10
Crashing
One night, after months of sleeplessness I bought myself a mini bottle of Baileys. I drank it, and it took the edge off my grief. It helped me sleep that first night, so I bought another bottle. After a while, though, one mini bottle wasn’t enough, and a litre bottle of Baileys became part of a weekly shop.
Sometimes, two glasses didn’t seem enough, and I’d drink a third. Once or twice I’d go for a fourth. That’s really out of character for me – I’ve never enjoyed alcohol, but if that’s what it took to help me sleep and be able to cope at home and at work, then, I reasoned, it was fair enough. And the months went on – with my weekly shopping increased to a litre bottle of Baileys and Tia Maria.
On a bright spring day, I arrived at Matthew’s grave, and an older man approached me. He worked there, and he asked me who had I can come to see. I said, ‘I’m here to see my son. He took his own life.’
He said he was sorry for my loss, and we chatted for a while, then he told me that his son had taken his own life too. ‘I didn’t see the signs,’ he said, clearly distressed. ‘Did you? Did you see the signs?’
I thought about it. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Matthew did say to me, ‘I’m not living to an old age’. That’s why I’m living such a full life now. I did find that strange,’ I said. ‘I asked him what he meant, and he just shrugged, and said he just knew it.’
The man listened, deep in thought. He said, again, that he hadn’t seen any signs. That his son’s death had come like a bolt from the blue. As I drove home, I thought about that. And wondered if that would be worse – if the lack of signs would leave you even more in shock.
A few months later I saw that man again. I’d gone to the sink by the toilets to get some water for flowers, and there he was. But something had happened to him. When he greeted me, he slurred his words. He looked scruffy, and clearly hadn’t washed. He looked me up and down, taking in my face, brightened by makeup, my crisp shirt and freshly washed jeans.
‘How do you always look so good?’ he said, perhaps in acknowledgment of his own state. He seemed to expect an answer, so I said, ‘You know, and I know, that when I put on this makeup, I am trying to hide something.’
He nodded, but I doubt he really understood. But when I’m feeling really bad, make-up helps me to hide my grief. When the comic actor, Robin Williams died, people were amazed to hear that this funny man had been in such a deep depression, that his life became unbearable. And though I felt shocked at the time, having laughed so hard at all his movies, I understood. Having lived through grief I know that, sometimes, the worse you feel, the more you try and convince the world that everything is okay.
We were both quiet for a minute. Then the man said, ‘Are you ever tempted to turn to the drink?’
I stared, and blushed, wondering if he could read my mind.
‘If you have, my dear,’ he continued, ‘My advice, is, don’t!’
I took that to heart, and, in a way, that man saved me. I stopped. I do have the odd drink, at parties or to celebrate, but I’ve never been tempted to use it to block out pain. Never again.
The problem was, that I transferred my dependence on Baileys to other addictions. Oh, I didn’t take drugs – I would never do that, and not just because I saw the negative effect cannabis had on Matthew. In May, I got myself a new phone, and I discovered an app for eBay auction. Intrigued, I clicked on it, and the phone started to tell me that I had won certain items and lost others. It was intriguing!
Parcels started to arrive for me, and they kept on coming! I won a box of spatulas that I have no memory of bidding for; then a pair of riding boots arrived. They made more sense; I’d clearly bought them for Natasha; except that she’s a size five and the boots were size eight!
This went on for months. There were so many deliveries that I couldn’t keep up. I never even opened some of the boxes. When Natasha saw me scowl one day, because I hadn’t won the 30 bicycle helmets I’d bid on, she took me in hand, and said it had to stop.
She got rid of the app. ‘It’s crazy,’ she said. ‘It’s costing you so much money.’ She then helped me sell on all the stuff I had accumulated.
I was grateful to her, but I missed the buzz of it all. Bidding had helped me to pass those endless night-time hours. And it had given me the illusion of control. Looking for something else to do in those lonely, frightening small hours, I came across the game, Candy Crush. Yes, it was another addiction, but as Natasha pointed out, at least it was one that came without financial cost.
There were good moments during this time, and kindness came from unexpected sources. One morning washing up at the sink I looked up and found myself smiling. Wilma and her husband Paul had arrived the previous day with two hanging baskets full of flowers which they placed on Matthews bedroom entrance. And what’s more, they maintained the baskets for me. That gesture helped me at a dark time. It was a special gift with which to remember Matthew.
It was hard, as a youth worker, to admit that I needed outside help. Terry had suggested, many times, that I should go to a grief support group for those who had suffered a loss by suicide, and in September, I decided to comply. There were maybe eight sets of parents there, and one had lost his son in recent weeks.
Clearly it helped many people; there was one man there who had lost his son 12 years previously. He wrote poems to help him cope, but he did most of the talking. He had survived his loss, and the meetings had helped in this, but I wanted more instant help. The meeting didn’t move on from him, and I went home feeling it had been a waste of time. Did my failure to act as he did indicate that I was mad?
I tried it again. And the next time a young girl was delivering an art session. I cooperated with her, but more to help her facilitate the class. I tried it once more. That time, it was a busy session, but everyone was at a different stage of grief. One parent, whose child had died five years before, told another, who had suffered loss just weeks before, that grief gets better over time. That parent took offence, and a row broke out. I didn’t go back again. It’s brilliant for many people; I know that; but at that time in my cycle of grief, it simply wasn’t for me.
I struggled on. I got through Matthews first anniversary, and woke the following day, a Saturday pleased that I had survived a whole year without him. But later, my sister rang in a state of shock. She’d been into the butchers, but as she’d picked up her meat, the entire counter crashed on her feet, breaking them. She was unable to walk for weeks.
The following day Mum was taken into hospital. She was having tests, and I was frantic with worry. I was driving to college on Tuesday, minding my own business when there was this horrendous bang, and I was jolted forwards. I’d driven slap bang into a red van which was covered with white graphics. I sat there, rigid with shock, and when the driver climbed out of the van, and came over to me, I waited, anxiously for him to shout abuse. He didn’t.
‘I didn’t see the van,’ I said, apologising over and over again. ‘How could I not have seen it?’
‘Don’t be panicking,’ he said, brushing away my apologies. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I think so,’ I said, wiggling my toes, and shrugging my shoulders. ‘Nothing seems to hurt.’
‘That’s all that matters,’ he said. He was quiet as he helped me out of the car. I stumbled out, trying to hide my tears. If he noticed them, he didn’t comment. But once we had both established that I hadn’t any cuts or broken bones, he sighed with relief. Then he said, quietly, ‘My best friend was killed last week.’
I looked up at him in horror, and instinctively put my hand on his arm. ‘I am so sorry,’ I said. ‘And here am I, adding to your troubles.’
My car wasn’t the only thing to crash that day. My whole system did too. I don’t remember ringing for help – but I must have, because my sister picked me up, and drove me to her house. I was sitting there, still shaking and crying, when Terry arrived to take me home.
He hugged me, voicing his relief that I was unh
armed, then he said, ‘I’m glad this happened.’
I looked at him in horror.
‘You’re okay,’ he said. ‘The van driver is okay. Something had to make you stop.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘You’re not eating. You’re not sleeping. You’ve lost so much weight – go on like this, you’ll be a skeleton. Something had to give.’
He was right. That man, driving the big red van made me stop and evaluate myself. It might sound fanciful, but I believe he was sent by my guardian angel. Later, he rang me. I was. I assumed he wanted to know about the insurance, and told him not to worry, that it was all in hand, but no. ‘I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay,’ he said. That meant so much.
And of course, I wasn’t all right. By some miracle I wasn’t physically hurt, but afterwards, I had a sort of mini breakdown. It was as if my whole body froze. I couldn’t go to work, I couldn’t even think straight, so I made an appointment with the doctor. I told him what had been happening, and he suggested that I take an anti-depressant.
‘Have I got depression then?’ I asked. ‘Is that what this is?’
He didn’t answer me; not directly. ‘There’s a lot going on in your life, and these tablets will help – the main thing is that they will help you sleep,’ he said, telling me I should continue to take them for the next six months. I started taking the pills, and I began to manage. I still felt sad. I still missed Matthew every minute of every day, but I knew I would get through.
I often wonder, was I depressed? I was never diagnosed as such, and it was not a word I related to. When I learned all about PTSD – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder – the term seemed more relatable. Because finding Matthew had been, without doubt, the most traumatic thing I have ever experienced. I wouldn’t wish something like that on anybody.
Then I went for counselling – something I had never thought I would need. Certainly, the old Sharon had never done so. When I told the counsellor why I was there, she said, ‘Looking at you, I can’t believe you have been through all that.’
I was a little taken aback, and, seeing this, she said, ‘I shouldn’t have said that. It was judgemental of me.’
I liked her for that. For being so honest. She then asked me what I wanted her to do for me. ‘I don’t really know,’ I said, matching her honesty. ‘But I know what I don’t want you to do.’
She looked puzzled.
‘I don’t want you to regurgitate every book I’ve just been reading.’
She laughed, and to my relief, she never fell into that trap. I’m not sure, really, what she did, but I left, after that first session feeling that a weight had been lifted. And that night, I slept well for the first time in weeks. I went back the following week, and the third. And that week, when I was telling her all about Matthew’s last night, and my guilt for not realising how low he was, she interrupted me.
‘Sharon,’ she said. ‘You said to me that your bedroom door was always open.’
‘That’s right.’ I was impressed that she remembered. She wasn’t taking notes.
‘So, Matthew – and your other children – can come in an any time of day?’
‘Or night. Yes.’
‘In that case, Matthew decided, on that night, not to come to you.’
‘You mean...’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Sharon. You were there for him.’
I looked at her, in silence, thinking to myself, she really does listen. This woman is really very good.
‘We can’t control other people, Sharon,’ she said, quietly. ‘In the end, they make their own choices.’
Digesting her words, I thought back to Matthew, and to all the things he had said. Like, ‘I’m not going to live until I am old.’ Was he thinking, in his head, that he would have an accident? Or did he mean that he planned to end his life? I don’t know, but he said things like that more and more as he went through his teens. He always said, ‘I don’t see myself as an old man.’
After nine months I stopped talking about Matthew in the present tense, as if he was still alive, and finally, accepted that he was dead. Matthew was dead. Until then, I’d half expected him to appear and say, ‘Ma, it was just a dream.’
I went to that counsellor for about nine months, and she helped, she really did. Knowing that I worked in the same general area, she treated me with respect. She’d listen, always, but she also discussed the latest research with me. She’d say, ‘Have you read this, Sharon,’ or, ‘have you heard about this?’ She was genuine. That’s why I kept going back.
During that time, I decided to take a counselling course, and I applied for a part-time course at the Northern Regional College in partnership with university of Ulster. As part of the training, we had to tell a story to the rest of the class about an incident in our lives that had had an impact on us.
I decided to talk about my dad; I’d say he and my mum split up when I was ten years old, and how awful that was. It ticked the box and I thought it would be easy. After all, I didn’t have any particular feelings for my dad.
Then I listened to the stories that the others told. One girl had lost a parent through suicide; another had been abused by her mother. I looked at those people and thought, oh my gosh! I would never have guessed such terrible things had happened to you. You seem so strong.
They were all being so real; so truthful. How could I go up there and tell the sob story about my father, when that was not the issue that haunted me? I’d signed up for this course and agreed that I would be truthful in the classroom. Yet I didn’t feel able to talk about Matthew. It was too raw.
I stood up and walked to the front of the classroom. I took out my notes and started to read. ‘When I was ten years old my dad left,’ I said. Then I looked up and saw all those trusting eyes looking at me. I folded up my notes and tucked them under my arm.
‘I’ll be honest with you,’ I said. ‘I was going to talk about my dad, and how hard it all was, but there is something else I really want to share.’ There was a flip-chart paper on a stand. I wrote then pointed to the date Matthew died, and said, ‘This is the date that the real Sharon Truesdale died, and the new Sharon Truesdale was born.’ The class looked troubled.
‘The reason for this,’ I said, ‘is that my son, Matthew, took his own life.’ I don’t know what else I said, but I remember I cried. And when I looked up, I noticed that everyone in the room had tears in their eyes. I thought, why are they crying? It’s my son.’
This exercise, all about self-reflection, helped us to become more self-aware. This was the start of my healthy grieving - learning to apply everything I was learning and easily whilst practicing with others; unconditional positive regard, being genuine, non-judgemental came naturally, when talking to others in the class, as they were showing me the same; the real learning was applying this to myself.
It taught me to listen to myself, not be so hard on myself and more importantly to take care of myself. It’s like when you’re on an aeroplane and they tell you put your own oxygen mask on before helping anyone else. How ridiculous this sounded to me when I first heard it, surely as a mother my reaction would be to put the mask onto my children. Without taking care of me first, I would not be able to look after my children. This was a turning point in my new life.
We were taught the importance of living in the here and now, rather than harking back to the past, or fretting about the future. This takes practice and nearly 6 years on I still need to practice using Mindfulness Techniques.
Another lesson was a reminder that we don’t have control over other people. That’s important when you are counselling people. It’s a rule that is easy to say, but not so easy to believe. I learned that on the course and I learned it from Matthew.
In many ways the counselling course was as useful to me as going to counselling had been. It took me to places I would have happily avoided. Through that course I made sense of the stages of the grieving process.
I’d heard of
the stages before, but now I had to learn to apply them by making sense of all that was happening to me. I had to be honest about my thoughts and feelings; and even embrace them as they came. Then, I learned, I could start to truly grieve, and work towards finding some sort of acceptance. Only then could I move on to live a healthy life, and to ask for support and help when I needed it. Ultimately, I needed to accept Matthew’s death, think about it without guilt, and live my own life.
Around that time, in the February, I turned forty. Whenever, in the past, I’d thought of that particular milestone I’d remember that, by then, Matthew would be eighteen. ‘We’ll go out on my birthday and get our first drink together,’ I always told him. Now that the day was here, Matthew’s absence created a yawning gap. Nobody knew what to do.
The family were good. They arranged a dinner for us all at a local restaurant, and I bought a lovely dress from a charity shop in Barnardo’s, Belfast. We went through the motions and did what was expected. They bought me presents and ordered a cake for dessert. They all sang ‘Happy Birthday,’ and I blew out the candle. We acted as if we were happy, but we were just going through the motions. We were all, acutely, aware that an important family member wasn’t there.
11
Coping
From the time of Matthew’s death, there were things that happened that were difficult to explain. There was the bird, on that first day – the one that I saw in Matthew’s room, which flew out through a small gap, as if by instinct. There were two pigeons around at significant times – and there was the smell of cigarette smoke in the house when I was alone.
Forever Young: A mother's story of life after suicide Page 10