I don't even know what to title this or how to start. I guess I could just state the obvious.
My son is dead.
My oldest child, my firstborn, died of suicide July 23rd, 2015.
I ask myself why every day. I have the note he left behind that said why. I have a voice recording he made for me saying why. I know what tests he had done lately and what the results were. I know what diagnoses he had. I know what had been happening in his life lately. I know the struggles he faced for the rest of his life. I know the symptoms he had told me he had been having lately. I still don't understand why. Even though I have faced that demon myself, I still don't understand why he is gone. I can tell myself the answers over and over again. I can tell myself his answers over and over again. I still can't grasp in my mind why my child killed himself.
Why is my child dead? Would it be easier if it had been an accident? Would it be easier if he hadn't caused it himself? Does it make it easier knowing he didn't do it in a violent manner but rather made it peaceful and easy? Does it make it easier having the note and the recording? No. None of this is easy.
Does any parent get over the death of their child? Does anyone ever get over the suicide of their child?
I can see the signs now, They were there. I can see all the times I should have done more, reached out more, been there more. I can also see how I did every thing right and everything wrong at the same time. Will I ever stop blaming myself? I don't think so.
I went through his phone. He told a few people that he had planned to do it that day and none of them tried to message me or anyone else on his friends list. It feels like we all just let him die. My therapist and several other mental health professionals assures me that once someone makes up their mind to do it that it is very unlikely someone can stop them. That sounds false to me right now.
I know the real reason he did it. I can see the signs of what was happening. I can tell you that it was something he inherited from his biological father and something he couldn't have stopped. I can tell you he would have just gotten worse and suffered greatly, not just from that, but also from the chronic pain and fatigue he got from the EDS. I can tell you that their are days I wish I would have died in my sleep and it pains me that my children will feel like this someday. I can tell you that he was facing the EDS struggle bravely, going to appointments with me and looking for help. I can tell you that he was having problems with his brain and I was trying to get a doctor to take it seriously and order an MRI. I can tell you that I was in denial about seeing the signs that he was also developing Paranoid Schizophrenia. That is what he got from his biological father. I have been told that the other problems in his brain that we were trying to get help for could have caused it to get worse. I have been told that Paranoid Schizophrenics have a high rate of suicide ideation and that the more intelligent they are the higher the rate of completion. I was in serious denial about seeing the signs of it. I wrote it off as him being emotional, easily angered, irritable, or chalking it up to his Oppositional Defiant Disorder or his Attention Deficit Disorder. Later when he was older, I thought it was just caused by the issues with his brain we were trying to get diagnosed.
When he was 15 he realized he couldn't see color anymore. He could only see in shades of grey. I took him to the optometrist and then the ophthalmologist who assured me his eyes, rods, cones, and retinas were fine. They didn't want to look into it further. Five years later when he started getting double vision in one eye and developed low testosterone, I took him back to the doctor. We went to an endocrinologist and a special ophthalmologist to look for answers. They did tests. I have not gotten the endocrinologists results back. We were supposed to go back to a more special ophthalmologist next Tuesday. We were going to request an MRI and find out why he was having these issues. Now I will never know what had been going on in there. I will never know if medication could have helped him live a normal life. I will never know anything. I couldn't help him. He didn't wait for help. He didn't go to the ER for help. He didn't call me for help.
The last time he came to visit he told me that he had blacked out and started having seizures. He told me he had gone to the ER and gotten an MRI and that he had a tumor. Then he wanted to talk about his funeral arrangements and tell me he had written a will. I though he was just scared. It isn't unusual for someone with a chronic illness to want to tell someone these things. He told me he wanted to die and I saw marks on his wrist. Instead of taking him to the hospital, I talked to him about my own struggles with depression and thoughts of suicide. I told him how it was better to hang on and keep going to the doctor. I told him to go back to the therapist and tell them how he really felt. I begged him to let me go to doctors appointments with him. I begged him to move back home. He said "I'm an an adult, I can handle it on my own."
I texted him every day after that. I asked him if he was okay, if he needed help, if he needed to go to the hospital, if he needed me for anything. He always said he was fine. Every day I texted him. Sometimes I just sent him funny texts. Once I threatened to sing him lullabies. He joked back, reassuring me.
That Tuesday I had an urge to take the other kids to the beach. I never just do spur of the moment things, let alone have them be my idea. But that day I packed the kids up and went. I spent all day laying in the sun getting a nasty sunburn. The sun had felt so good, the breeze so peaceful, the kids played so nicely. and I wasn't worried. It felt surreal after having been constantly worried for 2 weeks. He had posted a poem on facebook that day and I had commented on it. It was a well written poem. he had commented back. The next morning I woke up with a real bad sunburn. Most of my body was red and angry. I was dehydrated and I couldn't stand or sit up without getting really dizzy. I almost passed out trying to get my own Gatorade out of the fridge. My 8 year old brought it to me while I laid on the couch all day. My head was swimming and I could barely function. I didn't text him at all that day. I didn't even play games or look at facebook that day. That was the day he had planned to do it. He had an episode and yelled at his ex-fiance at his work. He went to Taco Bell and bought lunch. He went to a party store and rented a helium tank. After his ex-fiance got off work, he took her to dinner and told her how pretty she was. They had a nice time. They went back to the house they were room mates in. His internet history showed he spent time watching you tube videos. Then he went out in the back yard and made the voice recordings, one for me and one for her. He tells us both it is because of the "evil" inside him that he got from his biological father. He tells her he is glad she has found love with someone else already. He tells me I was a wonderful mother, the best he could have asked for and it's not my fault. He saved them close to 11pm. A bit later he makes a 20 sec one for her saying good-bye and sets it to send by text the next morning at 9am. That was at 15 min till midnight. He had left a message to a friend saying he planned to do it at midnight. I can only assume that is what happened. His death is recorded as happening Thur morning. He was dead for 9 hours before his text was sent. She immediately went to his room and found him. He made sure no one would stop him. He lied and hid everything to make sure no one would stop him.
Does it make me feel better writing this out for the world to see? Maybe. You can't hold this in. You can't go on with life without talking about it, talking about him. I can't go on with life without facing this every day, without knowing how his last days went. I went through everything he had, notebooks, his phone, his computer, all his facebook messages to people, his texts to people, everything. All of it helps me to feel the reality of it all, to know what he was going through and how he felt. I plan to face this head on. I need to face this head on so that I can parent the rest of my kids and help them through the death of their older brother. I need to do this right.
They say that there are stages of grief. I feel like I cycle through them constantly. The anger, the blame and guilt, the acceptance, the bargaining. It is over and over again all day, every day. From the moment I wake up until the moment I finally fall asleep, I think about it, him. My dreams are either of him or random nightmares. Every thing my other kids do or say reminds me of him and things he did or said when he was their age. His pictures are everywhere and the flowers wilted long ago.
He was cremated because that is what he wanted. His ashes sit in an urn on top of my bookcase. I cant part with them to bury them. I can't part with any of his things. I don't know if I ever will.