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.