Friday, May 31, 2013
Response To Another Mother Of A Beloved Lost Child
The following post is a response to another mother who lost her son to suicide recently (April of 2012). Her name is Jill, and her son, Charlie, was just a few months over 12 years old when he took his life. Jill and I are members of an on-line support group called POS (Parents of Suicide) whose participants share feelings and experiences about their loss. The sentiments she expressed resonated so much with me. In the following excerpt from her post, Jill describes her existence in the aftermath of Charlie's death.
"The obliteration of all of your dreams at once. The knowledge that any path you take from here will
never be an acceptable change in direction. Nothing we do from here will make my life what it should have been. I have handled a lot of abrupt turns in the course of my life. This isn't a turn. Not one thing that happens after the death of Charlie will ever be greater than the pain of his loss. The rest of my days
are to be survived, endured. The most I hope for is to minimize the torture and pain. ........ Damn, it's a long march to my grave from here."
My response:
Hi Jill,
I seldom post, but your comments here caught my attention, and they totally resonate with me.
June 30, 2013 will mark seven years since I saw my son Justin, or heard his voice (except on family videos). I'm not one to tell you how this pain will become more gentle in the future. Everyone has their own journey. All I can tell you is, while my pain has changed, it's still very much there. It's no longer the "hair on fire" jump out of my skin kind of pain that only a loss of consciousness can diminish. Now, it's more like a slow burn. It's like an old injury from a disfiguring, nearly mortal wound. And it aches chronically. Sometimes I can successfully ignore the pain. Other times it breaks through with a vengeance, only easing up after I take to the bed for a time out. Sometimes the time outs are aided by generic xanyx medication. Other times, simple exhaustion from brief, intense crying jags do the trick. These episodes happen regularly. During the periods when the chronic pain is more muted, I can bask in the warmth of a POS retreat; I can enjoy a good movie or talking with friends; I can get excited about pictures my daughter emails me of my grandson, or look forward to holding him in my lap during our next planned visit to NY. And while the muted pain is always there, lurking beneath current events, it doesn't stop me from feeling the joy of that particular moment.
I suspect this negotiated truce with full-on pain is as good as it's gonna get though. I believe it will always threaten. Sometimes it will take charge. But I'll continue to surf through it until it retreats to its underground lair. And it'll wait there for me until the next time. I'm a good bit older than you Jill, but I must agree, the rest of my life (however long or short it is) feels like it's gonna be a long, hard slog. In the meantime, the best I can hope for are as many moments as possible where the joy surfaces, and the pain is muted. I continue to hope such moments are worth it, or that I'll move into some increased level of awareness that make me certain it is. As a person who continues to listen, read, and strives to understand, I hold on to the possibility that in this lifetime I can evolve to a place unimaginable to me now. And in that space, I'll find peace, and a deep, true wisdom. I think I'd be able to really feel Justin if I could get to that space; feel him in a way that made him fully present for me. And if that could happen, holding on will have been totally worth it. We shall see.
Sincerely,
Ann, Forever Justin's Mom
9/9/81 thru 6/30/06
http://justin-woodly.gonetoosoon.org/
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=svGniIEdbZ8
"The obliteration of all of your dreams at once. The knowledge that any path you take from here will
never be an acceptable change in direction. Nothing we do from here will make my life what it should have been. I have handled a lot of abrupt turns in the course of my life. This isn't a turn. Not one thing that happens after the death of Charlie will ever be greater than the pain of his loss. The rest of my days
are to be survived, endured. The most I hope for is to minimize the torture and pain. ........ Damn, it's a long march to my grave from here."
My response:
Hi Jill,
I seldom post, but your comments here caught my attention, and they totally resonate with me.
June 30, 2013 will mark seven years since I saw my son Justin, or heard his voice (except on family videos). I'm not one to tell you how this pain will become more gentle in the future. Everyone has their own journey. All I can tell you is, while my pain has changed, it's still very much there. It's no longer the "hair on fire" jump out of my skin kind of pain that only a loss of consciousness can diminish. Now, it's more like a slow burn. It's like an old injury from a disfiguring, nearly mortal wound. And it aches chronically. Sometimes I can successfully ignore the pain. Other times it breaks through with a vengeance, only easing up after I take to the bed for a time out. Sometimes the time outs are aided by generic xanyx medication. Other times, simple exhaustion from brief, intense crying jags do the trick. These episodes happen regularly. During the periods when the chronic pain is more muted, I can bask in the warmth of a POS retreat; I can enjoy a good movie or talking with friends; I can get excited about pictures my daughter emails me of my grandson, or look forward to holding him in my lap during our next planned visit to NY. And while the muted pain is always there, lurking beneath current events, it doesn't stop me from feeling the joy of that particular moment.
I suspect this negotiated truce with full-on pain is as good as it's gonna get though. I believe it will always threaten. Sometimes it will take charge. But I'll continue to surf through it until it retreats to its underground lair. And it'll wait there for me until the next time. I'm a good bit older than you Jill, but I must agree, the rest of my life (however long or short it is) feels like it's gonna be a long, hard slog. In the meantime, the best I can hope for are as many moments as possible where the joy surfaces, and the pain is muted. I continue to hope such moments are worth it, or that I'll move into some increased level of awareness that make me certain it is. As a person who continues to listen, read, and strives to understand, I hold on to the possibility that in this lifetime I can evolve to a place unimaginable to me now. And in that space, I'll find peace, and a deep, true wisdom. I think I'd be able to really feel Justin if I could get to that space; feel him in a way that made him fully present for me. And if that could happen, holding on will have been totally worth it. We shall see.
Sincerely,
Ann, Forever Justin's Mom
9/9/81 thru 6/30/06
http://justin-woodly.gonetoosoon.org/
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=svGniIEdbZ8
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