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





Saturday, May 28, 2011

From The Other Side

            My father, several years before he shot himself, told me where he wished to be buried.  It was during the trip home from my grandmother’s funeral.  He said he wanted to rest in my mother’s family-cemetery out in the country where there were trees and birds and farm sounds—not the cemetery plot that he and Mom had picked out two decades ago.  When Daddy died, I felt a great need to honor his wishes, but chose not to go against my mother.  She wanted him in the in-town plot.  It was closer and paid for.  There was enough stress without my making a big deal.  But still, I felt that we had put him in the wrong place.  It nagged at me.
            One day driving to work, window down, I heard bird songs along the country road.  My mind worked on a ridiculous plan to dig him up when Mom died and bury him in the right place.  That’s when I actually heard my father’s voice speak with that same grinning-tone that always tried to talk me out of things.  “Don’t worry about that, Karen,” he said, “I kinda like hearing the traffic.  It’s ok.” 
Hot and cold at the same time, I pulled over to the side of the road to let sink what had just happened.  For the last few weeks, yes, I had heard the memory of my father’s voice, but today—I felt him actually near me.  I heard his voice.  It was different from remembering it.
            I never knew how to explain that moment.  I gave up the particular worry over where he was buried.  The rest of the day felt light and easy.  It was probably the first light and easy day I’d had since I had found my father’s body.  Later in the evening, I wished he had of explained what in the hell he was thinking.
            Who’s to say what’s real?  It’s faith that gives a miracle its nourishment. 
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