Guilt

I know.
Before you could finish reading the above title of this your mind quickly formed a rebuttal, denial, and wanted to offer instant absolution and forgiveness.

It’s not your fault.
You did the best you could.
You were a great mother to him.

I know this is what you want to say because I say it to myself. Often.
The problem is that it doesn’t work for me. It doesn’t make Guilt go away. And feeling bad about myself never helps. Focusing on negatives incapacitates me.

Maybe if I examine these sentences I can figure out why they don’t help.

It’s not your fault.

I hope this is true. I’d like it to be true. Does that count?
I guess my immediate problem with why I cannot convince myself that this is true is that I have no way to prove that it wasn’t my fault, at least to a degree. As his mother, I cannot imagine anyone more responsible. As a parent, you bring your child into this world with every fiber of your being invested in them. Never does it enter any part of your imagination, your dreams and hopes for them, that they will find Life too unbearable to continue living.

You did the best you could.

You’re right. I did.
Or did I? How do I know for sure? Another fine sentiment that I cannot prove is true.

While I’m writing this memories are pushing and shoving each other, jockeying for position in the front of my mind, incidences and occasions in my past when I could have chosen differently.

What if I had done this? If only I had done that!

How did these collective choices affect him and how he experienced Life?
If you look at my crazy life and all that I put my kids through while they were growing up you could even say that this had a direct correlation with how he lived and died. How could it not?
Okay, so now I am back to definitely believing it is my fault.

You were a great mother to him.

Another thing that cannot be proven. This could be another example of wishful thinking. The problem is that I have to believe it.

If your son died from starvation and alcoholism fifteen years after having a mental breakdown and being diagnosed as schizophrenic, don’t you think you would question every second of your parenting, including every thought and good intention, every single word exchanged, each action, each misstep, and each failure to act? Is it possible for me to ever not carry a degree of guilt? I can’t imagine it.See, this is what Guilt does. It’s slippery. By the time you figure out it’s even present it has already slipped out from the shadows where it lurks and put it’s damp, heavy, miserable, cloak onto your shoulders. The weight of it is almost impossible to shrug off. But Guilt doesn’t like brief encounters. It likes you to really wallow.

Never any satisfaction. No resolution. Guilt keeps coming back for more. Not just a useless emotion, Guilt is damaging. It sucks out your energy and wants to ruin your Life over things you can do nothing about, steps you cannot retake. The past is the past.

I feel guilty for not trying something else, and not trying even harder to get him help.
I feel guilty for not seeing him more often.
I feel guilty for who I picked as his father….and then the stepfather du jour choices after that. Uugh.
I feel guilty that he wanted to die.
I feel guilty that he chose this as his way out.
I feel guilty that my firstborn, my son, chose Death over Life.
I feel guilty that I was his mother.

Guilt is not rational. Guilt is an emotion. Emotions are not logical. I haven’t figured out how to logic my way out. (Is logic a verb? It should be). I feel guilty about so many things besides my son dying. I think I’ll list them

I feel guilty for not being there more for my children.
I feel guilty for not being there more for my grandchildren.
I feel guilty for for all of the interactions with those who mean something to me, that only happen in my mind.
I feel guilty for cutting so many people out of my Life.
I feel guilty for letting Others down.
I feel guilty for a huge part of me dying when Kevin did.
I feel guilty for feeling incapable of caring about anyone.
I feel guilty for every life choice I have made.
I feel guilty for any extra weight.
I feel guilty for every wrinkle.

I feel guilty for not being financially secure.
I feel guilty for being old.

I feel guilty and stupid for feeling guilty about such superficial nonsense.
I feel guilty for feeling completely changing.
I feel guilty for not being able to say how I feel.
I feel guilty for not being able to Get over it!
I feel guilty for losing any moments in Life because I cannot show up.

I feel guilty for feeling guilty. Uugh.

Does this examination of Guilt help?
I don’t know
I know Guilt is waiting in the wings to catch me unaware.

One foot in front of the other, I don’t feel like taking an action but I will.

If I was not feeling _______ I would be_______.

What would I be doing, if I was not busy be held hostage by whatever negative emotion in this moment? What is the action I would take?This hack has often been helpful when I have found myself with emotions that I cannot easily categorize, organize, and tuck into a box in my mind.

Emotions are not logical. Guilt and Grief cannot be rationalized away. Some things you just have to figure out how to live with

If I was not feeling Guilty I would be____.

I’m grouchy and sore as I try to crawl out on my hands and knees from under this heavy Guilt. Guilt and Grief affects you physically. The weight is indescribable. I can barely move.

Guilt will catch me here and there where it will but in this moment I realize I do have a choice.
Guilt can’t settle on a moving target.

Sledding!
If I was not feeling Guilty I would be Sledding!

Worst things people have said to me since my son, Kevin, died. Part 2

It’s been two years and a few months since my son, Kevin died.
It’s still almost impossible to talk about.
I’m only writing about it to try to free myself, so I can really live again.

My disclaimer with anything I write is that I cannot speak for everyone (or anyone) who is grieving. I can only speak for myself. Just like I cannot speak for every white, female, Libra, etc.
We are each individuals and our experiences and how we react to them are also unique to each person.

I realized very quickly after Kevin died that no one around me could handle me and my emotional turmoil. I get it. I couldn’t handle me either. Sometimes I still can’t.

A couple of blog posts ago I wrote about the Worst things people have said to me since my son, Kevin, died. I have since remembered a few more:

Don’t say that!

OK. This is very effective at just shutting me up. This definitely contributed to me staying silent for so long. I don’t know if the person who said this (someone close to me at a time in my life when I have few that I let in) realizes the impact this sentence has had on me. Unfortunately, not saying something does not mean it doesn’t exist or isn’t true.

Don’t feel that way!

I would love to hear from anyone out there how this exclamation has ever helped you? I mean really. You feel how you feel. When it is you, it feels like a certainty, a fact. Has anyone saying this ever changed how you feel? For me, it made me be silent.

Are you better?

I was actually shocked when I was asked this a few months after he died (again, by someone close to me). He was my oldest son, my first child. How could I ever be better?! Of course, I said nothing.

Try being positive!

Again, I do not expect anyone to understand. But please. My heartbreak and grieving can be alleviated if I am plastering on a smile and acting positive? Thanks for trivializing a life-changing event!

Trust me, I am not a doom and gloom kind of gal. I will later speak about how I have coped, and what has and hasn’t worked for me.

Will sharing this be helpful to anyone else? I don’t know.
I’m honestly just trying to help myself.

Dead

I walk down the hospital hallway. My sister walks beside me.

She picked me up at the airport.

The flight was pretty weird. I had over three hours to just think…or try not to think. I was pretty sure my son was dead but wouldn’t know for sure until I landed.

I don’t remember anything that was said between my sister and I. I do remember feeling like I couldn’t just break down, like I had to be strong and keep it together for some stupid reason.

How heavy are these shoes I’m wearing? The sound they make as I unwillingly trudge towards my destination is a shock to my ears.

As I enter the room my devastated daughter-in law, Amanda, and my grandson, Michael are at Kevin’s bedside. They each hug me. Kevin has a ventilator to force him to breathe. Other machines are beeping.

There are so many things I do not remember from that day.

I cannot tell you how many times doctors and nurses came into the room that day. I can’t remember exactly what they said or how many times they said it or exactly how they said it.

‘Brain dead’.

This is something I do remember.

How could a mother forget this?

I still have trouble believing this.

Today is December 13^th.

As I look at Kevin I cannot help but surprisingly think about how he looks so much better now dead, than the last time I saw him when he was alive.

…….I went to visit him the weekend after Halloween. I was staying at my sister, Elizabeth’s house. I looked at his face as he talked, joked and laughed. This was a game we played for years. He pretended to be okay. I went along with it. I had learned a long time ago that if I did not, and if I confronted him, yes, even with love, the result would be that I would not get to see my grandson, and I would not get to be in contact with him.

His face and eyes were yellow, his skin drawn tight over his sunken temples and eyes. His smile was skeletal, his teeth loose and discolored, like pomegranate seeds just before they are shaken loose from their skin.

I had come back to Las Vegas after working in Ketchikan, Alaska for the summer. I had planned on coming down for Christmas but really felt like I needed to come see my family before then. I am glad I did.

Little Michael, as everyone in the family calls him, came to my sisters house with us and spent the night. While he slept I cried as I recalled his face. At their house I made a point to not get any pictures of Kevin. I didn’t want to remember him like this. I was well aware that he was dying. I was sure he knew it too. I didn’t know what Amanda and Michael thought. Kevin kept both of them at a distance from our family…..

I talked to Kevin and held his hand that hung out from under the sheet. His fingers were stained with dirt and tobacco. I have no idea what I said. My second born Michael, along with my daughter in law Brit were also there.

The night before, Amanda had woken up in the night to discover her husband of fifteen years, my son, next to her, not breathing.

The doctors said that he was completely gone and it was only his body that was there. This was pretty hard to believe. When I said his name his eyes would roll over and look at me.

I heard him say loudly in my mind “Get this off of me!” He was talking about the ventilator. He would have pulled it out if he could. He says ‘off’ with that funny New York accent he had. I never knew where that accent came from.

Hours go by. It is torture watching Kevin lying there, this shell of my baby boy. He twitches the entire time, his hands and legs jerking, his eyes rolling around. I wonder how this is affecting my grandson, to see his father like this. Michael is only twelve years old at the time. I also wonder why they didn’t just disconnect him. Why prolong this agony? I find out later that they are waiting because they think we want to see the doctor again. Nope. We just want this over.

I had so many questions that would remain unasked and unanswered.

They finally disconnect the machines.

I don’t want to be in the room and I leave but when I see Amanda in there I didn’t feel like she should be in there alone so I go back in.

The rattling, papery, ghastly sound that leaves his body after they take out the ventilator almost knocks the wind out of me. It is a sound that will stay in my memory forever. The numbers count down, the piercing scream of the flat line, the proof that he is, in fact, dead, adds insult to injury.

Death of dreams. Death of hope.

Death of my baby boy.

I wish it had been me instead.

Tomorrow

I’m not sure if I can find the words to describe how it feels as a mother to walk into a hospital room where your son, your first born, is lying there brain dead and attached to life support. I’m going to try.

Why would I do this?
I have a couple of reasons.

The first, and most important is to save myself. Staying silent and disconnecting from family and friends these last two years and a couple of months has been necessary I guess. But I don’t want to continue down that path. I am missing out on Life.

Writing requires something of me that nothing else does. I might think in advance that I know what the story will be about but most of the time I am surprised at the outcome.

A story has it’s own agenda. So I have to be willing to trust the process, withhold judgment, and allow the words to flow and the story to tell itself.

Will this writing therapy help me?
I don’t know.

The second reason for writing is a lot messier.
Kevin did not die from Cancer. He did not get hit by a bus.
His death was not accidental.

Kevin died from starving and drinking himself to death.
This was intentional. This was a slow suicide.
What could possibly cause someone to find Life so unbearable that this was the route of escape?

Schizophrenia.
Mental illness.
Alcoholism.

The second reason to write about this is because of the Stigma related to mental illness.

Stigma. With a capital S.

Stigma affected every aspect of Kevin’s life.

It kept him silent. It kept him from seeking treatment. But of course he did not live his life in a vacuum or in isolation. Mental illness affected every aspect of his life, including his relationship with his family members and friends.

If I resist peeling away the uncomfortable and complex layers involved in the way my son lived and died, then my silence feeds the continuing Stigma about mental illness.
I don’t want to be part of the problem. Maybe this conversation, this telling of my story of Kevin, can somehow contribute to the solution.

As I’m writing this memories clamor for my attention.

…..My footsteps echo loudly and it feels surreal in the pristine hallways of this hospital. My heart sinks a little more with each step I take as I make my way to Kevin’s room. How can this be happening? Somebody wake me up!….

I cannot do it. I cannot walk back into that room today, even if only in my mind.

I will try again tomorrow.

Top 4 Worst Comments Said to me Since my Son, Kevin, Died.

This has been a struggle, to say the least, to deal with Life after Kevin’s death,a few months over 2 years ago.  I know people do not know what to say to me. I get it.

I don’t feel like I’m even the same person since this happened.

I have found it easier to withdraw, be silent. It’s easier to be around strangers or people who didn’t know me before Kevin died. They don’t expect me to be any different than how I am right now. Work etc brings new people into your Life whether you are ready or not.

I know most of the time people do not say things that are intentionally hurtful. A comment said with the best of intentions may affect someone adversely. And I realized after some time that when I spoke with even those closest to me, I didn’t like their reactions. Most of the time it left me feeling angry.

Clearly the issue was me and I knew it.

So, it has taken a couple of years now for me to even begin to reign in my feelings and reactions and this is a work in progress.

But having said that, these are the Top 4 Worst Comments Said to me Since my Son, Kevin, Died.

4. It will get better in time.

Are you sure?
I hoped this was true but I realized that, if anything, this loss is felt much greater by me as time goes on. The more time goes by the greater the realization of the permanence of his leaving, the more I feel this emptiness. I have over forty years of memories!
How long would it take you to ‘get over it’?
3. He is not suffering anymore.

How do you know?
I hope you are right but to state your beliefs and hopes and present them as absolute facts, projecting your believed outcomes onto me or my dead son is not helpful and honestly I find it offensive. Unless you can prove this to me keep your pie hole shut. It is not helpful. Also, I hate to break it to you. I actually think he is okay. This is about me and my suffering. I am his mother. This is my firstborn child, my son. I was only 18 years old when I had him. I did my growing up with him. I miss him. We spoke almost every single day. Grief is unmercifully personal…and selfish. Really it’s about my suffering.

2. He is in a better place.

If you don’t know what to say please don’t say this. Have you personally traveled up to heaven, seen and spoken with him, and brought back a message for me? Non? Fermer la bouche!
I know you are trying to make me feel better. You may believe this but you do not know this. Honestly, if you cannot scientifically prove something that you are presenting as fact but it is actually your belief or wishful thinking, then please keep it to yourself.
1. Where’s your faith?

This was hands down the worst thing someone said to me. I remember the day. I had taken a job just 3 months after Kevin died. It was way too soon. My grief spilled out unexpectedly (still does) and I would find myself suddenly a watery mess. Someone I worked with, a gentleman maybe a couple years older than I am, asked me one day concerning my son asked ”Where is your faith?’ I felt like I had been punched in the face. I could not answer. I felt as if I might scream or throw up or scratch his eyes out.

My obvious grief is being used against me as evidence of my lack of faith?
How sick is that?! Don’t judge me.

So, wait a minute….If I have faith then I will not feel this loss, or miss my son?!

You see, I have complete faith that I will never see my son again in this lifetime. I miss him. I grew up with him. We spoke nearly every day. We talked about cooking, politics (which we didn’t agree on) and jokes. Lots of jokes. I lost my son. I lost my best friend
And if you have not passed a baby through your vagina, raised said child, been there through every minute of his life, had nothing more important to you than the well being and happiness of said child then don’t. Just don’t.

So what do you say then?

I read an article on face book once where someone was saying that the worst thing you can say to someone who has experienced a death of someone close to them is:

Sorry for your loss.

I disagree. Of course I cannot speak for anyone but myself.
Grieving is peculiarly personal.

I don’t expect everyone (or even anyone) to understand. I cannot understand your loss. I don’t even understand my own. I don’t expect you to understand mine. When you say ‘I’m sorry for your loss it shows me that you do not understand, do not presume to understand, and you are offering your support and sympathy.

Sometimes Sorry for your loss is the only thing to say.

And thank you so much for caring.

Frost

So I’ve decided to spill my guts and face my feelings about my son, Kevin’s, death.

I don’t want to do this. But I have become someone watching from the sidelines. I have been on the bench, not wanting to get hurt, feel the hurt, get hurt by anyone else, hurt myself. But I am missing out. I am hurting myself. With each phone call I do not answer, each conversation I miss, each opportunity to connect with a fellow traveler in this Life it becomes easier to withdraw even further.

Pretty good analogy I say to myself. Life. A game.

Something catches my eye while I’m trying to stay immersed in my rumination. I cross the wooden floor to the door and look closely at the window pane. I discover a most amazing piece of frost!

It’s so absolutely gorgeous and as I examine it I think of the Dentelle lace that I saw in Calais, France. I never even thought about where these skilled artisans got their inspiration from while creating the exquisite lace they are known for! And here it is! A perfect filigree! Every time I notice something amazingly artistic in nature I realize that probably everything that Humans have created artistically has already been created in nature! What a gift for all of us if we are not too busy in our lives and can see the surprises right in front of us !

This is also Life.

While I am intent on my goal- to free myself through wrestling words about my feelings onto the four corners on a page, in the way that they insist on being arranged (I am only the conduit), Frost wants my attention.

This is grief in action. It doesn’t happen in isolation. While I want nothing more than to get down to it and find the right combination of words that will help set me free…..Frost.

Life keeps going. You don’t get a minute to pause and mourn. You also don’t get a minute to rejoice. The shadows rise and fall. The sun rises and sets.

No lingering to celebrate, no languishing in sorrow.

Impermanence.

While I look at this art I am aware of its short life. It is temporary. Just like all of us.

I come here the next day and yes it is gone.

Do I feel sad that it is gone or do I appreciate this temporary gift while it is here? Is it any less valuable because it didn’t last longer?

How do I choose to see this? I know the choice is mine.

My Apology

I’m standing in line at an early morning hour, waiting to board the plane. Is my heading spinning from all of my thoughts racing, or am I numb? I cannot tell. One foot in front of another.

The departure airport is McCarran-Las Vegas. I am headed to Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

The agent scans my ticket and I continue onto the jetway, waiting behind my fellow passengers. A tall man, fortyish in jeans, cowboy hat and boots loudly talks to those around him. He could still be celebrating his winnings or trying to forget his losses on this early morning flight. This is Vegas, where larger than life is the norm. I try to stay to myself, literally trying to keep myself steady, and keep him outside of my personal space. This proves impossible. He is standing right next to me.

I suddenly realize he is looking directly at me, waiting for my response. I quickly try to work out what the question was and hear myself responding with a one or two word response. Not good enough he presses me further. ‘Oh come on, you’re not looking forward to going to Fort Lauderdale?! But it’s so much fun there! He exclaims incredulously.

No way out, I stop avoiding him and steel myself with a deep breath as I turn at look at him directly. I hear the words coming out of my mouth ‘No, I’m not looking forward to this flight. My son is on life support, I’m pretty sure he is dead but I won’t know until this plane lands in over another 3 hours.’

My son died 2 years, 1 month and a few weeks ago.

I have not been able to write a word since then. So why am I writing about it now? This is an attempt to try and save myself. I feel myself disconnecting and withdrawing from this Life a little more with each passing day. Maybe if I press myself, like this fellow passenger pressed me (although I’m sure he probably is more careful in his interactions now) I can bring myself back from the edge.

I suppose grieving is a very personal and subjective experience. I don’t know what it’s like for someone else. I can barely figure out what its like for me. I have found that talking doesn’t help and not talking doesn’t help either. Will writing about it help? I don’t know. The processes involved in trying to write something coherent could help me sort out my feelings. I don’t think it could hurt. Avoiding them is doing nothing but harm.

And I need to start off by saying I’m sorry. I’m really sorry to my family. I’m sorry to friends and family. I’m sorry to my children and my grandchildren. I’m sorry for being absent, for not answering phone calls, for being emotionally detached and disengaged. I’m sorry for changing. I’m sorry for losing time with you. I’m sorry for missing all of it-your momentously happy and sad events as well as the minutia of your day to day existence because it is much easier for me to try and feel nothing.

Time lost is never recovered.

I’ve pondered writing for a very long time. I don’t know if I can handle any feed back at all, positive or negative. I’m just so sensitive and also numb at the same time, if that makes any sense. But I know me and if I am not writing for an audience then I will not hold myself to task.

I cannot tidy anything up or make anything pretty. I’ll just have to start right here where I am.

Onward….