The First Support Group Meeting
By Desiree Woodland
Survivors of suicide loss become survivors against their will. For each person who dies by suicide there are 25 or more people left in grief’s wake. I tell my story to offer encouragement to those left behind who have found themselves on the hard road ahead towards becoming a survivor.
Screams I did not recognize pierced the air and sounded like an animal in pain, but they were mine. This could not be happening. Emergency vehicles with flashing lights surrounded my house as police took Ryan’s body away, and I was left without answers. My throat was raw, my body heavy as cement. I was in shock and frozen in time. My son was dead. I did not get to hold him or say goodbye. The haunting memory of that day was only one of many since the day suicide changed my life forever.
Days passed endlessly and I wondered how I would ever make it through to the other side of a grief such as this. Was there even another side? My therapist shared contact information for a Survivors of Suicide support group and recommended I attend. I agonized about going for fear that I might not be able to stand being in a room of strangers who were also living with the excruciating pain of such a loss. Each time the day for the meeting rolled around, I talked myself out of going. The devastation of remembering that Ryan was no longer with me tore open every waking moment and kept me from sleep most nights. I wondered if my heart would break even further if I told the story again. How many times could a broken heart break open? I pretended that Ryan was only on a trip and would be coming home soon. The thought brought a strange comfort. But that daydream would crumble if I attended because I would have to admit that he was no longer here.
My son’s illness and death had tried my faith to the core. I was never angry at God but not sure I believed anymore. Suicide happens in faith communities as well as in loving families, but I never imagined it could happen in mine. I was living the dark night of the soul.
When waves of grief crashed over me, I felt as if I couldn’t catch my breath, or when I started crying, sometimes I feared I would never be able to stop. At first, I was unable to think of anything but the way he died. For my own sanity I had to give this group meeting a try.
I pulled open the door to the green Jeep that had been part of our family for many years. It still looked new because Ryan had taken great care of it. He had changed the oil, washed, and waxed it until it shone and somehow, fixed the rattles that had clanged and clunked when driven over bumps. I closed my eyes and could see his face smudged with oil and the smile he wore whenever he worked on cars. Oh, how he had loved it. He had hopes of one day starting his own car repair business. But now that would never be.
I laid my head on the open car door and allowed another wave of grief to come. I wept because he had died, I wept that I had to attend a meeting like this, and I wept for all the memories held within this car. The green Jeep had carried both my kids and their friends to soccer practice, summer camp, vacation Bible school and zero hour band practice. An entire lifetime of memories swirled around in my thoughts. Sitting here it felt safe to cry and to remember.
Lately, it seemed my tears had taken on a life of their own. I felt out of control. Surely, sharing my grief couldn’t feel any more real than the jagged pain of remembering alone. I knew I had to find a release for these painful emotions.
Shaking off the memories I forced myself to imagine starting the Jeep, driving to the meeting, then getting out and walking up to the door. Step by step.
I would at least give it a try, so I started the engine and backed out of the driveway. I swear as I rolled backwards, Ryan was standing near his bedroom window. I blew him a kiss.
I could not help feeling utter chaos when I tried to untangle the questions, the blame, and other emotions I couldn’t even identify. How could I continue to live when a person I never imagined living without was gone? How, when the threads that had held my life snapped apart in a single moment?
As I pulled into the driveway of the meeting place, I was aware that I had no idea how I had gotten there. I had no memory of driving in traffic or even stopping at red lights. Lost in a world so unfamiliar, I wondered if the experience of being lost in time was part of grief.
I took a deep breath and even though my feet felt like walking in wet cement, I made it to the door. Waiting to greet me was a friendly smiling woman. I thought it incongruous that she could smile as she welcomed me. How could she smile at a grief group? My life had fallen apart. I did not want to be here. I hated that I was here. I wanted to turn around and go back home. But the woman quickly handed me a newcomer packet and directed me to join the other survivors already seated in the circle. I sat down next to a woman who looked about my age. Kleenex boxes were placed around the circle and between the chairs. You could tell who was new in the group because they had the same lost look that I had seen on my own face.
The facilitator opened the meeting with a check in and something like these words, “Welcome to the Survivors of Suicide meeting where we bear witness to the shock and pain of suicide loss.” She continued with an invitation for people to share a little about their loss. Each person said their name and the name of their loved one. There were spouses, friends, and relatives who told of the deepest pain and guilt from the suicide of someone beloved. When it was my turn, I said, “My name is Desiree, and my son is Ryan and he died by suicide” I forced the words out of my mouth, and as soon I said his name, the brave and false composure I had hoped for turned to sobbing. Sobbing so deep I could no longer speak. People around me offered knowing looks and passed the box of tissue. They understood the devastation that suicide leaves for loved ones left behind.
The meeting seemed to end all too quickly. It had taken so much energy for me to come and now it was over in the blink of an eye. The facilitator asked us to stand and hold hands. I remember her words. “Close your eyes and feel the ground beneath your feet. You are grounded in the earth. Squeeze the hand of the person next to you. Feel the strength of the group.” As the squeezed passed through everyone she closed the meeting by reading bits from a pamphlet, “There is no blame in suicide, it is not their fault, it’s not your fault. No matter how many times we want to place blame on something or someone, we must realize this truth. In leaving this place today, leave the painful stories of others here. Rather than concentrating on the way they died, see if you can remember their smile, their embrace, and their laugh. Those things are part of you too. Take care not to allow the enormity of your grief to overwhelm you, but take it one day, one hour, one minute at a time. The journey of grief is long, but together we help one another survive.”
I looked around at the people in the group and thought how they must be some of the best and bravest people in the world. My own perceptions and stereotypes vanished. They were just people who tried to do the best for their loved ones, like I had. I picked up the materials and tucked them under my arm. Despite knowing that a little of my story had been witnessed by people who understood, I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t wait to leave and get outside.
Racing to my car, I held the tremor of grief until I was safe in my care. It moved from my heart to a lump in my throat that I could not swallow. No longer able to contain the feelings that demanded to be emptied. Gripping the steering wheel, I screamed and slapped the wheel trying to release the collective pain and suffering of the people in the meeting. Will it be this hard each time? I screamed.
When the tears and anger had run their course, I took some deep breaths to prepare myself for the drive home. I thought once again of the people in the group, particularly the woman who shared that her faith was getting her through. I wanted to be that person too. I wanted to believe again. I wanted to learn how to live through this and have faith that God was working out a plan for my life, as he must have for Ryan’s. Had God answered my prayers after all? Not the way I wanted this side of heaven - that Ryan would be healed. But could I believe that he was eternally healed? I will remember to seek out that woman and talk with her next week.
Instinctively I felt this group would be part of my life for the long grief journey ahead, no matter how hard it had been to attend. I wanted to learn from others how to put the broken pieces of my heart and my faith together again. To learn how to hold both joy and sorrow at once. To live in this new normal. Today, I took the first step. I felt a strange momentary peace. I had done it. I attended my first survivor meeting. Small victories.
About the Author
Desiree Woodland and her husband Gary, live in Albuquerque, New Mexico. They have two children, Michelle and Ryan. Following Ryan’s suicide, she wrote a book called, I Still Believe: mental illness and suicide in the light of Christian faith. She is on the board of Survivors of Suicide in Albuquerque where she facilitates \survivor groups. She holds a master’s Level Certificate in Grief and Loss from Southwestern College in Santa Fe. Her writing has been published in Grief Digest, Just Between Us online magazine, the Oasis anthology, the Mighty, Memoir magazine, Gritty Faith magazine, Bible Advocate magazine, as well as local publications. Her focus is most often around the stigma of mental illness, suicide grief and hope. Her story, “Goodnight Moon” was published in the Southwest Writers anthology, and the Centering Corporation.
