Letter to a Mourning Mom Struggling with Self-Blame

Dear Mourning Mom @ 10 months:

I know you. I was you in the first year or two, and sometimes still in bursts of remorse today.  I hear your cries of all you should-have, could-have done for your lost child. This is how we feel as survivors, especially parent survivors. We think we failed our child; we need to shout out our unworthiness, beat our breasts. Instinctively, we reject assurances that we did everything we could because, of course, there’s always more that could have been done. Even when people add “given what you knew at the time,” we just can’t accept that we were unable to save our child. That the momentum of our mothering only goes so far with our kids. And that, unlike most parents, we don’t get another chance. 

Having missed that chance, we cling desperately to remorse as a last parental act. It keeps us connected to our dead child. It shows our love and loyalty and belated understanding of what they needed and what we failed to provide. It’s a desperate plea for their forgiveness. Except that now, only we can forgive ourselves. And that will be a long time coming. 

You have a total right to feel what you’re feeling, on your own timetable. By all means (literally), let it out! At the same time, please feed your battered soul. Find antidotes to the bitterness that corrodes your spirit. Treat yourself with the same gentle love you'd give a dear friend in your position. Make a list of all the good things you did for and with your child over the years. Realize that no one is a perfect parent; no one is all seeing or all powerful.

“Just as no one can erase the grief that you feel right now, there were limits to what anyone could have done to fix your loved one’s pain,” according to Drs. Jack Jordan and Bob Baugher.  “Living through the suicide of a loved one confronts all survivors with a profound sense of their own limitations.” You may feel like putting yourself on trial for failing your loved one, they say, but at least let a friend or therapist ensure that it’s a fair trial that reviews all the evidence.

I know you can’t fully absorb what I’m saying right now. Even if you can't take it to heart, please tuck it away in the back of your mind to ease some future moment, along with these wise words from Dr. Stacey Freedenthal :

“Feelings of self-blame can distract you from grieving and, in the process, from healing. Think of self-blame as an itchy blanket thrown over your grief. When you focus on the blanket, you do not see or feel the naked grief that lies beneath. Remember, condemning yourself can build some illusion of control. What lies beneath your self-blame are the terrible facts that you cannot control: Suicidal forces overtook your loved one. You have suffered an unfathomable loss. You cannot turn back time, do it over, do it differently. Each of these is a loss. Mourning these losses is the essence of grief. Your grief deserves your compassion.”  

 

When Young Adult Siblings Grieve

Since Noah’s suicide, people have been asking how his older brother, Ben, is doing. It’s been hard to know with Ben living in another city and not inclined to talk much about his feelings. Of course, he was in shock and distress at the funeral, letting loose a terrible cry when the coffin was opened. He had brief outbursts of sadness at the one-year memorial, cemetery visits, and no doubt other moments that we as parents didn’t see. Though he rarely talked about Noah or grief, he called and visited us often in the early months and listened to us talk and cry; that was his way of trying to help, accompanying our grief journey. He didn’t want to attend a support group, see a therapist, or talk to friends about his loss. 

Ben was almost 24 when he lost his brother. He seemed determined to not let tragedy cloud his cheerful disposition or derail the life he was building with a new job, a girlfriend, and an apartment in San Francisco. “I was on a roll and I didn’t want anything to stop me,” he later told me. He went ahead with a birthday party that his girlfriend had planned about a week after the funeral and said it was comforting to have his friends around him. 

While I didn’t want Ben to be overwhelmed with grief and unable to function, I didn’t want him to act as if nothing had happened. I wanted him to be part of our family’s grief journey. I’ve had to learn to accept that his way of grieving is different than mine and a common response for young people after suicide loss, especially young men. I’m just afraid one day grief will hit him full force and we won’t be there to help him.

For much of the first year, it was devastating to walk along the street or go out to dinner as a truncated family of three rather than four. The new equation felt wrong, impossible; Noah’s absence loomed large, a raw amputation of our idea of family. Imperceptibly over time, we’ve gotten used to the new configuration. I don’t want Ben to ever think he has to replace Noah or make up for his loss.

It grieves me that Ben has trouble remembering the good times growing up with his brother. Noah adored Ben as a child, following his lead in making forts and dams and odd constructions, dressing up the dog, and playing video games. He and Noah moved in totally different worlds as teenagers and weren’t close as young adults, though they were starting to spend more time together. Ben later said he wished he’d reached out more to Noah. He and I share regret about things not said and done and the forever lost chance at reconciliation.

Our tall boys had started to look more alike as adults, and this intensified after Noah was gone. Sometimes we’d be startled to glimpse Ben in profile or at a distance. He began to wear his beard like Noah, his pant legs rolled up like Noah. He said Noah inspired him to be more adventurous. He began rock climbing. He quit his job to travel for a year. He brought back a bottle of sake from Japan and poured it over Noah’s grave. He said he wished they could have traveled together—how if Noah had arrived with him after hours at a fort in Spain, Noah would have scaled the wall to check it out; how Noah should have stuck around to see some cool places. Maybe the new roads that travel opens up will give Ben space to grieve and remember.

I’m glad Ben thinks about Noah as he explores the world. I’m just so sorry he can’t explore along with his brother, much less do the ordinary things adult brothers do like go out for a beer, throw a Frisbee, or make fun of their parents. I’m so sorry he’s lost that precious family tie and will spend the rest of his life an only child. As he seeks his path in life, I hope Ben finds some sense of brotherhood with others and an enduring bond with Noah’s spirit. Noah would  surely cheer him on.

 (At a family Thanksgiving away from home in North Carolina in 2010, when Ben -- at left-- and Noah--center-- started to enjoy each other's company again.)

Ruminations on Post-Traumatic Growth

Have you heard about post-traumatic growth, the positive changes that psychologists say can arise from dealing with extreme adversity? I bring it up not as something to crow about or strive for— it doesn’t work that way—but as something that can bring light and hope to suicide loss survivors and others facing traumatic events.

I didn’t pay much attention early on when more seasoned survivors talked about post-traumatic growth as a counterweight to post-traumatic stress. I was incredulous that anything good could come from this horror. I resisted the idea, not only because it felt so alien but because it seemed to belittle the tragedy of suicide. Harold Kushner writes in When Bad Things Happen to Good People that if he could choose to have his teenage son back from illness rather than his own spiritual growth from loss, he would, but he doesn’t get that choice. We can’t reverse the devastation that happened but inevitably, it changes us and if we’re lucky, maybe we can choose to change in ways that heal ourselves and the world. Those changes then become part of the legacy of our loved one.

Psychologists have been studying post-traumatic growth (PTG) since the 1990s. They found that it’s an ongoing transformative process that co-exists with distress about the traumatic event. The positive changes of PTG occur in five domains: people’s appreciation of life, the quality of their relationships, sense of their own strength, new life opportunities, and spirituality. As I read about these domains in the work of Tedeschi and Calhoun, they felt instantly and reassuringly familiar. You can check out one version of their PTG Inventory here .

What fascinates me is that experts say PTG arises not from enduring the trauma but from the struggle to deal with the “earthquake” that shatters our core beliefs or “assumptive world.” Oddly, the more resilient you are, as in easily bouncing back from set-backs, the less likely you are to go through the “cognitive processing” of PTG. Instead, PTG arises from “rumination,” going over and over what happened and your reaction to it as you try to make sense of it and reconstruct your schemas, or ways of seeing the world. 

Psychologists distinguish between “brooding” rumination that is involuntary, depressive, and haunted by intrusive thoughts (like many of us have in the early stages) versus more reflective, “deliberate” rumination that actively seeks meaning. Indeed, jumping into problem-solving too quickly in search of closure can impede PTG: “This often lengthy process during which distress persists may actually be important for the maximum degree of PTG to occur. This distress keeps the cognitive processing active, whereas a rapid resolution is probably an indication that the assumptive world was not severely tested and could accommodate the traumatic events” (Tedeschi & Calhoun, 2004, p. 8). Other factors that promote PTG include expressing one’s emotions and telling one’s story in a supportive environment, like support groups. 

What a validation this is for those of us who are inclined to think and talk about our loss rather than downplay our grief and quickly resume normal activities. PTG is part of the “new normal” we’re trying so hard to construct and understand. It’s an answer to the well-meaning folks who think there’s no point continuing to ask why or process our feelings about the suicide. Learning about PTG reminds me how fortunate I’ve been to have access not only to support groups, therapy, and companions in grief, but to this blog as a vehicle for rumination and to those who respond in such encouraging ways to my wandering thoughts. Thanks to you, my readers, for being part of my cognitive processing! 

There are no guarantees. PTG will remain elusive for some and of little interest to others. But its occurrence is significant, as suicide survivors’ stories attest. You can read about survivors who became activists, advocates, healers, artists, researchers, and more generous, compassionate people in survivors’ memoirs and the new edition of After Suicide Loss: Coping with Your Grief by Jordan and Baugher (2016). 

The possibility of PTG, even in people with multiple traumatic experiences, is “a powerful silver lining for us grievers” and a form of “mental strength training,” writes survivor blogger Lisa Richards.  Among her suggestions: “Focus on, learn about and strengthen your relationships. . . . What do you want to do more of/less of, in your relationships, now that your loss has shown you how critical it is for you to LIVE EVERY MOMENT?”

To my fellow survivors and others: What growth have you noticed in the wake of trauma? Let’s give ourselves credit for each step forward--and be self-compassionate if that’s not our process right now. 

"Stay": An Inoculation Against Suicide

I inoculated my kids against the standard preventable diseases. I exposed them to lots of enriching experiences and discussions to engage them in life. I never knew I needed to inoculate Noah against the temptation to suicide.

I just discovered a vaccine that I wish he and other young people had absorbed as part of their education: Jennifer Michael Hecht’s Stay: A History of Suicide and the Arguments Against It (Yale University Press, 2013). She writes that we owe it to our community and to our future selves to hold on through difficult times—that staying alive is a courageous, heroic act:

None of us can truly know what we mean to other people, and none of us can know what our future self will experience. History and philosophy ask us to remember these mysteries, to look around at friends, family, humanity, at the surprises life brings—the endless possibilities that living offers—and to persevere. There is love and insight to live for, bright moments to cherish, and even the possibility of happiness, and the chance of helping someone else through his or her own troubles. . . The first step is to consider the arguments and evidence and choose to stay. After that, anything may happen. First, choose to stay. (p. 234)

Hecht’s message is precious with or without the impressive history of Western philosophy and religious thought that supports it in the book. She contends that modern secular thought made a “wrong turn” in insisting on, even glorifying, the individual right to suicide in the face of despair; Camus’ views, for example, have been misunderstood. Hecht lost two close poet friends to suicide and developed her thesis to provide “conceptual barriers to suicide” akin to protective fences or walls on bridges or college campuses. I believe these concepts need to be introduced and considered when young people’s beliefs are forming to counteract cultural messages that suicide is a right and a romantic, viable exit option for artists and other sensitive souls.

For most of his adolescence, Noah and I had long talks about ideas; they mattered to him, just as Hecht insists they matter to people's views of suicide. It chagrins me to no end that Noah and I were too estranged in the year or two before his death at age 21 to talk about anything important. What if I or one of his teachers or fellow students had floated Hecht’s argument at a moment when he was clear enough to hear it? There’s a chance that the idea of his future self might have made an impression and been stored away as a hedge against a desperate act. 

I so miss not having the chance to know and love my child’s future self.

You can read Hecht’s basic argument in short form here and here or listen to a radio interview with her here. In this new year, please pass on the wisdom of Stay to everyone you know, especially struggling young people and their teachers. Maybe it will make a difference for one person and their community and the possibility of happiness in 2016. Peace to all.

Revisiting the Why? and If Only . . .

We had a buoying visit this week from one of Noah’s college friends we’d never met. She was generous with her memories and seemed comfortable talking about Noah, though she said it took her a long time to finally contact us. I’m grateful to her for reaching out and for bringing us little stories of his college years, like how as a freshman he helped organize an all-night  Asian-style dance party and how a group of 15 friends once made a fried chicken dinner in his honor and how he inspired her to take art and music classes that became a solace for her after his death. Also how in his last weeks at school, he looked and acted different and no longer wanted to be friends—and how hurtful that was for her.

I feel I owe Noah’s friends and cousins an explanation for his suicide. I’ve felt this from the start and again with this visitor. With a reading at his memorial, I may have given some of them the impression that he was bipolar, yet we have no clear evidence of that. There are so many possible causes in the complicated story I’ve pieced together; I keep rearranging the pieces as some come to appear more prominent. No one asks directly about why Noah killed himself, yet the question hangs heavy over many encounters.

I imagine this young woman and other college friends wondering what happened. What happened to the engaged, adventurous, charismatic guy who became literally a shell of his former self? What happened in the three weeks between taking a medical leave from school and killing himself? His college friends said good bye to Noah and turned him over to me to take him home and give him the care he couldn’t get at school. He took his life while under my roof in my care. How can that be?

The day after the visit, while listening to a poignant melody by Tchaikovsky, I felt overwhelmed by the misery and mystery of those three weeks. We'd thought Noah was safe with us at home; we saw him daily, had dinner together. Yet he was far from safe from his demons. He refused to get help and wouldn’t let me or anyone take care of him as he sunk deeper into numbness and isolation. He watched TV, blew off friends who called, and saw no one besides his parents and grandparents. If only I’d known about his anxiety attacks. If only I’d understood how isolation is a warning sign for suicide risk. If only I’d brought home a psychiatrist cousin or Noah’s best friend, whether Noah wanted to see them or not. The litany of “if only’s” drowned out the music the other day. Each one still felt like an accusation.

I could tell Noah’s friends about those three weeks if they seemed interested and the time was right. I could share how confused, helpless, and angry we felt as parents—and they might know exactly what I meant. Because that’s also how they felt with Noah during his decline. No one knew what was happening or what to do.

Noah’s friends likely have their own pieces that they’ve been shuffling and puzzling over since his suicide. Even if all of us who miss him were to bring together all our possible pieces, there would always be gaps. We’ll never really know what was going on in the mind of the person we loved and thought we knew.