Learning from Suicide: A Raw Exploration of Loss

My barely seventeen year old cousin committed suicide a day ago.

I'm sharing this because we don't talk about suicide.
Not in the ways we should.
Not in the way as though it is a real thing that happens.
And happens frequently.

This is a bit long.

She deserves longer.

My cousin was one of those rare, multitalented souls who could find pleasure and aptitude in creative endeavors, sports, math and science. So much so that at age twelve if you asked her which she'd prefer, she'd have to take a bit to answer. She'd smile her closed lip smile, shake her head full of beautiful, full curls, and admit, "I don't know." Eventually, science would take the winning position I admit with only a hint of disappointment. It's always fun to find another artist in the family.

She was sweet. A word that is used too much, and so, its true value perhaps gets underrated, but if there was a walking, breathing example of a sweet individual in this world, it was her. She genuinely cared about others. She remembered the littlest things about them. She was quiet, so she likely saw more than I ever realized she did. She loved her family and her friends.

And She worried about them.

She was a worrier. An affliction that runs rampant in my family and one perhaps she didn't have the slightest chance in the world of avoiding. She worried about her parents. About their adult level issues. Their business. She worried about her brother. She worried about her little cousins as they toddled, bumped, and fell. She worried about school and if she was making the right choices. She worried about boys. She worried about what she wore and if she'd ever get her hair under control. Not all her worries were outside what most teenagers worry about, but worrying was as much a part of her personality as her quiet demeanor, the one you had to know how to crack in just the right way to unleash her soft laugh and open smile.

She believed in being modest, a trait some may find surprising for a girl her age in this day, but she believed in it and still managed in my albeit biased and humbled opinion to be the prettiest one of her friends at the Winter Dance she attended last Friday. A deep red, satin short but not too short dress that hugged her figure without putting it on sale, a short-sleeved white shrug, nylons, and adorable open toed heels. Her long, long curls framing her go to picture smile and cascading off her shoulders to her mid back. No wonder she danced with a boy.

She liked reading, seeing family, fashionable but useful bags, and loved her cat. She hated fruit.
She hated when people were carelessly mean. And I bet, she hated worrying.

When I tell you that the world is less beautiful by one whole person, it is not an overinflated nice thing to say now that someone is gone.

She was one of the people that made the world beautiful.

She was beautiful.

She was kind.
She was her little brother's best friend.
The "favorite" cousin of more than a few.
An organ donor.

She was my God daughter.

I changed her diapers and took her to the park to feed the ducks and roll in the crisp, brown leaves. I loved to take her out with me, to play with her, to make her laugh. We'd go to the science center, the zoo, shopping. We both loved animals.

When she was still too small, I moved half way across the country and we became pen pals. I'd bought her special stationary just for the task, and every letter I received I stuck in protective plastic and a dedicated binder. Eventually the letters dwindled. As the stationary ran out, so did they. But I made a point to see her every time we came in. I invited her every year to visit.

I never missed a birthday, except for this year.

This year, a little over a month ago today, I was sick. Most of the family was terribly ill. Upper respiratory and stomach viruses, perhaps even the flu for some, were running rampant. I didn't buy her a gift because I wanted to take her somewhere. Do something together like we used to. But then, I didn't go much of anywhere this visit. No one did. Only one uncle and his family made it to Christmas at my mom's because everyone was sick. Illness gripped my family and in laws alike. My parents didn't even make it to their own Surprise 35th anniversary party later that week because they were so sick. Which is the only time I saw her, my cousin, and I was so preoccupied over a party with half the guests sick and the guests of honor half conscious at home, I only spoke to my cousin for maybe a minute. I think I hugged her, though I can't really remember. I think she stood nearby when I gave her brother the sparkling grape juice to take home. But I don't quite remember.

I meant to get in touch with her after, but I didn't.
Still hadn't.
And now I never will.

Everyone blames themselves a little after a suicide. The closer you are to the person, the more you blame yourself. What if? What if I had gone to see her even despite all the illness? What if I had called her after? Invited her to come visit even though I knew the answer would likely again be no because of the distance? What if I'd bought her a gift instead of holding out for an outing that was clearly not going to happen? Texted her more? What if I'd share that song about suicide that so many of my students wrote their essays on last semester? She occasionally liked things on my Facebook. Maybe she would have seen it, watched it, reconsidered less than a month later to step into her closet and take her life.

But my guilt is only a drop in the proverbial bucket. "It's my fault," her father told me on the phone. "You should know that." He meant as he briefly elaborated-- she had said she hated her schedule and he hadn't let her change it, instead sitting down to work out next semester's schedule. He meant she had said she was unhappy and they thought it was only normal teenage angst. He meant, she went to the dance on Friday and seemed to have a good time, and even danced with a boy, so why didn't they see what was coming?

I don't know how he found the strength to say any of that. My aunt only cried in the background. Raw pain. The pain we were all feeling only amplified by hundreds and hundreds.

You have not heard real pain until you've heard parents cry for their child, call for them long after they can hear, and want to know why, and finding no other avenues, blaming only themselves, because of course. They brought them into this world and it is their responsibility to keep them in it. To make sure they don't get caught under a pillow in their crib, eat what's under the sink, that they don't tumble down the stairs, that they look both ways before crossing the street, avoid drugs, don't drink too young, and drive with the utmost safety and curfews. To help them recognize and avoid danger whenever they can. Don't talk to strangers or travel too far. To spend their time constructively. To avoid the dangers of social media. To listen to them. To talk to them. To love them.

My aunt and uncle did all of this.
And one of the most gentle and beautiful souls in the world -- a strong soul because research shows that it takes great strength to actually commit suicide, to overcome that innate will to live, not strength as in glory or something to be glorified, but strength as in sheer force of will, the same strength that makes us try extreme sports and tackle adversity-- that soul, still found a wire hanger in her closet and ended it all.

Leaving her parents to blame themselves.
To wonder if this beautiful person who did so much good in the world, is actually going to heaven.

It wasn't her parents' fault.
No more than it was my fault.
Nor her friend's fault who missed her call that night, calling her back to no avail.
Nor her cat, who went crazy trying to wake the house but whom was unable to speak about what was wrong or wake anyone quickly enough to save her.

But knowing something, knowing it isn't your fault, doesn't mean that you can feel it.

She didn't leave a note.
Just a song, "Mockingbird" by Emeinem, playing on her phone. A song that in concrete details in no way resembles the life she lived and which could be taken so many ways metaphorically that I'm still trying to rack my head over what she meant by it if she meant anything by it at all. Maybe her finger accidentally swiped the screen and set it playing? Or not. And if not, was it how she felt? The lines about wanting to cry behind the smiles? Was it a message that she knew her parents loved her but this wasn't about that? Was it because, as research suggests, she felt she was a burden and somehow her absence would make things better? Was it nothing more than a comfort? The soft chorus in the rough edged song telling her:

Now hush little baby, don't you cry Everything's gonna be alright Stiffen that upper lip up little lady, I told ya Daddy's here to hold ya through the night I know mommy's not here right now and we don't know why We fear how we feel inside It may seem a little crazy, pretty baby But I promise momma's gonna be alright

Was this what she lulled herself away to?
Or was it a message to her family -- I'm sorry, I can't help it, but it'll be alright?

She didn't leave a note.

According to research, most people who hang themselves don't.

Perhaps the best thing we can all do is take suicide prevention classes, but in the wake of that, I think talking about it is important. Talking about why it happens -- usually it is a mental imbalance, physical, not something you can change with just a phone call and a "I love you"-- talking about who it happens to -- it isn't always the loner, the sulker, the sad looking student. The seemingly happy, well loved, active students suffer too. Just as much. More than we realize.

The first thing many people think today when they hear of a teen suicide is that bullying must have been a factor. Particularly of the online variety. But my cousin has no digital footprint. If I gave you her name to google, you'd find some other people with her name and a private Facebook page where 90% of her friends are family. Nothing more.

This doesn't out the possibility that something more was going on. It's still too early to tell. But there are no signs that people expect to see in these cases.

The signs we look for because we need someone to blame.

A car accident, disease, old age. There's always a reason.
With suicide, the reasons are just unacceptable.
So we look for any others.
And usually blame ourselves.

I'm not an expert on how to cope. I can't offer you a solution.
I'm only a day into this remember?
I can offer what doesn't work.

Crying, doesn't work. You cry in cycles, until there is just a general ache behind your eyes and forehead and all the tissues are gone.
But it doesn't bring her back.

Anger doesn't work. You throw things or break things or snap at your loved ones. It only makes a different kind of mess.
And it doesn't bring her back.

Sleep doesn't work. You can't wake up from this. No matter how many unusual hours you manage to log, it doesn't bring her back.
And the dreams can make it worse.

Last night I had a series of dreams where she was trying to tell me something, but we kept getting cut off or I couldn't hear her over some kind of noise. Sadly, not that different from how a number of our real life conversations probably ended.

I awoke suddenly because my son had crawled into the bed and I was certain she was sitting on the edge of it trying to talk to him. He's four, almost five.

This didn't comfort me as I had imagined, if something like this happened, it would. You hear about people being visited by the recently departed. They come to deliver a message, sometimes even before the receiver knows they're gone. It sounds special, reassuring. I'll admit I kind of hoped for it as I drifted off last night.

But this sudden waking and almost glimpse, my imagination gone wild or a real spiritual occurrence only left me feeling uneasy, like I wasn't alone, that I was being watched, that someone was always behind me and no matter where I turned, I'd never see her. Every now and then I would feel a kind of forced comfort, a pull to fall asleep and this would lead to more cycles of crying.

Then I feared my fear was because my son had asked to go with her.
I don't know her reply though I can imagine and hear her voice crystal clear in all replies. Was it "yes, you can come keep me company if you want to" or "maybe when you're older, much older" or "no, you're needed here. You can't come where I'm going."?
Regardless, the sheer idea of the possibility sent my heart racing.
I woke my husband and had him bring my other, younger son into the room. Wedged between the two of them, feeling their breaths up and down, I finally fell back asleep.

In the light of day, I realize this wasn't about my son wanting to find his cousin (we haven't told him yet) nor was it about a spirit taking him away, intentionally or not. (I don't think she'd ever do that anyway.) It was about a sadly much more real fear. One of my worst fears since my first son's first night.

Once your children hit a certain age, and certainly once they're in their teens, you're not supposed to have to worry about finding them dead in the middle of the night.

That is supposed to be one of the graduation gifts you get as they learn to roll over, lift their head, crawl, walk, talk and cry out specific fears, learn not to wander in the night or climb the gate in the dark.

But the threat proves ever present.
My cousin was seventeen, and her parents still woke in the middle of the night and found her gone.
In light of that, why would I ever let me children sleep alone again?

But I will.
I must, right?

One thing that I did conclude in my series of lucid and frustrating dreams was that this was just a terrible accident. That she was sad. That she was depressed. But that she had only wanted to know what it might feel like to attempt suicide, not actually commit it. But the autopsy report says it was fast, really fast.
A wire hanger.
Too fast to change her mind?

The worst part of this image replays in my mind over and over and over. Did she shut the closet door because she meant to do what she did and didn't want to be interrupted? Or because she was still thinking about others, and didn't want her little brother to accidentally find her? Or because she was just experimenting and didn't want to explain should someone come in?

This version, that she hadn't meant it, perhaps is more tragic, but makes more sense to me.
A selfish explanation I suppose.
But it helps, regardless.

What else helps? I've told you what doesn't.
Writing this is helping.
Maybe it is helping. It's how I tend to process.
But other things have helped too.

Talking to family and friends and hearing the words of others who have truly already experienced this grief and knowing they feel exactly what you are feeling -- helps.
Just like hugs help.
Feeling all the unhelpful feelings when you're feeling them, helps.
Holding my children tighter, helps.
Hearing that friends have reached out their loved ones, helps.
Being tricked into having a small laugh, helps.
Having small phases of normalcy, sometimes helps.
Sharing the suicide chat help line on twitter, helps.
Bit by bit.
And only bits.

These things still don't bring her back.
Which is really the only thing that would ever truly fix this void.
Grieving, losing someone is a process that never truly ends. Finding acceptance doesn't mean you stop thinking about them or missing them. As my great aunt said, who lost her grandson two years ago in a similarly shocking way -- time is the only thing that changes anything. And it only changes it. Lets you process what happened.

Process. That's important.
Because I didn't even cover the first reaction -- shock and denial.
My sister in law keeps imagining our cousin is in the hospital, and we just need to go see her and work on her depression. She's in the hospital. Not the morgue.
She knows better, but it is what her mind insists is true if she lets it wander.
We all struggle with this reoccurring denial.
Why do you think I spent so much time sleeping? Bad dreams I know how to cope with.

But the truth is the truth.
We can't bring them back.

Only. . . perhaps memories can.
Not in the way we want, but in the closest way we'll ever get.

So I leave you with who she was. Who in all our hearts she still is:
 The sweetest soul to walk among us, with a gentle laugh and quiet voice, a worried but selfless demeanor, a regular teenage girl with flowing curls and a red satin dress going to her winter dance, encouraging her little brother, and letting her tiny cousins dance on the tops of her feet before she exits the door, her cat pawing after her.

It's not our fault she is gone; we didn't see the signs.
Many families don't see the signs.
Sometimes those who do, still can't save them.

But if we remember her, remember all the kids like her, that didn't fit our stereotypical and narrow views of what a suicidal person looks like, maybe, just maybe, we will see them in the future.

And there will be less posts about how to cope with suicide, and more about how we learned to prevent it by recognizing and treating the things that cause it.

Maybe.