I am so sorry for being, naïve, for not understanding you; not knowing what was going on with you.”
Every time I visit my son’s grave site I say, “I am sorry.” I used to go every day, and now I go a couple of times a week, but at each time, I say, “I am sorry. I am really, really, sorry.” The reasons may vary as to why I am sorry. It could be something new I have learned or remembered or just “Sorry for being so stupid.” Stupid for not understanding you; not knowing what was going on with you.”
In the last year of my son’s life, I tiptoed around sensitive issues because I did not want to create anxiety for him. I wanted home to be a safe place. I wanted to support him in his decisions. I regret this avoidance because I did not give him an opportunity to share with me his deep feelings and struggles. I know I flubbed things up while he was in high school and college. I was not enough of an advocate to fight the systems, both in the schools and later, when he became an adult, to push him into using the mental health care system. I did not pry enough. I said the wrong things.
We will never know for sure what drove him to it on that day; only he knows. He was never diagnosed with depression or anxiety.
I recall reading that half of the people who do take their lives or attempt to never had signs of mental illness. I trusted my son; he said he never had a plan. He was never that “bad off.” I should have educated myself. I should have encouraged him to keep seeing a therapist. I should have seen one myself to know what he was going through, having Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). I should have been closer to his friends and more engaged. Maybe I would have put two and two together.
After talking with his friends, there were signs: signs of despair and withdrawing. At my request, my therapist has given me information on suicide, mental illness, and the use of drugs. We will never know for sure what drove him to it on that day; only he knows. He was never diagnosed with depression or anxiety.
He was diagnosed with ADD when he was in grade school. A symptom of ADD is impulsivity. Medical literature indicates street drugs (in this case marijuana) and mental illness do not go together. For young adults who frequently use marijuana, it can cause reduced executive functioning (planning, prioritizing, the stop and start of activities), as well as reduced caring, working memory, and follow-through. Marijuana heightens feelings and can cause anxiety and paranoia. Several friends told me he was using it every day, mostly smoked, and, as a fun group activity, baked into brownies.
I have retraced everything I said and did with my son during the months leading up to his death; looking back on what I did and did not do.
The suicide rate is increasing at alarming rates, and recently several celebrities have taken their lives. Death by suicide has surpassed the homicide rate. Because of this, there has been an increase in news coverage on suicide prevention. I recently saw an interview of suicide attempters who survived. One survivor said she thought her family would be better off without her. I wonder if that is the way his father and I made him feel: that he was a burden.
He was living with a friend and always seemed busy, always had plans. His friends were his world, and I felt if he were with them, everything was fine. On that particular day, he had plans, but they fell through. Even with all those friends, I wonder if he felt isolated.
I have retraced everything I said and did with my son during the months leading up to his death; looking back on what I did and did not do.
I failed my son. He was great in spite of me.
The feeling of failure is enormous. I failed my son. One of my son’s friends told me I should not feel that way. He said my son was a great person. He was smart, a forever scholar. He was caring, always showing kindness to others, not judgmental, and inclusive. I should be proud I raised such a great son. My son had friends from all over the world. We were fortunate that he shared their friendships with us, inviting these bright young people into our home and lives. They all recall my son as being so caring, putting others first.
He had a great sense of humor. He had passions for things such as educational podcasts, Minnesota sports teams, especially the Vikings. He loved Marvel movies, political comedians, and entertaining his friends. A gentle, sensitive soul, who appreciated the more exceptional things such as art, Broadway plays, and gourmet food. He was an adventurer and loved music and dancing. He had a great style and was so good looking. Friends lovingly used the word “Hot” in front of his name. He was good with children, worked at a camp in summer and the winter taught them how to ski. He had so much to offer. I feel like he was great, in spite of me.
I blame myself. I want to blame others. I want to blame his daily self-medicating use of marijuana.
I keep going through his pictures, and the beautiful stories friends and families wrote about my son. He was such a wonderful person. He should have lived. I keep saying, “This did not need to happen. His life was a life that should have been saved. It was just one bad day. It was just an impulsive act, and it could have been prevented.”
I blame myself. I want to blame others. I want to blame his daily self-medicating use of marijuana. Therapists tell me this was not my fault. Their words do not matter. Putting aside blame, I still feel great guilt. I will always feel this guilt. His death should not have happened.
By reading my blog, maybe there is an opportunity to help others or yourself.
Many of his friends have met or corresponded with me. I appreciate what they have shared with me. I am sure it was hard for them. If they or their families are reading this, please take in what I have written. Maybe there is an opportunity to help others or yourself.
Please continue to share your stories about my son. They are precious to his father, sister, and me. Thank you for each one.
