Robin Williams. I sat in one of my favorite spots in the world, Nantasket beach. The sky was pink, the sand was cool and a little stream of water, the tide rushing out, carved its way through the sand towards the ocean. It's one of the places I find Phoebe, imagine her riding those waves. I find peace in this place.
My daughter looks up, calls my name, and tells me Robin Williams has died. Her face is sad. She asks me how old he is and I grab my phone so I can google it quick. On my screen is a simple message from another daughter, away with a friend. "Robin Williams died." It's a tug, I know. She needs contact. The news just broken, fresh speculation I hope isn't true. But it is.
Suicide. Hadn't he played a teacher in 'Dead Poet Society' who impacted his students, only to lose one marvelous young man to suicide? It is a weary thought ...how one gets there.
Soon enough we'll see the cover stories at the grocery store, Williams' face splayed across, with various headlines that suggest a compassionate culture, eager listeners who want to know what drives someone to end their own life, because they don't want to see it happen again. People will want to talk about it, post, tweet ...and whatever else people do to elbow their thoughts to the forefront.
And soon enough after that, it will be swept under the carpet, put into hiding. Because while our immediate response is one of concern and empathy, the response overtime isn't.
Suicide makes people want to run, makes people want to prove they are not in anyway loosely associated. And so we can't learn more about, understand it, or even lessen its occurrence because we don't really want to believe it is what it is. Culturally, it seems to me, suicide has become a character flaw ...an inability to live according to societies contract. And so Robin Williams and my daughter, along with so many others some how, couldn't cut it. I could go off on a hundred different tangents here. But I'll focus on one ...what happens after suicide to the people left behind.
We are left to pick up the shards of glass that fill our landscape. And we are blessed with people who stay to help us pick up, or just stand with us in the rubble. At first there are lots and lots of people. Visible and gaining that star on their forehead for being big supporters. And then the spotlight fades, and so does the crowd. A natural process during any death, where the bereaved are left with a few who let us rebuild in the organic way God calls us too. This isn't a complaint of that process. God tendered me abundantly with long-time friendships that stayed on, unshaken. And God brought new people too, others who'd lost children similarly, or differently ...but the loss bonded our hearts. And God brought others too, who hadn't lost, but whose hearts were like wide open fishing nets, gathering my laughter and my tears with kindness and joy. So no this is not a complaint, but rather an invitation to see how much of the world reacts over time to suicide.
While some people like to be in the middle of the 'event', which spans from death through the wake and funeral and those early weeks and months that still leave people in disbelief, there are some who cut their way free of association. Because over time, suicide becomes vulgar. Overtime, suicide becomes something that might soil one's reputation ...and the further a person is from that association, the better they feel. Let's face it, there is an icky component to suicide. Most people who've survived an attempt themselves or have struggled through an attempt by a loved one keep it quiet. And knowing what we've lived, I'd tell them to do just that! Protect themselves. Guard the treasure of their pain.
Not long after Phoebe died, someone I cared about entrusted their own suicidal struggle with me. Still fogged in, the pain still poignant, I was stunned and shocked. And growing concern as I listened to the description of emotional pain and the lure of ending life, I knew it was far too much for me to carry. But when I suggested they reach out to their family members, of whom there were plenty, I was told they could never be burdened with such a thing, they couldn't be hurt with this concern. It took me some time to ask myself why it was okay for me to burdened with this, and made to promise I would keep it safe. For a while I toiled and tugged with this, shared it with some people I thought could help this person. And finally, got the guidance to offer it back, to release it from my own, already enormous burden. After lots of prayer and spiritual guidance, I relinquished carrying this for someone I'd considered dear to me. What came back at me was a venom so great, it was like a tidal wave of hatred that ripped apart every aspect of who I am as a mother, wife, friend and woman of faith. And then, the response tore into my precious Phoebe, tearing her apart from stem to stern, horrified and disgusted that anyone this person loved had ever interacted with my girl. Words framed a case that accused Phoebe of being so horrible as to deserve eternal damnation. And with her, went me. Too say I was stunned falls far short of what I experienced. I couldn't believe the words that tore away at my daughter, trampled on all she was and is. All the while, the public presentation was of great support, offering all they could to help us and sacrifice for us so that we might have a shred of receiving a morsel of God's mercy. It was a devastation that ignited the burning pain of loss even more. Because not only had Phoebe died, but now these words proved she did not deserve to live in peace with God ...nor did I.
These words came from someone I'd loved deeply, respected, admired. These words came from someone I believed loved and served God more than most.
I reached out immediately to people I trusted, because I knew that if what was written was true, I had no right to live. I had no right to be loved, or forgiven. I had no right to be. And graciously, what came back was a warm love and assurance that these words they now read too were beyond reality and spoke of a darkness and hatred that must have festered long before our paths ever crossed. Spiritual direction from two different priests and guidance from my stunned grief therapist all said the same thing: stay away ...run away. Words spoke of serious issues, of outrageous cruelty
Over time it became clear that a case had been building against me/us long before I received my official sentencing. Others were notified of what a horrible person I was and responded with obedience. Stories were told of how I'd victimized and tormented. People once close refused to speak to me. And while that confused me, it more confounded and hurt my kids as friends they'd loved for so long, would no longer respond to their greetings. Their loss became greater.
That experience has processed through in a healthy way because we've been nurtured by real true love and care ...by people who stayed, by people who came and offered a genuine heart, by people who weren't afraid to tarnish a public persona of perfection.
I write about it now, because after nearly four years of trudging through this great loss, I've met others along the way. And most of us encounter someone who tears us down while we're falling already. Far too often, there is someone who takes a front row seat during the event. Someone who uses it to draw attention to themselves, and when the crowd recedes back to everyday life and the spotlight fades from them ...watch out! When the event of loss/death by suicide fades ...it feels a bit too icky for some who've garnered some attention to themselves during the earlier days. And so the claws come out, and the attacks start.
What I've learned is that truly, this rejection of the people left in the wake of suicide, is a hatred germinating from fear. We are afraid of the ugly, the underbelly, the torment of life. We believe all that glitters is gold. But life has an underbelly, and life can bite and torment, and funny people who've made all of us laugh can find the darkness unbearable ...and seventeen year old girls can see no option in a span of five minutes ...and they can blow out their own candles. Leaving many of us still wanting more of them. We miss their glow!
Often, those who leave this world by suicide have left a blaze behind, both in the depth of the loss of them, and in the memories and impact they've left behind.
Phoebe inspired people, encouraged people to push themselves beyond the safe confines of AP classes and an early bedtime. People felt the wind on their face, hugged a tree, knew the cold of the Atlantic because of her. Maybe it's just me, I think that's a pretty good legacy ...one I'd choose over a legacy of attacking and shredding a mom in deep pain and missing of her girl. Phoebe's legacy still glows, it brightens rather than burns. I'm willing to bet God is pleased with her.
And Robin Williams, well celebrity carries its own burden. May his family be spared the Monday morning quarter backing that is sure to erupt. And may only those who are genuine, whose hearts are free to abandon themselves to carry the brokenhearted ...stay. And may those who seek to destroy and attack, leave now and silence themselves.
And may each of us spread the light and love God entrusted to us. Make someone smile today. Today, love someone you don't understand. And pray for someone who doesn't understand you.
Give a boost to someone in pain. Be a hand up in a culture that tears down.
May all families, carrying the burden of suicide ...know they are loved. And may they know their lost one's are also loved ...and remembered.
