Under A Weepy Black Fog

I don't know why this is happening now. I have felt awful for the last couple of days. Drawn back to the constant malaise I felt in the first couple of years after losing Justin. I'm feeling pretty crappy and am experiencing spontaneous crying spells. It's like a spiritual flu. I don't know if it's nervousness over my upcoming performance in the play that's adding the straw that's breaking me; Or the knowledge that Donnell is drinking again; Or the prolonged insecurity about the status of my mortgage. These all seem like small things compared to a life time without ever seeing my son again. His decision took so much from me. I don't think I can overcome all this. When it's finally all said and done, I will be glad. I may be coming to the same conclusion Justin did. That cessation of life is the only path to genuine peace and release. I think I lack his courage of convictions however. Part of me thinks this mood may be neuro-chemical. It's too sudden and sharp to be a response to environmental pressures, most of which I've been living with for years. I need to get past this. This is nearly intolerable.

What I'm Coming To Know

This is the first time since Justin's death that I've made a foray into drama and stage performance. I've been rehearsing for a production of “The Vagina Monologues” since early February. The performances are set for March 25th, 26th and 27th. This has been both challenging and invigorating for me at the same time, and along with my presentation at the NOPCAS conference two weeks ago it has helped me to know this. If I am to survive the tragedy of losing Justin, I must find a way to latch on and re-engage life in ways that matter and revitalize me. I believe one of the ways I can engage in what matters involves this cause of suicide awareness and prevention and my desire to commemorate Justin. Among the things I can do to renew and revitalize my life are writing and the dramatic arts. While other survivors have become activist in the area of suicide prevention, my way to do something that matters must somehow include writing and drama.

Of course, There are varying methods to bring attention to critical social issues and I'm coming to understand my way involves a blending of the written and spoken word into some kind of presentation that brings awareness of this issue to the broader community. It’s clear that brining this idea to fruition will not be easy. It will take all my creative abilities to make it happen. By creative abilities, I'm not referring to the creation of the written or spoken words themselves. I have already proved to myself I can do that. In this context, I'm referring to the ability to take a concept or idea and turn it into reality. The ability to create life experience in a self-actualized way rather than just letting life happen. I'm afraid I haven’t mastered this type of creative process. Yet this is what I must do to achieve the goal of a spoken word project that is seen by the public and spreads awareness of this awful, growing tragedy. Brining this vision to reality must be my goal. On a larger scale, the challenge is to be able to intentionally shape one's life; To be capable of growing mere ideas or concepts into being. That, I think, is the ultimate creative process. It is the God in us.

I believe Justin respected this ability above all others. He wanted us to create the lives we wanted for ourselves, and longed to be able to give this life to us, even if we were unable to do so. This ended up being much too much weight on his young shoulders. He could not carry us all there. But I believe with all my heart, if I could summon the creative power and energy to reconstruct my life to a self-actualized state, somehow Justin would know, and he would be oh, so proud

Word Portrait of Justin

As mentioned in my previous post, one of the things I wanted to accomplish in my talk at the NOPCAS conference this past Saturday was to present a clear picture of Justin’s spirit. A poem I wrote for him that attempts to do that was shared as a part of my presentation. It is shown below.

BELOVED PARADOX

My Beloved Paradox;

Seamless convergence of disparate things;

Unified and Splintered,

Whole and Torn,

Cynical with Innocence.

They don’t know how to reconcile

these ends of you, or how they blended

at your core.

And I grow impatient with explaining.

Yet it’s all I am compelled to do.

Marvels are hard to envision,

but they are worthy to be known.

So what can I say to

make them understand your

ancient, neophyte soul;

World weary at 24 years old?

Should I depict you, hunched in studies till two a.m.,

then rising at five for your ritual, pre-school workout?

Two hundred pound presses followed by lightning

quick kicks on three hours sleep.

No pain, No gain, no excuses.

How do I balance the steely perseverance that

pumped pre-dawn iron in middle school,

and that determination to bend life to your will,

with your deliberate, decisive, decision to let go?

The tenacious guardian of un-compromised,

single-minded belief,

stalked by merciless, unrelenting doubt.

Instinctive defender of the weak …..

Self appointed vanquisher of bullies everywhere,

who at times, expressed gruff indifference to

injustice’s inevitable tide.

How can I describe the joyful humor of your soul at play,

Eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back with laughter,

against the sullen refuge you took

to pursue your solitary path?

Rigid philosopher, unyielding on principal, stubborn with pride;

Rebuking the professor’s conventional notions,

Yet pausing in the hallway after class, listening intently to the

toothless cleaning man’s lecture on life.

How can I explain the fierce, warrior spirit; Bloodied knuckles

shattering boards, vowing no mercy, refusing captivity;

Against gentle hands that carried spiders outside,

rescuing them from my certain slaughter.

The large-eyed, serious child, struggling to keep up in class,

with the eloquent, earnest young man, holding assemblies

at rapt attention, master of complexity, advisor to

knowledge seekers twice your age.

How can I recapture visions of you focused in serine, lotus pose;

collapsing time into stillness.

The disciplined practitioner of patient meditation,

who could not wait?

How can I make sense to them of you,

reconcile your discordant edges;

fix you neatly in their box ?

My Beloved Paradox,

Seamless convergence of disparate things.

Wise and Naïve,

Proud and Humble,

Faithful and Questioning,

Steadfast and Changing,

Middle aged at 12 years old.

I grow impatient with explaining.

But I will speak your likeness to life.

For marvels are hard to envision,

but they are worthy to be known.

Forever,

You Mother
09/07

My Personal Milestone

This past weekend Donnell and I traveled to Boston to attend a conference for the National Organization for People of Color Against Suicide (NOPCAS). About a week before the event I was asked by the co-founder and president, Dr. Donna Barnes, to pinch hit for one of the speakers who was unable to attend. The first day of the two-day conference was dedicated to clinical and public policy discussion on the topic. Speakers on that day included mental and public health professionals with expertise in the field. The second day focused on survivors, and of course, that was the day I was asked to share my personal story on this life-changing experience. While the request was a bit intimidating at first, I jumped at the chance to share Justin with an audience who would understand the trauma of such a loss. I wanted more than anything to honor him by painting a verbal portrait of who he is; presenting both the beauty and complexity of his spirit.

What I believe resulted was a candid picture of where I am at this point in my grief journey. I shared the story of how I found him, and the deep, gaping, unhealed wound an experience like this leaves. I shared my on-going guilt about allowing him to slip through my fingers. That honesty was important for me. I am not among the survivors who focus on all the ways they supported their loved one and say’s they have no regrets. The truth is I have many regrets. For me to pretend otherwise, I believe, dishonors him.

The catharsis gained from sharing my grief was dwarfed by the opportunity to paint a vivid, three dimensional picture of Justin. While I was unaided by photos and visuals of him, I believe the people in the audience “saw” Justin clearly. One woman who had lost her son about six months ago asked for a copy of the poem I read entitled, "Beloved Paradox". She said she saw so much of her son’s spirit described in the words that she wanted it, and would someday have her surviving son read it publicly in memory of both our sons. She may not have known it, but she honored me in making that request and sharing those sentiments. I believe the words in that poem present at least one common profile of young men who ultimately take their lives. The woman’s surviving son who stood next to her quietly added, “They were idealists”. “Yes”, I told him. That as well would be a word not offered in the poem to describe Justin. Apparently, it gave them comfort to know another mother “saw” their loved one. I gave them contact cards I’d made up for the event and asked them to please e-mail me. We all hugged and departed as kindred spirits. This woman and I both had the privilege and challenge of nurturing similarly restless, loving, complicated souls. And we shared the anguish of losing them during our mortal life times. There are no words for how deep a connection that creates. We both felt and understood this.

While this was the deepest and most poignant, there were many other connections made during the conference. Even though we got there a day later than planned, missed day one of the event and paid considerably more to the airline to get there, it was a most worthwhile experience. Speaking the trauma associated with Justin’s loss before an audience, and sharing the joys of having had him in my life were milestones for me. It was the beginning of the end of isolation, mistrust and shame. It marked the launch of the "Spoken Word Project: Suicide Survivor Stories", that I am now convinced will someway, somehow become a reality. This opportunity was the first real step in finding my voice. And if in the process, I help create a vehicle for others to do the same, then it will be that much more wonderful. But raise my voice, I will.