Recovery from suicide, spiritual growth, grief
Here are some beautiful pictures of Treehaven. What is Treehaven? Read about it here. These pictures were taken by John, a mountain biker who discovered the site and became a subscriber to this blog. John kindly tends to the site, picking up trash and keeping it looking lovely. Thanks, John!
A couple of years after Nico died, I decided to get a tattoo. My intent was not only to memorialize him, but to mark my body in a ritualistic manner, to incorporate the loss into my physical being. I also wanted a visual reminder of him, something I could look at daily and remember him by.
I chose a tattoo of three birds flying together (pictured above). The birds are sparrows, and symbolize a return to home, freedom, and peace. When I look at it, I know my son is free and at peace and this comforts me.
I love it…but it is quite ordinary. So, when someone comments on it to say more than “nice tat,” I often feel compelled to explain its significance. It’s funny, but somehow the people I need to share my story with seem to be drawn to my tattoo. I will get a strange sensation during these encounters, as if the universe has thrown us together for a reason.
I first had this experience with a massage therapist who couldn’t get over my tattoo. I thought this was strange, because I’m sure she sees a lot of tattoos that are nicer than mine. She was really taken with it though, and I ended up sharing my story of losing Nico. She was shocked and shared that she had just suffered a miscarriage and was grieving the loss of her child. This grief was compounded by others minimizing her loss because the baby was unborn. You can find that post, “Divine Therapeutic Intervention,” here.
Last summer, I had this experience again with a customer and her daughter who had come to shop at the nursery department of the store where I work. I had spent some time helping them select plants and as they were preparing to leave, the mother looked at my arm and exclaimed, “Tell me what your tattoo means!” I was surprised, because as I said, I find the tattoo to be quite pedestrian. I wondered why she assumed it had any meaning at all- it’s just three birds.
I hesitated to answer. When I tell people my tattoo memorializes my dead son, the mood quickly changes and people fall into two camps; those who want to know all the details and those who make an abrupt exit, visibly distressed by the unexpected connection to death.
“Um, do you really want to know?” I said, with a nervous laugh, and followed up with something like, “No, you probably would rather not.” But the mother, now even more intrigued, insisted emphatically that she really wanted to know what it meant.
I took a deep breath and explained that I had lost my son and this was a tattoo to memorialize him. She seemed a little stunned, then shared that she had lost two sons, one to illness and one to a drug overdose.
We had a long conversation about how it feels to lose a child and how society treats the losses of illness, drug overdose and suicide very differently, which affects the grieving process for the parent. I explore this in my post “The Stigma of Suicide,” which can be read here.
After we said our goodbyes, I wondered why people who have lost a child seem drawn to this tattoo. Could it be the spirit of the lost child that leads them to me, as if to say, “Talk to this lady mom, she understands what you’re going through. You are birds of a feather.” *
I’m glad I can connect with grieving parents this way, because grief can really isolate you. It’s good for us to share our stories and know we are not alone in our grief.
*An old expression meaning people who are similar in some way.
Before I lost Nico, I thought signs were something people imagined because they missed their loved ones so much. I thought they read into things, and made something out of nothing.
After the loss, my thinking changed completely, after receiving some very clear signs from my son. Although he had sent me signs on my dad’s birthday (in March, 3 months after Nico died, read post here) the sign he sent on my first Mother’s Day without him was shocking and confusing (read post here). I felt so many different emotions; relief, love, hope, even a little fear. I suddenly felt between the worlds-the living and the “dead.” I saw a place where both existed together, and it threw me into chaos. “You’re still here, somehow? You’re dead but you can communicate with me?”
It made letting go messy instead of neat. It would have been simpler if I just had to accept he was gone and I would never see him again. I had to rethink what death meant and it took me quite a while to come to a peaceful place about it. I still have many more questions than answers, but the bottom line is I can and do communicate with my son.
Often.
His signs have become less frequent over the years, but they never cease to impress and comfort me. Often, a sign will come when I’m not even thinking about him…and yet there it is, right in my face… something so significant that I couldn’t possibly deny that it is coming from Nico. I feel it in my body, know it in my soul. Intuition tells me that it is real and not just wishful thinking or coincidence.
Sometimes it feels as though he’s jumping up and down, waving his hands in the air, trying so very hard to get through to me – almost shouting, “I’m here, you’re not alone, I love you!”
From what I’ve read about the “other side”, our loved ones are not far away at all. In fact, many assert that they are right here next to us, just in a different form and different dimension.
I know my son comes through to me because we miss each other so much. He wants me to know that he didn’t go away, he just changed. It sounds so simple, but it’s very hard to embrace that change. That is the challenge I face every day.
But of one thing I am sure; love never dies, and that is what his signs are all about. The bonds of love transcend death, no question.
Have you ever seen this meme on FaceBook? “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” My blood boils when I see this or similar statements. Clinical depression is not a temporary problem!
There is a huge difference between clinical depression and a “sad mood.” Clinical depression is not something you can “snap out of.” It is not cured by chocolate cake, sex, or a shopping spree. It is a persistent medical condition, with a set of pervasive, overwhelming symptoms. Most experts agree clinical depression is due to an imbalance of neurotransmitters in the brain. Some people with depression choose to end their lives because they feel trapped and see no other way to escape their pain.
Like my son, I am afflicted with clinical depression. During a recent, acute episode, I had an epiphany about Nico. I realized how much pain he must have been in due to his clinical depression. Despite medical treatment, it caused him to take his own life.
I wanted to write about how depression feels, partly as therapy, but also so others can better understand what it feels like. I can only write about my own experience, but from what I’ve read, many people with clinical depression have similar feelings and sensations.
What it’s like…
My friend once asked me what depression felt like. I struggled to describe it in a non-depressed state. But as depression grips me now, I can.
Suffocation, desolation, utter hopelessness. A crushing pain, a sense of impending doom, like nothing will ever be okay again…ever.
Trapped in a vacuum of despair, stealing my breath, paralyzing me. It poisons me from the inside and crushes me from the outside. I feel hollow, like my guts have been scooped out.
Heaviness. As if I am saddled with a 1,000 pound weight. It stops me from attempting even the simplest of things. When I gather the will to try, I’m filled with the sensation of something holding me back. There’s a feeling of helplessness, then anxiety, like being stuck at the bottom of a deep, dark hole, with no ability to escape. Just thinking about trying can feel exhausting.
I’m stuck in this awful place and I’m scared the feelings will never stop.
That’s what it’s like to have clinical depression.
I know Nico was feeling this and I didn’t realize how bad it was. He was unable to articulate what he was feeling, so I believe he felt alone, and hopeless about breaking out of his depressed state.
It breaks my heart that I couldn’t help him, but perhaps this post will help someone else realize they are not alone, and seek help.
Note: I am fortunate enough to have an excellent therapist, so I will be okay. But I felt it was important to show what it feels like, for me anyway, to be in the depths of despair to help people understand why suicide happens.
When a child dies of cancer, you get mad at cancer. When a child is killed by a drunk driver, you want that person to pay for his crime.
When a child commits suicide…Who do you get angry at? Your child?
What can you do with that anger? There’s no place to direct it, nobody and nothing to blame. It’s just another unique piece of the grief puzzle when you are grieving a suicide.
Of course, to varying degrees, many parents blame themselves for their child’s suicide. I would be lying if I said I felt completely blameless. If I had done something differently, and I have a list of those somethings, would he have stayed?
That’s not to say I feel responsible for his choice to end his life, but as a parents, don’t we all feel some accountability for our children’s actions? If our child is rude, we become embarrassed and admonish ourselves for not teaching him better manners. If our child fails a class, we criticize ourselves for not getting a tutor and for not keeping a closer eye on their schoolwork.
It’s difficult to know what to do with the anger and anguish I feel from my child’s suicide. I cant direct my anger at him for leaving. I understand that his pain had become unbearable and he had to go. I thought I knew how much pain he was in, but I guess I was only seeing the tip of the iceberg.
It’s kind of an unsettled feeling, having nobody and nothing to point your grief gun at, having nothing to direct your anger towards, no one to rage against. I do believe it interfere’s with my ability to process my grief.
For a while, I processed that grief by creating a garden at Treehaven and keeping the journal in the woods going. Then, it was this blog. In the last year or so, I’ve too busy, tired or I don’t know what else to write as much as I did in the beginning. I think not having an outlet has made my grief stronger.
Sometimes, I feel trapped in a bell jar, unable to escape the vacuum of my grief. Stuck. Under glass, I appear normal to the outside world, but inside, my grief is slowly suffocating me. Somehow, I keep going. I really don’t know how, but I do.
For those of you unfamiliar with the term, a “double whammy” is “a combination of two usually adverse forces, circumstances, or effects,” according to Merriam-Webster.
For me, May is the month of the double whammy.
The first occurs on May 3rd, my son’s birthday. For many people, the birthday of a loved one who has passed is a powerful trigger for renewed grief, and I’m no exception. Secondary losses abound (read post about secondary losses here). What would he be like today? What could he have accomplished? I think of past birthdays, especially when he was little…the bowling parties, homemade layer cakes decorated with toy trains, his 21st birthday, when he asked me to take him to the liquor store because he was “legal” and wanted to buy alcohol. His choices? Sangria and cinnamon whiskey. Sweet, candy choices, as if he were still a child.
Only days after his birthday, the worst whammy comes; Mother’s Day. I have written previous posts (read here), about how difficult Mother’s Day is, and why. It hasn’t gotten easier. Last year (my second Mother’s Day without Nico) I was so miserable that I decided I just couldn’t celebrate Mother’s Day in a restaurant with my mom. It was just too painful, too hard. I’m grateful she understood. We will make a new Mother’s Day tradition and celebrate the night before.
I have well-meaning friends who make Mother’s Day worse by wishing me a “Happy Mother’s Day.” This usually occurs on Facebook, in the form of writing on my wall. I think they are trying to comfort me by reaffirming my status as a mom, which was thrown into question when my only child died. I guess they don’t want me to feel “robbed” of my motherhood status because I no longer have a child. But the simple truth is, I will never have a happy Mother’s Day.
Ever.
I actually deactivated my Facebook account to avoid seeing the numerous Mother’s Day posts and to eliminate the possibility of friends writing on my wall. It’s a small way I can sort of control the uncontrollable fact that Mother’s Day is coming.
The calendar is really cruel to people who have lost loved ones. Every year the trigger days come; Mother’s Day, birthday, anniversary of death. The days just come at you, like a hail of bullets, or maybe more like a catapult from medieval times. Here it comes, a giant boulder, heading directly for you in slow motion. You’ve got days and weeks before the trigger day to dread it, ignore it, and figure out how you’re going to deal with it or hide from it. You can’t avoid it, it’s coming at you, ready or not. The calendar doesn’t care about your current state of mind or circumstances in life, which may make trigger days worse, (a breakup, sick relative, job loss, etc.), it just lumbers on toward you, like a giant cyclops wielding a primitive club, eager to knock you to the ground with another blow of grief and despair.
He gets to hit me twice in May, that over-achieving cyclops…
So what can I do? I try to avoid Mother’s Day, but it really is impossible to. At least I will be working on that day and hopefully will not encounter too many families celebrating Mother’s Day. I’m hoping that keeping busy will make the day go faster and get me out of my “double whammy” funk sooner.
Then, all I have to do is get through the rest of my life without my beautiful boy…
Around this time last year I treated myself to a BOGO deal at Hand and Stone and got two massages for the price of one. I used the first one right away, but held on to the second until today, since massages are something of a luxury for me.
I called on Thursday to book a massage for Friday, but when I arrived, there was no record of my appointment. Of course, I was both disappointed and annoyed. I was looking forward to (and desperately needed) a good massage, it was a bright spot in an otherwise bleak existence lately. They offered up the next available appointment, which was 1:00 on Sunday. I graciously accepted it, my disappointment tempered by the free upgrade on my massage…score!
I arrived on Sunday and met my massage therapist, a lovely young woman named Johanna. I had no idea we were about to share a most extraordinary spiritual journey that neither of us expected, but both of us needed so very much.
I’m usually pretty quiet during a massage. I like to focus on the tranquility of the experience and talking usually interferes with that. However, once Johanna noticed my tattoo, a conversation started. She was quite taken with it, and kept looking at it, searching for words to describe how it made her feel, but all she could really say was, “Wow,” and, “It’s so beautiful.” This kind of surprised me, because although I often get complements on my tattoo (pictured here) it’s pretty simple and not especially unique. My tattoo artist (Timmy of Timmy’s Tattoo in Huntington, NY) did do an excellent job capturing the gentleness and freedom of the birds in flight. It’s body art I wear proudly.
She went on to say that as a massage therapist, she sees many tattoos but this one was so special. Still, she couldn’t quite articulate just why she loved it. I felt compelled to explain its significance. I explained that I had lost my only son to suicide and that I got this tattoo on the second anniversary of the loss. It helps me remember that he is always with me, and is free and happy now. The swallows are a symbol of faith and return home. I told Johanna I’d recently realized that the birds are flying directly toward my heart. My son lives there always.
For me, the tattoo is a piece of Nico that I can hold on to, kind of a snapshot of his soaring spirit. I needed something tangible because the toughest part of his death was losing the (physical) person. I’ve come to the understanding that it was Nico’s soul that I loved, I just came to know it through his body.
Johanna, of course, expressed her condolences, and almost immediately shared that she had recently suffered a crushing loss, a miscarriage. Perhaps that’s why the tattoo intrigued her, perhaps she somehow sensed its significance. I told her I was so sorry for her loss, and that people don’t understand how devastating a miscarriage is. You have lost a child, but people tend to brush it off as a less legitimate death than a full term child. The loss is huge, and made worse by people who minimize it. The grief is complicated by the loss of the child’s future, and all the things she will never experience. These are “secondary losses” and a very difficult part of the grieving process. (See posts 50 Shades of Grief, The Stigma of Suicide).
Johanna had indeed experienced these things and it was hard, but she was trying to move through it. I told her about my blog, and how I try to use my experiences to help others. I shared what I’ve learned about riding the waves of grief and not beating myself up when I feel better then feel intense grief again. Grief is a shape-shifter, changing with the ebb and flow of one’s life. It never completely goes away, but time does make the pain different, less crippling. For more on these ideas see these posts: My Constant Companion, Is There a Right Way to Grieve?
Johanna and I talked about how uncomfortable loss makes people, especially suicide and miscarriages. They tend to brush aside your loss awkwardly or insensitively because they just don’t know how to deal with it, making the grief process even harder. We vented about how frustrating and hurtful it was. It felt good to talk to someone who understood how I felt. (See post The Stigma of Suicide)
I shared many of my “Nico Stories” with Johanna. Stories of how Nico shows up and sends signs and communications not only to me, but family, friends, and even strangers who’ve heard the stories. Nico makes his presence known… He gets around! Johanna was truly touched by the stories and I believe they brought her some comfort, I hope so. (Posts here, and here on Nico’s signs).
We talked and talked while she gave me the most awesome massage, time flew by and she remarked that she felt uplifted by our conversation, “I feel like I’m the one getting a massage!” she joked. There was a great spiritual connection between us, one that I’m certain her lost child and mine conspired to create…
Johanna felt it was a sign that we met today because she does not usually work Sundays. When I told her that I only got this appointment because my booking on Friday had mysteriously disappeared, we both got chills and cried a bit. We knew there were other forces at work today. Forces of loved ones trying to comfort us.
And as if that weren’t enough, Johanna said that when she saw my name, she felt it was a sign. She began to say with sadness, “You see, Victoria was…” I was overcome with emotion and interrupted her, “Oh! You lost a little girl! You were going to name her…” “Victoria,” she finished. We cried and clasped hands.
It was so beautiful to connect with a stranger like that. I know our loved ones who had passed brought us together so we weren’t alone in our grief. Feeling alone and isolated is such a huge part of the sadness, something I didn’t realize until now… But we weren’t alone today, we were two moms grieving our lost babies together and giving each other comfort. I know I felt them around us. I think she did too.
We had lost all track of time. In this little massage room, the spiritual air was thick, and we definitely left earth for awhile to travel in the spiritual realm. A journey we were happily hijacked on.
As we said our goodbyes, I felt like I needed to hug Johanna. I sheepishly asked if it was okay if I gave her a hug. She hugged me like a long-lost sister, a long, tight embrace that all at once transmitted our shared grief, hope, and deep love for our lost children.
It was incredibly healing.
How many times have you heard it? You know, “Get over it,” “Let it go,” “Forgive,” …and then beat yourself up because you couldn’t do it.
In my spiritual development and bereavement process I’ve delved deeply into the concept of letting go. I’ve struggled with this in my relationships as well as with my losses of loved ones. “Forgiveness,” “letting go”, “get over it”, etc. are all poorly defined terms, yet we attach so much importance to them. No wonder we are confused and broken, feeling “less than” because we can’t seem to accomplish this seemingly simple task. What could be easier than letting go? Just stop, release, drop it.
Yeah, right. Don’t drink the spiritual Kool-Aid.
Literally, “let go” means to drop it, take it out of your life. “I was let go from my job,” “He let go, and fell to his death.” There is a finality implied to letting go, once you do it you are magically free of whatever held you back…forever.
But we often can’t let go completely. Why? Because it’s just not that simple.
What we can do, is try to reduce the event’s impact on our lives. We can examine the emotions cemented to the event, which may include past hurts, and try to neutralize the volatility of the event. It’s these emotions attached to the event that are the anchor that keeps us from letting go.
So we do what we can as humans to move past difficult events in our lives. I define “letting go,” as not being in a constant state of pain and longing because of a difficult loss. Because that would cause you to miss the beauty of the moments unfolding before you, and that, is what spirituality is all about…staying open despite the pain, speaking and actively loving those who’ve passed, and not letting anger, sadness, or bitterness color and control your life to the point that it defines it.
So don’t believe the hype…the myth of letting go. It’s not a simple thing at all, and it has to come from within; through introspection, self-love and hard work. From being honest with yourself, owning your emotions and not blaming things on outside forces.
For me, letting go meant resisting the urge to push away strong feelings and instead, giving myself permission to grieve and feel the full spectrum of my emotions.
It’s ironic, but to release those difficult emotions, you have to embrace them first. Not easy.
Maybe, that is what we are here for, to bridge the human and the divine, to learn how to let go and allow our volition to decide our path, not our history or our emotions.
I was very touched to see that someone had created a small memorial at Treehaven for Nico. It has been there since April and so far, remains untouched. I hope it stays that way!
I also hope that some friends who used to write in the journal have found this site and can see that most of the journal was saved.
One of my purposes for creating this site was to encourage people to continue to share their stories here, as they did in the journal at Treehaven. Although the very unique and beautiful energy of Treehaven is not here online, I still hope friends will continue to share their stories and experiences here, especially those who are struggling with grief and/or depression.
I have done some planting at the entrance to Treehaven. It doesn’t look like much now, but hopefully by next summer it will look good. I almost couldn’t find Treehaven when I went to plant, it is in full summer mode, all overgrown with grass and wild plants. Quite beautiful and magical.
**Re-post**
The trouble with Mother’s Day is that it can’t be avoided. You can’t hide from it. The buildup begins weeks before the day. From television commercials to ads for gifts and restaurants, you just can’t avoid having Mother’s Day in your face.
Then, there is the day itself. “Happy Mother’s Day!” is the common greeting. Well, no, it isn’t a happy Mother’s Day and I don’t think it ever will be. But I can’t blame people for saying it. How could they know my secret, awful pain?
When my son died, it threw my identity into crisis. For the past 21 years my primary job was to be a mom to my only child. It took a lot of perseverance and love to raise him right. Now that he is gone, what is my focus? Am I still a mom? What do I say to people who ask me if I have children? I’m still working on these questions.
When difficult days come up like the anniversary date of Nico’s death or his birthday, I try to ignore the significance of the day. I guess it’s a kind of denial. I have some resentment about these days. They come whether I’m ready for them or not and sometimes that makes me angry. It’s like watching a torpedo come at you in slow motion. You can’t escape it, you’re not sure what to expect, but it’s probably not going to be good. You’re forced to deal with your emotions on the calendar’s schedule instead of your own.
I guess that’s part of working through the grief process; learning to deal with the loss when you’d really rather not think about it, but are forced to.
