This week we welcome guest blogger Kim Demirjian, who lost her grandfather to suicide nearly 7 months ago. Kim beautifully describes the pain that we are faced with in the aftermath of a suicide loss. We speak often about “sitting with the pain” on our blog; Kim is doing just that. From an outsider’s view, one might think that we need to “get over” the pain. It’s not about getting over it, it is about getting comfortable with it. Does the pain become less present? Absolutely. But sometimes we have to just sit with it before we can figure out what comes next. Thank you Kim for being so open and honest about your pain.
Fireside Reflections
I watch the fire dance and engulf the hunter green terri-cloth electric recliner. The orange and yellow flames flicker against the night sky. Before I realize the length of time that has passed, those flames, which once helped fill the void aching in my chest, are gone, and what remains is the ash and the gray-smoldering smoke. The ash holds the remnants of the last place my grandfather sat during his 81 year life. The smoke blends into the July night and dissipates as quickly as his decision was made. The smokes moves mysteriously from the ash and gravitates toward my body and begins to consume my thoughts, cloud my judgement, and stifle any emotional response. My feet ache, but I can’t move from the spot. I can’t stop the smoke from affecting my psyche.
My fingertips trace the clean hole in the window. Carefully and calculated and wondrous. How can a bullet perfectly pass through a window without affecting the rest of the glass? The hole is a perfect circle with only a small crack leading further into the window. The rest of the window is untouched, oblivious to the horror just a few inches away. The velocity of the bullet sped through the length of the house, clear through the window, and landed somewhere in the woods, I assume. The glass might still be perfectly intact, but my heart was shattered with a bullet of loss.
I sit on the wicker swing in front of the window looking at my grandfather’s rocking chair and sitting in my grandmother’s spot. Thinking of the countless summer nights I sat in the same spot talking about small town drama, killing mosquitoes off my legs, and watching the lightning bugs move across the yard. I pick up a fragment of glass noticing the way it feels on my skin. I roll the glass in between my index finger and my thumb and feel the small scratch of its broken edges. Over and over and over. I hold it while my aunt calls extended family and friends to tell them of the recent event. I hold it while I go through his closet and pick out a suit. I hold it while I drive with my family to the funeral home to make arrangements.
Suicide, depression, and mental health wasn’t a part of my vernacular until July 16. Now, any of those topics ignite a fire in the bottom of my stomach. A fire that I can’t control. It burns the pit of my stomach uncontrollably, it roars through my brain night and day, it sears through my eyes, but tears can’t control the acres it consumes. My grandfather, a firefighter, was the catalyst to this fire, but for the first time, he isn’t here to control the flames. I’ve read countless stories of survivors of suicide, but I’ve read these heart-wrenching stories as a work of fiction not a biography of emotion. My heart aches with empathy for their experiences, but I do not fit into the world of survivors suffering from the effects of such an action. How can I? I know the stages of grief, and denial is a part of this “process.” But how long should denial last? I’m on month six and still can’t bring myself to accept his actions as a truth. How long does the first stage of the process last?
There is a piece of me that wants to have control over my thoughts and reflections when it comes to my grandfather. I want to be reminded of him without feeling like throwing up and losing my breath. But, there is a larger piece of me, which controls my actions, that allows the grief, depression, and anxiety to blaze through these moments uncontrolled, unruly, and unchecked. It seems that if my grief can remain raw and piercing then the time between my last words to him are closer than they actually are. Most of me wants to be sad, because being sad means that I’m closer to him. I haven’t accepted it; it isn’t true; it didn’t happen.
This is where the counselors I have seen preached self-care, meditation, and doing something to remember the good memories. But I won’t. I can’t. My grandfather, a man I spent every weekend with, a man that I lived with after my grandmother’s death, a man that I called on the way home from work, took his own life while my own continued. How can a yoga class, hot bath, or face mask replace that? Some of the accounts I’ve read from survivors discuss their growth during their grief journey and the ways they cope with losing a loved one in this type of way. So far, this is not my story. I can’t say that I have seen or want to see much progress in my grief. It feels to dismissive to his memory. For me, grief equates to my love for him. How can I stop grieving this loss? All I can say is for right now, I have every intention of letting that fire burn until my inside is hollowed, smoldering, and burnt.
Marnie says
Fabulous account of feeling!! I was nearly breathless when I read the last few lines, they resonate so true with me and it has been a little over a year for me now.
Thank you for sharing your truth!
Kim Demirjian says
I feel honored to have shared a piece of the journey with you. Sharing our grief journey is the best way I have coped with this new reality.
Linda says
Each survivor of suicide has his or her own timeline when the self care you describe becomes possible and enjoyable. Stay open and vulnerable. Your pain is the fuel that will take you to another dimension of living, and no one can tell you when that will occur. Find other survivors to share your journey and eventually the good memories will rise from the ash.
Pat Graham says
This is so true, you are sitting with the pain of losing your loved one to suicide. Our son passed away four months ago and we are learning to live with this loss and keep his memory alive . We try to remind ourselves of the many gifts that have occurred due to his death and remain grateful to the many good people who have supported and prayed for us. I am grateful for this blog and to the survivors that share their personal experiences . This is something I look forward to reading . Mike’s Mom
Pam says
Your words echo through my own soul, almost as a memory. I, too, have felt the pain of losing a loved one to a self-inflicted gunshot wound. At least, that is what the death certificate said. Your words, expressed so beautifully, could have been spoken by myself almost 11 years ago. The phrase that invoked the strongest of the memories was : “I want to be reminded of him without feeling like throwing up and losing my breath”
It just felt so wrong not to know what people were going to say, how they would react when they heard his name spoken. I have chosen to remember that his life was so much more than those final few moments when he made that awful decision. After time, I have allowed laughter back in to my life. While right now, the pain is all you see or feel, better days will come. I had to give in to the fact that I will probably never know why. And why was all I wanted to know. May your heart find peace. Thank you so much for sharing!
Kim Demirjian says
I cried reading your comment because I completely understand the anxiety that comes with not knowing what others will say or how they will react (or how I will react). Protecting his memory as a person, not as one action, is so important to me. Thank you for your comment and sharing a piece of your story. I find small comfort in knowing that others have unfortunately traveled the same path I am.
Kelci says
I think I have reread this post about three times already. As a newbie to the aftermath of losing someone to suicide, I find myself relating to your flashbacks and memories of your grandfather. Anyways, beautiful post! Thank you for sharing and I’m sorry for your loss.
Tracy Kruse says
I am lost for words…just to say how beautiful to share this with us. 💜
sandy says
you are in my thoughts! you are brand new to this devastating loss. My Lydia 23 took her life on January 20 2016. I found her. two years and i have cried everyday. thought i would run out of tears by now. my heart hurts everyday, and my world is dark. I know I will have this pain until the day I die.
Emma says
I’m not sure if this is okay to post but I’ve been reading posts all day and I came across this blog post. My younger brother took his life 2 days ago at the age of 22. I’m in so much pain, my heart hurts so much. This post was really helpful to read, I agree as well. I don’t intend to fight the pain, I intend to feel it. I loved my brother so much, he was one of my favourite people in the world and I’m going to miss him for the rest of my life.
Patti says
My son also took his life in July. The 22nd, he was 25. It has been 6 months and every single day I ask why! If love could have saved him, he would still be here. I hate this emotional rollercoaster we have been assigned to and I know that someday it will settle down but for now, the daily ups and downs of emotions are almost too much to handle. I am so sorry for your loss and pray that one day you find peace ❤️