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





Monday, June 13, 2011

My First Flashback--Salmon and Godzilla

            My first flashback came after cooking supper and then going to a movie. 
 “This is probably the last thing Daddy had to eat,” I told my husband while I fried the salmon patties.  “How do you know that?” he asked.  “Because Mom was heating up their leftovers for lunch when I found him; I’m not sure if he had breakfast.” I said.  Somehow I sidestepped then reliving the memory.  
After supper my husband left his plate in the sink and hurried to get dressed.  We were going to see a remake, Godzilla 2000.  Cleaning the kitchen, I got mad, “I’m not your damned maid, you know.”  His only defense was a smile.  I swallowed my anger, halfway smiled, and got ready for the movie, too.
            In one scene of the movie, Godzilla was shot.  It moaned and fell face-forward.  Its head was cocked to one side with its forelimb crumpled under its body.  Jumping at the shot, I thought, “That’s how Daddy was laying when I found him.”  The death scene had just completed the brain-circuit for my flashback—from salmon patties to Godzilla.  In my mind, all over again, I found my father’s body. 
I jumped up and ran out of the theater.  My husband followed me.  In the hall, I tried to convince him I was okay.  “Just go back in; I’ll be back.  I just need a minute.  It’s only a movie—for God sake,” I said, but my hands shook.  I was angry, frightened, and didn’t want him hovering over me.  “Let’s just go,” he said. “Fine,” I answered, jerked away from him and walked toward the door.
Outside in the truck, my mouth began an uncontrollable quiver.  Sweat soaked through my clothes.  It soaked my scalp.  It rolled like tears from my armpits to my waist while I hyperventilated.  We sat there till my breath came back.  I felt like I was losing my mind.
                        Emotions and physical reactions to traumatic stress are like piling a bunch of small bouncing-balls in a box.  They bang into each other and go everywhere.  It’s easy for you and others to think you’re crazy.  You’re not crazy.  You’re normal.  Talk about it with someone who listens.
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