Now that I am so heavily involved with Suicide Prevention I find the words,
“My son took his own life” followed by “how ever much time has elapsed,” slip out of my mouth fairly easily, without touching the sides, really. Certainly not touching any of the painful parts of my being that are tucked away for fear that anyone should witness the heaving mess I become if they were to collide.
That part of me which is secreted away even from myself at times. It cannot be allowed out because it is the undoing of me. Overwhelmed and out of control, snotty tears, followed by the stutter which I developed in those dark days and months following Luke’s death. I become exhausted by my thoughts and longings, eventually having to go to bed to sleep to shut it all out and stuff it away again.
At the time, the over riding “stage” of grief was disbelief. I couldn’t get my head around my gregarious, joyous, larger than life son could be so despairing that he couldn’t go on a moment longer. The man that made everyone feel so good about themselves (unless you had hummed him off about something of course,) felt so bad about himself. I found myself saying over and over to myself.
“Not my boy!”
So you see when I am doing the Suicide Prevention work, I have to “stuff” that well away or I would be of no use to anyone. But today, today I am on my way to do an interview tomorrow with CALM (Campaign Against Living Miserably.) I am to give my opinion, along with others on how to support vulnerable people like me, bereaved by suicide. Here I am on the bus surrounded by people who have no idea that I am struggling today. I am not keeping it together. It is a “Not my boy,” day. I am missing Luke dreadfully, his laugh, his voice, his touch, his sense of humour. I miss just looking at him.