Thoughts on the Aftermath of Suicide

For me, being a survivor has made me a reluctant participant/observer in my own inner struggle between wanting that to be the most important fact of my life and wanting it to be the least important. -Edward Dunne

After Lauren’s suicide, I repeatedly scrutinized the events leading up to it, turning every fact I could unearth on every side possible.

No matter how many times I rewrote the script, Lauren always died.

The dreams I have sometimes come as bad dreams. Lauren and I end up fighting. Yet somehow we know she’s back from the dead. We ask many questions such as, why are you here? Why did you do that? How could you have left us? And even in my dreams, there are no answers.

Looking back, do I know the exact moment when I lost Lauren? Was it when she told me she would write me back on Monday-the day she died? Was it when I spoke with her on the telephone the day before? Was it when she told me that she never wanted to have children to pass what she had on. She was scared to get married because she didn’t want to burden someone else with her problems. Was it when she made a peace offering with me? A promise that neither one of us would hurt ourselves again?

That makes me angry. That’s something I’ve held onto all this time. She promised me. And she broke that promise. I have every right and reason to be upset.. But how can I be mad at someone who is dead? Looking back I’m sure everything about her death was planned when she made that promise. She wanted to act normal. She didn’t want to raise any flags.

What hurts a lot is the pain I know she was going through. I’ve been through the same pain myself. But to that extent? I don’t know. On the last phone call with me she cried. After she died a neighbor of hers told us that they saw her on her apartment steps crying the night before. I want so badly to go back and be there with her. Loving her like I should have, hugging her, letting her cry on my shoulders.

Was there a different moment for each person of my family? A moment when they knew they lost her? Looking back? The thing with suicide is that not only is every suicide different, but everybody affected by the suicide is affected differently. My parents, my brother, her friends, the rest of her family–we all loved her so much. But each one of us has had such a different grieving experience. We all had different kinds of relationships with her. It’s only normal, and yet it makes grieving harder because there really isn’t one person that understands exactly what you’re going through.

Afterwards was the weirdest. That’s not a good word, but I can’t find a better one. We all saw to what extent she had planned all of it. She had completely cleaned her apartment. She had taken out her trash so we wouldn’t see anything she didn’t want us to. She got rid of her journals. She cleaned her computer. What a courtesy..? Should we have felt..thankful? Or more angry because she hid so many things that could have been answers.

Although there never is a real answer is there? We will never get our loved ones back.

 

 

A Non-Diagnosis Diagnosis

For the past few months I’ve been going through a few things. Changes in my love life, changes in my living situation, basically changes in life.

To go a little further back, even before my sister died, I struggled with depression. For years I’ve been on and off different anti-depressant medications. After Lauren died, it was of course worse. I had changed; I was different. I wasn’t the same goofy person I once was. I didn’t want to go out anymore. But this, I thought, was temporary. And then it wasn’t. It’s not to say that I was never happy or in a good mood. It just came less frequently and was hard to keep it up.

The struggle was there though–Should I take medication to make me happy? Maybe this is just how I am now. I experienced a tragedy in my life that is something that changes people. So maybe I should just accept how I am and continue on with life.

I think a lot of people have those thoughts. And for me, it didn’t work. I finally saw a therapist that I clicked with, (I had seen many but none were right), and a psychiatrist around May 2014. I wanted to regulate my problems before I made the big move to France.

Something that I told both my therapist and psychiatrist right off the bat was that I feared something–being bipolar. My sister was bipolar. One of my grandmother’s brothers or sisters was bipolar, although back then it wasn’t diagnosed. Knowing that this mental illness is genetic is what scared me. I saw all the pain that my sister felt because of her struggles with being bipolar. It is a nasty illness that I would wish upon nobody. I knew that I wasn’t like Lauren. I didn’t have those problems to the same extent. My psychiatrist back home never thought I was and just gave me more anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication. My therapist never confirmed my fear. So I continued on.

It wasn’t until recently that I really felt I wasn’t myself. I noticed some symptoms of manic-depression and my fear returned. I talked to a close friend who had been diagnosed with cyclothymia a couple years ago. I expressed my feelings, my symptoms, and they urged me to see a psychiatrist again.

This time, I felt, was different. I wanted to see a psychiatrist because I felt like I had an episode where I wasn’t myself. And it scared me. It was the first time I had scared myself. But upside, it was the first time I really wanted to change myself.

I made an appointment with a psychiatrist, which sidenote, is annoying in France because you have to see a GP first to get an official recommendation. Then you can make an appointment with a psychiatrist.

Anyway, first appointment– I told him some things I had been experiencing and that during certain periods, I didn’t feel myself. Myself is a nice, caring person who is weird and fun maybe? But my non-self is someone who does things that hurt other people without caring about the consequences.

I told him all about my family history with bipolarity. He explained to me that whatever is going on with me, I should be taking something other than anti-depressants. Even if I’m not bipolar, with my family history, it’s best to be on a medication for it.

After talking about it with my family, I was all in. I was at the point where I would try anything. I didn’t like this other person I could be. I wanted to be my normal self all the time… or at least most of the time. Most of all, I didn’t want to hurt anybody with my actions. So I started a week ago taking a mood stabilizer. It’s one that is supposed to react quickly and so far, I feel it. A little bit. But with time I’ll be able to tell if it’s the right one. Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. The important thing is to not stop trying. If this doesn’t work, I can try another medication that may suit me better.

I think I’ll go into more details later, but for now, I just need to say that I was afraid of a diagnosis. I was afraid that it would define me and it would change people’s views of me. I didn’t want to be defined by a medication that I take because I was born with something in my brain that’s not perfect.

I realized that no matter what diagnosis I may have, I’m still the same person. If someone doesn’t want to be friends with me because of it, I believe that’s their loss. I feel more empowered.

Most importantly I want everyone to know that if you’re struggling with something, don’t be afraid of the stigma. Your true friends and family will love you no matter what is going on. Get help if you know something isn’t right.

My psychiatrist chose to not give me, (at least verbally, because I’m sure there’s something officially written in my file), a diagnosis. I’m taking medication because I want to be the best person I know I can be. I’m also taking it because I care about others around me and I don’t want to hurt or disappoint anybody anymore.

I hope you can find this enlightening, insightful, and possibly helpful with your own situation.

Be strong my friends. And be kind– everyone is struggling with something.

She Was So Young

22 years old. That’s how old Lauren was when she died. One thing that no one in my family can understand is age. Let me elaborate. When I was born, my sister was 2 1/2 years old. Skip to 2011- I had just turned 20 in April and she was going to be 23 in September. But her 22 years ended on June 20th, just three months shy of her birthday. And yet, I turned 21 the next year, then 22. 2014 came along and I knew it’d be hard. But did anyone understand why? No. The thing is, I was never supposed to be older than her. That’s not how it usually works. We were always supposed to be 2 1/2 years apart. But then, life isn’t fair. Cliché and true. So on my 23rd birthday, I cried. I went to dinner with my family, and we came home to watch home videos. I laughed and they were adorable, but when all the excitement was over, I went to my room and cried some more. Angry.. Angry that she wasn’t there and angry that I was now older. I had my birthday like every year and yet it was all wrong. I had lived longer and it wasn’t fair.