Depression: Don't Suffer in Silence (repost)

I'm reposting this in honor of my dad, who took his own life on April 13, 2001.  It is my hope that it will help somebody who feels suicide is the only answer.

 

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline '1-800-273-TALK (8255)'.

 On Friday, April 13^th, 2001, two days before his 70^th birthday, my dad took his own life.  He drove to the cemetery where my sister is buried, put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.  Why, and what could I have done to help? Those are the questions that haunt me every April as the anniversary of my dad’s suicide approaches.  That’s the torment that suicide leaves behind.

I had just returned to work after buying Dad’s birthday gift on my lunch break when the sheriff came and told me that my mom needed me.  When I got to her place I was told what happened.  Nobody saw it coming, but as I struggled with trying to figure out why, I saw little signs that he had probably planned it several months in advance.  He had made sure that he and mom were set up in a nice retirement community where he knew she would be surrounded by other widows who would take care of her.  He was never very demonstrative with his love, but on my birthday in February he had brought a single rose to me while I was at work and had given me a hug.  My dad rarely gave hugs.  In March he had come by my place and cleaned my lawn mower and sharpened the blades.  I believe those little acts of kindness were his way of saying good-bye. 

He left a 6 page letter for my mom, trying to explain why he had decided to commit suicide.  He had suffered a minor stroke a few months earlier, and even though he had fully recovered, he couldn’t stand the thought that he would have another and possibly be left unable to care for himself.  I know that, indeed, the stroke was part of it.  However, Dad was an alcoholic.  I believe the main reason for his suicide was untreated depression that he self-medicated with alcohol.  Dad was a very proud man, and would never ask for help for what he saw as a weakness.  I believe he had been depressed most of his life, and when my sister succumbed to cancer at the age of 28, his drinking increased.  There seemed to be no way to rescue him.  I wish that I had been more educated as to the signs of suicide and had known about the Lifeline number. The heartbreak left in the wake of Dad’s suicide remains unhealed.  I cannot visit my sister’s grave without the memory of his last awful moments on Earth. 

I don’t write this to scare anyone, or bring anyone down.  Rather, I hope that maybe somebody contemplating suicide will read it, and get the help they need.  Addiction and depression do not have to be terminal.  Please don’t suffer in silence.  There is hope for those who somehow find the strength to ask for it.

I’ve posted the poem I wrote for my dad’s funeral, but I’m re-posting as a tribute to his life.  I love you Dad.

Last Farewell

How hard it is to bid farewell

To you, my dearest Dad.

All my life you’ve been right there

If I just reached out my hand.

A strong pair of arms to help me,

When mine were just too weak.

An open door to welcome me,

When shelter I did seek.

How I wish I could have helped you

The way that you helped me,

And given you the comfort

That your troubled heart did need.

But sometimes the world is just too much

For a tender heart to bear.

You could find no respite

In your hour of dark despair.

So rest now my dear Father,

Enjoy your well-earned peace.

And know that you live on

In the memories I keep.

I will see you in each sunrise

That God paints across the sky.

I will feel you in each cooling breeze

That gently dances by.

I will hear you in the springtime songs

Birds sing to greet the day.

And I will not forget you, Dad

Or all your caring ways.

Stay safe within our Savior’s arms,

Until we meet again.

April 2001

H.O.P.E.

I like this acronym for HOPE and thought I’d share.

H-hold

O-on

P-pain

E-ends (or becomes manageable)

When you love an active addict, or are living with the ongoing consequences left in the wake of addiction, the pain doesn’t exactly end, at least it hasn’t for me, but it has become manageable.  It has been a process, and there have been many times when I have had to force myself to get out of bed, and I have cried an ocean of tears. There was even a period of time when I thought it would be okay if I just died. The pain was just too much. But with God’s help I am making it through my son’s prison term one day at a time. And so is he.  The first time I visited him “behind the walls” I felt as if I had been punched in the gut, but the visits become easier as time goes by. 

It’s really almost surreal when I visit him.  There are families there playing board games, laughing, and eating terrible vending machine food as if it were just another family get together.  And as I look around I realize that each inmate, each loved one, has a story just as painful as ours- maybe more so. Some of the guards are very nice, and some are arrogant and treat even the visitors as if they have committed some crime.  I have to mentally “prime” myself each time I go visit because I know my son doesn’t need me to be stressed out and sad when I visit. So, I put on my game face, arm myself with a positive attitude, and I treasure each moment I have with him.  The positive I find in this whole mess is that he's clean, and when I talk to him it is my son, not the addiction I’m talking with.  No, he will never be the same and neither will I, but both of us are hanging onto our faith and as long as we both continue believing, we will make it through.