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





Friday, May 20, 2011

Before He Died

            My father wasn’t himself.  At times he seemed resentful, and I reacted defensively.  Other times, his gentleness touched my heart so much; it made me ache.  I’ve never been able to describe him easily, but there toward the last, his actions confused me. 
The Christmas before his death in April, he looked sad, withdrawn—almost vacant.  Sitting next to him near the Christmas tree, I tried to get him to laugh.  About all that I got was a pinched-smile. 
Mom took ill a month before he killed himself.  Stubbornly, she refused to go to the doctor.  His face crumpled, and in a croaking voice, he asked me what to do.  The tears scared me.  He was the one that I’d always looked to for confidence. 
Three weeks before he died, he asked, “We’re not as close as we used to be, are we?”  His question ignited a great anger in me.  Sometimes I felt I had given him my whole life—wasn’t that enough?  I didn’t say anything—not one word.   I’ve wished for that moment back so many times.
His actions and my reactions haunted me.  The week after his funeral, I tried to occupy myself with a lot of busy work.   While cleaning the inside of my car, my mind was suddenly flooded with a year’s worth of back memories.  I collapsed in the back seat crying, “I’m so sorry, Daddy.  I didn’t know.  I just didn’t know.”

Guilt sat on my shoulder like a feral cat licking blood off its paws.  I carried it with me everywhere.  Its wild, unsatisfied hunger for self-blame nearly sucked the life out of me.
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