CARRYING ON AFTER SUICIDE
by Bob Sheldon, Westerlo, New York

As I look into the beautiful face of my five-year-old niece, she brings
me much joy. Yet there are also silent sighs of sadness as I remember her
father's death. Her father, my brother-in-law, completed suicide in 1995.

When I listen to the voice of my best friend's brother on the phone, and he
reports the latest positive changes in his life, it brings me encouragement.

But I also feel disappointment as I reflect on why I am talking to my best
friend's brother and not to him. His brother, my very best friend since
childhood, committed suicide two years ago.

I could never have prepared for the shock of the suicide of someone I
love, nor the aftershocks that keep vibrating in the very core of my
existence.
The initial damage causes much confusion, but over time, when one is able to

step back and survey the damage, one sees that the devastation of suicide is

greater than first anticipated. Life is forever changed. Nothing will ever
be
the same again. There is no going back, and there are no quick fixes for
what
is ahead. There are no easy answers. Suicide is a knockout punch. Two
suicides threatened to keep me down for the count.

As one who works with troubled youth as a profession, I have studied
suicide and know the statistics. I have counseled suicidal youth and
parents. But
I really didn't know about suicide until the impossible, the unthinkable,
"It

can't happen to someone I love" became a reality. Two of the very closest
people to me on earth, two of my key relationships, two of "my people,"
chose
to
end their lives within the span of fifteen months.

My brother-in-law, Chris, and my best friend, Bill, were very different
people, but they each chose suicide. Different paths eventually led to the
same
end. I gave the eulogies at both funerals. I quickly learned what suicide
was all about, not from study but from life. Not secondhand but a
first-heart
experience, that gave way to a bruised, battered and broken heart. As John
Claypool reflects, "Just like a broken leg, a broken heart heals slowly and
cannot stand much touching right after the break."

It takes so long, and we wonder if our hearts will ever be made whole or
be healed. I'd like to believe that Ernest Hemingway's statement, "The world

breaks everyone, and afterward many are stronger at the broken places." As a

person of faith, I call out to Jesus to heal my broken heart and lighten the

deep hurt within me.

I am reminded of the prayer of the psalmist who cried out to God, "When I
called, you answered me, you made me bold and stouthearted." (Psalm 136:3.)
Though one needs to be stouthearted and determined to come out on the other
side of this terrible darkness, every part of me wanted to flee from the
suffocating darkness that hung over my head. Sometimes I still want to turn
around
and run.

Yet it seems to me that the only way out of this grief is through it - not

around, under, over, or retreating from it. I must let the deep pain hurt.
I must sorrow. I must question. I must cry. I must unload on friends and
not keep this bottled up in me. The darkness is so great, and I am afraid.
Yet
I know I cannot outrun it.

It's like an metaphor I once heard: "As the sun is setting, the darkness
is coming, and if I try to outrun the darkness and keep running west, the
sun

will surely set and I will be left in the dark. I cannot outrun or avoid the

darkness. But if I decide to face the darkness and run east, it will be
dark,
but eventually I will run into the sunrise and into the light."

I am able to choose which direction I will go. I have very little control

over whether another person chooses to live or die, but I can choose the
direction of my own life. Since the darkness is unavoidable, I can absorb it

and
learn what it has to offer. It is only by stepping into the darkness that I
can ever hope to see the sun come out again.

As I survey the landscape of lives in the aftermath of suicide, I see some
shattered lives because poor choices were made.

Survivors are physically alive, but they have also committed a sort of
suicide.

Their former lives are unrecognizable, and they are dead to things they once

held dear. They have not recovered. Then I see others who were shocked into

living better lives and have chosen to be different now. Why the difference?

I'm not sure I know.

I do know that avoiding the reality is not the path to take. The narrow
path, the uphill climb, the facing of the darkness, is the slow road. It's
slow
because grieving is such exhausting work. One must trudge through all sorts
of
stuff to move on, because it's an uphill climb and it's uncharted territory.

We haven't been there before. No one can prepare for this marathon of
misery. We have been suddenly thrust into this exhausting race wondering if
we will
get our second wind.

Since I couldn't prepare for this ahead of time, I must look to others who
have been thrown into this race as I was - others who have experienced the
death
of a loved one through suicide. How did they climb the mountains that they
faced? How did they stumble through the darkness without falling off the
narrow path? How did they manage to take another breath when they felt
suffocated? How did they come out on the other side?

Questions with no easy answers, but questions that need to be asked out loud

to allow us to tell our stories. There is a healing in speaking about
suicide, by calling on our memories and using metaphors. Suicide is a harsh
word,
but it is fitting because it is such a harsh loss. Speaking about it breaks
not
only the silence and secrecy but the chains that hold me back and threaten
to

choke the life out of me as well.

I will continue to remember these two precious ones I lost to suicide. I
will continue to tell their stories and my story to those brave enough to
listen. I will continue to acknowledge my loss and admit that when they
died, some
things deep within me died as well.

I will continue to help those who are losing their hope, not to choose
suicide, for I know the devastation and multiplication of pain it causes. I
will
continue to trudge through my rocky road. I will walk on with those who have

lost as I have and help them on their journey. I will keep looking into the
eyes of my beautiful niece even if I see her father. I will keep talking on
the
phone to Bill's brother even if I hear Bill's voice. I will continue on.

I will carry on.

Bereavement Magazine, Jan/Feb/2000
reprinted with permission from Bereavement Publishing Inc., 4765 North
Carefree Circle, Colorado Springs, CO 80917, 888-604-4673,
www.bereavementmag.com