In 2006, one week before my granddaughter's first birthday, My mother killed herself.
She was 93, she was at the end of possibility of living in her home, she had worn me out to the point of collapse, and used up my daughter as well, who was trying to raise a baby without a clue. She had come to the end of her money, and on her behalf, I had run up debt amounting to about a quarter of a million dollars between our 2 credit cards to keep her at home, to pay for her medication and to keep the household going.
Now, nearly everyone says how brave, how good that she could choose her way to die, and part of me agrees with them. But there still dwells within me the little girl who watched her being carted away in a straightjacket after a drug overdose, and being gone for the summer. There is the 11 year old who had to call people to break down the door to her room after she had overdosed, and then went to live with a father she hadn't seen much of for the previous 6 years in another town.
Mum had been "sober" = not drinking, for a lot of years. She had taken plenty of uppers in the 60's and 70's, switched to pot and hash, and finally, regular prescribed anti-anxiety, antidepressant medication when she had been ripped off by her connection for thousands of dollars, and was too sick to be able to grow her own anymore.
She wrote a note, melted her meds in vodka and went to sleep.
It was what had been recommended by "The Final Exit".
There was plenty of drama in the family after this, I'll save that for another time, but the point of this today is that she ended her life in the manner that had most traumatized us all through our childhoods, and that echo remains.
I have her pistol in my house [hard to get at] and there have been a couple of winters during which I have thought about that every day. As I move through the cement that likes to form around my feet sometimes, I have the conversation.
When Robin Williams spoke of the evil little voice, the one that says "just one" or "jump", I know who is doing the talking. I do not pretend not to hear that voice, because I have found that more dangerous. I ask the voice, how does it think it knows the future? How can it tell me I am useless, how does it know? Even if it were true, there is never a reasonable answer to the questions I ask. So curiosity keeps the cat going, how will the story turn? What will happen next? Who will come on to the stage and tell a joke? Even if I don't care at the moment, I remember that I might care in the shortest time it takes to not do something I can't change. This is only depression, this is not profound depression. This is only sadness, maybe grief, even, but it isn't devastation, despair, being sucked down the black center of oblivion. Circling the drain is not the same as going down the tube.
So, I understand ending it all as a momentary failure of curiosity. I don't want to imagine what happens to those for whom that's a killer
She was 93, she was at the end of possibility of living in her home, she had worn me out to the point of collapse, and used up my daughter as well, who was trying to raise a baby without a clue. She had come to the end of her money, and on her behalf, I had run up debt amounting to about a quarter of a million dollars between our 2 credit cards to keep her at home, to pay for her medication and to keep the household going.
Now, nearly everyone says how brave, how good that she could choose her way to die, and part of me agrees with them. But there still dwells within me the little girl who watched her being carted away in a straightjacket after a drug overdose, and being gone for the summer. There is the 11 year old who had to call people to break down the door to her room after she had overdosed, and then went to live with a father she hadn't seen much of for the previous 6 years in another town.
Mum had been "sober" = not drinking, for a lot of years. She had taken plenty of uppers in the 60's and 70's, switched to pot and hash, and finally, regular prescribed anti-anxiety, antidepressant medication when she had been ripped off by her connection for thousands of dollars, and was too sick to be able to grow her own anymore.
She wrote a note, melted her meds in vodka and went to sleep.
It was what had been recommended by "The Final Exit".
There was plenty of drama in the family after this, I'll save that for another time, but the point of this today is that she ended her life in the manner that had most traumatized us all through our childhoods, and that echo remains.
I have her pistol in my house [hard to get at] and there have been a couple of winters during which I have thought about that every day. As I move through the cement that likes to form around my feet sometimes, I have the conversation.
When Robin Williams spoke of the evil little voice, the one that says "just one" or "jump", I know who is doing the talking. I do not pretend not to hear that voice, because I have found that more dangerous. I ask the voice, how does it think it knows the future? How can it tell me I am useless, how does it know? Even if it were true, there is never a reasonable answer to the questions I ask. So curiosity keeps the cat going, how will the story turn? What will happen next? Who will come on to the stage and tell a joke? Even if I don't care at the moment, I remember that I might care in the shortest time it takes to not do something I can't change. This is only depression, this is not profound depression. This is only sadness, maybe grief, even, but it isn't devastation, despair, being sucked down the black center of oblivion. Circling the drain is not the same as going down the tube.
So, I understand ending it all as a momentary failure of curiosity. I don't want to imagine what happens to those for whom that's a killer
Even though the depression that kept rearing its black and ugly head in our lives left such a stain on the pages of our history, I kept thinking (deluding myself) she had it 'under control.' I never thought it was brave of her, I was angry on so many levels and it brought up all the 'other times' I'd rescued her leaving me feeling this time like I'd let her down.
ReplyDeleteI don't have many bouts of depression, fortunately, but I am learning more than I care to about its impact and the futility feelings some people have about treatment.
And because I didn't know what was going on with her, or you, or anyone, I know I contributed to the drama because I was furious that this time she succeeded. For that, belatedly, I am sorrowful.
That voice doesn't know the future, and you are not useless... you sustained Kay, began your own generational history and have much value in your own creativity. Please, please... tune out THAT voice and listen to those closest to you who truly would be lost without you.
Thank you, dear sister, this was incredibly sweet for me to read.
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