Absent

I've been absent from this space for several months now. There are a multitude of reasons, some of them conflicting. Sometimes I've been too busy. Other times, my absence had more to do with being distracted. Still other times, my reason for not posting is just because I've been unfocused and lacked the energy. This morning I got up and out of the house later than usual, largely because I felt emotionally lethargic; hopeless; wanting to not have to live this life anymore. I felt as if there was no meaningful reason to get up and continue this awful slog. I wanted not to have to get up again at all. As of 2:00 p.m. I still feel that way.


I saw my grandbaby Vaughn this past weekend. His mom and dad brought him for a visit. They stayed at a hotel instead of my house; the house my daughter and son grew up in. There are so many reasons this fact hurts so much. All of them are emblematic of my failure as a mother; my failure to make a place my children would want to come back to. In my mind In my mind, this mirrors the uselessness of my failed life. I am 57 years old. Past the point of assuming things will change for the better beyond the next bend in the road. I'm arriving at the conclusion, and this is pretty much it; the sum total of things; how my life has turned out. And I don't want this life. I feel like I imagine I'd feel with a painful, terminal illness. If this is as good as it's going to get, I prefer not to do it anymore.


I am so in love with my grand child. He is purely, deeply beautiful. But I believe he'll be just fine without me. I don't do him justice with such a morose, distracted split mind. He deserves more than the splintered bits of my soul that remain alive. And today, it just doesn't feel as if there's anything I'll ever be able to do about that. And the most awful thing is I'm sure there are bad things still coming.

"Trouble in the air. I don't want it. But I've got to breath. It's

coming through the door,

behind the shadows that surround me when I sleep."

The saving grace is that it's all down hill from here. I believe I've reached the zenith of how bad living can be. Instantaneously eviscerated while standing. The rest is just falling. That's exactly what I'm doing now. I'm falling down. Once that happens, I suspect I won't want to get up. And the strange thing is, at this very moment, that probability doesn't matter to me one bit.

My Crystallizing Idea

I was recently a part of the cast of Atlanta's 2010 Vagina Monologues production. It was another affirming, cathartic experience but it seems right now like it was a hundred years ago. I need something to feed my soul on an on-going basis. If not, I succumb to the most awful, pervasive feeling of empty grief. Finding that next thing to engage my attention and energy is the difficult thing. Since the VM show, I feel like I've returned to that desire to just go home from work and take to the bed for the rest of the evening. That was my pattern in the many months following Justin's death. Even with the impending birth of my first grandchild I am caught in a thick malaise and think about Justin’s absence nearly every minute of the day. I know I have to somehow combine my focus on Justin with some project that engages my creative energy. While its barely paying the bills, the work I'm doing right now is void of satisfaction, so I've got to make this connection in some other area of my life. One good thing is my involvement in the VM production helped me crystallize my idea for the production I envision that’s now titled "The Spoken Word Project: Suicide Survivor Stories." I want this dramatic piece to have a similar format to the VM production we did a little over a week ago. The seven actresses who participated were seated in different places on a multi-level stage. At different points we stood and came forward slightly to deliver our lines/monologues and at other times we shared what were typically shorter lines while seated, sometimes in unison. It made for a dynamic presentation that had a lot of energy and visual interest and seemed equally suitable for the comic and dramatic parts of the show.

If a small group of six to seven performers (all parents of suicides) could be staged in this way to deliver lines, poems and monologues on the topic, I think it could be a very powerful piece that educates the audience about suicide and brings the people our children were to life at the same time. I've already composed a draft script, but it focuses solely on Justin and my struggles as a survivor. Ultimately, my goal is to incorporate the diverse voices of five to six others to create an illuminating, moving and at times, tenderly funny theater experience. In addition to line and monologue delivery by the stage performers, I envision a large screened backdrop with an audio visual presentation synchronized with the live performance. This feature would include pictures/video of our children, facts about suicide and other visual imagery along with appropriate music (songs and instrumentals).

Now my challenge is to pull together an updated script template based on these ideas sufficient to attract other parents who might like to participate and can visualize the goals of such a piece. Rather than make it a requirement to memorize all the lines, it should initially be performed as a reading theater like the early VM performances. While the written material and performances must be worthy of a dramatic theater piece, it is most important that the production be an authentic expression of real parents who are going through this awful tragedy. This vision is so clear to me now, but it all feels so awesome. Achieving this will require me to be part script writer, part talent recruiter, part director, and part collaborator with other creative parents in shaping this project. That’s not even including the promotional aspect of getting venues to present the piece. Yet I know this is what I want to/need to do. It’s a key activity to help me with the on-going challenge of retaining my sanity and to move forward in this life-long grief journey. Unfortunately, the bed-ridden malaise has been calling a lot lately, making productive activity a trial. I must try to pull it together and marshal a self generated burst of energy to make this creative vision happen. It's a struggle right now. Please wish me encouragement and luck. And please, pray for me.

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.

Your Latest Visit

I cannot remember the precise content,

or the wordless understanding brought in dreams.

All I know is that I felt you.

Sensed you gently:

identified your thought and spirit clearly.

Your presence deliberately subtle;

suggesting a wisdom this was as much

as I could stand just yet.

You came to me a tender,

soft communication

to let me know,

I’m here Mom.

I’m still with you.

It’s going to be O.K.

Forever,

Your Mother

2/18/10

Connections

I am making two major trips in the coming four months. One is for my daughter, Deva, who is expecting her first child (my first grand child) in May, and one is for my son, Justin, who we lost to suicide in June of 2006. The trip for my daughter is to be there in Chicago when she gives birth, and support her and her hubby in the first few weeks home with the baby. The trip for my son is to attend a conference for suicide survivors in Boston taking place at the end of February. It is a forum to meet other survivors and keep the person who Justin was alive and vital. While I'm making these trips for my children, if I'm honest I must acknowledge they  are really for me. The purpose and mission for both these journeys helps me maintain a connection to my children that I need. Maintaining these connections keeps me going and makes my life matter. Maintaining these connections keeps me sane.

And if I will not be attending my son's wedding, or rushing to be there when his first child is born, then at least I can do this. It's more than a simple remembrance, it's making a pilgrimage to honor him and mark the central importance he has, and will always have in my life. Part of the need to do this may be because his loss is so recent. It's been less than four years since he left us. But even if the unimaginable happens, and I live to be very old, I sense I will always have this need to give Justin my attention. In the same way Deva will always be my daughter, Justin will always be my son. That will be the case for as long as I live. In some ways this pilgrimage is an indefinite journey.

Unanswered

If you had gotten past that lethal patch of life,

moved through it to reach the other side,

Who would you have become?

If you had lived to manifest the full measure

of your talents, contributing all your gifts,

What lives would you have touched?

If that day had ended with more resolve than anger,
and your determination to buck life trends by living,

What could you have accomplished?

If those speaking at the memorial service had
stayed in touch and called you on that day,

Would you have gone to visit them instead?

If I had stopped you on your way out the door,

professed unyielding support and belief in you,

Would you have greeted me that evening wanting to talk?

If your father had faced his demons upright
and strong, showing you endurance by example,

Would you have held on to belief in the future?

If I had listened to you with respect and reverence,

sought your guidance, demonstrated high regard,

Would you have survived withering doubt?

If at the moment of your decision you envisioned

me handcuffed, forehead smashing into the car,

Would you have stepped down from that stool?

If you had foreseen the bleeding, terminal

wound your departure would rip open,

Would you have chosen death anyway?

Forever,

Your Mother
1/21/10

Visitation

The other evening, Justin made a nocturnal visit to his father and it made all the difference in the world. He visited him in a dream at a time when his dad was struggling with doing the right thing. And his influence moved his dad to overcome fear, facilitated enlightened action and supported him in facing one of his most difficult demons. In this instance, Justin’s visitation helped his dad overcome the pride, anger and resentment that continue to threaten, allowing him to marshal the strength to take a step he was resisting and would otherwise not have taken. It was a crucial step moving our family further on a path towards healing, even in the awful void of missing him. And while I continue to wish for my own personal message from Justin; my time to feel his presence with me, I am content to know he took this time with his father and I feel more than ever that he is O.K., that he has found the peace he wants for us, and that he is watching.

Another Year

Another year of missing you ..... of you not being here ...... of not hearing your voice on the other end of the phone, or sitting in your company during holiday visits home. This missing you will never end, I think; no matter how long I live.