Dear Reader,

After my father’s suicide, I searched for books to help me through my grief process, but there weren’t many available, especially not one page meditations. The nature of recovery from a loved one’s suicide, for me, was silent. The people that knew about my loss did not know how to console, and I rarely spoke about my father’s suicide. I was afraid of what others may think of my father or me. Unearned shame kept me quiet. I needed words and feelings from someone who had walked down the same path. I did not need graphic descriptions of a person’s suicide. I couldn’t deal with words that brought home the horrible scene of finding my father. But still, I needed to know that the churning feelings inside me were normal. With the thought that possibly another person could relate to my feelings, writing them has been a catharsis.

For me writing has always been a release. There was an old game I used to play as a child called pick-up-sticks. The object was to remove one stick at a time without moving the others. That’s what writing these meditations has been like for me; I picked up one thread of a thought at a time to look at and express. Singling out just one thought and developing it into concise words was difficult and frustrating. Yet, it left me with a clear heart and the ability to get on with my life. Writing these one-page thoughts were both my own cathartic attempt to make some sense of what happened to me after my father’s death, and my attempt to help others cope with their sorrow.

Writing was just one tool in my efforts to heal from the grief of losing my father. Professional direction from a psychologist helped me to understand, also, that once I was able to see my father as no longer in pain then I could begin my own healing. Joining a support group gave me confidence to stop isolating and helped me to talk about my father’s suicide.

Efforts at good writing ask the writer to always speak their truth. It was the truth that I adhered to in these reflections. I did not whitewash the pain. If you have lost someone to suicide, I hope my truth will not cut sharply into your agony. And painful though they are, I believe these reflections have a healing grace. I hope that you will find something in them that will help.

Sincerely,

Karen Phillips





Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Anger

            The year after Daddy’s suicide, my anger funneled into a constant release at my husband.  In my eyes, he did nothing right.  A marriage counselor explained that many times grief spills out at a safe target—but, looking back, I’m not so sure that’s the case.  His very nature made me think of my father. 
            Once at a restaurant right in the middle of a conversation, my father’s face superimposed itself over my husband’s.  Now those blue eyes belonged to my dad, and they looked straight at me.  My ears rang.  My heart hammered.  Swallowing, I told myself this was just my imagination, but still my breath caught in my throat as my husband’s voice drummed in the background.   I sat there looking at the two most important men in my life.  Alive, one touched my hand; dead, one broke my heart.  Twisted waves of anger and adoration for both rushed at me.  I wanted to scream.  I wanted to cry.  But I didn’t.  I threw my napkin down and walked out.
            Perhaps through a window, I could have seen my husband’s face change again.  Possibly a legitimate confusion played across his face for several seconds. His widened eyes would have revealed it.  Then his anger would have taken over as pupils pinpricked and jaw muscles flinched.  But I didn’t see if he sat there methodically chewing his own anger.  Outside, I leaned against a brick wall with my chest heaving.
            Recovering from Daddy’s suicide was like living in between two worlds.  Half the time, I thought I was crazy; the other half, I was filled with a terrible, hurting anger.  Emotional confusion inhabited the very center of those worlds.  My husband wanted—no, he needed—valid explanations.  I didn’t have them. 

Loved ones need to understand what’s going on with you.  Find a way to explain.

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