Entry 20: Suicide

Suicide within the family alters you forever. The people around you move on eventually, but you're always left carrying the wound that heals and then breaks open unexpectedly throughout your life. It's hard to get your head wrapped around a mother who abandons her children, but what of a mother who abandons her children by way of suicide? There's always hope that the mother will one day return if she jumps in the car and drives off, but if she takes her life, it immediately severs any hope for something more, something better.

When someone commits suicide, they take you to the darkest place you can imagine. You never wanted to go there, but you're forced to the moment they take their last breath. They may have escaped their pain, but now its placed on those left behind, as they're left with an overwhelming feeling of guilt, sadness and hopelessness. When my mom took her life, it was the worst day of my life. There'd been so much going on up to this point, that it felt like I was stuck in a storm I couldn't get out of. My mom had been diagnosed with bipolar only a couple years leading up to her death, and had sought help for it by way of a psychiatrist she called her mentor, who put her on a concoction of medications.

It was around this time that she also decided to leave my father after 33 years of marriage, something I must admit I hadn't been upset about, as she'd been unhappy and had felt trapped for years. But one thing I couldn't have predicted was how cruel the church would be the moment she announced her decision. Outside of a couple of close friends, no one wanted anything to do with her. She'd pictured a house full of guests she could cook for and entertain, but the moment she sent invites out, they were declined. When she attended a social event like a baby shower, many of the women left the room as she entered, and the ones that stayed just ignored her. Leaders of the church had also put pressure on me and my sister, telling us to limit our association with her, something that neither of us wanted to do.

I was 22 when she separated from my father, and there was nothing more I wanted in this world than to be close to my mom. Between leaving my dad and getting help for her depression, I'd been excited to experience a mom who was balanced and emotionally healthy, something I hadn't had within my childhood. But, I could sense a shift occurring within her. Mom's excitement for the future was no longer there, the church had killed that, and in place of hope were countless fears from aging to finances. When I went over to see her, she was sad and distant, as she pulled out a large bottle of red wine midday. "Want some?" she asked, as her hands shook uncontrollably. Then she'd go on to tell me a story about how she'd been treated that week, as I placed a Kleenex box in front of her, promising her that this would soon be old news. Looking back, it's sad that those were the only encouraging words I had for her.

As time went on, she became even more cold and distant. She projected her unhappiness on me rather than looking at the circumstances surrounding her, something she'd done my entire childhood. "I'm not going to get better unless you come in and talk to the psychiatrist with me," she said, as I sat in the waiting room, having driven her to her appointment. I'd been completely blindsided by her demand. She'd cornered me like a caged animal, and now I was lashing out like one. "If you want me to join you in a therapy session, then you need to tell me what's wrong so I can prepare my defense." She stood in front of me, not backing down, as everyone in the waiting room watched the scene unfold. "No mom, I'm not going in there, as I'm not the problem!" The moment I said those words I knew I'd mortally wounded her, as she turned around and went back into her session. I stewed and imagined the guilt trip awaiting me when she resurfaced, and I felt sick to my stomach. But she'd come out of her session icy and emotionless, as she walked past me to the car in silence. I thought about apologizing, but struggled to, so I turned on the radio instead.

My sister was temporarily living with her during this time as well, having left her abusive husband. "I sense she's not well," my sister said over lunch one day. "I don't know what's going on, but all I know is I can't leave her right now." And so she stayed, in spite of her finding herself fearful some nights, as Mom quietly floated down the stairs to her bedroom, and then seemingly not remembering anything in the morning, the effect of her sleeping medications. Then one afternoon I got a call from my sister, who was at her wits end. She'd planned to see our dad for a few hours, and Mom had completely lost it. That's the other thing we were now dealing with, her jealousy of our seemingly normal relationship with our dad, who didn't require much, and was just happy for us to spend some time with him. But, he also wasn't experiencing pressure from the church and community, as he found himself receiving an uptick in dinner invites, and casseroles left on his front doorstep from those who pitied him, which was pretty much everyone.

"Come and stay with me for the weekend," I said to my sister. "It sounds like a bit of time apart for both of you might be good." So, she packed a duffel bag and left a note on the counter for Mom. She'd left on a Friday afternoon and had returned to the house on Tuesday afternoon, due to it being a long weekend.

"Something is wrong with Mom," my sister said over the phone, crying, and that's the call that led me to her, as I rushed down the hallway and opened the bedroom door, to find Mom face down on the floor next to the bed, having committed suicide by way of an overdose of prescription drugs. On the counter was a note, as I scanned the words, looking for an I love you. There wasn't one. Instead, she listed her prized possessions and who she wanted to give them to, which was all her close friends. Then at the bottom, was a barely legible sentence that ran off the page, that said, "Please do not resuscitate."

The guilt was overwhelming and I couldn't breathe as the tears poured out of me. I felt guilty for encouraging my sister to come stay with me for the weekend, and for getting mad at Mom on the phone the last time we spoke, after discovering she'd made an especially poor decision that had caused shock waves through our family. There'd been no "I love you's" on either end, just frustration, with me feeling as if I was dealing with a child rather than a parent. I'd always been a fixer, but for months had felt powerless to fix anything, including our relationship that had continued to become more and more distant. I was desperate to feel her maternal love, but I couldn't feel any from her, and all there seemed to be was disappointment each time she laid eyes on me.

"Spiraling" was the word used for her behavior at the end, a period of uncontrolled system escalation. "My fault," was the only thing I could hear within my own mind. And so I placed myself at the top of the list alongside the religion, as to her cause of death. I didn't care that people told me she'd been unwell and that it was no one's fault, as I knew the truth. And so I carried the blame on my shoulders, until it became to heavy to carry, with me plummeting into the same darkness that my mother had tried to crawl out of. I wanted nothing more than to stop the pain, and to numb the guilt that was eating away at me, as I sobbed uncontrollably on my doctor's shoulder, telling her that I wanted to die.

Fortunately between medication and rest, I didn't die, and I eventually found my will to live once again, as a flicker of hope appeared nine months later. It had been hard for me to understand suicide until I was almost there myself. I don't condone it, but I understand it, and everyday I'm grateful for having another day of life on this planet. Overtime, I was able to escape the things my mother hadn't been able to in order to start a new life. I flew out of all those cages, knowing that they'd eventually kill me if I stayed. I couldn't leave my marriage and stay in the church like my mom had, forced to face continuous judgement and shame. And I couldn't continue to put faith in a religion or a God that had caused so much detriment to our family.

As time goes on, I have much less guilt than before, and I'm able to display photos of mom proudly within my house. As I get older, I often wonder if I could have saved her, knowing what I know now, or if her death would have been inevitable no matter what. I also wonder if she is proud of me for building a life she'd dreamed of for herself, and if one day when I leave this earth, if I'll finally be able to tell her I love her. I hope so. Until then, she will continue to live on in my mind and heart, and as I gaze at the photos on my bookshelf, I will continue to remind myself of the extraordinary woman she once was, in spite of an illness she battled and lost.