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





Sunday, May 22, 2011

Detachment

I grew up in a family with fuzzy, soft boundaries.  With Daddy on out-of-town jobs most of my young childhood, emotional limits between my mother, sister, and I became either invisible or non-existent.  I was so emotionally mashed into my mother and sister that I didn’t know where they stopped and I began.  Maybe for a child that sort of close attachment is normal and healthy for a while, but it stayed with me too far into adulthood.  In my mind, the three of us defined each other.  
Change was always hard on the three of us.  In the name of worry, we gossiped about each other.  My sister and mother had a field day when I got a divorce.  In the name of resentment, my sister and I joined together and labeled my mother as selfish when she looked to her own life or meddlesome when she peered too sharply into ours.  In the name of concern, my mother and I talked about my sister’s weight issues.  I think the three of us hated and enjoyed our talks.  It was how we played the one-up games, who’s responsible, who’s not, who’s in-charge.  My father sidestepped most of those games by being absent, silent or unaware.  I never thought any of us could truly take care of ourselves, so in my mind, I became the self-appointed manager. Even into my adult life, I felt overly responsible for, and resentful of, the goings-on in my first family.   
Daddy’s suicide threw me into a caretaking-frenzy.  I was frightened my mother or sister would also choose suicide.  I heard too many statistics of how suicide seems almost contagious in families.  I spent a fortune in phone bills keeping up with everyone’s problems.  Detachment wasn’t an option, or so I thought.  I was scared of how guilty I would feel if something happened to one of them. Letting go meant I needed to face how powerless I was. 
In the name of fear and concern, I called my sister and mother daily.  I listened to their feelings and felt resentful for how occupied they were with themselves.   If they asked, I usually told them I was doing fine.  I wasn’t fine.
            Over-concern is a pseudo-defense against being powerless; sometimes     
caretaking is a way of hiding from grief.  Detachment from another’s grief isn’t selfish or hateful.  It’s necessary.
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