Before They Were Suicides

Before they were suicides, they were our children.

All soiled hands and scrapped knees. Laughing; Playing

with abandon. As if time had no consequence;

As if forever was a given.

We could not see beyond the limit of their lifetime

then. Could not imagine the urn holding their

ashes, or the single rose on the coffin, lowered

slowly into the hard, cold ground.

Before their final struggle they were our babies.

Dimpled hands grasping wildly; New eyes shinning

smiles; Gleeful squeals under peppered kisses,

and raspberry blows on soft bellies.

I remember the way you gripped me; Legs

straddling my hip; Tiny arms circling my

neck; Holding on as if there were no options;

Clinging tight, as if your life depended on it.  

Before all faith was shattered they were believers; In Santa,

magic, and the tooth fairy. In the power of the dark

and monsters in the closet; That we could fix all

things; That we would never let them fall.

We believed kisses were the soothing balm for

bruises then, that simple band aides covered 

stinging wounds, and our squeezing hugs to

quiet bitter tears would always heal.

Before the mark of teens they were our toddlers.

Explorers on unsure, testing feet: Fearlessly consuming

life; Brave discoverers of worlds inside the

tiny universe we made for them.

And the first time you peddled the big wheel away

with dawning independence; Small and determined.

I always believed I could call you back again;

And that you would come.

Before they were statistics they were our beloved;

Restless, pensive, joyous and despairing; Embattled

keepers of conviction; Carriers of all our hopes;

Our dream into the future.

And in this anguished aftermath, this

bleeding, empty present; The vivid color of your 

lives will linger; And we will remember, before

you were a suicide, you were our child.

                                                 

Ann Woodly

Forever Justin’s Mom

September, 2010

How I’m Feeling It Today

I feel like I'm dying today. And so much would be solved by my death. It's been almost five years, and still I'm entering a time where I am in constant physical and psychological pain. Silent, convulsive tears took the place of sleep last night; left me with highly visible, red edged bags under my eyes, not to mention a dull headache. Good thing Donnell found my sun glasses yesterday. I haven’t had a night like that for some time, but it feels so familiar. Like it is my actual reality, and the weeks before that were really the exception. My soul is drowning; don't feel like I'll be making it to those "better days" waiting just around the corner. And I don't feel like holding out for remote possibilities. I awoke this morning with that persistent pain in my left leg, and my back felt wracked in a giant, aching spasm. I don't want to do this anymore. And as things are progressing, there seems to be only one way out of this mess. Today, it doesn’t feel like I’m ever going to become healthy in any way. Like Justin once implied, this is taking the slow, agonizing route home. I wish I could facilitate speeding up this journey somehow. But I'm not as brave as him. I’m your typical groveling, ambivalent coward, who is only different from the general population in that I have no illusions that continuing to live like this is courageous. That's a myth the despairing tell themselves to avoid facing the reality of their fear. But getting to the point where the fear of non-existence is less than the fear of a long, crawling, failed life is not easily accomplished. We become so used to it. And unlike Justin, most of us don’t have high enough standards to find this unacceptable.

Still, I’m feeling today like my body may make the end of this stalemate easy by leaving me no choice in this. I'm like a balloon with a tiny, steady, imperceptible leak. And my sprit seems to be instinctively moving into a period of mourning for my life. Maybe it will be over soon. And that would be totally o.k. Financial challenges for Deva solved! Sadly, that’s probably the best thing I have left to give her now. The best option I’ve got in supporting her promising life. It feels like the least I can do, and at this juncture it’s not much of a sacrifice at all. The only regret would be my unfinished tributes to Justin to mark the fact that he was here. Maybe Donnell could go on to make something meaningful of his tortured existence. At least he’ll have the funds to live comfortably. Whatever he chooses would be just fine with me at this point; no hostilities about that at all. It’s too late to fix the things that can’t be salvaged.  

And if there is an afterlife, some other option to rotting in the ground, perhaps I’ll see my son again. And I can tell him once and for all how sorry I am. And let him know how deeply proud I am of him.