Motherhood, Divorce and Surviving Suicide

Motherhood didn't come naturally to me. I was nervous, insecure and afraid. The second of seven children, I thought it would be easier than it turned out to be, but it wasn't.

Jason must have sensed the fear and anxiety that invaded my peace from the moment he came home from the hospital. As if he expected the worst from me, he immediately upon arrival into his new home, suffered from a mild case of diarrhea followed by a quick squirt in my face while I attempted to change his soiled diaper.

My in laws were in town for the homecoming of our little bundle of joy, but they left for the east coast within a few hours of our arrival. As I watched their tail lights fade into the setting sun, panic began to take control of my emotions and my eyes welled up with tears. I was terrified, exhausted and overwhelmed by the magnitude of such enormous responsibility. At the tender young age of twenty two, I wasn't prepared for such a tremendous undertaking that day or in the days and months to come.

I remember lying awake those first weeks listening to Jason's every breath. His dad had replaced his nursery door with a home-made screen door to keep the cat out, so I was able to hear every sound my infant did or didn't make. One whimper and I would be up and in his room in a flash. Why I didn't put Jason in a cradle next to our bed those first few months is beyond me, but in retrospect, I was afraid of overindulging him. Today, that seems like such a ridiculous notion, but at the time, I was not going to have a spoiled child in my house.

Dr. Spock was my source for learning good parenting skills, and he didn't believe in sparing the rod. He didn't believe in demand feeding, and encouraged allowing the infant to cry in his crib once he or she had been fed, burped and diapers had been changed. What I didn't know at the time was that he and I, as parents, would share the same fate. We would both have sons die by suicide.

Jason was a fussy colicky baby and had a piercing scream when he needed something. He took a bottle in no time flat and always cried for more. By the time he was three and a half months old, Jason weighed sixteen pounds and had already pushed up two front teeth. He was a little bruiser with a temper that surpassed that of most terrible two toddlers.

By the end of Jason's second month on this planet, I was a basket case. Sure that I was having a nervous breakdown, I made an appointment to see my OB GYN physician, who assured me I was experiencing a mild case of post partum depression. He prescribed a mild tranquilizer and sent me on my way. This miracle drug, however, only made me a tired nervous wreck, so I eventually took it upon myself to make an appointment to see a psychologist.

In therapy, I discovered that I had been a victim of more than one relationship with a narcissistic man and had no self-esteem and limited coping skills. Having a demanding baby and husband who kept insisting he was a better parent, spouse, lover, cook, etc., had crippled my emotions tremendously. Imagine that, it wasn't my fault that my child was miserable and my marriage was falling apart.

As if the sun had burned through the dense fog that clouded my heart and soul, I was free. I could no longer take the blame for my family's unhappiness. I was not in control of their emotions and could only be responsible for how I reacted to their demands. Sadly, it was the beginning of the end of my marriage and from that moment on, I began to detach from all that had been my former life.

Escaping back into a world of quiet introspection and dreams of another life, I began to explore and find myself. There was a wildly creative and spiritual being, who had once filled my mind with journeys to far away places and had shown me beautiful sights, sounds and smells, hidden just beneath the surface of my psyche. It would be years, however, before this kind and compassionate spiritual being would begin to emerge from behind all the scars that had been created by years of verbal and emotional abuse.

There would be years of struggle, repetitive cycles of abuse, anger, rebellion and wandering aimlessly before this woman I was becoming would finally dispel the mask of shame, blame and self-recrimination. The pain and sorrow of defeating my demons and living to tell the story is what compels me to write today.

I am a survivor. Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger. It's been thirty five years since I first went into therapy and my marriage to Jason's father began to unravel. Nearly four years after that first therapy session, I chose to put an end to my toxic marriage and haven't looked back since.

As a single mom, I struggled to make ends meet as Jason became increasingly oppositional. A child psychologist assured me his problems were behavioral, and five minute sessions of time-out would turn him around in no time. After a year and a half of time-out and gold stars for good behavior, it was clear to me that this method was not working. After being expelled from school and losing his after-school sitter in the same week, Jason's dad convinced me to let him spend the summer with his new family.

The summer turned into fall and a year and a half passed by faster than a hummingbird can flap his wings. Jason appeared to be happier with his dad and half siblings, so it seemed only natural to accept the reversal of parenting roles. In my mind, I still believed I wasn't a good parent, lover or what-have-you. It was for the best that Jason stay with his dad. Afterall, I had nothing to offer him but a life of time-out, black and white television and lots of mac and cheese dinners.

It wasn't until a few years had passed and Jason was moving, with his other family, more than a thousand miles away to Florida, that I realized what a mistake I had made. I knew the separation would be devastating to us both, and our relationship would become as distant as the miles between us. My heart was broken, and for the first time, my life was dramatically changed forever.

The suicide of a child is incomprehensible and terrifyingly traumatic. On June 30, 2006, Jason decided his life was no longer worth living, and he aimed his nine millimeter pistol point-blank to his forehead and pulled the trigger. By the time Jason's roommate found him that evening, my precious only child had gone to be with his Maker.

Why Jason took his life is anybodies guess, and though I have started to write his story several times, it is still too painful to finish. From my perspective, I can only share my truth about a troubled young man that had so much to live for, so I'll save it for another day.

As for me, I am in the process of reinventing myself once again. After several years of hiding in corporate America to continue on my path of self-discovery, I have come full circle one more time. Since Jason's death, the creative side of my personality has been more active than ever, and I find myself writing everything from poetry to music and whatever else my mind can conjure up.

I still grieve for Jason and lost love, and while I struggle with the demons that have haunted me my whole life, I no longer let them control me. I believe losing Jason has given me more strength than I have ever known and for that I am thankful. Jason was my greatest gift. If only he had known.