**Disclaimer** This story is not a cry for attention, or reaching out for a helping hand. I have a doctor, and I've had many wonderful therapists. I have a great support network, that loves me and accepts me. This is knowledge, to share, to help hopefully, in understanding someone you love, or even yourself. I know I am not alone, and I want others to know..they too, are not alone. There will be NO tolerance of stigma or criticism. I welcome feed back and comment, but I will not tolerate ignorance.
My Mother, RIP 09/21/1998
As the event of my Mother's death, was a catalyst for many things, my own mental state, and many life choices I have come to regret, in my knee jerk response to events, and responses, it is the one story I must tell first. This will include some visuals, and context, that may be offensive or difficult for some readers. Please read this with caution and from a safe, warm, happy place. I am comfortable retelling the events, and I don't wish anyone else to be uncomfortable.
On September 21, 1998, my mother completed her own suicide by hanging. I was the one to find her, and here is the story of that day.
In the late 90's, life was starting to go very well for my current husband and I, and our two young son's. We had a nice home, in a nice area, with a great school and community. It was not perfect, but it was a pretty close replica to the "little white house, with the picket fence, and 2.2 kids". An idea, not an image, as I have put up one picket fence in my lifetime, and it will be the only one. Too much work for such a small aesthetic.
It was in my hometown, where I grew up for the most part, without anymore military jaunts, as my parents were no longer together. I had, based on appearances, everything a woman could want. But remember, appearances can be very deceiving.
In the process of living my Norman Rockwell life, as a Mother and Wife, I was also in the full time role of daughter, or more accurate, caregiver of my own Mother. Again, for all appearances, she seemed fine, if going through a somewhat difficult time. In reality, her fragile grip on reality, began to slip in her late 40's. She had a very difficult childhood, fraught with poverty, sexual abuse, neglect, and some very traumatic events, that were simply par for the course, where she grew up on the "wrong side of the tracks".
The beginning of my journey with her, through her own mental illness, and resulting death, changed my life and me, for all time after that. After a couple of years of meeting with her Doctors, (she would change all the time, I'll explain the premise of this another time), and mental health workers, and many psychiatry ward employees, I lost my fight to get her the help she needed. You really do have to want to, and the stigma for her was too high and negative, from a gene pool fraught with mental illness, and other mental maladies. At this point in time, for context, my Mother was taking anti psychotic medication, and deciding how much SHE wanted or didn't on any given day, (not wise), and self medicating with alcohol and even marijuana (something she never did all the years as my Mom). The end result was extra paranoia, and the inability to process her own abusive memories, flooding in with relentless wave after wave. Each day presented new challenges in trying to keep her with us, in the realm of reality. At this time, I had only the experience of mild depression as a teenager, and the stories of my dysfunctional relatives on the maternal side of my family. Not all of them, but they were the majority.
For the first time, my younger brother's and I, all had significant others. I, married with 2 children, and my brothers with their future wives. We all had someone to care for us, and she knew that, and counted on it, knowing in her own mind, what her plans were. And she left me her journal of her last 6 months, so that I didn't miss a thing that went on, things that were hard to read, but gave me a greater understanding of my Mother, and how truly tortured and tormented she was. She was a defender of women and children, and a fierce protector of those abused or wronged. She could tell you what you needed to do, should do, and the help you could get. Unfortunately, she could never apply that to herself.
That day that changed many lives forever, was a Monday. The weekend leading up to it, held no clues of what was to come. Even when she would choose to isolate herself, I would have friends drop off groceries, that she could afford but would not go get. I would call regularly to check in, and try to have a conversation without the terseness of her growing anger and frustration. In hindsight, in light of such illness, and fear and pain...I can almost understand her choice.
On the Sunday night, I called her to share my day with her grandchildren. I had bought my oldest son a "tam" (a type of hat) that was red with Canada on it, and I wanted to tell her, as she too liked to wear "tams". Not sure how to describe the hat really. Her voice was a bit scratchy, so I asked if she was coming down with something. She said she just had a bit of a cold. The reality was, the night before, was her first attempt to hang herself.
Monday, I went to work, and found out my Mother had called into work sick. Yes, we worked together, in the same place for almost 8 years. I was her supervisor, as if I didn't have enough challenges.
I also knew we had one of those lovely "staff meetings" that evening, and even though she was unwell, was hoped and expected to come. I do think her negative perception, of this meeting, which to be honest, was rarely ever, very productive. It sometimes turned into a finger pointing game, and she felt persecuted enough at this time.
I was busy at lunchtime at work, and a sudden wave of nausea suddenly came over me. At the time, it was perplexing, as to why or what, caused it. I think you can gather now, what caused such a sensation. As my shift ended, I was going to stop and check on my Mother, on my way home from work, as she lived nearby. For whatever reason, I chose to go home first, and check on her on the way to my meeting that evening.
A dear friend and co worker from that time, decided we should car pool to the meeting, and stop and see my Mother on the way. To this day, I am so grateful for her presence that awful day.
We drove up to the large old house, transformed into apartments, where my Mother now lived. You know the ones, with the big open wide staircase up to a sprawling porch. Her door was one of two at the front of this dwelling. The neighbor was another co worker, my mentor at that time, and long before that.
I can't recall walking up those stairs. But I know I did so without too much dread. Maybe a little, as my Mother in her later years, had become quite confrontational, and aggressive as well, towards me at least. (The beginning of my anxiety type responses)
As I reached the top, poised to knock on her door, I noticed a note in her handwriting. "Do not come in. Call the police", and I knew. Not one to ever take the easy way, or do as I'm told, I kicked in her door and went in. I don't think at that time, I had remembered her promise to never harm herself, but in the back of my mind, I truly expected to find her alive. Not well, but at least alive. And the next hour or so was the most surreal of my lifetime. I walked down the hallway, into her kitchen, with a clear view of her living room. The first image to register, was that of my Mom, just standing there quietly, waiting for me? Her head hung down in resignation, or so I thought at the time. I'm sure it was only seconds that this went through my brain. The next thing to register, was her grey pallor...and everything clicked back to the reality of what I had just seen. She was gone. She was dead. Only then did my eyes register the rope from the beam. But her feet were touching the floor. This would be a hard reality for me for years to come. At that point, I began falling apart. I screamed, I remember that, and I had to crawl back out, as my legs gave way the moment reality set in.
I went to the neighbors, screaming hysterically, to use the phone to call 911, at the same time my friend hearing my screams, came rushing to my aid.
I never entered her place ever again. We waited for the emergency response team to arrive. I called my boss, a friend as well, and she was there in moments. I called my current husband of the time, and told him. His response was, "you're kidding". I didn't take such things well at that time, and for a time to come. My retorts to such things were bitter and cruel and caustic. There was no restraint on my pain for a long time to come.
I berated all the emergency crews, for being there too late this time. I unleashed my anger at their failure all the other times they had been called, and not prevented this. Of course I know now, and did soon after, that none of us could have prevented this event. This was not a cry for attention. This was a woman in severe emotional pain and turmoil. Dementia had set in, and the hallucinations of past abuse, and the return of deceased relatives, that haunted her waking days, simply became too much. My first stop on the way home, was to meet her Doctor at his office. I was adamant about seeing him, due to the complication of my relationship with him. He was not only her Doctor. He was my neighbor, his wife a friend, and our children played together.
Fast forward to that evening, and I am at my friends house, making the dreaded calls to my baby brothers. One had a long mountainous drive, and was there by the next morning. The other, had to take a BC Ferry to get there. I'd like to take this time, to thank them. He only had the last ferry as a chance to get home. His girlfriend at the time (his future wife), called ahead and they actually held the Ferry for them. Thank you.
My friend that went through all of this with me that evening, had opened her home to my husband and I, to contact family and speak openly, without my children hearing. I just wasn't ready to tell my children, your grandmother that you adore, left us. Not gone, not dead, she left of us. Whether you can rationalize it or not, it is a selfish choice, and one you don't have to pay for. The living you leave behind, get to cover that cost.
The following morning, I had to have THE most difficult conversation with my then 10 year old son. The psychiatrist assigned to my family, compliments of my employer at the time, said I had no choice but to tell him without leaving out details of how. We lived in a small town, and he was better to hear it from me, than a stranger. As it turned out, it would be one of many decisions I would make, with good intent, that would go bad. To this day, my oldest son refuses to forgive his father and I for waiting until the next morning.
I got to sit down with my youngest son, around the same age, years later, so that he too had the real story. You can't heal with lies.
I could add so much more, but this is my Mother's story, and I am here to tell mine. With the dedication and love of an older, female cousin, I came to know my Mother better after death, than before. Her journal of her last unraveling 6 months, and previous suicide attempts, answered all the questions Suicide survivors are left with, or at least a great portion of them. Insight that would explain maybe, but too late to do any good. For her. So, as I move forward with this, I hope that her story, and mine, just may help or save one person. I have spent the last 15 years NOT being Silent, and keeping NO Secrets. At her service I managed to get up and say "Silence kills". I have been an outspoken survivor and sufferer from that day. I will continue to be so, as I know I have actually saved a couple, helped a couple, and done my Mother proud, by taking a horrible incident, and turning it into a gift to share with others, and even help those in crisis. If from your pain, you can ease another's, it is the one comfort we (Survivors of Suicide) can derive from our own painful experiences.
My Mother's last journal entry, before her final successful attempt, was ..."I have to do it right this time. If Sherry see's the bruises and marks on my neck, she will have me arrested or put in the hospital again". The guilt from that statement would come and go over the years. Looking back, I know she wanted to protect me, but she had raised me to be strong, to face my fears head on. She knew I would get the "clean up". She knew she had left me with the greatest burden. But in my heart, being the Mom myself, and the older sister, I would not change my role, if only to spare my baby brothers.
Her greatest fear was not dying. Her greatest fear, was living with all her pain. With that knowledge, I came to forgive her for her choice. But her choice and actions, would have a ripple effect in my life, that I am only managing to slow and repair, 15 years later. The things I can repair. Like my Mother, some things are lost for all time, and can not be reclaimed.
She was a kind woman, she was a gentle woman, and she was a sick woman, that came with a whole different personality. But she was my Mother, and I miss her and love her, and even thank her for the trials I had, that to this day, help me be a fighter and survivor for myself, that I couldn't be for her.
I can for the most part, retell this story with ease. If my Mother had died of cancer, or diabetes, or heart disease...I would share her story of her passing. I've never seen any difference, that her death was the result of unhealed abuse, and hereditary mental imbalance, and not the "acceptable" forms of passing. I am proud of the Mother she tried to be, and I am proud of the woman she raised as her daughter, to carry her legacy of not only pain, but also triumph. Knowledge is power. Forgiveness is freeing. Acceptance is Peace...and the one thing I strive for every day.
On September 21, 1998, my mother completed her own suicide by hanging. I was the one to find her, and here is the story of that day.
In the late 90's, life was starting to go very well for my current husband and I, and our two young son's. We had a nice home, in a nice area, with a great school and community. It was not perfect, but it was a pretty close replica to the "little white house, with the picket fence, and 2.2 kids". An idea, not an image, as I have put up one picket fence in my lifetime, and it will be the only one. Too much work for such a small aesthetic.
It was in my hometown, where I grew up for the most part, without anymore military jaunts, as my parents were no longer together. I had, based on appearances, everything a woman could want. But remember, appearances can be very deceiving.
In the process of living my Norman Rockwell life, as a Mother and Wife, I was also in the full time role of daughter, or more accurate, caregiver of my own Mother. Again, for all appearances, she seemed fine, if going through a somewhat difficult time. In reality, her fragile grip on reality, began to slip in her late 40's. She had a very difficult childhood, fraught with poverty, sexual abuse, neglect, and some very traumatic events, that were simply par for the course, where she grew up on the "wrong side of the tracks".
The beginning of my journey with her, through her own mental illness, and resulting death, changed my life and me, for all time after that. After a couple of years of meeting with her Doctors, (she would change all the time, I'll explain the premise of this another time), and mental health workers, and many psychiatry ward employees, I lost my fight to get her the help she needed. You really do have to want to, and the stigma for her was too high and negative, from a gene pool fraught with mental illness, and other mental maladies. At this point in time, for context, my Mother was taking anti psychotic medication, and deciding how much SHE wanted or didn't on any given day, (not wise), and self medicating with alcohol and even marijuana (something she never did all the years as my Mom). The end result was extra paranoia, and the inability to process her own abusive memories, flooding in with relentless wave after wave. Each day presented new challenges in trying to keep her with us, in the realm of reality. At this time, I had only the experience of mild depression as a teenager, and the stories of my dysfunctional relatives on the maternal side of my family. Not all of them, but they were the majority.
For the first time, my younger brother's and I, all had significant others. I, married with 2 children, and my brothers with their future wives. We all had someone to care for us, and she knew that, and counted on it, knowing in her own mind, what her plans were. And she left me her journal of her last 6 months, so that I didn't miss a thing that went on, things that were hard to read, but gave me a greater understanding of my Mother, and how truly tortured and tormented she was. She was a defender of women and children, and a fierce protector of those abused or wronged. She could tell you what you needed to do, should do, and the help you could get. Unfortunately, she could never apply that to herself.
That day that changed many lives forever, was a Monday. The weekend leading up to it, held no clues of what was to come. Even when she would choose to isolate herself, I would have friends drop off groceries, that she could afford but would not go get. I would call regularly to check in, and try to have a conversation without the terseness of her growing anger and frustration. In hindsight, in light of such illness, and fear and pain...I can almost understand her choice.
On the Sunday night, I called her to share my day with her grandchildren. I had bought my oldest son a "tam" (a type of hat) that was red with Canada on it, and I wanted to tell her, as she too liked to wear "tams". Not sure how to describe the hat really. Her voice was a bit scratchy, so I asked if she was coming down with something. She said she just had a bit of a cold. The reality was, the night before, was her first attempt to hang herself.
Monday, I went to work, and found out my Mother had called into work sick. Yes, we worked together, in the same place for almost 8 years. I was her supervisor, as if I didn't have enough challenges.
I also knew we had one of those lovely "staff meetings" that evening, and even though she was unwell, was hoped and expected to come. I do think her negative perception, of this meeting, which to be honest, was rarely ever, very productive. It sometimes turned into a finger pointing game, and she felt persecuted enough at this time.
I was busy at lunchtime at work, and a sudden wave of nausea suddenly came over me. At the time, it was perplexing, as to why or what, caused it. I think you can gather now, what caused such a sensation. As my shift ended, I was going to stop and check on my Mother, on my way home from work, as she lived nearby. For whatever reason, I chose to go home first, and check on her on the way to my meeting that evening.
A dear friend and co worker from that time, decided we should car pool to the meeting, and stop and see my Mother on the way. To this day, I am so grateful for her presence that awful day.
We drove up to the large old house, transformed into apartments, where my Mother now lived. You know the ones, with the big open wide staircase up to a sprawling porch. Her door was one of two at the front of this dwelling. The neighbor was another co worker, my mentor at that time, and long before that.
I can't recall walking up those stairs. But I know I did so without too much dread. Maybe a little, as my Mother in her later years, had become quite confrontational, and aggressive as well, towards me at least. (The beginning of my anxiety type responses)
As I reached the top, poised to knock on her door, I noticed a note in her handwriting. "Do not come in. Call the police", and I knew. Not one to ever take the easy way, or do as I'm told, I kicked in her door and went in. I don't think at that time, I had remembered her promise to never harm herself, but in the back of my mind, I truly expected to find her alive. Not well, but at least alive. And the next hour or so was the most surreal of my lifetime. I walked down the hallway, into her kitchen, with a clear view of her living room. The first image to register, was that of my Mom, just standing there quietly, waiting for me? Her head hung down in resignation, or so I thought at the time. I'm sure it was only seconds that this went through my brain. The next thing to register, was her grey pallor...and everything clicked back to the reality of what I had just seen. She was gone. She was dead. Only then did my eyes register the rope from the beam. But her feet were touching the floor. This would be a hard reality for me for years to come. At that point, I began falling apart. I screamed, I remember that, and I had to crawl back out, as my legs gave way the moment reality set in.
I went to the neighbors, screaming hysterically, to use the phone to call 911, at the same time my friend hearing my screams, came rushing to my aid.
I never entered her place ever again. We waited for the emergency response team to arrive. I called my boss, a friend as well, and she was there in moments. I called my current husband of the time, and told him. His response was, "you're kidding". I didn't take such things well at that time, and for a time to come. My retorts to such things were bitter and cruel and caustic. There was no restraint on my pain for a long time to come.
I berated all the emergency crews, for being there too late this time. I unleashed my anger at their failure all the other times they had been called, and not prevented this. Of course I know now, and did soon after, that none of us could have prevented this event. This was not a cry for attention. This was a woman in severe emotional pain and turmoil. Dementia had set in, and the hallucinations of past abuse, and the return of deceased relatives, that haunted her waking days, simply became too much. My first stop on the way home, was to meet her Doctor at his office. I was adamant about seeing him, due to the complication of my relationship with him. He was not only her Doctor. He was my neighbor, his wife a friend, and our children played together.
Fast forward to that evening, and I am at my friends house, making the dreaded calls to my baby brothers. One had a long mountainous drive, and was there by the next morning. The other, had to take a BC Ferry to get there. I'd like to take this time, to thank them. He only had the last ferry as a chance to get home. His girlfriend at the time (his future wife), called ahead and they actually held the Ferry for them. Thank you.
My friend that went through all of this with me that evening, had opened her home to my husband and I, to contact family and speak openly, without my children hearing. I just wasn't ready to tell my children, your grandmother that you adore, left us. Not gone, not dead, she left of us. Whether you can rationalize it or not, it is a selfish choice, and one you don't have to pay for. The living you leave behind, get to cover that cost.
The following morning, I had to have THE most difficult conversation with my then 10 year old son. The psychiatrist assigned to my family, compliments of my employer at the time, said I had no choice but to tell him without leaving out details of how. We lived in a small town, and he was better to hear it from me, than a stranger. As it turned out, it would be one of many decisions I would make, with good intent, that would go bad. To this day, my oldest son refuses to forgive his father and I for waiting until the next morning.
I got to sit down with my youngest son, around the same age, years later, so that he too had the real story. You can't heal with lies.
I could add so much more, but this is my Mother's story, and I am here to tell mine. With the dedication and love of an older, female cousin, I came to know my Mother better after death, than before. Her journal of her last unraveling 6 months, and previous suicide attempts, answered all the questions Suicide survivors are left with, or at least a great portion of them. Insight that would explain maybe, but too late to do any good. For her. So, as I move forward with this, I hope that her story, and mine, just may help or save one person. I have spent the last 15 years NOT being Silent, and keeping NO Secrets. At her service I managed to get up and say "Silence kills". I have been an outspoken survivor and sufferer from that day. I will continue to be so, as I know I have actually saved a couple, helped a couple, and done my Mother proud, by taking a horrible incident, and turning it into a gift to share with others, and even help those in crisis. If from your pain, you can ease another's, it is the one comfort we (Survivors of Suicide) can derive from our own painful experiences.
My Mother's last journal entry, before her final successful attempt, was ..."I have to do it right this time. If Sherry see's the bruises and marks on my neck, she will have me arrested or put in the hospital again". The guilt from that statement would come and go over the years. Looking back, I know she wanted to protect me, but she had raised me to be strong, to face my fears head on. She knew I would get the "clean up". She knew she had left me with the greatest burden. But in my heart, being the Mom myself, and the older sister, I would not change my role, if only to spare my baby brothers.
Her greatest fear was not dying. Her greatest fear, was living with all her pain. With that knowledge, I came to forgive her for her choice. But her choice and actions, would have a ripple effect in my life, that I am only managing to slow and repair, 15 years later. The things I can repair. Like my Mother, some things are lost for all time, and can not be reclaimed.
She was a kind woman, she was a gentle woman, and she was a sick woman, that came with a whole different personality. But she was my Mother, and I miss her and love her, and even thank her for the trials I had, that to this day, help me be a fighter and survivor for myself, that I couldn't be for her.
I can for the most part, retell this story with ease. If my Mother had died of cancer, or diabetes, or heart disease...I would share her story of her passing. I've never seen any difference, that her death was the result of unhealed abuse, and hereditary mental imbalance, and not the "acceptable" forms of passing. I am proud of the Mother she tried to be, and I am proud of the woman she raised as her daughter, to carry her legacy of not only pain, but also triumph. Knowledge is power. Forgiveness is freeing. Acceptance is Peace...and the one thing I strive for every day.
Oh Sherry, your mom was such a strong woman, one that I admired greatly, I am so sorry that she was in so much pain, and that you got the clean up duty... This seems to be a healing process for you so I am so glad you are doing it... I will read and cry and remember... keep it up... love you
ReplyDeleteThank you so much Jackie. I know she cared for you a great deal as well. Now that I have started, just try and stop me :-)
DeleteHmm...I left a comment before but it seems to have disappeared (maybe I just didn't hit "submit" ... who knows lol) but wow... I can only imagine what you went through on that day and after, Sherry. Thanks for sharing your story with us. Tears were streaming down my cheeks as I read it.
ReplyDeleteAw, that is so sweet of you, thank you so much. It was a hard time. But now I can share, and maybe help someone else through a hard time. I call it squinting to find the silver lining.
Delete