Stepping Out..

Although understanding that I am a suicide survivor is essential to understanding who I am, it is not something that I share easily.

I have not reached out in activism.  I have not gone to support groups.  Heck, I write this blog with a nod toward my own privacy.

So it is difficult to consider accepting an invitation to attend an event about mental illness and teen suicide.  Although the speakers will be parents who lost a teenager to suicide, and I will likely relate to everything they have to say, I hesitate.  Who else will be there? Will they know me? Will I feel exposed for having simply walked in to the room? 

Despite the tears that flow in even thinking about the possibility of exploring the grief of suicide in a public forum, I am drawn to the event.  I imagine myself anonymously sitting on some folding chair, not even interacting.  Wait a minute, though.  What if only ten people show up?  I would have to interact.  Can I risk it?

The idea that I would have anything in common with the topic of teen suicide is horrific.  I don’t even want to admit it to myself.  Somehow, showing up at this event would be a huge acknowledgement  that I am a parent who has lost a child to suicide.

Maybe it is time.

Living on the edge….

 

 

I do a pretty damn good job of functioning on a daily basis, if I do say so myself.  I head to work everyday.  I laugh.   I have fun.

And I keep myself busy.

The alternative to busy-ness is to replay Molly’s life and death over again and again in my mind.  And within the replays are recurring pauses: was her suicide my fault?  Could I have done anything differently?  Am I a good person?  Was I a good parent? 

Endless.

A brief visit to the edge of boredom is a prayer.  A moment of connection.  But beyond that moment is a burning anguish that cannot be quenched and surely has the power to consume me.

I will not be consumed.  Not today.

A week after Labor Day

There is no way to stretch the summer any further than this.  It is done.  And to put a word to it, the end of summer is depressing.

At least I am thinking it’s that end of summer that has me so down today.  Maybe it is the weather, too – a week of rain will take a toll on anyone’s spirit.    Take the rain, consider the earthquake, hurricane, and flooding we’ve endured over the last couple of weeks and top it off with the 9/11 coverage; end of the world jokes don’t seem that far fetched.

And, despite the fun of being back to work, there is the predictability of it too.  And the predictable part can press ruts right down into my soul.  Routine CAN be good.  I know that.  I just have to make friends with it.

People are asking things of me. Which is great. I am happy about that. But it is tough too, because there is a piece of me that does not want to be generous. I don’t want to put myself out there, meet new people, tell and re-tell my story. Much easier to simply hang out at my own pace in my own little world.

My semester starts in a week.  And my volunteer commitments are gearing up as well.  Everything is just that tad bit out of my control, signaling that summer days are over.

I know that I say that I am trying to make the most of my days.  And for the most part I am.  Just not this one.

Feeling Good/Feeling Guilty

For the most part, I am a happy person.  Perhaps a bit impatient, but for the most part, happy.  And I know that in the scheme of things, I am a lucky person too.

Even as I type those words, however, I feel compeled to edit myself, questioning how it could be possible for someone to have lost a teenager to suicide and still be happy or consder themselves lucky.

Except that it is possible.   I am sad at times, in tears at times, unable to even think about it  at times.  But I also feel happiness and recognize the many, many ways that I have been lucky.  Heck, I am Molly's mom and that is one of the highlights of my life.  So, yes.  I am lucky and happy. No edit required.