looks bleak. You must find support for yourself and I would suggest some part time hours. You have to get out of the house or it will take you over. Especially at such a dreary time of year. You will get through this. And it won’t always be this painful.