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.  

Visiting Portland

Why travel?   Having just returned to the east coast from a whirlwind trip to Portland, OR, I think it’s a valid question.  Cross country travel wears you down – body, mind and soul – in somewhat the same fashion that I imagine running a marathon does.  Not that I would know.

Travel is exhausting.  It is expensive.  It is uncomfortable and risky.  Yesterday, I travelled through six airports; if you want reviews on airports amenities, I am your girl.

And yet.  By traveling to Portland I was able to reconnect with a dear friend, find some inspiration in the landscape, and live outside of my own ruts and routines for awhile.  I saw myself strong: able to tackle a challenging hike, strike up conversations with unfamiliar people and make my way through airports well enough to get where I was going without breaking down in  heart-wrenching sobs.

My heart and mind were expanded just a bit on this trip, and while home is familiar,  as I rest, I see home and my life here through slightly different eyes.  And isn’t that the challenge of living after Molly’s death?  I need to build a new life out of the familiar; I need to evaluate previous routines and develop new ones.  I need so see myself in new situations and recognize my own strength.

So, I travel to challenge myself into a unknown future and  I am oh so glad that I went to Portland.

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.

   

Visiting The Beach

Frances and I had some gas in the car and a place to stay, so we drove to the beach for the weekend. 

The beach holds fond memories for us.  We would spend weeks there with friends when Molly was in preschool.   We know where the grocery store is, have a favorite place to buy caramel corn, and prefer a particular beach-front shop for coffee in the morning.  It is familiar.

Returning to familiar places is tricky.  There – right there – is the playground Molly used to play on.  Remember how she dominated on the monkey bars?  And gee, those steps?  Didn’t we take a picture of all the kids wearing their tye dyed t-shirts sitting on those steps?  I sure hope the owners got the dye off the driveway;  I don’t think we managed to clean all of it up.

But that nostalgia for time gone by was part of the deal from the beginning.  Our remembrances are tinged with a particular loss, but all of the parents from those trips taken 15 years ago are experiencing waves of nostalgia.   That period of our lives is over; none of our children are still playing on the monkey bars. 

Frances and I had a good time.  We toasted each other and time gone by.  There was comfort in the familiar and while I won’t say that we necessarily felt Molly’s presence, we knew she had been there and been happy.  And that was enough.

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?