My son’s suicide drew an invisible line between the world and me. I lived grief day by day, endless days, wondering how I would survive the following one, burdened by anguish. There were moments of tears, of agony, even moments of laughter which a psychiatrist said was bordering on hysteria – my way of grieving. Yet, I seldom broke down in public. I don’t know why. Maybe somewhere deep inside, I remembered what I’d always heard as a child, and that was; Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry and you cry alone.
Many people avoided me, made a detour when they saw me. Some made me feel as if I should sweep up my heart and pack my love for my son away because I would no longer need it. I was told that he would live on in my memory but live is exactly what he would not do.
I was told “He’s at rest in God’s hands,” – yet in God’s hands I’d watched him suffer. Will God be gentler now? I’d sought God when in desperate need, only to find his door slammed in my face. I had bargained with Him on and off for so long, believing that if I obeyed all the rules, He would protect me and my family, but things don’t work that way.
‘You should have taken your son to a herbalist,’ someone told me. ‘You should have watched over him 24 hours a day,’ was another piece of advice. ‘Why didn’t you change his medication?’ asked a third.
And that was when I made my escape to our garden where it was far more peaceful. I had no answers to the above questions. My husband and I had tried every single thing we could possibly think of. Being medication resistant is a terrible situation to be in and that was what happened to our son.