Suicidal Rage & Grief
Since I lost my son, Robbie, on May 16, 2010, each day has been a new learning experience. I am no expert on suicide. I don't even know what that would mean. I do know that the people who love and support me have made all the difference. I do know that hearing from others who are members in this awful club helps me understand that the roller coaster of grief I feel isn't crazy, that I'm not alone, and that there is a way through to the other side of the waves of emotion.
Sadly, I also know that many people have been cruel and said and done horrible, awful, terrible things. Some were unintentional, but many others, done with intention. Everyone handles grief differently, but some need to lash out and inflict pain.
After originally posting this piece, some people decided to use it as a tool to shame and lay blame. Those people clearly had not read the post, but in an effort to ease the pain of a young woman, I temporarily removed it.
*Before reading this post, please understand that there is no blame, no guilt, no finger pointing going on here.
This is about Grief.
This is about fighting for a foothold, while lost in the black hole of darkness.
This is about LOVE.
Love the people who face the rest of days fighting, as I have since losing Robbie. Be a shoulder for them to lean on, an ear to listen, a warrior who protects their hearts.
Do not 'should on' yourselves; no 'if only I had...' lists, because there is no light at the end of those tunnels. There is no selfishness. That statement is based in ignorance.
There will be anger, and that's okay. There will be laughter again, and that's okay, too.
LOVE.
Love and be kind.
Welcome to my day. To my sleepless night. To my rage.
This is not going to be one of my usual blogs.
I am pissed. Angry. Raging mad!
Yesterday, I read the obituary of a woman who unexpectedly lost her child earlier this year. At the visitation, I held her in an embrace, shared an open invitation to visit, vent, cry, laugh, whatever she needed in the safety of my presence. It's easier to share sometimes with someone you don't have to worry about shocking or offending or traumatizing with your inner thoughts. This week this mother made the choice to join her angel in the afterlife. I knew as soon as I saw the notice that this was her choice, not cancer, or car wreck, or virus. Death by grief. That's what the obituary should have read, could have read.
As I readied myself for my day, a tsunami of rage roiled over me, a tidal wave of anger, fueled by the unfairness of it all. The same boys who were pall bearers at their friend's funeral will now bear the weight of her mother's casket as they carry her to her final resting place. My howl of fury startled my dog, still sleeping on the bed. My ranting was loud, my mascara application harsh, each flick of my wrist punctuated with a painful note. The same church that held hundreds of mourners will be filled again. The same people who cried, whose eyes were bloodshot with loss, who stood lost in a room filled to capacity, will once again gather to mourn. I imagined the young men, what might fill their minds as their hands wrapped around another golden handle, less than six months since the last.
What the hell, I screamed into the mirror. I knew my husband was listening as he got ready for work across the hall. All those boys! All the 'kids' I hugged and comforted, who were so broken, who have lost too many people in their young lives. I hollered at my reflection. It's hard. It's hard every damn day; but, here I am, putting on mascara and going into the next one.
I thought of my daughter, who had just hours earlier posted about her own struggles as another member of her military family was recently lost to suicide. I thought of how hard I know it is for her, every single day, remembering her little brother; but, still she persists. I refused to cry this morning, because my rage was overwhelming. My tears evaporated before they had a chance to leave my recently overworked ducts. Instead of tears, I invited anger to rule.
Last week, I wrote how each day deserves a chance. I acknowledged that I don't dwell in Grief because it can still knock me on my ass, even nine plus years 'after'. Understand, I am not blaming the Mother. I get it. I do. I am furious because of all that is now left behind, once again, for a world of people who will question. I am furious because the world is too hard sometimes. I am furious because people still feel there is no other way, but out.
There is no blame, but there is rage. Grief bursts, those sudden overwhelming moments that a memory or thought sends someone into tears. Today, my Grief Burst didn't drop me to my knees in tears. Today, my Grief Burst had me taut, screaming, fists clenched, and ranting. Anyone who believes that Grief runs through stages has never experienced grief. Grief follows zero rules. Grief does what it wants, when it wants, and for however long it wants.
My Grief Burst didn't last long. It ran its course, my body shuddering as it left. My husband leaned in the doorway, nodded at me. He's used to me, my grief, my outbursts. The anger didn't last, but the source: the grief, the hurt, the loss; those things are inside, lying dormant, until the next time. I know there will be a next time. Not giving up the fight guarantees a next time. Yet, I push forward, persist, too much to lose if I don't. Too much for all of us to lose if we don't. Worth the fight. Worth the anger. Worth the love.
Sadly, I also know that many people have been cruel and said and done horrible, awful, terrible things. Some were unintentional, but many others, done with intention. Everyone handles grief differently, but some need to lash out and inflict pain.
After originally posting this piece, some people decided to use it as a tool to shame and lay blame. Those people clearly had not read the post, but in an effort to ease the pain of a young woman, I temporarily removed it.
*Before reading this post, please understand that there is no blame, no guilt, no finger pointing going on here.
This is about Grief.
This is about fighting for a foothold, while lost in the black hole of darkness.
This is about LOVE.
Love the people who face the rest of days fighting, as I have since losing Robbie. Be a shoulder for them to lean on, an ear to listen, a warrior who protects their hearts.
Do not 'should on' yourselves; no 'if only I had...' lists, because there is no light at the end of those tunnels. There is no selfishness. That statement is based in ignorance.
There will be anger, and that's okay. There will be laughter again, and that's okay, too.
LOVE.
Love and be kind.
Welcome to my day. To my sleepless night. To my rage.
This is not going to be one of my usual blogs.
I am pissed. Angry. Raging mad!
Yesterday, I read the obituary of a woman who unexpectedly lost her child earlier this year. At the visitation, I held her in an embrace, shared an open invitation to visit, vent, cry, laugh, whatever she needed in the safety of my presence. It's easier to share sometimes with someone you don't have to worry about shocking or offending or traumatizing with your inner thoughts. This week this mother made the choice to join her angel in the afterlife. I knew as soon as I saw the notice that this was her choice, not cancer, or car wreck, or virus. Death by grief. That's what the obituary should have read, could have read.
As I readied myself for my day, a tsunami of rage roiled over me, a tidal wave of anger, fueled by the unfairness of it all. The same boys who were pall bearers at their friend's funeral will now bear the weight of her mother's casket as they carry her to her final resting place. My howl of fury startled my dog, still sleeping on the bed. My ranting was loud, my mascara application harsh, each flick of my wrist punctuated with a painful note. The same church that held hundreds of mourners will be filled again. The same people who cried, whose eyes were bloodshot with loss, who stood lost in a room filled to capacity, will once again gather to mourn. I imagined the young men, what might fill their minds as their hands wrapped around another golden handle, less than six months since the last.
What the hell, I screamed into the mirror. I knew my husband was listening as he got ready for work across the hall. All those boys! All the 'kids' I hugged and comforted, who were so broken, who have lost too many people in their young lives. I hollered at my reflection. It's hard. It's hard every damn day; but, here I am, putting on mascara and going into the next one.
I thought of my daughter, who had just hours earlier posted about her own struggles as another member of her military family was recently lost to suicide. I thought of how hard I know it is for her, every single day, remembering her little brother; but, still she persists. I refused to cry this morning, because my rage was overwhelming. My tears evaporated before they had a chance to leave my recently overworked ducts. Instead of tears, I invited anger to rule.
Last week, I wrote how each day deserves a chance. I acknowledged that I don't dwell in Grief because it can still knock me on my ass, even nine plus years 'after'. Understand, I am not blaming the Mother. I get it. I do. I am furious because of all that is now left behind, once again, for a world of people who will question. I am furious because the world is too hard sometimes. I am furious because people still feel there is no other way, but out.
There is no blame, but there is rage. Grief bursts, those sudden overwhelming moments that a memory or thought sends someone into tears. Today, my Grief Burst didn't drop me to my knees in tears. Today, my Grief Burst had me taut, screaming, fists clenched, and ranting. Anyone who believes that Grief runs through stages has never experienced grief. Grief follows zero rules. Grief does what it wants, when it wants, and for however long it wants.
My Grief Burst didn't last long. It ran its course, my body shuddering as it left. My husband leaned in the doorway, nodded at me. He's used to me, my grief, my outbursts. The anger didn't last, but the source: the grief, the hurt, the loss; those things are inside, lying dormant, until the next time. I know there will be a next time. Not giving up the fight guarantees a next time. Yet, I push forward, persist, too much to lose if I don't. Too much for all of us to lose if we don't. Worth the fight. Worth the anger. Worth the love.
My heart just aches for the one daughter the women you are referring to still leaves here on earth. I understand Mom was hurting bad, however, now the sister has lost not ONE but TWO people who are very important to her within a year. It almost makes me feel like Mom wasn't thinking about the one daughter she was leaving behind. I am saddened how mental illness is so bad in our world now a days.
ReplyDeleteMy heart aches for you too since you have went through loosing your son.
Thank you. I thought of her as well. I wish Mom had gotten in touch, read They Said She Was Crazy, reached out to anyone, rather than feel there was no other option. The black hole of grief is more than too much at times, so we all need to keep reaching out to people. Ask. Just give help. I don't have all the answers, but I try every day to help someone.
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