Permanent pain of losing someone you love to commit suicide

“The reality is that you mourn forever.” ~ Elizabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler

March is always difficult for me. From March 21, 2017. That day, my eldest son, then 27, found his father hanging in our basement. I apologize for being so brutal. But it was.

No one tells you about sadness, what surprises you is the fact that you can After five years Still, when the March arrives, you can notice that you are in the position of the fetus on the ceramic floor of the kitchen. You’re barking like an injured dog because your memory is at a loss across your brain and your paw is chopped so deep that you can’t hold your paw. Heavy, heavy. And you wonder if this will last for the rest — no, you know — of. yours. life.

How to describe what happens when your heart hurts … That’s what I’ve been doing for five years. Others are tired of it, so they aren’t out loud anymore. More so, I try to explain it to myself. By explaining it, I hope we can move forward, classify, and save. Put it away and don’t worry about it being invisible.

Indeed, I will continue. Most of us do. Muscle memory accounts for 90 percent of the way you go, believe me. On those first days, I think the percentages are even higher. Sleep, wake up, cook, eat, feed dogs, put clothes in the washing machine, clean dirty dishes, put out trash, sleep, wake up, cook food hand…

The loss of suicide I find is different from any other loss. Oh, this is not an emotional conflict. No, losing a loved one feels deep and deep. There is no contest. However, the loss of suicide brings countless ripples of endless devastation to survivors every day of the rest of their lives.

I’m thinking of my son. everytime. The oldest will change forever. His father was his best friend. Their relationship has just achieved a rewarding maturity of mutual respect. They enjoyed each other’s company. The youngest 23-year-old was still resolving his childhood resentment, but I could see the possibility of intimacy. He spared no time to see the corpse of his father.

We now live with the special luggage of suicide survivors: guilt (why weren’t we there? I could have prevented it), shame , Anger (why he ?!), anger, trauma, fear (my son is my mother, my brother …), yesterday, today, and regrets that it will never happen, deep sorrow I remember. Every anniversary, every milestone, every holiday, every celebration tears the band-aid over and over again.

In some cases, the full impact of loss can be time consuming. For me, the first year was an “emotional roller coaster”. This is a common but perfectly accurate phrase.

For the outside world, I was pretty normal: keeping home, inviting people, laughing, starting my business. Few people noticed cracks: gradually isolated, bathing only twice a week, forgetting things more than usual, horrific financial decisions, sudden breakdowns, grocery crying, traffic, In the middle of a shower, phone call, conversation. Five years later, many of these symptoms remain.

By the second year, not only the loss, How to do Of loss reason Because of the loss Forever Part of the loss hit me — a whole-body slum of something too heavy to survive. Or it looked like that.

I found a therapist. She made me talk and make me cry. I was prescribed an antidepressant. Nothing helped. I’ve been traveling for days, working at a primitive level and showing the outside world only my version that made them comfortable.

No one cares how well they are, but only other suicide survivors can understand this loss. That’s true. Just as the surviving parents of a deceased child are aware of the unique burning pain, so are the survivors who committed suicide.

It is important to find someone who understands our pain. I recommend it. And a sadness counselor. And especially the therapist trained in PTSD. Find them out.

I found a group of suicide survivors I meet every month. Listening to their loss, especially the loss of sons and daughters, I was able to understand the importance of finding a community of people who understand. But even if we hugged in the hollows of the eyes of these survivors, I could see the peculiarities of their respective journeys. We may share, but we are suffering alone.

Memories support me, as others say very kindly. Sunny days on the beach calm down (unless the breaking waves remind you of past vacations with her husband and her son before her for years). Drinks and medicines provide a temporary escape (when I can resist the deadly temptation of blisslessness). Others’ companies can keep my mind from the endless cycle of black thoughts. Music can be useful. Or it is dangerous.

“Be active! Meet new people! Go out conduct something! It’s time to move on! Get over it! I can hear the words of my family and friends.

People are mainly in good faith. Time goes by. Things happen. Children grow up. Other loved ones will die. I have come to understand that death is relentless and that I must endure other cruel deaths as well.

My son is the reason for my life. Limit. In my most desperate times, their pain thoughts were the only one between me and oblivion. I never do it to them. And they, in turn, know that one of their deaths means my end. There is no doubt that I couldn’t get through it. I need them to be okay.

As they say, I put one foot in front of the other every day, even if not for my son. Even though they are growing. They have their own lives with me, but that’s only a small part. They are already suffering enough, so I have to stay alive. Suicide survivors understand it.

That’s why I hate March. I start to be afraid of it in January. By February I’m thinking of an excuse to stay home. And one night in March, I bumped into a ceramic tile on the kitchen floor and barked like an injured animal. But I get up the next day and try again.

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