Written by my son on September 22, 2014, edited, June 2019 by his mother and sister.
Putting life experiences in a written story is a form of artistry. My daughter is an artist, and we can see that from her artwork. What was hidden on my son’s computer were a few stories he wrote for college classes. He was an artist too, putting a piece of his life in writing.
In this piece, my son captures the emotions and value of a young adult’s college experiences and compares them to the painter’s artistic process of creating beauty in painting.
Like an artist working on their artwork, each person is an artist of their day, week, life.
Happiness is like painting, going through the creative process. Like an artist working on their artwork, each person is an artist of their day, week, life.
Early on, when the painter applies colors to the canvas, they are focused on one spot. The artist’s concentration is on a small fraction of the picture, be it a landscape, cityscape, person, or whatever you intend to capture on your canvas. Occasionally you step back, but you don’t have a complete artwork yet.
Some parts of the painting are not coming out as well as you hoped, but you are pleased with the other parts and can see the potential. These are your up and downs throughout the week. You add more to the painting every day when you get up in the morning, and you don’t stop going in your day till your head hits the pillow.
The Final Brush Strokes
Happiness is a feeling we have at the moment, and we carry those moments with us as we go throughout the day. Reflecting back on these moments at the end of the day, we decide the happy outcome of that day and then of the week.
Once you lay on that final brush stroke, set your paintbrush down, and step back, this is when you truly see whether or not it is beautiful. But before, while you are painting, you are focused on the little details that make up a big picture.
I went to Montana State University in Bozeman, Montana. I went there for two years and had more fun than some have in a lifetime. I made some fantastic friendships that I will cherish forever. The last day that everyone was going to be in Bozeman, we had a get-together.
"I started to cry about the people and places I wasn't going to see again. The sadness faded as I reminisced in my mind about the time I had, and I began to feel happy again."
After all the tests have been taken, and goodbyes said to the city and friends, it was time to go home. I have friends at home that are just as amazing as the ones in Bozeman, so I was excited to go back and see them. I left Bozeman at about 6am to make sure that I could be with them that night. In the morning, I could still see my foggy breath every time I exhaled walking to the car. Most of the snow had melted away except for the mountain peaks which were still wearing a white hat. The sky was clear that morning. It was a dark blue with a dash of pink starting to fade into the view over the mountains. The night before brought cold air making nature sit still. No wind, no clouds, just a touch of frost on the ground. It made the mountains glisten as if they put on their Sunday best for me. I jumped in my car, turned the heater just so, and set off. I merged on the highway, and as I was getting up to speed, I had a sad thought. I was leaving something significant to me. I started to cry about the people and places I wasn’t going to see again. The sadness faded as I reminisced in my mind about the time I had within Montana, and I began to feel happy again.
Oh Those Brazilians
I was thinking about the first semester of that school year, where I played Drunk Fifa ( a soccer video game) every weekend with my neighbors from Brazil. Drunk Fifa was just playing regular Fifa on the PlayStation, but every time someone scored, you drink. Throughout the night, more people would come over until there were about ten people in my neighbor’s small door room. Nearly all of them were Brazilian except for me and one other guy, Islam, who was from Saudi Arabia. The more intoxicated the Brazilians got, the more Portuguese they spoke. Islam and I didn’t know any, but everyone understood each other anyway. I spoke with very broken Spanish with hand gestures where they comprehended my opinion towards Islam’s terrible Fifa play. Once midnight came around, everyone would jump on the bus and head to the bars on Main Street.
I felt like the coolest person ever.
Bozeman is a small town, so there are only about 4 bars on the main street. One night, everyone suggested I should go along. I reminded them that I am not 21 years of age, and I do not have a fake ID. It turns out neither did half the Brazilians, but they had a strategy where they use each other’s IDs to get into the bar. I said I would give it a shot. I dressed up and jumped on the bus with them. I was very nervous on the bus. I kept thinking of an excuse to leave and just walk home. The bus dropped us off right at the bars, and before I knew it, we were in line. The bar we were going into was “rocking.” It was a fantastic restaurant during the day and a bar at night. There was a garage door made out of windows which would be up during the summer. It is currently 20 degrees Fahrenheit and starting to snow, so this night the garage door was closed. I could see the crowded dance floor, and feel the club music thumping, which was adding to my nerves. My friends handed me a Brazilian ID. First thing I noticed was the guy on the ID is tan, and I’m white and pasty due to the cold winter. He has black hair, and I have brown. I look over every little detail that doesn’t look like me. I tell them, “It looks nothing like me.” They said, “It’s fine they don’t even care.” If the bouncer takes 5 seconds of his time to look at the ID, he could quickly tell it’s not me. I say fine and step to the back of the line. The cold isn’t helping my nerves either. While I’m waiting in line I try to put together a sentence in Spanish that would let the bouncer know I don’t understand, “Just let me in any way.” I finally get to the front of the line. The bouncer was standing on a step, and at the time he looked like one of the starting linemen for the football team. My nerves are making me shiver, but with it snowing I guess it won’t look out of place. I hand him my ID, and he shines his flashlight over it and gives it back. That was it, I made it in! The bouncer just looked to see if it was fake, not if it was me. He motioned me inside, and as I walked in, I felt like the coolest person ever. I found my friends, let know of my excitement and the danger I just faced. I found two other friends who were there as well. We said hello like we haven’t seen one another in years. Faces lit up with a smile, and big hugs were given. I took a couple shots to be polite then went off to find my other friends.
Montana Made Me Braver
We drank and danced till 2am, then grabbed our coats and went on the notorious drunk bus. For some reason, I was running full speed to the bus. I slipped on the ice and slammed my shin on the bottom corner of the bus. At the time it felt like a small scratch, the next morning I saw that it left a dent in my shin. On the bus, though, I felt no pain. The bus was full with 30 drunk foreigners singing soccer songs, and the people standing started to jump around. I could have sworn the bus was bouncing because of us. This is one of the reasons I was especially happy in Bozeman. I would never have attempted this in Minnesota.
He strapped me in harness then slapped me on the helmet, letting me know I was ready to climb. I had to trust the boots and ice picks to hold me on the ice wall, water rushing underneath.
Reminiscing, I also thought about my friend Jordan. He always wanted to go somewhere or do something. His weekends would either involve a crazy activity or a Disney movie. On Wednesday he asked me if I wanted to go ice climbing. I said, “Sure, why not.” That night he came knocking on my door all dress up in winter gear ready to take on the wilderness. He had belts, lightweight coats, and gloves that were probably worth 200 dollars. With excitement pouring out of his body, he asked me if I was ready to go. I quickly get dressed, and we jump in his car at 7pm and head towards the mountains. The further into the mountains we reach, the darker it gets. We pass a car towing a skier driving down the snow covered road. We both quickly decided that we need to do that before the semester is over. It was about a 45-minute drive until we hit a parking lot. There was a group of people grabbing a sack full of gear and heading into the woods. I grab one that had my name on it, and we followed the others. The path was uphill and covered in ice. We finally reach the rest of the climbers with little to no energy left in our bodies. They were all set up and climbing. They were climbing a frozen waterfall, and you could still hear some of the water running under the ice. You could listen to the ice picks stabbing the ice and chunks of ice breaking off and falling.
Everyone had head torches lighting up only the ice right in front of them. It was about a 30-foot waterfall and looked very intimidating. We strapped our equipment on and headed towards the wall. Jordan asked if I wanted to go first and not wanting to look nervous, I confidently said yes. He strapped the rope through my harness and smacked me on the helmet, letting me know he was done. I get next to the wall and start to climb. I take a couple steps up the wall of ice and immediately get scared. I look down and realize I’m only 2 feet off the ground. It was scary trusting the ice picks and boots to hold me on the wall, not my hands. I force myself to climb and very cautiously. I make it to the top. Here the ice was thin, and I could see the water rushing under the ice. I jump down and pass the ice picks to Jordan. I didn’t enjoy the climb very much and will probably never do this again, yet this was an incredible experience. This was something that I never would have done in Minnesota or even by myself. I also have this friend, who I consider a close friend.
Winter Camping in the Mountains
My thoughts went on to the time I went camping with 15 friends up in the mountains next to a lake with water so blue and clean you could drink it. We had a bonfire in a mountain pass. The flames would reach 10 to 12 feet high. It snowed a foot and a half that night, but because the fire was so warm, everyone was in tee-shirts. A lifted jeep with fat mud tires towed a guy on skies into a jump we made from all the snow. The skier hit the jump doing 15 miles per hour and landed a perfect backflip, butt naked, no less.
Skiings the Black Diamonds
My mind went on to skiing. I was skiing through the trees down a black diamond with my GoPro camera attached to my head. I ducked down to miss a tree but forgot about my camera strapped to my head. I never found the camera, but I bet the footage was amazing.
I thought about every little thing I did and every person I did it with.
I thought about my trip to Vancouver with all my friends. I thought about driving at 11pm in the middle of a snowstorm looking for my friends who had gotten their truck stuck in the snow off a dirt road. When we got there, two of the friends had left and been trying to make their way back to campus. We were driving around for 30 minutes looking for them in the storm. When we found them later, one only had a sweatshirt on, and it was 10 degrees outside.
You do not know the full worth of each life experience until you reflect back on them as a whole.
Happiness is a feeling we have at the moment that we reflect back on, reminiscing on those experiences. I realize I was happy because I was trying new things. I had close friends to share these moments. I had great times, and I hope to feel this way again.
Focusing on each faction of the painting, in the moment of creation, you may not see the full beauty of the picture until it is complete. This is akin to reminiscing back on each moment and experience in a phase of your life. You do not know the full worth of those experiences until you reflect back on them as a whole. Reflecting back also allows you to see the growth on how the new things you tried and friends you have made have had a significant impact on you.
Add to His Story
If you shared these experiences or any experiences with my son, add to the story by posting a comment or sharing them with me directly through the contact page of this blog.
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My anger problem is a symptom of something else, my grief from the loss of my son.
I received an invoice for services from a psychiatrist my son say two and a half years ago. At the time, I encouraged him to see a psychiatrist to treat his attention deficit disorder (ADD). He previously was treated by a primary care physician and before that, a pediatrician. He only saw this doctor once. He renewed his prescription, made a subsequent appointment, but never kept it. I know this because my son was under 26 years of age, and he was on the family health insurance. I pay the bills, and the clinic billed him a no-show fee. I talked to him about why he did not keep the appointment. He shared with me the psychiatrist wanted to do a learning disability assessment; he felt she was headed down the wrong track, and insurance would not cover the tests. Really, the psychiatrist did not click with him, so I let it go. At least he was seeing a therapist.
The haunting bill for services from two and a-half years ago.
I know I paid that particular bill two and a half years ago. It is in my health savings account (HSA) billing history. I previously downloaded the payment history for our tax records and that information was archived on my computer.
I called the clinic’s billing department. I explained I was inquiring about the bill for my deceased child. She asked for his birthday and address. This seems like an innocuous question, but my voice quivered as I answered. She then followed up with, “What can I do for you?”
I composed myself, no longer crying, and said in my new angry voice, “Why the fuck are you billing me for services two years old, which I paid, for a person who is no longer alive, for services that did not help, as he died by suicide?”
Her immediate replies were not adequate. She said I did not need to swear, and then went on to blame the insurance company, and directed me to inquire with them.
I deepened my voice, in a shortened tone, and replied, “Unfortunately I am educated on the feelings of losing a loved one to suicide and anger is a familiar feeling; you are a behavioral health clinic, you should be prepared to deal with people like me.” I went on, “You are requesting payment for services that did not prevent his suicide. Your clinic is asking for payment, not the insurance company; therefore, I am calling your clinic, the billing party.”
I then firmly requested she finds a supervisor who was capable of dealing with my inquiry.
I could hear in her voice she was crying when she asked me to wait and then put me on hold.
While waiting, I found my spreadsheet documenting full payment. After a long wait, another person took the call, apologized, said she was sorry for my loss, then told me to disregard the invoice. I thanked her, ended the phone call, and immediately shredded the bill.
I told my loss support group, "I have an anger problem."
A couple of days later, I shared this story with my suicide loss survivor group. I started my account with, “I have an anger problem.” The group reconfirmed my story is not unique, meaning, anger is really grief, and it comes out in uncharacteristic ways such as swearing.
The encounter also includes undertones of other issues for me.
As time passes, my tolerance is less for others who make foot in mouth mistakes. These mistakes are not intentional, some realize once it is out there, others have no idea what they said or did that did not sit well with me. Things like, connotations to stop feeling the way I am feeling, not acknowledging the debilitating cognitive and physical effect grief has, wanting me to be back to the way I was before my son died. Avoidance because they do not know what to say. All of these things are a more significant symptom of our culture where we do not talk about unhappy things. How will society understand grief when no one talks about the reality of it?
As I hear other loss survivor stories, I am gaining an intolerance for the flawed U.S. health care system and health insurance. They need to acknowledge their inadequacies by looking at the growing statistics of those with mental health conditions and the suicide rates, take it seriously, and then listen to those who have accessed it. These institutions and policymakers should pay the same attention to the mental health crisis as they do for solving cancer, diabetes, opioid misuse, heart disease, and the most recent publicized illness of the year.
"I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief, (TheMindsJournal)."
A friend reminded me of this meme I have seen on social media and its relevancy. Two women are sitting side by side on a brick wall, one dressed in white, another in black. The quote is,” I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief, (TheMindsJournal).”
If you read anything about grief and grief symptoms, the list will include anger. I have learned from others who have written about suicide grief, that anger can become a scary comfort. It is easier to fall back to anger than feel the other emotions of guilt, shame, blame, depression, despair, anxiety, immense sadness, loneliness, etc.. There are at least ten other emotional effects I can name. If you are a lost survivor, you likely know the others from experience.
Turn anger into something productive.
I am sorry to the person who landed with my phone call, as she was not responsible for making me a victim of their accounting incompetence. My therapist, if I still saw one, would probably tell me I need to turn that anger into something productive. Right now, in year two, I am too tired to be productive. The fog has partially lifted and replaced with the black reality that my son is not coming back.
The reality is, Year 1 sucked, Year 2 sucks too. I will never get over this. You do not heal from grief, there is no cure. I have learned from others further along in their grief, that with time, you learn to deal with it better. They have learned to change the pain from reactive to proactive, doing something positive for themselves, to advocate, or honor their loved one publicly. I have read stories of loss survivors who go on to do inspirational things like public speaking, starting a non-profit, writing a book, hosting a podcast, running a marathon for a cause.
Personally, I am proud of the accomplishments of new friends who are recent fellow survivors. They do amazing things every day given the circumstances, like celebrating the life events of their child’s friends, write inspirational stories for publication, lead large organizations, teach our children, give back to the community, find the will power and physical stamina to do a headstand on a paddleboard, and find happiness in the small things.
I will try to be positive and recognize my accomplishments, like doing any form of exercise, passing on the weeknight glass of wine, not hibernating in my room all evening, eating a healthy meal, and calling a friend back.
It is likely you are in the ripple effect of suicide; 40-50% of the U.S. population has been exposed to suicide.
It is likely someone close to you will die because everyone will die. Now imagine someone close to you die by suicide. Most people cannot because the thought of it would be too painful.
Here’s the thing: there is a ripple effect of suicide, and there is high probability you are in that ripple but do not acknowledge it. A research-based estimate suggests that for each death by suicide, 147 people are exposed (6.9 million annually) – as many as 40-50% of the population has been exposed to suicide in their lifetime based on 2016 representative sample results. The number of survivors of suicide loss in the U.S. is more than 5.3 million (1 of every 62 Americans in 2017), (suicidology.org).
Take the time to learn about the grief process, for yourself, for someone you support, and not just about suicide loss survivors, but grief in general, because everyone dies. Stop pretending life is only sunshine and roses, or your isolated world will come crashing down on you eventually, and you will not be ready to deal with it.
September 8th through the 14th of 2019 is National Suicide Prevention Week. NAMI.org has published an edited version of this post on their blog as part of their campaign to bring awarness. Thank you NAMI.
National Suicide Prevention Week is the Monday through Sunday surrounding World Suicide Prevention Day. It’s a time to share resources and stories, as well as promote suicide prevention awareness.
Resources
If you are supporting a loss survivor, or if you are part of the ripple, you can find useful resources at these websites:
More Related Blog Posts
Anger Abounds – An emotion that comes with grief
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