Rest in Peace, Airman

One Sunday this past March I awoke mid morning to find a missed phone call on my cell.  The time stamp said 4:35am and it was from my cousin, Cleopatra.  Cleo and I are similar in age and very close.  In the last few years, I've introduced her to 2 of my closer girlfriends and as a result we are all now friends.  Cleo is the go-to person among us when things REALLY hit the fan, for a variety of reasons.  She also left me a text to give her a call.  I was curious, knowing she wouldn't have called me at that hour if it weren't serious.

What I heard sobered me immediately, bringing me fully back into my body.  Our mutual friend, DJ, had called her in the middle of the night.  DJ's father had committed suicide in the early morning.  Shotgun to the head.

Shit.  Statistically men choose more violent forms of death, and this man definitely wasn't messing around.

I immediately called Cleo, knowing that she was probably asleep and had likely been on the phone with DJ for a loooong time.  She didn't have many details.  Only that DJ had spoken to her father earlier in the evening, and scant hours later he was dead.  The family kept the manner of his death under wraps as long as possible for the sake of the 5 grandchildren.  Quite a feat in a small Midwestern town.

Suicide is a sad, ugly business.  A person has to be in a lot of pain physically and/or emotionally to truly consider it(1).  It takes a terrible toll on those left behind.  Questions of why, the typical grief of loss, feelings of inadequacy over not being able to help, anger at the person for killing himself. 

I'd be lying if I denied that I'd never thought about it in my darkest days.  I didn't really contemplate an active suicide.  When I considered suicide I didn't think so much that it was a sin, more that it would kill my parents.  I do vividly remember one day praying fervently for my death, and meaning it.  I begged God to call me Home.  But I didn't feel I had the right to end things myself.  My days were horrible, ongoing numbness interspersed with pain.  I found escape in television and bad romance novels where the heroine is saved, usually socially and financially, from a bad situation.  All the while earning the love of a somewhat domineering, well meaning, wealthy man who ends up utterly devoting himself to her.  And they all live happily every after.  More often than not, though, I found escape--if not peace--in sleep.  I remember thinking that it would be so nice, so easy to go to sleep and never have to wake up.

One afternoon/evening, I had been crying for hours and couldn't stop.  I finally called my father, waking both my parents at 2am.  I confessed to him how nice I thought it might be to go to sleep and never wake up.  Warning bells went off for him, but he kept being my calm, reassuring dad.  A few people had already suggested to me that it might be beneficial to spend a little time in the hospital.  Get some perspective, rest, rebalance(2).  My father asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital. 

I really didn't, but I agreed it might be a good idea.

So then the question: do I admit up at school, or do I drive the 4 hours home to be admitted near family and friends for extra support there?  The plan became for me to get some rest, pack my stuff, and drive home the next day.  I spent a few days resting at my parents house, and then admitted myself to the local psych ward on a Monday afternoon(3).  I didn't want to be there, but recongnized it was likely needed.  I was in for almost a week.

I promised myself I'd never go back.  Another discussion for another day.  There are still times of depression, or times that are just plain trying, that I continue find escape in sleep.  Getting up and getting motivated can be difficult.  But I know that if I can just get myself OUT of the house, I'll feel/do better.  I'll get things accomplished and my days/weeks won't be wasted in terms of completing regular tasks.  Getting up out of bed is the first challenge.  Getting out of the house is the second.  It's a toss up as to which is more difficult on varying days.  Having accountability with school and/or work helps with that.  Knowing that there are people who care about me and WANT to see me, to spend time with me, is a welcome balm to my aching heart.

But I digress.

The Master Chief isn't the only person I know to have committed suicide, and may not be the last.  DJ's entire family-- widow, children, and grandchildren are getting therapy.  The grandchildren and their parents are doing individual as well as family therapy.  DJ's widowed mother moved back into the house about 1 month after her husband died.

I feel for them in ways I can never explain.  I am glad I'm not a care provider with their family helping through the grieving process.  And I know that to an extent, there but the grace of God go I.

Rest in Peace, Airman.  May you find healing, and your family solace.


(1) Although there is the occasional asshole who kills herself as a final act of cruelty to those around them.

(2) There is NOTHING restful about a psych ward, by the way, but that will wait until another post.

(3) The process was AWFUL, and traumatic for me and my mother.