Nightmares

The dreams have been coming.

Hangings.  Everywhere.  I wake to them.

And then I get up and live my life.  Most of the people I interact with on a daily basis would be shocked to know that my daughter died by suicide.  At work, folks don’t know me well and for the most part I function either somewhat anonymously or at least at a reasonable level of competence.  I don’t ooze grief.

But that doesn’t mean.  For one second.  That the dreams go away.  Or that I am somehow “over” this nightmare.

Molly’s suicide is part of me.  Forever.  But I am not going to give these dreams more of my life than they have already taken.

I love the 5 year old mastering the monkey bars, the 10 year old at ease on a horse, the 14 year old with such incredible music and drama skills, and the 16 year old who chose to leave this life.  I love them all.

Part of my story is plainly horrific and emerges in sleep, but Molly is special and loved and even sacred to me.   I will not be afraid of my own memories.

49 and Counting

Aging comes up in my mind quite a bit now as I prepare to turn 50 in a few months.  When I envisioned 50 from the vantage point of my younger self, I modeled my imaginings on the “wise old woman” archetype.  I am sure that I thought that I would be watching my young-adult daughter move into her life, working at the top of my career, and enjoying the financial benefits that come with a good paying job and the absence of tuition payments.

I don’t need to tell you that I am 0 for 3 on that list. 

So, I am forced – really forced – to come up with a new description of me at 50.  

Let’s see.  I am building a new career by starting all over at the very bottom of the aspirational ladder; substitute teacher is about as basic as you get.  And I am loving it.

I have to count pennies, but I am living debt free (except for a mortgage) and that feels honest and fair.  I am finding that I genuinely enjoy bargain hunting and that there is a lot to discover in local resale shops.

More than anything, the real me at 50 is not sure of a whole lot, pretty humble about things, and far more reluctant to pass judgment than I used to be.  I know that I wasn’t a perfect mom to Molly and that I made some mistakes.  I know that for the most part we are all just trying to do our best, and I have renewed patience for the stumbling around that we all do.

I dye my hair.  I run 5Ks.  I eat my vegetables and limit (to some extent) how much wine I drink.   I take my blood pressure medicine.

Turning 50 is just fine.  One of my new realities is that I am much more willing than I ever was before to take risks.  What is the worse that can happen?  I will die?  I may not be seeking death out, but in some ways I will welcome it; whatever comes next, Molly will be there leading the way. 

A Visit to a Meeting

I will admit I was hesitant to attend the mental health information meeting.  While I knew I would draw some comfort from the speaker who lost her daughter to suicide (and I did), I walked in to the room reluctant to admit that my life had anything to do with mental illness.

If the event had simply been presentations by people impacted by mental illness, I would have been just fine and chalked the evening up as a success.  The problem for me - and I know I am not alone - is mental health professionals.

The one at this particular meeting was down right jolly.   "Mental health treatment works," she said. "There are medications to control mental illness."  As if it was that simple.  As if those of us who lost everything to the mental illness missed the magic medication that was going to fix everything up just perfectly.   She had lots of support groups to offer.   I wanted to ring her neck.  (Figuratively, but you get the idea.)

Dear Mental Health Professionals,  here are a few tips from some raw experience:

1) Please stop comparing mental illness to diabetes.  I am really tired of that one.  Diabetes is diagnosed through specific tests and has an accepted regimen of care that does not include drugs that are labeled as dangerous for children and adolescents.  

2) Do not tell me that mental health treatment works as a universal truth.  It does not.  Suggest that many people are helped by mental health care treatment. 

3) Talk therpay will work for some.  But if  mental illness has a physical genesis (like the ever present diabetes, for example) then talking can't be expected to result in a cure.  Acknowledge that while medications are available, there are risks associated with them that need to be carefully worked through with a doctor.

4) Draw a picture of mental health treatment in strak contrast to physical medical care.  The primary model of doctor runs tests, get results and gives patient medication does not exist in mental health. In fact, the model works in reverse.  Sort of.  There are no tests.    Tell people that; coach patients and their families on how to work most effectively within the system.

5) Advocate for funds for research.  Always. 

Cleaning out Toys

Every parent has to clean out their children’s childhood at some point; it is not a task unique to those of us who have lost a child.

At least that’s what I told myself today as we went through bags and bags of Molly’s things.

We knew what to do with the fabulous doll house and the Barbie collection.  There is a family in the neighborhood with three girls under the age of 7.  The young (and at the time childless) parents had been wonderful to Molly when she was in elementary school, trusting Molly to walk their two dogs and providing a friendly eye over Molly’s comings and goings.  It was fun to give their girls Molly’s “good stuff.”

In fact, if I have a regret, it is that we didn’t do this sooner.  Although the Barbies were carefully stored and the doll house was covered, they seemed a bit dusty – a bit worn down simply by sitting in a box.  Toys are meant to be played with.

While we were at it, we gave the girls one of several china tea sets that Molly was given as a young girl.   Molly was never the tea set type; hopefully the neighbor girls will use it!

And then there were books and DVDs and storage boxes and other miscellaneous things that we took to Goodwill.  And some of the stuff is just trash…  like the dress up clothes and the bean bag toys.   Then, there are a few things, like Molly’s horseback riding clothes, that we are going to try and sell on eBay.

My back hurts.  This was not an easy day.  But my spirit is okay.  Much as I tried, I couldn’t find Molly in all of her stuff.  She was not there.   But if one child’s day is a little brighter because of a new doll house and some Barbie clothes,  and if another child gets some great horseback riding clothes at a good price, I know that Molly would be pleased with that.  And then maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to find Molly after all.

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.

The Family Picture

Dad is turning 75 this week and a modest celebration is planned, the centerpiece of which is likely to be the taking of a new family portrait to mark the occasion.

Molly was in the last family portrait.

I’ll smile for the camera and everything.  I’ll stand just where I am told and wear whatever I am asked to wear.  But I really don’t want a new family portrait.  I understand that “everyone” will be there and that it takes an enormous amount of effort to get us all in one place.   We should mark the occasion.

Make no mistake, however.  Everyone is actually not going to be there.  Without including Molly, I don’t know if I will ever consider this picture a “family” photo.  Even posing for it is going to be difficult.

And yet.  I have many family photos in my home, several of which are ancestral photos of relatives who had died before I was born.   I treasure the photos because they connect me to myself; I can get lost in studying the hairstyles, clothing choices and even the individual smiles of those who came before me.  I sense their courage and know something about how their lives played out after the photos were taken.

If anyone takes the time to make a study of our family photos over the last 50 years, the births and deaths, marriages and divorces, adoptions and assorted partnerships will be evident.  This new photo will be one in a long string of many, many comings and goings.

But in this moment for me, this next photo is a painful reminder of all that I have lost.  I imagine that an observer, 50 years from now, will easily sense how much I mourned for the girl who after almost 17 years suddenly does not appear in this next family photo.

The Elements

Two years before her death, Molly described herself in a letter that was hidden away in a pocket of a journal.  I'm sharing some excerpts of the letter below; it was intended to be read after her death.   The text gets at what her life was becoming, how difficult it was for her to pretend that it wasn’t out of control and why she was so stubborn about not seeking honest help.

Remember..   this was a kid who was functioning relatively well in the world.  She was playing field hockey and badminton.  She rode horseback.  She was in school plays.  She got good grades.   She was socially awkward, but was relatively good at relationships in a one on one setting.  She was able to be honest in a journal, but carefully hid the journals and did not share them.

… My mind confused me sometimes.  I was never sure about anything except the Elements.   I’ve never told anyone about the Elements.  We are not to be spoken of to anyone.  I am an Element.  I was sent to watch over a few people, and to look for the other three Elements.  We are neither good nor bad.  We are simply here to watch and decide this world’s fate.  As crazy as that sounds, it’s true… As the leader, it was my job to watch over the Elements while still living as normal life as possible….  I had a hard time balancing my Element and mortal life.  Supernatural beings and worlds have never been accepted in society.  That is why the Elements were kept secret.

I am a visitor, one who observes but does not change the mortal world.  I am justice.  I am power.  I am spirit.  I am your faithful and humble guardian Air.

What the Heck?

Call Randy
911264239109002
Deliver to Madison Street by 1 PM
Chicken noodle soup with roast beef or the side.  Hold the lemon juice. 
Call Michelle about “the Order.”
Arizona, Phoenix – 3 hours earlier.  DST doesn’t apply.



And then, Molly had gone over the writing with a big red pen…..”WHAT THE HECK”

It is as if she allowed herself to be caught up her own internal story – which at some points she knew was not real – and then when she came out of it and saw how real it was becoming to her, she was horrified.  Scared.  Alone.

Molly’s Journals

Recently, I have been going through the journals that Molly kept during the last years of her life.

“Going through” the journals doesn’t really get at what the activity is; “mourning with the journals” describes the experience much better.

There are incredible gifts within the pages: notes about how much she loves her family and friends and the recognition that she has help to deal with her challenges.   There are days that I cling to those entries for sanity.

But, oh there is pain too.   She describes a “parallel world that coexists with my mind but not reality.”  Describing that parallel world, she writes about herself as “an agent part of a corporation called The Company.”  She notes that her boss is “Danny who I apparently love.”  She explains that The Company is “sometimes considered terrorists because we had an incident years ago that killed 3 civilians and 2 officers.”   She goes on to say that “I recently retired from the agency but am currently working with Danny to find a new president of the agency and watch the gang that killed Mark and others.”  Geesh.    The entry was written in pencil…   but later she had gone over it with red ink, noting “Yeah, I’m insane.”

In another entry she notes, “I wish I could get a terminal illness so I could live life to the fullest.”    In a list of prepared questions for her therapist (which I don’t think she ever asked) she included things like, “Do you think I’m some sort of supernatural/non-human being?  Partially?”  And also, “I’m capable of killing someone, does that make me crazy?” 

Molly describes herself this way, “I live in 2 worlds, does that make me crazy?  They clash, making me hyperactive, paranoid, depressed, untrusting, cruel, apathetic…  driven by my head not my heart.”

This is a child who played sports, was in plays, got good grades, was unfailingly kind to her parents and had some good friends.   This is a child who was challenging to raise at times, but was never in trouble, did not use alcohol or drugs and learned, quite early in life I think, to hide her real life experience.  These journals were never meant to be seen.

My deepest sadness comes from the realization that in some ways, I never really knew Molly.  I think its impossible to really know someone who won’t be known.  But it still hurts.  It really, really hurts. 

Thin

Molly was in my dreams last night…  ill, suffering, confused.   But alive.  Which is not that common of an occurrence for me; maybe 10 times in two and a half years Molly has visited my dreams. 

And then, this morning, in my ritualistic trolling through Facebook,  I have two completely independent inquiries from Molly’s childhood friends.  One of them, I imagine, knows that Molly has died.  One of them probably does not.  It has been years – many years – since I have interacted with either one.

I welcome the dreams.  And though I never know quite how to respond,  I am flattered by the childhood friends reaching out.  But I am really caught up in the synchronicity.

Why is all of this happening today?  At the same time?  What energy field has shifted that we are, independently, caught up in Molly?   Where is that thin surface that opened up for just a brief time?  I want to find it… put my hand to the veil…  say hello.  

Forgiving Myself

Did I listen to Molly as well as I should of?  No.

Did I understand the clues she was dropping about her suffering?  No.  Did I take the time to attempt to imagine what she might be experiencing?   Not really.

Did my pride in her many – many – accomplishments blind me to her mounting disintegration?   For a long time, it did.

Did I really understand – as opposed to know – that mental illness is potentially fatal?  Absolutely not.

And yet. 

Did I love her and give her everything I knew how to give?  Yes.  And did she love me?  Yes, again.

Did we have fun together and laugh and make wonderful memories?  We did.

Did she learn and grow and travel and experience the world?  In spades.

Did she love, and was she loved?  Absolutely.

I gave everything I knew how to give for 17 years…  and she returned those gifts with love and humor.  I was not perfect, but I did not cause her death and I do not hold myself responsible for it. 

There is pain in looking back with hindsight, because I see things differently now.  I know that in calling my attention to a news story about a girl we didn’t know who died in a very unusual car accident, Molly was trying to tell me something.  In insisting that she would not be able to go to a good friend’s graduation party (with no good reason), Molly was dropping a hint that I couldn’t hear.   There was another hint when she took so much comfort in learning that there was mental illness in her biological history; maybe I should have pursued that more.

I can see – it’s like a magnifying glass – that I was not perfect.  And I forgive myself for that.  

Born to Be Wild

Today was a cry in the shower kind of day.   A day that takes you by surprise, overwhelming you with mourning and confusion, grief, guilt, loss, uselessness.

That kind of day.

It was an IMAX movie with my nephews that set me off:  a simple nature story of orphaned animals being cared for, loved and then released into the wild.  I know I don't have to explain the connections.  You get it.

There are pieces of my life that are a horror story.  I have lived through a nightmare come to life.  I know I am not unique in that, and usually I am resilient enough to really celebrate  being alive while attempting to seek out and live some sacred purpose.

Today I don't feel worthy enough to have been given a purpose, let alone strong enough to live one out.  It's a temporary feeling; I know I will emerge from this.  But it is my reality today.  My entire reality.

Life in the 1800s

I wish I could have stopped my daughter’s suicide.  If I could have stopped her from hanging herself, even if I didn’t succeed, it would mean that parents have the power to keep their children who are struggling with mental illness alive.

Parents don’t have that kind of power.

Before antibiotics and immunizations and public health awareness, the death of a child was a tragic, but commonplace event.  It was so commonplace as to border on the expected, and families had many, many children with the hope that at least some would survive.

A family living in the United States in the 1800s would not have understood that their dying child had a condition curable with a round of penicillin; indeed, penicillin was yet to be invented.  Whatever else that family felt upon the death of their child, it is easy to imagine that guilt was not part of the equation. 

A brief 200 years later and we are less humble in the face of illness.  We expect to be able to predict illness, recognize it, categorize it, study it on the internet and subject ourselves to a treatment to fix it.  We are exceedingly fortunate that this modern expectation is realistic for a broad range of ailments that used to kill people by the thousands.

But we, whose lives are touched by suicide, are still that family living in the 1800s.  We don’t know what to hope for, we are humbled by the power of disease, and we grieve deeply.  We also know – even as we struggle to believe – that we are not at fault.

The doctors and scientists working on mental illness today are pioneers that deserve our support.  They are making progress every day.  But mental illness is still - too often - a fatal disease that whispers through a brain, takes root, and destroys all in its path.

And parents are essentially powerless, but to love,  in the face of the fury.

   

Tools for Survival...

After Molly's death by suicide, some of our practical tools for survival were.....

• Travel.   We left our home town for a brief trip with a couple of friends a few days after the memorial service.  We were able to laugh (yes, laugh) and sleep  and reconnect and cry.  The unfamiliar surroundings were good therapy for our shockingly unfamiliar lives.
• Going back to work. Frances went back to work pretty quickly; I took a month off.  It was important for both of us to reconnect as much as possible with our typical routines.
• Saying Yes.  We welcomed any and all support, invitations and offerings even if we didn't think they were necessary.  And we still do.

Have you lost a loved one?  What have your tools for survival been? 

Blue Herons, Rainbows and Flowers

I sense Molly's presence. 

It's not a constant thing, or a hallucination.   It is not audible or visual.  But in the blue heron that played along the river as Frances and I took a walk yesterday, in the rainbow that appeared over the harbor in Ireland when I went back for the first time without Molly, in the plant that blooms in her favorite color on her birthday - but had never bloomed before her death - I sense Molly's presence.

Some would say that sensing Molly around me is trick I am playing on myself so that I don't have to admit that she is "gone."  They are free to  their opinion.   I choose to believe that regardless of if we live or die we remain connected to each other and that our relationships endure.

To me, she lives on.  Actively. 

Vacation

Frances and I are travelling this week - Vegas, Palm Springs and Northern California.

OF COURSE, because I exceed any measurement of "predictible," I went to the Donny and Marie show while we were in Vegas.   I was there as a recurring nod to my own 70's fan history of course, but even more so, I was there knowing that Marie lost her son to suicide.  It comforts me, in an "I am so glad the lights are down so I can cry" sort of way, to hear her very gracefully acknowledge both the pain of the loss of her son and the excitement she feels as her own life continues to unfold.   It's probably only 90 seconds of the show's content, if that, but it was the heart of the show for me.  A good evening.

Travelling is tricky business.  Jolted out of routines and without access to some of the things that make daily life our own - favorite foods, control of the car keys and the TV remote, friends down the street - there is a certain spiritual starkness to it all.  Here I am.  This is me.  Who the heck am I?   

The thinking time is good - probably necessary - but the demons lurk in the corners and despite the fun and the beauty and the reconnections that this trip has offered, a piece of me will be very happy to roll into my own bed tomorrow night.

Sadness, Depression and Loss

I am in a foot race with depression this week – and most of the time,  depression is winning.

Part of it is this Easter holiday.  It is full of wonderful stories of rebirth and everlasting life and all of that, but I will be spending it alone.  No Molly because she is dead.  No Frances because she is working.  Yes, I will attend a church service – but I will be alone in the crowd there as well.  Family not available; friends otherwise engaged.  Alone.

Part of it is spring break.  Without the daily routine of substitute teaching, DESPITE the fact that I have plenty to do, alien voices emerge: the voices that suggest that I was a terrible mother to Molly; the voices that question whether any of my current endeavors are worthwhile; the voices testifying that no body likes me.

And part of it is the weather which is bleak and has been bleak seemingly forever.

I took pains to avoid this – scheduling lunches with friends, attending school lectures, generally keeping myself busy during this break.  But in the pause, in the  cracks of time that I could not fill and the slivers of energy that were not spoken for, the sadness and the loss rage behind me – and then catch up to me -  with ferocious force. 

Sadly, I think this is normal – perhaps even necessary for now.

Next weekend, the house will be full of guests and frivolity and fun to watch William and Kate’s wedding.  I will look forward to that.

The Answers

One of my blog posts, The Questions,  gets a lot of traffic.  It’s about the questions that I live with as a result of the death of my daughter; I wrote it on February 18th if you are inclined to look it up.

Yes.  As the mother of a teenaged girl who died by suicide, I am definitely living with questions.

But I am living with some answers too.   Like, “I can handle the worst that life will send to me.”  Before Molly’s death, I would have thought that losing her would be the end of me, and in some ways I guess it was.   I am not the same person I was before Molly died. But I am here.  And I am living.   And I am moving on because I have to.  Life cannot hand me anything that will defeat me.

I also know that my friends and family are there for me.  No need to question that one for a second.   People are good.   We have been loved beyond our wildest imaginings through these last two years; we treasure that gift and seek to reciprocate it as well.

I am not alone.   Living through the death of a child – even the suicide of a child – does not put me in an exclusive club.  There are many of us – lots of good people -  who are living this experience.   I am grateful to every single person who has reached out to me with their story of pain and loss; every story has strengthened me.

God is real.  I don’t have a creed to pull out or a testimony to share.  I know that religion causes lots of problems.  But Molly’s death has brought me face to face with all of the uncertainties that exist beyond the very breath that we are taking at this moment. 

And having stared those uncertainties down I am left with a confidence that life is greater than what we can know, that death does not separate us – ever -  and that God lives within our attempts to love each other.

I know. I know.  It sounds like a Barney song or something.   But it’s enough for me. 

Paris

I am going to Paris as part of my graduate program.  Have I mentioned that yet?   It’s a ten day trip this summer and I am really looking forward to it.

The only problem with this whole experience is that I am old.   Looking at my fellow students,  I am old enough to be the mother of virtually every single one of them. 

We had our first “meeting” today – mostly to fill out paperwork absolving the school of all responsibility in the event that this adventure includes our death or other unforeseen catastrophe.  During a break in the paper signing,  the professor valiantly asked what we were most looking forward to.   “Eating” said one fellow traveller.  “Shopping” said another.

I am jealous of these younger students. This trip is simply fun and exciting for them at a point in their life when fun and excitement is exactly what they should be looking forward to. 

Do I even tell them?  Do I talk about the fact my daughter would be their age if she had lived?  And that this trip, for me, is part of my journey to figure out who I am without her? 

Do I mention that Frances and I have been together for 27 years and that I have never taken a trip without a family member?   Would it encourage this younger group to know that as independent as I may seem to them, they are in many ways more independent than I?

Do I  share with them that the primary reason I am taking this trip is that I have something to prove to myself about life after death?

Or should I just come up with a cute response about what I am most looking forward to?  Something like “the wine will be good and the sights oh so memorable.”

Finding a Knife

Ever have new flooring put in?  It is one of those things that no one looks forward to, but generally results in a happy outcome.   We put new floors in two rooms last week – one was my office.  And one was Molly’s bedroom.

After Molly’s death, I never had a huge need to clean out her room, but Frances did.  So, Frances cleaned out a lot of Molly’s things; but many of Molly’s treasured belongings are still in her room closet waiting for the day when Frances and I are both strong enough at the same time to go through them.   I have put some art supplies in her room now and we half jokingly call the room my studio, but an easel doesn’t really change anything.   That room will always be Molly’s room to us.

To clear out the space for the new floors, we had to take everything out of the closet.   There were doll clothes my mother made for Molly, a sleeping bag that Molly received one year for Christmas, left over school supplies, old clothes, a field hockey stick.

And there was a briefcase.  Frances used it back when she was a manager in retail, but she had given it to Molly. I opened it, thinking that it it was in good enough shape, maybe we should give it away.

I noticed the dollar bill first.   And the knife second.

After Molly was released from the hospital I insisted on talking to a doctor – which was not part of the typical protocol for releasing an adolescent to her family. UNBELIEVABLE.  We had more access to her dentist than her psychiatrists.

Anyway, I asked the doctor point blank.  Should we lock our knives up?  And he said, unequivocally, “No.  Everything should be normal.”  It was what I wanted to hear.  And I was happy to comply.  But it was bad advice.

Molly had been cutting herself, and she obviously had secured a knife from our kitchen and was hiding it.  Looking at the knife in that briefcase put me right back in those moments when Molly was alive and I would get hints that something was very wrong.  I would read a text or sense something in her voice or find a journal entry.  And I would be terrified until she seemed fine again or a doctor told me not to worry.

There are pieces of my daughter that I will never know.  The happy child that laughs with me from the photo on my desk – the capable teenager she let me see – were real.  But there was another girl as well who was troubled and lonely and unreachable. 

Our house is full of memories of the happy Molly.  But Molly would tell me, I am sure, that her reality was not the world of happiness and confidence that we attempted to build with her; she was consumed by whatever inner turmoil she struggled against. 

We’ve got Molly’s bedroom all spruced up now.  It looks nice.  But it is somehow fitting that I found the knife that she had stashed away in the closet.  It is tempting to build a legacy for Molly that is all lightness and talent and beauty.  But that is only part of the story.