What most parents survivors of suicide look for are signs of their deceased children.
It's a softer way to deal with the disbelief that their child is gone forever. Some think of their children as angels, leaving in heaven and watching over their shoulders, concerned with tear, sob and pain they suffer. There was even a mother that felt uncomfortable taking a shower with lights on, because she imagined that her son was around her all the time.
Several, no matter their religious beliefs, would seek the help of psychics, mediums, clairvoyants, paranormals, to receive some sings from "the other side".
Almost every one of them would have a story of some "inexplicable" fact that happened when they were either thinking about their child, or some moment of distress or a special occasion.
Dreams, lots of dreams with their child in it, telling them things, absolving them from their sins, assuring them they were OK and that it was beautiful there. Few would have nightmares, reliving their child last moments. Usually the ones the either had talked to the child moments earlier, or had found their bodies.
In a support group they would usually exchange the "signs" they had received. Common, unimportant things now had acquired new meaning, because they became "signs". Maybe there were dragonflies this time of the year since ancient times, but now, when all you can do is to stare at the nothing, trying to focus on the infinite, now you pay attention to them and think that they've never been there, or if they were, they've never flew so close to you. They must be a sign of your dead child, telling you that everything is going to be all right. And only of a sudden you see dragonflies everywhere.
Some experience objects disappearing and appearing in different places, "that for sure no one would ever put them there". Some get phone calls from the child's last phone number, and so many coincidences are suddenly discovered.
Others can see their child's face in strangers in a crowd. Or hear the child's voice when they are alone or when they are wandering in public place lost in their grief.
Most people see animals like dragonflies, butterflies, eagles, hummingbirds, fireflies, crickets. Others are left with the child's pets and can sense their child through them. The stories are always interesting and pretty, with a lesson at the end, like a innocent Chinese tale.
She could remember the look on his cats faces when she met them at his apartment after the funeral. The expression of despair and sorrow they had. She couldn't take the cats with her. The airline wouldn't transport them in the summer and she not even knew what to do. Last time she took two of his cats with her, he did all the paperwork.
She remembers that for a long time after his death she couldn't take her eyes of the ground. She started noticing all the details of all the terrains she was walking. She could spend hours staring at a stain on the carpet. She would stare at granite floors and see figures as if she was gazing at the sky imagining animals in the clouds.
Signs appeared to her too. She had a few dreams. They were not always happy, but the very first dream he was getting his luggage ready. He had a very heavy suitcase that she offered to take for him, so he could travel light. He sighed and complained to her:"No, mom! It's my luggage, I have to carry it. Look it's all arranged and I have to go now". She woke up crying.
The hummingbirds started appearing at the most unexpected times. The first time when she was very sad and had to sing at a wedding, soon after he died. Her heart was heavy and she looked at the sky on the top of the mountain, as if looking for strength from heavens. A little red throat hummingbird came to the porch and stayed there, hovering is his quiet insect flight during the whole ceremony. She always loved hummingbirds, but they were not easy to come by. The sight lifted her heart enough for her to sing. When she mentioned the fact at the support group, everyone was certain that it had been a sign from her son. From now on, every hummingbird sight became a sign. She started collecting hummingbird things: tea pots, mugs, stepping stones, jewelry, wind chimes... She didn't have much luck with hummingbird feeders or hummingbird flowers, but she tried. One day, after she had built a cover for the deck, one hummingbird came by the kitchen window. She went outside because she heard a strange noise: there it was, the hummingbird trapped under the Plexiglas ceiling of the deck cover. She gently guided the bird to freedom. It was a beautiful hummingbird, she would love to have it around more often, but keeping him longer would be the end for him. That was her Chinese tale. She had to understand and accept the way of the hummingbird, that it had to leave her in order to live. That no matter how much love she had for him, it wasn't enough to keep him close. She had to let it go. Maybe it was another sign...
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Ain't no mountain high enough
Among his things that she got to keep was his climbing gear. Missing only the rope that he used to die...
Her daughter was anxious on her first day of climbing camp. She didn't know if she was going to like. Anything different than the routine puts her in panic.
She took a long look to the box that held his climbing gear for the last four years and then she asked her daughter if she wanted to try some climbing shoes. The shoes were the right size. It was enough confidence for her daughter to overcome the anxiety and enjoy her camp.
Her daughter wanted to continue on with climbing lessons. She told her that she had the harness, if she wanted to try. Another perfect fit. She had to detangle old belts, straps and knickknacks to release the climbing harness. Her daughter was delighted with it. She put all the gear on. She looked so much like her brother.
- How did you manged to do that? It must have been so hard? Why?
- Because I love her.
Her memory is not good since his passing, but she will never forget what a friend told her: "Even if you are a zombie sitting on a chair all day long, you are still important to your daughter. Don't leave her, keep yourself alive for her".
She remembers that on the last days she talked to her son, they were atop of Sugar Loaf mountain. They were looking at climbers on the rock in front of them. She asked him: "how about that rope you bought last time you visited us back home?" He told her that he still had it, but he was not climbing anymore. She told him to sell it them, no need to keep that thing around if you are not using it. She offered to take it back home and sell it for him. He said""don't worry about it". She could never forgive herself for that comment. Maybe she was one that gave him the idea to use it in such nefarious way.
Her daughter was anxious on her first day of climbing camp. She didn't know if she was going to like. Anything different than the routine puts her in panic.
She took a long look to the box that held his climbing gear for the last four years and then she asked her daughter if she wanted to try some climbing shoes. The shoes were the right size. It was enough confidence for her daughter to overcome the anxiety and enjoy her camp.
Her daughter wanted to continue on with climbing lessons. She told her that she had the harness, if she wanted to try. Another perfect fit. She had to detangle old belts, straps and knickknacks to release the climbing harness. Her daughter was delighted with it. She put all the gear on. She looked so much like her brother.
- How did you manged to do that? It must have been so hard? Why?
- Because I love her.
Her memory is not good since his passing, but she will never forget what a friend told her: "Even if you are a zombie sitting on a chair all day long, you are still important to your daughter. Don't leave her, keep yourself alive for her".
She remembers that on the last days she talked to her son, they were atop of Sugar Loaf mountain. They were looking at climbers on the rock in front of them. She asked him: "how about that rope you bought last time you visited us back home?" He told her that he still had it, but he was not climbing anymore. She told him to sell it them, no need to keep that thing around if you are not using it. She offered to take it back home and sell it for him. He said""don't worry about it". She could never forgive herself for that comment. Maybe she was one that gave him the idea to use it in such nefarious way.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Collecting dreams in my mind
She became obsessed with dreams. She would always ask around if someone had anything they would share about dreams with her.
Once she met this woman that let her record this testimony:
"My family was catholic.
So much guilty was put upon us.
As catholic, you were born with sin.
You are a result of a sin.
And sin pursues you for the rest of your life.
Still, as a child, I had some fun.
I could climb trees, ride bikes, play with toys, run in open spaces.
But I was visually impaired.
As far as I can remember in the past, I could never see things clearly.
I didn’t know that other people could see differently or even better than I.
I learned to live among shapes and shadows, squinting my eyes to recognize people.
Keeping my eyes closed most of the day.
Since they were already closed, I started with this thing of daydreaming.
It became a vicious habit that followed me for a long, long time.
Like a drug, a narcotic.
It shielded me from problems, neglects, abusers.
Not that all these things weren’t hurting me.
I was just not feeling them.
My heart was numbed.
When I lost my dad it was really hard
But even until today I’m not able to evaluate how hard it was on me.
I developed a survival instinct so strong that I always keep on moving.
Like a shark that needs to move in order to breathe.
Today, looking at my past, I feel that we, my family, didn’t spend enough time talking about the loss as we should.
We talked about how good he was, about how many people liked him,
About how young he was, how strong personality he had…
So many things were done to keep him around that despite saying that we were missing him,
We couldn’t effective measure how much we did.
Then life goes on and we just stop thinking. And after that we stopped talking.
I abandoned my father even in my daydreaming.
I remember that right after his death I would dream about my mom getting remarried with a man that was just like him. He would be back to redeem us, as if he was our private “Christ”.
Then the idea grew so absurd that I decided to give up on
that.
And slowly his presence in my thoughts was fading away.
I got pregnant and I got married when I was a teenager.
I never spent much time living independently.
I was still finishing High School when I got married.
Although I was always surrounded by people, my life took a course of loneliness.
I had my solitary dreams with me all the time."
Then there was the cleaning lady. She had worked at hotels once. She would fix her bed and make sculptures with towels and blankets. Once she was asked by the cleaning lady to write a love letter for her to submit to a contest of love letters. She gave her one of her teenager poems. She changed it a little to look like a letter. The cleaning lady won the contest. A dream fulfilled.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
It's a crazy world out there
I think our society, even the most open minded people, see the treatment of chronic mental illness with restrictions. They tolerate that one might need medication or therapy for a limited period of time. Even our health care system limits the number of sessions and the total amount one can spend on mental health away below the treatment for other diseases. It's OK to wear glasses or contact lenses for the rest of one's life. It's all right to make corrective surgery to fix a problem, to take vitamins everyday, to take insulin if you have diabetes, to take blood thinners if you have certain conditions, to take heart medication, to use asthma inhalers, to use moisturizer cream for dry skin, to color your hair constantly, to use make up to hide skin imperfections, to use all kinds of creams to reduce signs of aging. It's OK to even inject botox (botulin toxin) to improve one's appearance. But it's not OK to treat a chronic mental illness with medication. "Do you still need medication for that? Aren't you strong enough to get out of it on your own? Aren't you depending too much on your medication?" These are some of the things that I hear all the time. As if it was not hard enough to decide to stay alive everyday...
Everyone would benefit from a stay on a mental institution. Not volunteering, but as a patient, intermingling with the others. It's such a rich universe there. Maybe they could institute something like a draft. From time to time, when you think that all is OK, you should check yourself in and get back with your feet on the ground.
Everyone would benefit from a stay on a mental institution. Not volunteering, but as a patient, intermingling with the others. It's such a rich universe there. Maybe they could institute something like a draft. From time to time, when you think that all is OK, you should check yourself in and get back with your feet on the ground.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Part V - Economics of the pain
"Compositor de destinos
Tambor de todos os rítmos
Tempo tempo tempo tempo
Entro num acordo contigo
Tempo tempo tempo tempo..." ~~ Caetano Veloso
Some people need to save money, some need to save time, others need to save space. Most likely you need to save all of them, but your priorities at each time should mandate what you save first or the most.
But, as it happens, not always we have good judgment on a split of a second to make the wisest decision.
Sometimes we don't know or we can;t say what is really important and we thrive to save what doesn't matter that much in hindsight.
Other times we save so much of something that it doesn't matter anymore.
She liked playing solitaire games on the computer. She started with klondike, like everyone. For awhile she tried her speed on minesweeper, but when she reached her limit on the best score on easy, intermediate and expert, she stopped playing it regularly. She went back to the cards games. She learned about other types of solitaire games: freecel, cruel, tri-peak and she ended up on spider solitaire. She would make up theories about it. She researched on how to calculate her odds of winning, the best way to score the game, what part of her brain was being exercised while she was playing it. She would try to improve her statistics, but 17% win seems to be her limit. She was at a point on her life where time seemed to be the only thing that she had left to trade for anything else.
Tambor de todos os rítmos
Tempo tempo tempo tempo
Entro num acordo contigo
Tempo tempo tempo tempo..." ~~ Caetano Veloso
Some people need to save money, some need to save time, others need to save space. Most likely you need to save all of them, but your priorities at each time should mandate what you save first or the most.
But, as it happens, not always we have good judgment on a split of a second to make the wisest decision.
Sometimes we don't know or we can;t say what is really important and we thrive to save what doesn't matter that much in hindsight.
Other times we save so much of something that it doesn't matter anymore.
She liked playing solitaire games on the computer. She started with klondike, like everyone. For awhile she tried her speed on minesweeper, but when she reached her limit on the best score on easy, intermediate and expert, she stopped playing it regularly. She went back to the cards games. She learned about other types of solitaire games: freecel, cruel, tri-peak and she ended up on spider solitaire. She would make up theories about it. She researched on how to calculate her odds of winning, the best way to score the game, what part of her brain was being exercised while she was playing it. She would try to improve her statistics, but 17% win seems to be her limit. She was at a point on her life where time seemed to be the only thing that she had left to trade for anything else.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Part IV - daydreaming
She was always interested in dreams. There were dreams that she had at night, while asleep and there was daydreaming, aspirations, her imagination traveling far away.
She used to be an avid reader. And because she loved the books so much, she would spent days after a good book, imagining about the book. Tom Sawyer... She was with him, on the river, going up and down on adventures. The turn of the screw, she would spend nights haunted by tormented spirits.
Sometimes she would wake up to a very impressive dream. She would stay in bed, holding her eyes tight to see if the dream would come back. As it wouldn't, she would then start her conscious continuation of the dream.
Once she was spending the night on a country property. It was an old house, with no electricity. During the day she had heard about a big rat in the barn, that chased the dog away. Sure enough, she had a nightmare about giant rats chasing her. Her father came to check on her and she woke up screaming: "help! save me from the big rat".
One of her brothers was a sleep walker. Her siblings and her would stay awake late sometimes to wait for him to start walking. They would make him go all around the house. They would talk to him, give him orders, as if he was hypnotized. She would wonder if he was dreaming about all that while her siblings were laughing.
Looking at her pets sleeping, she could tell when they too were having dreams. She was sure that they had conscious dreams as well. That's why they had those puppy eyes that were always begging.
When here father died, she started dreaming about another man coming to her family, someone just like her dad, that would fall in love with her mom and they would live happily ever after. She would elaborate on the story. He would meet with her mom not by chance, but by destiny. Her mom would stop crying, because she would know that he was the one and their life that had been interrupted since her father passed away, would then continue as before.
He would be healthy, he would wear shorts and go to the beach with them. No hats, no sunscreen. They would go fishing again and he would join them swimming at the mouth of the river.
At that time she had been diagnosed with keratoconus and her eyesight and degrading very rapidly. She was fitted with contact lenses. At the doctor's office, she was given a pair of trial lenses. When she went back to the waiting room with them on, she looked at her mom. She still remembers her blouse. For years she thought it was a solid gray blouse, but it was in fact a white blouse with an intricate blue print. She saw her face and her blue eyes. Her mother was so beautiful. She gave her a hug and said: "what pretty blouse you are wearing, mom. Is it new?" Since kindergarten she had poor eyesight, but she was a smart student, never had problems in school besides poor handwriting and too much talking. Only at the end of 5th grade she was fitted with corrective lenses and she could actually see well, without straining her eyes. She started a reading spree. At least one book a day. The school had a reading contest. The one reading the most books would get an award. She made it. 60 books in 60 days. She read all the classics for the youth. Reading was easy. Writing essays for each book read was what took the longest. But she made it. She got a Kodak camera.
Her mother was concerned that she was not playing like other kids, reading too much. She was forbidden from reading books. She would go to the bathroom and start reading the instructions on shampoo bottles, all the medication descriptions from the medicine cabinet, some newspaper or magazine that someone had forgotten there. Her mom would knock at the door, concerned that I was spending too much time in there. She was concerned for all the wrong reasons.
She used to be an avid reader. And because she loved the books so much, she would spent days after a good book, imagining about the book. Tom Sawyer... She was with him, on the river, going up and down on adventures. The turn of the screw, she would spend nights haunted by tormented spirits.
Sometimes she would wake up to a very impressive dream. She would stay in bed, holding her eyes tight to see if the dream would come back. As it wouldn't, she would then start her conscious continuation of the dream.
Once she was spending the night on a country property. It was an old house, with no electricity. During the day she had heard about a big rat in the barn, that chased the dog away. Sure enough, she had a nightmare about giant rats chasing her. Her father came to check on her and she woke up screaming: "help! save me from the big rat".
One of her brothers was a sleep walker. Her siblings and her would stay awake late sometimes to wait for him to start walking. They would make him go all around the house. They would talk to him, give him orders, as if he was hypnotized. She would wonder if he was dreaming about all that while her siblings were laughing.
Looking at her pets sleeping, she could tell when they too were having dreams. She was sure that they had conscious dreams as well. That's why they had those puppy eyes that were always begging.
When here father died, she started dreaming about another man coming to her family, someone just like her dad, that would fall in love with her mom and they would live happily ever after. She would elaborate on the story. He would meet with her mom not by chance, but by destiny. Her mom would stop crying, because she would know that he was the one and their life that had been interrupted since her father passed away, would then continue as before.
He would be healthy, he would wear shorts and go to the beach with them. No hats, no sunscreen. They would go fishing again and he would join them swimming at the mouth of the river.
At that time she had been diagnosed with keratoconus and her eyesight and degrading very rapidly. She was fitted with contact lenses. At the doctor's office, she was given a pair of trial lenses. When she went back to the waiting room with them on, she looked at her mom. She still remembers her blouse. For years she thought it was a solid gray blouse, but it was in fact a white blouse with an intricate blue print. She saw her face and her blue eyes. Her mother was so beautiful. She gave her a hug and said: "what pretty blouse you are wearing, mom. Is it new?" Since kindergarten she had poor eyesight, but she was a smart student, never had problems in school besides poor handwriting and too much talking. Only at the end of 5th grade she was fitted with corrective lenses and she could actually see well, without straining her eyes. She started a reading spree. At least one book a day. The school had a reading contest. The one reading the most books would get an award. She made it. 60 books in 60 days. She read all the classics for the youth. Reading was easy. Writing essays for each book read was what took the longest. But she made it. She got a Kodak camera.
Her mother was concerned that she was not playing like other kids, reading too much. She was forbidden from reading books. She would go to the bathroom and start reading the instructions on shampoo bottles, all the medication descriptions from the medicine cabinet, some newspaper or magazine that someone had forgotten there. Her mom would knock at the door, concerned that I was spending too much time in there. She was concerned for all the wrong reasons.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Part III - suicide notes
Suicide letters
From Wikipedia
A suicide note or death note is a message left behind by a person who intends to commit suicide. Occasionally, it is faked by someone wanting to start a new life or avoid prison, or for other reasons.
It is estimated that 25–30% of suicides are accompanied by a note. According to Gelder, Mayou and Geddes (2005) one in six leave a suicide note. The content can be a plea for absolution or blaming family and friends for life's failings.[1] However, incidence rates may depend on ethnicity, method of suicide, and cultural differences, and may reach rates as high as 50% in certain demographics.[2][3] A suicide message can be a written note, an audio message, or a video.
Her son left without any written notes.
As she asked herself why, she started collecting someone else's suicide notes. Maybe they would give her clues.
She read about famous people who died by suicide.
March 28, 1941
I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.
"Don't cry, don't suffer, I'm ABSOLUTELY HAPPY!!! That's all I wanted: eternal peace with my God and. if possible, with my mother. I didn't committed suicide, I departed to be close to God. Rest assured that I don't drink and I don't do drugs, I decided that I've done all I could in this life. I had a beautiful life, I traveled the world, I lived in wonderful cities, I had a worthy and well known family in my hometown, I shined in my career, made lots of money and I helped a lot of people with it. I really didn't know how to handle it and I've been tricked by ill meaning people so many times, but I was always reborn like a phoenix and I always came back on top. As a matter of fact, I've never been too worried about possessions. Well, there is a lot more about my life, this is just a sample for you to see that I'm not a coward, I was a warrior, but I'm tired now. One needs to be brave to live this life on one's own will. To everyone that reads this document: I'm not giving up life, I'm seeking God. It's not lack of money, because I have enough to support me here or anywhere else in the South. But it happens that I don't want to live anywhere. I don't want to get old and suffer. I saw my mother suffering until her death and I don;t want this for myself. I want peace! I'm tired, my mind is tired! I can't stand thinking anymore, paying bills, solving problems... You are going to say: "Everybody lives!!!" But I decided that I can stop that, be happy, because I know that God will forgive me and will accept me as a generous and kind child that I've always been. To my true friends, to unbiased journalists, to my friends (.....) my heartfelt thanks. The the TV stations where I worked, thanks. And to my wonderful coworkers, my God light your path! To all honorable sites that follow my career, SUCCESS!!! (My friends....)don't fell forgotten. I can't cite any names, or I would have to write a book, but (...) you are the sister I've never had. (...), be always happy my friend. (...), thanks for everything! To (...) from (...) TV show I leave you a kiss my friend. (...) where are you??? I'm sorry for the ones I didn't mention, life was away more wonderful than bad for me. Thank you Jesus, Our Lady, and my God, forgive me and take me as the honest and nice daughter I always strive to be! God bless everyone!
Leila Lopes
PS: If there is higher feeling then Love, I'm not aware of it!"
To Boddah:
Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community had proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things.
For example, when we're backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begin, it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun.
Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do, God, believe me I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.
On our last 3 tours, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know!
I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I've become.
I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven, I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much, I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy,
Kurt Cobain
Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your altar.
Please keep going Courtney, for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I love you, I love you!
Some people would leave more than one suicide note.
This letter I found in his apartment
Mom,
There has never been any saving me. As long as life is I will always be miserable. I have no recognizable laugh because they are all acted to fit in with others and their own laughter. Please be strong through this. I am very sorry to put you through this. For the sake of Manny and Xavior be strong.
Love you!!!!
Wish it came to this sooner.
I’m so fucking sorry Mom, truly!!!
This one was found on him, when he took his life while watching a sunset.
He listed my address and phone number on the top of this letter.
Mom,
I want you to have my guitars. They are in my car which I don’t know what happens to it. I don’t know if you’ll get this. I’m sitting on a rock watching the water . . . everything is so peaceful. I’m content with knowing it’s all done. I’m so very sorry if this hurts you. And I know it’s beyond selfish. I love you and I’m sorry. I let you down. My insides just hurt and my life is pointless.
Dan
P.S. Cremate me. I don’t care what you do with the ashes.
This is the letter he left for whoever found him.
To whomever it may concern,
The waste of life before you has no need for burial. I’m a drunk and a loser. Do not feel pity for this worthless soul. I apologize to whoever has to clean me up.
Self -> Daniel Omar Martinez
Mother -> Marisol Negron Martinez
Douglas Klein wrote:
10/11/11
page 1
i don't even know how i got to this
point. after 37.5 years i've never felt
like i belonged on this earth. there are
not many words to explain.
i have never had an original thought of
my own. 99.9 % of what i do or have done
is because someone else suggested it
or i saw someone else do it. i am
not my own person. i don't know who
i am.
this makes no sense to me,
or
i'm just not smart enough to make
sense of it.
i've never been a happy person. i'm sure i put on a good facade for most.
everything i do seems like a chore. i hate
that feeling.
going back 25 years or so, as long as
i can remember, i've never been able to
sleep well. most nights were spending turning
and tossing.
page 2
mom, i remember you telling me
a while ago that gary was not
a pleasant person. that's how i feel.
and i'm sick of acting like everything is ok.
i've spoken to psychiatrists, psychologists,
taken plenty of meds and i can't do it
anymore.
even escaping to california did nothing for me,
except suck up all my money. i thought a
different locale would some how help. nope.
thoughts of suicide have been in my
head for a long, long time. as you'll see
on the next page, that was a "song" i
wrote over a year ago, i think.
i appreciate everything my loved ones
have done for me trying to help.
i guess a fitting cliche'here is "you
can't those who don't want help".
my friends, family, shannon, who has been much
more than a friend, i love you,
(please find a loving home for timmy) doug
page 3
i just want to sleep,
i don't wanna wake,
just wanna dream,
of green fields, in my head,
as i look up to the sky
i just wonder why,
nothin's made no sense,
i can't comprehend,
what i'm doin here
i just have a fear
things are gonna end,
before the chance to mend
Torquato Neto left this note:
FICO. Não consigo acompanhar a marcha do progresso de minha mulher ou sou uma grande múmia que só pensa em múmias mesmo vivas e lindas feito a minha mulher na sua louca disparada para o progresso. Tenho saudades como os cariocas do tempo em que eu me sentia e achava que era um guia de cegos. Depois começaram a ver e enquanto me contorcia de dores o cacho de banana caía. De modo q FICO sossegado por aqui mesmo enquanto dure. Ana é uma SANTA de véu e grinalda com um palhaço empacotado ao lado. Não acredito em amor de múmias e é por isso que eu FICO e vou ficando por causa de este amor. Pra mim chega! Vocês aí, peço o favor de não sacudirem demais o Thiago. Ele pode acordar". Thiago era o filho de dois anos de idade.
Translation: "I STAY. I can not keep up with the march of my wife's progress or I am a great mummy who only thinks about mummies alive and beautiful like my wife in her crazy race to progress. I miss how the locals of the time that I was able to feel myself and thought it was a guide for the blind. Then they began to see and as I writhed in pain the bunch of bananas fell. So I STAY so peaceful right here while it lasts. Ana is a SAINT with a veil and wreath with a packed clown alongside her. I don't believe in mummies' love and that's why STAY and I'm getting STILL because of that love. I'm done! You guys, please do not shake Thiago a lot. He can wake up. " (Thiago was his two-year-old son).
From Wikipedia
A suicide note or death note is a message left behind by a person who intends to commit suicide. Occasionally, it is faked by someone wanting to start a new life or avoid prison, or for other reasons.
It is estimated that 25–30% of suicides are accompanied by a note. According to Gelder, Mayou and Geddes (2005) one in six leave a suicide note. The content can be a plea for absolution or blaming family and friends for life's failings.[1] However, incidence rates may depend on ethnicity, method of suicide, and cultural differences, and may reach rates as high as 50% in certain demographics.[2][3] A suicide message can be a written note, an audio message, or a video.
Her son left without any written notes.
As she asked herself why, she started collecting someone else's suicide notes. Maybe they would give her clues.
She read about famous people who died by suicide.
March 28, 1941
I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V.
"Don't cry, don't suffer, I'm ABSOLUTELY HAPPY!!! That's all I wanted: eternal peace with my God and. if possible, with my mother. I didn't committed suicide, I departed to be close to God. Rest assured that I don't drink and I don't do drugs, I decided that I've done all I could in this life. I had a beautiful life, I traveled the world, I lived in wonderful cities, I had a worthy and well known family in my hometown, I shined in my career, made lots of money and I helped a lot of people with it. I really didn't know how to handle it and I've been tricked by ill meaning people so many times, but I was always reborn like a phoenix and I always came back on top. As a matter of fact, I've never been too worried about possessions. Well, there is a lot more about my life, this is just a sample for you to see that I'm not a coward, I was a warrior, but I'm tired now. One needs to be brave to live this life on one's own will. To everyone that reads this document: I'm not giving up life, I'm seeking God. It's not lack of money, because I have enough to support me here or anywhere else in the South. But it happens that I don't want to live anywhere. I don't want to get old and suffer. I saw my mother suffering until her death and I don;t want this for myself. I want peace! I'm tired, my mind is tired! I can't stand thinking anymore, paying bills, solving problems... You are going to say: "Everybody lives!!!" But I decided that I can stop that, be happy, because I know that God will forgive me and will accept me as a generous and kind child that I've always been. To my true friends, to unbiased journalists, to my friends (.....) my heartfelt thanks. The the TV stations where I worked, thanks. And to my wonderful coworkers, my God light your path! To all honorable sites that follow my career, SUCCESS!!! (My friends....)don't fell forgotten. I can't cite any names, or I would have to write a book, but (...) you are the sister I've never had. (...), be always happy my friend. (...), thanks for everything! To (...) from (...) TV show I leave you a kiss my friend. (...) where are you??? I'm sorry for the ones I didn't mention, life was away more wonderful than bad for me. Thank you Jesus, Our Lady, and my God, forgive me and take me as the honest and nice daughter I always strive to be! God bless everyone!
Leila Lopes
PS: If there is higher feeling then Love, I'm not aware of it!"
To Boddah:
Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community had proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things.
For example, when we're backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begin, it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun.
Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do, God, believe me I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.
On our last 3 tours, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know!
I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I've become.
I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven, I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much, I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy,
Kurt Cobain
Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your altar.
Please keep going Courtney, for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I love you, I love you!
Some people would leave more than one suicide note.
This letter I found in his apartment
Mom,
There has never been any saving me. As long as life is I will always be miserable. I have no recognizable laugh because they are all acted to fit in with others and their own laughter. Please be strong through this. I am very sorry to put you through this. For the sake of Manny and Xavior be strong.
Love you!!!!
Wish it came to this sooner.
I’m so fucking sorry Mom, truly!!!
This one was found on him, when he took his life while watching a sunset.
He listed my address and phone number on the top of this letter.
Mom,
I want you to have my guitars. They are in my car which I don’t know what happens to it. I don’t know if you’ll get this. I’m sitting on a rock watching the water . . . everything is so peaceful. I’m content with knowing it’s all done. I’m so very sorry if this hurts you. And I know it’s beyond selfish. I love you and I’m sorry. I let you down. My insides just hurt and my life is pointless.
Dan
P.S. Cremate me. I don’t care what you do with the ashes.
This is the letter he left for whoever found him.
To whomever it may concern,
The waste of life before you has no need for burial. I’m a drunk and a loser. Do not feel pity for this worthless soul. I apologize to whoever has to clean me up.
Self -> Daniel Omar Martinez
Mother -> Marisol Negron Martinez
Douglas Klein wrote:
10/11/11
page 1
i don't even know how i got to this
point. after 37.5 years i've never felt
like i belonged on this earth. there are
not many words to explain.
i have never had an original thought of
my own. 99.9 % of what i do or have done
is because someone else suggested it
or i saw someone else do it. i am
not my own person. i don't know who
i am.
this makes no sense to me,
or
i'm just not smart enough to make
sense of it.
i've never been a happy person. i'm sure i put on a good facade for most.
everything i do seems like a chore. i hate
that feeling.
going back 25 years or so, as long as
i can remember, i've never been able to
sleep well. most nights were spending turning
and tossing.
page 2
mom, i remember you telling me
a while ago that gary was not
a pleasant person. that's how i feel.
and i'm sick of acting like everything is ok.
i've spoken to psychiatrists, psychologists,
taken plenty of meds and i can't do it
anymore.
even escaping to california did nothing for me,
except suck up all my money. i thought a
different locale would some how help. nope.
thoughts of suicide have been in my
head for a long, long time. as you'll see
on the next page, that was a "song" i
wrote over a year ago, i think.
i appreciate everything my loved ones
have done for me trying to help.
i guess a fitting cliche'here is "you
can't those who don't want help".
my friends, family, shannon, who has been much
more than a friend, i love you,
(please find a loving home for timmy) doug
page 3
i just want to sleep,
i don't wanna wake,
just wanna dream,
of green fields, in my head,
as i look up to the sky
i just wonder why,
nothin's made no sense,
i can't comprehend,
what i'm doin here
i just have a fear
things are gonna end,
before the chance to mend
Torquato Neto left this note:
FICO. Não consigo acompanhar a marcha do progresso de minha mulher ou sou uma grande múmia que só pensa em múmias mesmo vivas e lindas feito a minha mulher na sua louca disparada para o progresso. Tenho saudades como os cariocas do tempo em que eu me sentia e achava que era um guia de cegos. Depois começaram a ver e enquanto me contorcia de dores o cacho de banana caía. De modo q FICO sossegado por aqui mesmo enquanto dure. Ana é uma SANTA de véu e grinalda com um palhaço empacotado ao lado. Não acredito em amor de múmias e é por isso que eu FICO e vou ficando por causa de este amor. Pra mim chega! Vocês aí, peço o favor de não sacudirem demais o Thiago. Ele pode acordar". Thiago era o filho de dois anos de idade.
Translation: "I STAY. I can not keep up with the march of my wife's progress or I am a great mummy who only thinks about mummies alive and beautiful like my wife in her crazy race to progress. I miss how the locals of the time that I was able to feel myself and thought it was a guide for the blind. Then they began to see and as I writhed in pain the bunch of bananas fell. So I STAY so peaceful right here while it lasts. Ana is a SAINT with a veil and wreath with a packed clown alongside her. I don't believe in mummies' love and that's why STAY and I'm getting STILL because of that love. I'm done! You guys, please do not shake Thiago a lot. He can wake up. " (Thiago was his two-year-old son).
Part II - Music is the best
“Information is not knowledge.
Knowledge is not wisdom.
Wisdom is not truth.
Truth is not beauty.
Beauty is not love.
Love is not music.
Music is THE BEST.” ~~Frank Zappa
For her music was everything. It was the weekend barbecue with the family. Everyone gathered on the backyard, beer, meat, guitar, everybody singing. The birthday parties, the monthly visits to the grandparents, the summers at her grandmother's beach house. The church, the baptisms, the Christmas feasts, the processions, the end of the recess, the evening soap opera. Every memory was full of music. There was always a baby to sooth with a lullaby. There was always a song to entertain a long road trip. The maid singing along with the radio while she was pressing the clothes. She would stay there with the maid, doing her homework. The clothes strings on the backyard fluttering the linens, "The strange festival" like in the song.
Every morning they would wake up with dad's march playing on the radio spilling the news all over the house. Eldorado radio station. A bunch of easy listening tunes would follow after that. A jazz standard here and there, popular tunes, refined songs, with precious lyrics and impeccable arrangements that were taken for granted, because no one ever paid good attention to them.
The church was special. Her parents had so many activities in church. The charities, the simple poor people that they would help. Her family was like foreigners in their own town. They didn't have the local accent, since her parents weren't from there. She would listen to the people singing the hymns at the church, the rolled r's, the long vowels. "The greatest love you can show is to give your life for your friends." "A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another".
Her father was this man greater than life. He was the justice, the righteousness, the final decision of all quests. Poor and rich, humble and wise, all would come to him for advice.
The last year of his life was like a blur in her memories. He was away in the hospital most of the time, in another city. Her mom was away with him. When he finally came home, she and her sister ran to the front gate to hug him. He embraced them and he cried. So profound cry. She felt it on her bones. That was when she understood that he was about to die. She was 12. The rest of the month was a routine of scrubbing his dried skin with a hard brush, to give him some relief. Apply cold cream. Listen to the radio. He fancied to buy one last record, by The Carpenters: "Now and Then". She remembers his favorite tune on it: "This masquerade". "Are we really happy with
This lonely game we play
Looking for the right words to say
Searching but not finding
Understanding anyway
We're lost in this masquerade"
His funeral mass had a packed church. The coffin was in front of the altar. She was taken there by family friends. Her mother was beside the coffin crying inconsolably. All she would say to everyone was:"Have seen how sad? He was so young..." She told her friends that she was OK. She had cried a lot when he died in the morning, but now she was back to her brave self. She let go of her friend's hand and walked in the aisle towards the coffin. Half way through she stopped. She couldn't do it. She sat on the pews a couple of rows behind. The image of her crying mother never left her. She would remember that when she had to bury her own son. What she didn't realize then was how small a coffin is. From the distance and because of her young age, it looked bigger then. Many years later when she saw her son in one, it looked small, fragile, not much more than a box.
Before dying, her father gave her older sister a classical guitar. Her older sister and her older brother had been learning how to play with a cousin, during the summer breaks. She can't remember exactly how the idea of the guitar came about, but she does remember her father recounting the story of the two luthiers at the guitar shop arguing which guitar sounded the best. That guitar stayed in the family for a long time. Her two siblings learned to play on it, and after them she did. All self-taught. She spent hours and hours strumming the strings and going over chord progression in fake books to learn. All she wanted to learn was enough to sing along with it. She liked to sing.
Music was always around her. Not as a background or a soundtrack to life, but as the center of her attention. Music was like and engine that kept her brain functioning. It's not that she had to listen to music to work. She couldn't do that. Music playing would always drawn her attention. She had to make music inside herself to think. She had to sing, imagine. Every piece of memory in her had a musical phrase attached to it and her brain was like a symphony constantly playing.
After her son died, she couldn't bear to even listen to music anymore. It took her a long time to be able to listen and enjoy music again. It would never be like before. Her music had died with her son.
Knowledge is not wisdom.
Wisdom is not truth.
Truth is not beauty.
Beauty is not love.
Love is not music.
Music is THE BEST.” ~~Frank Zappa
For her music was everything. It was the weekend barbecue with the family. Everyone gathered on the backyard, beer, meat, guitar, everybody singing. The birthday parties, the monthly visits to the grandparents, the summers at her grandmother's beach house. The church, the baptisms, the Christmas feasts, the processions, the end of the recess, the evening soap opera. Every memory was full of music. There was always a baby to sooth with a lullaby. There was always a song to entertain a long road trip. The maid singing along with the radio while she was pressing the clothes. She would stay there with the maid, doing her homework. The clothes strings on the backyard fluttering the linens, "The strange festival" like in the song.
Every morning they would wake up with dad's march playing on the radio spilling the news all over the house. Eldorado radio station. A bunch of easy listening tunes would follow after that. A jazz standard here and there, popular tunes, refined songs, with precious lyrics and impeccable arrangements that were taken for granted, because no one ever paid good attention to them.
The church was special. Her parents had so many activities in church. The charities, the simple poor people that they would help. Her family was like foreigners in their own town. They didn't have the local accent, since her parents weren't from there. She would listen to the people singing the hymns at the church, the rolled r's, the long vowels. "The greatest love you can show is to give your life for your friends." "A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another".
Her father was this man greater than life. He was the justice, the righteousness, the final decision of all quests. Poor and rich, humble and wise, all would come to him for advice.
The last year of his life was like a blur in her memories. He was away in the hospital most of the time, in another city. Her mom was away with him. When he finally came home, she and her sister ran to the front gate to hug him. He embraced them and he cried. So profound cry. She felt it on her bones. That was when she understood that he was about to die. She was 12. The rest of the month was a routine of scrubbing his dried skin with a hard brush, to give him some relief. Apply cold cream. Listen to the radio. He fancied to buy one last record, by The Carpenters: "Now and Then". She remembers his favorite tune on it: "This masquerade". "Are we really happy with
This lonely game we play
Looking for the right words to say
Searching but not finding
Understanding anyway
We're lost in this masquerade"
His funeral mass had a packed church. The coffin was in front of the altar. She was taken there by family friends. Her mother was beside the coffin crying inconsolably. All she would say to everyone was:"Have seen how sad? He was so young..." She told her friends that she was OK. She had cried a lot when he died in the morning, but now she was back to her brave self. She let go of her friend's hand and walked in the aisle towards the coffin. Half way through she stopped. She couldn't do it. She sat on the pews a couple of rows behind. The image of her crying mother never left her. She would remember that when she had to bury her own son. What she didn't realize then was how small a coffin is. From the distance and because of her young age, it looked bigger then. Many years later when she saw her son in one, it looked small, fragile, not much more than a box.
Before dying, her father gave her older sister a classical guitar. Her older sister and her older brother had been learning how to play with a cousin, during the summer breaks. She can't remember exactly how the idea of the guitar came about, but she does remember her father recounting the story of the two luthiers at the guitar shop arguing which guitar sounded the best. That guitar stayed in the family for a long time. Her two siblings learned to play on it, and after them she did. All self-taught. She spent hours and hours strumming the strings and going over chord progression in fake books to learn. All she wanted to learn was enough to sing along with it. She liked to sing.
Music was always around her. Not as a background or a soundtrack to life, but as the center of her attention. Music was like and engine that kept her brain functioning. It's not that she had to listen to music to work. She couldn't do that. Music playing would always drawn her attention. She had to make music inside herself to think. She had to sing, imagine. Every piece of memory in her had a musical phrase attached to it and her brain was like a symphony constantly playing.
After her son died, she couldn't bear to even listen to music anymore. It took her a long time to be able to listen and enjoy music again. It would never be like before. Her music had died with her son.
part I - I miss you so much
As she knelt on the floor by the closet she leaned her face gently to
the drawers. She could feel the cold of the wire baskets and smell his
scent that was long gone, like his life. Like her own life. If she was
to write a suicide note one day it would read:
"I'm so sorry.
Life.
I didn't get it"
Everyday was a chosen day to remain alive since he had left.
She had received so many advices the past years. She had a collection of stories full of advices. A little prayer bead bracelet that one friend had held when she lost her husband: "you don't need to believe or pray for anything, just hold on to it when you are desperate in sorrow". Saying goodbyes at the airport she got a golden chain with guardian angel medals:"it kept me alive when I was sad after losing my father". "The priest told me that it is not a sin, he was just ill, like someone that dies from a heart attack, but I'll pray for his soul". "A friend of a friend was really bad when his wife left him. A monk gave him a prayer and told him to pray for 6 months. I think the trick is the 6 months, not necessarily the prayer". The Buddhist prayer, with the book of dead, the sacred altar, the incense, the candles and at least 3 water glasses. It would take her 20 min to recite the prayer everyday. A friend would check on her from time to time and collect the money to make sure that her ancestors would take care of her. It was odd to have her son's name inscribed on the book of the dead among her ancestors that were long gone. "Are you going to see a doctor?" asked her daughter's therapist. "You should go to a support group". "I'm going to let you go from the job, because you need to be with family to heal". "Your surviving children need you". "Don't cry so much, please. You have to let it go". "He is in a better place now". "He joined the love of his life, they are finally together". "You will find a purpose in all your sorrows, there is always a great purpose for our life". "It was his destiny". "You are strong, you'll get over it". "I'm sorry, you are so seriously sick, that I have to call the police to take you to the mental hospital. I can let you call your husband to come here to take you there, but you have to sit right there and wait for him, or I will call the police. Make sure to sign the check before you leave". The list would go on and on.
And books. They were a long list of commonplace phrases, prayers, sobbing stories, hopeful laments. So many people that had it worse, so many people that got out of it. The expert in grief that finally had lost a friend to suicide. To her, all books looked alike, because all she could see for a long time was a blur of letters mingling on the pages. She would stare at them for moments at a time and she could make no sense of anything. Like wooden wagons of a toy train that had lost their magnets. She would pull a word and the rest of the sentence wouldn't follow on the track. The line of thought was gone. She risked unraveling the sweater of her brain if she pulled too hard on it.
For awhile she kept a list of what to say to a mother who lost a child to suicide on her desk. Everyone around her was growing uncomfortable with her grief. Finally one day her boss asked her to leave, to take care of herself for the sake of her family.
The list had: -->
"I'm so sorry.
Life.
I didn't get it"
Everyday was a chosen day to remain alive since he had left.
She had received so many advices the past years. She had a collection of stories full of advices. A little prayer bead bracelet that one friend had held when she lost her husband: "you don't need to believe or pray for anything, just hold on to it when you are desperate in sorrow". Saying goodbyes at the airport she got a golden chain with guardian angel medals:"it kept me alive when I was sad after losing my father". "The priest told me that it is not a sin, he was just ill, like someone that dies from a heart attack, but I'll pray for his soul". "A friend of a friend was really bad when his wife left him. A monk gave him a prayer and told him to pray for 6 months. I think the trick is the 6 months, not necessarily the prayer". The Buddhist prayer, with the book of dead, the sacred altar, the incense, the candles and at least 3 water glasses. It would take her 20 min to recite the prayer everyday. A friend would check on her from time to time and collect the money to make sure that her ancestors would take care of her. It was odd to have her son's name inscribed on the book of the dead among her ancestors that were long gone. "Are you going to see a doctor?" asked her daughter's therapist. "You should go to a support group". "I'm going to let you go from the job, because you need to be with family to heal". "Your surviving children need you". "Don't cry so much, please. You have to let it go". "He is in a better place now". "He joined the love of his life, they are finally together". "You will find a purpose in all your sorrows, there is always a great purpose for our life". "It was his destiny". "You are strong, you'll get over it". "I'm sorry, you are so seriously sick, that I have to call the police to take you to the mental hospital. I can let you call your husband to come here to take you there, but you have to sit right there and wait for him, or I will call the police. Make sure to sign the check before you leave". The list would go on and on.
And books. They were a long list of commonplace phrases, prayers, sobbing stories, hopeful laments. So many people that had it worse, so many people that got out of it. The expert in grief that finally had lost a friend to suicide. To her, all books looked alike, because all she could see for a long time was a blur of letters mingling on the pages. She would stare at them for moments at a time and she could make no sense of anything. Like wooden wagons of a toy train that had lost their magnets. She would pull a word and the rest of the sentence wouldn't follow on the track. The line of thought was gone. She risked unraveling the sweater of her brain if she pulled too hard on it.
For awhile she kept a list of what to say to a mother who lost a child to suicide on her desk. Everyone around her was growing uncomfortable with her grief. Finally one day her boss asked her to leave, to take care of herself for the sake of her family.
The list had: -->
What to say to a mother
that lost her son to suicide
PLEASE,
don't ask me if I'm over it yet. I'll never be over it.
PLEASE,
don't tell me he's in a better place. He isn't here with me.
PLEASE,
don't say at least he isn't suffering. I haven't come to terms with
why he had to suffer at all.
PLEASE,
don't tell me you know how I feel, unless you have lost a child to suicide.
PLEASE,
don't ask me if I feel better. Bereavement isn't a condition that
clears up.
PLEASE,
don't tell me at least you had him for so many years. What
year wold you choose for your child to die?
PLEASE,
don't tell me God never gives us more than we can bear.
PLEASE,
just say you are sorry.
PLEASE,
just let me talk about my child
PLEASE,
mention my child's name.
PLEASE,
just let me cry!
She would go to the restroom to cry while at work. She woud cry in the car, she would cry at home. The cats would come and leak her tears. She wouldn't move. They use to be his cats.
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