Suicide

A friend who was very kind to me after Colby passed has taken his own life. It happened days ago, but I just today heard the news. I am devastated. I ache for his survivors. I did not know him or his family extremely well, but he was a kind person, he was kind to me in a time and place when he did not have to be, and we just do not have enough of those people in our world.

I do not know the details of what happened and I do not have to know. Anyone who takes his or her own life has troubles that feel to them so overwhelming that suicide seems the only choice. Sadly, my friend is not alone. According to the American Suicide Prevention Network, roughly 33,000 Americans die by suicide each year. That is one suicide every sixteen minutes, eighty-nine suicides a day. There are more than 800,000 suicide attempts in our country every year, and 24 percent of the general population has considered suicide at some time in his/her life. Those are high numbers.

But most, if not all, suicides can be prevented. The American Suicide Prevention Network also states that more than 60 percent of adolescents and 90 percent of adults who die by suicide have depression or another diagnosable mental or substance abuse disorder. According to several nationally representative studies, in any given year, about 5 to 7 percent of adults have a serious mental illness.

It is my belief that mental illness is the most overlooked issue in our health care system today. People are dying when they do not have to. My son was one of those people. Now I add a friend, a kind friend, to the list. So let's get over the stigma that depression, bi-polar disorder, panic disorder, anxiety, and all the other mental illnesses bring. Let's find a way to treat everyone who is mentally ill and keep our families whole. Let's stop the need for mind-numbing, overwhelming, never-ending grief.

Rest in peace, my friend. I will never forget your caring kindness.

Family

Easter is just a few days away. It is another holiday I plan to ignore. But that is hard to do. Like Thanksgiving and Christmas, Easter is a time that is filled with references to family in newspapers, television, and radio. Even billboards and retail stores are filled with references to the holiday. Holidays, however, are for families. For those of us without, they are hard. The memories are bittersweet because there is no family left to enjoy holidays with. Ever. The years loom bleakly ahead.

Then again maybe my grief is just too new. Maybe holidays will get better. Maybe I can establish new traditions on my own. Maybe. I do understand that family is who and what you make it. Families these days do not have to biologically related to you. I think, though, when your life expectations of having children and grandchildren are suddenly taken from you, that the adjustment is harder than if you never had those expectations at all.

I try. I try to smile when other people talk of their families, their siblings, and kids and nieces and nephews. I try not to cry. This issue is, after all, mine. I do not harbor grudges for the joy others have. I am happy for them. Being sad for me is a separate issue and I am glad I can make the distinction.

I never expected life to be so hard. So grueling. I know this is what life must have been like for Colby, living with untreated mental illness. He felt so bleak about the future, about any possibilities of positive happenings, of success. Yet he managed to smile. He was able to be happy for others. I can do the same. I just have to dig deeper, try harder. And I will. Somehow. I will.

Nine

I am maybe 3/4 of the way through sorting Colby's things. It has taken six months of steady work to get this far. Now it is time to sort and organize what I have gone through. So far I have nine cell phones, nine flashlights, nine cassette players, nine speakers, nine backpacks. There is more to sort through. He was a pack rat. I may find more.

This sorting is bittersweet. Some days I can't even think about it because it is too real. Sorting through Colby's things means he is really gone. He is not coming back. Other days I rummage with a vengence, clearing space, clearing clutter, needing the process to be finished so I can move on. If one ever can. I am not convinced that is possible. I am forever changed.

Every time I sort I hope to find something of meaning. And often I do. I have found a box of Christmas and birthday cards his grandmother and I gave him over the years. He saved every one. I find photos of us, of a dog we had for many years, of his grandma, all in the backpack he had with him when he passed. There are many scraps of song lyrics and poems, and abstract acryllic paintings he did. There is a collection of old coins he used to study and pour over, and lots of music, his music, that I haven't gotten to yet.

Schizophrenia sucks. It really does. It and its effects, the paranoia, anxiety, depression, panic attacks, and resulting use of drugs and alcohol to try to feel normal, has devastated so many branches of my family. My mother's side of the family. And now mine. I am the last. On one hand I am glad that there is no possibility that our genetic makeup will contribute further to this disease. On the other, I am still so very lost and alone without my son. Researchers are making strides in understanding schizophrenia and its ravaging effects. I support them and pray that someday this disease will be completely treatable, or even curable. No one needs to hurt this much.

Sadness

I am sad today and the sadness feels as if I am walking underwater. I can breathe here, surrounded by all this water, but walking is slow going. Anything, really, takes forever to get done. The sadness is deep, consuming, tiring, overwhelming.

I don't want you who read this post to think I am dangerously sad. This sadness, my sadness, is a natural part of the grieving process. It's something I must go through. And, my counselor says I have a good grip on reality and am doing quite well. That is in large part to all of you. I get so many emails lately, welcome emails. Even if I do not respond, I read. And your emails keep me going.

Some of my sadness comes from exhaustion. I still have trouble eating and sleeping. I stay physically active, which helps my mind stay busy and burns off my agitation. Today, to keep busy, focused, I dig iris. I must have a thousand of them. Then I begin chopping away at tree limbs. I stake a few young trees, move some vinca and generally rip my way around my yard until I am exhausted. But still, I cannot sleep. The process of getting to sleep is the obstacle. Lying still gives me too much time to think. Even a second is too much time for then I will remember. And then I will cry.

I learn in counseling this week that I do need to think and process what has happened to Colby. But I need to do it when I can handle it. And everyone agrees that right now, I'm not there yet. This weekend will be hard. It is a holiday weekend. Everyone is spending time with family and I no longer have one. But I will go on. I have things that need to be done. Important things that will help others and honor Colby at the same time. Every parent who loses a child grieves differently. This is my way. Later, there will be time to sleep.