Every time I hear a parent has lost someone to suicide, I breaks my heart to think of the journey ahead of them.
Those feelings that your love was not enough to keep your child here.
Those feelings that your child made a choice to leave you.
Those thoughts that you could have done something to prevent this and the awful recurring coulda, woulda, shouldas that plague you for days, months and even years after.
The fear of not knowing what lies ahead or how to manage life going forward. How do you keep a job? How do you stay married? How do you do normal life things? How do you make it through their birthday or the holidays? How do you answer the question, “How many children do you have?”
The agony of the “why?” The reality that in that moment of intense emotional pain, a loved one acted on irrational thoughts that you cannot change or alter.
The days of waking up and realizing that it’s reality and not a bad dream.
There are no magic words to say. Nothing can be done to fix it.
So how did I nurse myself through those first awful days and weeks after Charles’ suicide?
I told myself it can never ever hurt as much as the moment when I first found out. That part is over. And if I managed to survive that, I can manage to survive anything.
This agonizing experience can transform you from an ordinary human being into an extraordinary one. If you let it.
6 thoughts on “A journey of agony”
It’s been 820 days and 61
minutes since I got the fateful call “he hung himself”. But who’s counting. I had a major positive milestone the other day. All along people who nicely wanted to make things right would say think of all the good things Daniel brought. I would always tell them I can’t because I am overwhelmed with the catastrophic event which is so true. They can’t make it right. But the other day I actually had an untainted, albeit fleeting, moment where I said to myself “I’m lucky to have known him”. That’s major. Christmas holiday is coming though. I’m hunkering down.
I’m glad you can celebrate the flickers. Because it’s those little embers that kindle into bigger things I believe. I’ve had many of them but I can’t say I’m in full blown ‘loving memory mode.’
Thank you Gray. Love having you here as part of the village. Means so much to me.
Thank you, Anne Moss. I love this. —-and thank you for yesterday.❤️
You are welcome