Support

by admin

August 22, 2020

1956

Do you know that scene in a movie when a person lies on a hospital bed or operating table, surrounded by a team desperately working to revive her, while her ghost hovers somewhere near the ceiling, watching the goings-on with a stunned expression? A large part of my life has been suspended in moments like these. One part of me, the rational, intelligent, empathetic me, watches incredulously as the other me, raging, venomous and hurting, lashes out at people I love or even people who simply don’t deserve this treatment. Sometimes the two switch sides…but always, these two parts of a whole, strangers to each other, are surrounded by people who cannot understand the dichotomy or are unaware of its existence. Most people have been carefully allowed to see only one of the twins.

It’s a lonely and narcissistic feeling. There is a misplaced sense of twisted superiority. I know I pity my peers who have never yet faced the loss of a loved one. What do they know of real life? We’ll talk when you’ve faced a trauma as deep rooted as mine. As you can imagine, most hapless people never make the mark. On the other hand, my closest friends have all faced loss early on. Father, brother, sometimes both, attempted suicides, suicides masquerading as accidents, depression, overdoses, divorce, even bankruptcy, all figure in our group’s dynamic. It is not something we discuss, most of us have never brought up these events in years. But the knowledge holds us fast. This is our shared history.

I have always known that I needed help. There were years when I didn’t know how to ask for it, and years when I was filled with a hubris born of my self-designed therapy. Years when I was busy being happy and fulfilled too. Years of numbing out the grief blending into years of acting out and lashing out…thirty-four years in all.

Recently though, I have doubted my sanity on those nights when I wake up sweating after a dream of the night my brother killed himself. Certainly, I doubt my character. Am I self-seeking? Narcissistic? Needy? Am I drawing attention to myself by refusing to let go? Am I using his death to win friends and influence people? Most urgently, am I the only one who has been clinging so hard to the trauma and grief while others apparently have made their peace and moved on?

I read the article in the newspaper last year at a time of upheaval. My mother and a cousin brother had just died. An essay I had written about my brother’s life and death had unleashed an outpouring of memories and love from the most unlikely people. The article was about a support group for people like me. I believe it was the first time I had ever heard of such a group in my city, within my reach.

My support group for people who have lost a loved one to suicide meets once a month. It’s a floating population. Sometimes we are just four, sometimes eight. It has been a new and amazing experience for me. After thirty odd years of hardly ever talking about my brother’s suicide, to be in a roomful of women who bare their lives to each other and share thoughts about heartbreakingly similar feelings and experiences and broken relationships is the most cathartic and inspiring feeling for me. Suddenly, years of questions have been answered. And no, I’m not the only one who can’t let go.

All women. We grieve together, wipe away tears, hug and mourn our lost ones. We listen to the strangest stories. We hash and rehash old emotions, feelings of betrayal, anger, trust. We rage against the unfairness of it all, the waste of young lives. We wonder at the strange similarity in many of our stories. We share our relief that we aren’t crazy or selfish or alone.

With the exception of two members who have lost a mother and an aunt, all our lost souls are men. Fathers, husbands, sons, brothers. The similarity does not end there. We are all dealing with the loss of our living men as well. The ones dealing with grief through anti-depressant medication and alcohol and denial, who refuse to give us a chance to talk together and heal together.

So sadly, a lot of our anger is directed towards the men in our lives. The ones who died, the ones who live in isolation and denial. The men we love but have drifted far away from. Brothers, husbands, fathers.

Today in my support group, we celebrate a birthday and a pregnancy. For the first time, we laugh together instead of crying together. Actually, we do both. It feels like family. Not the one I was born into, but one I’ve chosen to be a part of. The nightmares continue and the doubts. But the first Tuesday of the month will come again. Someone will offer a hug and unconditional understanding. We will smile through our tears and try to work out a new way to be. Amazingly, it seems possible now. It’s been a long, long time coming.