The Grief of Achilles in The Iliad

I have recently read The Iliad by Homer and was struck by Achilles' reaction upon hearing the news of his best friend's death in battle.

...the black cloud of sorrow closed on Achilles.  In both hands he caught up the grimy dust, and poured it over his head and face, and fouled his handsome countenance, and the black ashes were scattered over his immortal tunic.  And he himself, mightily in his might, in the dust lay at length, and took and tore at his hair with his hands and defiled it......Antilochos mourned with him, letting the tears fall, and held the hands of Achilles as he grieved in his proud heart, fearing Achilles might cut his throat with the iron...(Book 18: 22-34).

Many journal writing books espouse an exercise called "free-write" whereby for a certain length of time, you write whatever comes to mind.  The pen does not lift from the paper and you do not stop.  Even if it means writing the same word over and over until another thought or image flows from mind to pen to paper.  I decided to devote a couple of 15 minute sessions to this quote.  In focusing on the first sentence, this is a portion of what I wrote in my journal:

When Achilles heard about Patroklos' death, his reaction was both emotional "black cloud of sorrow" and physical.  This black cloud - not grey, not cream, not white as clouds usually are, but black, dark, ebony, rich and deep - this cloud closed on Achilles.  Enveloped him.  He was in a fog of sorrow - for that is what fog is - a cloud resting on the earth's surface which can become so thick, one cannot see.  If driving, one must pull over.  If flying, the plane is grounded.  A fog will render you senseless - cannot see, hearing is muted.  All sense of direction lost; landmarks are invisible.  The world is alienating, distorted and frightening.  In a fog I feel insecure and vulnerable like someone or something can come out to grab me.   To be in a 'black cloud of sorrow' - nothing will look or feel the same.  Everything is felt, seen, tasted, heard through the fog.  Like lens on a glass - everything will look black.  Feel black.  There is a black veil or sheath covering everything.  Living, sleeping and breathing in the black cloud of sorrow so that it is internal - no longer out of the body but within.

The next day I wrote this:

When Achilles heard about Patroklos' death and was enveloped in the black fog of grief, sorrow, pain and woe, he had a physical reaction.  An outward sign of inward pain.  He bent down and grabbed dirt, dust, Earth and poured it over his head - a self baptism - rubbing it all over his face.  Priam, King of Troy did something similar when he heard of his son Hektor's death - he took dung and smeared it on his head and neck.   Both fouled themselves saying my beloved is dead; I do not care about outward things any longer.  Why dirt? Why dung?  What would be the equivalent today?  Maybe someone who is so depressed they do not shave or shower, put on make-up, deodorant or perfume.  They wear the same thing, day after day.  Who cares what you look like or wear in the 'black cloud of sorrow'?  Achilles then drops to the ground, this mighty warrior whom no man could stand against, lays prostrate on the dirt in agony and grief.  Then, in an effort to feel real, searing, physical pain, he takes tufts of hair in his hands and yanks them out.  

Writing all this made me think of our reactions on that dreaded day.  And specifically how one of our daughters, whom Tim could not contact as she was in class - oblivious and naive to the tragedy that would change her life, listening to the lecture, taking notes and answering questions posed by the professor - when she heard the news from two best friends who were waiting outside the door, she collapsed and become almost catatonic.   Her friends somehow got her back to her room where she just sat on the bed while they packed her bag.  UVA is a good two hours away and thankfully, these two friends (angels) drove our girls home.  There is no way they could've driven themselves.

Feeling faint, knees buckling, doubling over, collapsing, sobbing, gasping, screaming, throwing up, punching walls, breaking things, or just going numb and still - all are physical reactions to the sudden news of a beloved's death.  Instantaneous and uncontrollable - each body will react differently as the mind absorbs the unthinkable and unimaginable.

I will end with this quote from The Iliad, ancient literature written centuries before Christ, of another vow from the living to the dead.   Achilles says of Patroklos:

I will never forget him, never so long as I remain among the living and my knees have their spring beneath me.  And though the dead forget the dead in the house of Hades, even there I shall still remember my beloved companion (Book 22: 387 - 390). 

I could say the same of Josh.  RIP beloved son - you are still remembered and will be as long as I have breathe in my body and even afterwards.....

3 Years and 3 Months Later - June 18, 2012

On my usual Saturday visit to Josh's gravesite, I happened to notice the dates on nearby markers and realized that many others have died since March 18, 2009.  How had I not seen that before?

Curiously, upon seeing other 2009 dates, my first thought was that was before/after Josh and secondly, 2009 seems like so long ago.   And when I saw a 2012 date, I thought,  Wow, that was just recently. 

This is another indication of time's relentless movement forward.  It hit me that I should expect the empty spaces around Josh to fill up over time.  That he is not the only one who died or will die and I am not the only mother or family member who grieves.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, on these weekly visits, I write a letter to Josh in a blank book specifically for this purpose.  In Alexandra Johnson's book, Leaving a Trace: On Keeping a Journal,  she talks about keeping a travel journal "as if writing a long letter to a close friend.  By writing for someone else's eyes, you have to supply context - place names, sights, interesting local information."

This made me think about my letters to Josh.  For the past three years, they have housed regurgitations of the same question (why, Josh, why?) and my feelings (sad, bad or mad), interspersed with the telling of family events/trips.   But as I explained to him in this week's letter, I am ready to go a different direction.

I feel a need to tell him of what is going on in our lives and in the world around.  For example, I told him about smartphones, apps and my iPad as these are new products and services that he would be interested in.   What other innovations, changes, ideas and experiences will I be writing in future letters?

So now I have a new job on my weekly visits.  I am the traveler who will document life for my son who can no longer see, hear, feel, touch or smell.

Death, Grief and Suicide in Hamlet - Part II

Hamlet's depression continues as he wrestles with fulfilling the duty of avenging his father's death.

I have of late - but wherefore I know not - lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air - look you, this brave overhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire - why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors (II, II, 287 - 299).

And in one of the most famous lines of English literature, Hamlet ponders whether living, with all the "slings and arrows" that come our way is better than the eternal sleep of death, which puts an end to all "heartache and the thousand natural shocks."

To be, or not to be?  That is the question -
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them?  To die, to sleep -
No more - and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to - 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! (III, I, 57 - 65).

Hamlet is a tragedy of epic proportions. By the end of the play, almost everyone is dead.  In this midst of all this mayhem, I am most interested in how grief is portrayed.

Ophelia is the prince's love interest who is utterly rejected by Hamlet in his misery and paranoia.  Her father, Polonius is the well-meaning Lord Chamberlain of Claudius' court but often misguided.  He jumps to erroneous conclusions about Hamlet which causes him to set in motion events that lead to devastating consequences, one being his own demise.  When Ophelia hears of her dear father's death, she literally goes mad. Claudius's description:

Oh, this is the poison of deep grief.  It springs all from her father's death, and now behold!....Poor Ophelia divided from herself and her fair judgement, without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts (IV,V,73-74 and 82-84).

She wanders to the riverbank, climbs a tree and falls into the water.  She does nothing to save herself and so drowns.  At the cemetery, the gravediggers discuss how she who "willfully seeks her own salvation" would not normally be given a Christian burial and so conclude that she was from a wealthy family.

The burial ceremony by the priest is very brief.  Laertes, Ophelia's brother asks the priest to perform additional rites. Their short dialogue says it all:

L:  Must there no more be done? 

Priest:  No more be done.  We should profane the service of the dead to sing a requiem and such rest to her as to peace-parted souls. 

L: Lay her i' th' earth, and from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring!  I tell thee, churlish priest, a ministering angel shall my sister be when thou liest howling (V, I, 217 - 225).

My margin notes:  Agreed!  Priest is a self-righteous b***!

Hamlet has been watching this and now joins Laertes in Ophelia's grave. This is their expression of grief:

L:  Hold off the earth awhile till I have caught her once more in my arms.  Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, till of this flat a mountain you have made, t' o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head of blue Olympus.  

H:  What is he whose grief bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane (V, I, 233-242). 

(Modern translation - Who is the one whose grief is so loud and clear, whose words of sadness make the planets stand still in the heavens as if they've been hurt by what they've heard?)

It is difficult to express the depths of my grief which is why I have come to love Shakespeare's tragedies.  He writes what I feel.

Death, Grief and Suicide in Hamlet - Part I

There is so much in Hamlet that resonates with me.  I have read through it twice; once on my own (using the No Fear Shakespeare version, which has the original play on the left side of the page and a modern translation on the right) and another while watching Kenneth Branagh's 4 hour movie adaptation.  I have written out long sections in my journal and pondered the relevance.   If you have never read Hamlet, I would encourage you to do so.

Hamlet is prince of Denmark. His father has been dead two months and to his chagrin, his mother Queen Gertrude, has married his father's brother, Claudius.  Hamlet's grief and despair knows no bounds as he witnesses this wedding on the heels of his father's funeral.  As a result of his melancholic disposition, he suffers a rebuke from the new King.

But to persever in obstinate condolement is a course
Of impious stubbornness.  'Tis unmanly grief.
It shows a will more incorrect to heaven,
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,
An understanding simple and unschooled (I, II, 92-97)

Basically Claudius is saying, "stop grieving and move on."  And that it is "unmanly" to be so despondent.  "How dare Claudius judge Hamlet's grief", my reading voice retorts.

When Hamlet is alone, we see the depths of his despair, wishing that suicide was not an act against God.  I don't like reading this but understand that for centuries, the church taught that suicide was an unpardonable sin.  We will see this again with the gravedigger's and priest's response to Ophelia's death.

Oh, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!  O God, God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world! (I, II, 129-134)

At the end of Act I, the ghost of Hamlet's father reveals to Hamlet that he has been murdered by Claudius.  He wants his son to exact revenge for the loss of his life, wife and crown.  In parting, he voices what all the dead would say:  "Adieu, adieu, adieu.  Remember me."  I love Hamlet's response - his commitment to remembering his father.

Remember thee!
Ay, thou poor ghost, whiles memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe.  Remember thee!
Yea, from the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,
All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past
That youth and observation copied there,
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmixed with baser matter (I, V, 95-104).

"Remembering Josh" is the title of this blog - for a reason.  "Running to Remember Josh" was printed on the backs of this year's marathon/half-marathon shirts purposefully.  Is it too exaggerated to say that one of my life's ambition and goal is to remember my beloved son?  No, I don't think so.  It feels like a solemn, honorable duty - one that I could never tire of.  It is why his pictures are still all over the house, why I have a tattoo of his name, in his handwriting on my arm, why I visit his gravesite every week and write a letter to him, why I sometimes wear his clothes.

As long as Josh is remembered, he stays alive.

A New Dimension of Grief- June 1, 2012

How can it be the beginning of June already?  It is because time moves on, like a conveyer belt, with no thought to tragedy, grief, sadness, emotion or feeling.

An un-negotiable aspect of living is that one must move along with it.  But there is a problem - the dead are not with us.  Through whatever mode, they have gotten off and so are frozen.  In Josh's case, it was the fateful day of March 18, 2009.

And with time's relentless march forward, it feels as though I am moving further and further away from my beloved boy.

Why?  I wonder.  Is it because there are numerous experiences now, over three years later, that he does not share?  He missed both Lauren and Gillian's college graduation weekends.  He has missed three, soon to be four summer's worth of activities.  He has not been a part of three Thanksgivings and Christmas'.  He does not know his new baby cousin.

And so new memories of the past three years are fresh in my mind - memories that do not include Josh.  Is this why I feel further away from him? 

This feels true and is very sad.  And so my grief has taken a new dimension - of all the family experiences that does not include him.  At the beginning of my grief journey, I knew his death would mean a loss of future events/experiences.  Now, this loss is truly felt.

I think this is why our work with the Josh Anderson Foundation (JAF) is so important to me.  Not only are we doing good and hopefully saving lives, but it is a way to keep his memory alive and more importantly, a way to make new memories of which he is front and center.

May 18, 2012 - Three years and 2 months and 4th Mother's Day

Last Sunday was my 4th Mother's Day without Josh. I have re-read (with tears) what I have posted in the previous years.

2009
2010
2011

This year's Mother's Day was not particularly sad.  Maybe it is because there has been so much encouraging activity with the Josh Anderson Foundation (JAF), the most recent being the Send Silence Packing display in Fairfax Corner the day before.

To see the money we have raised being put to good use, in high schools that Josh attended is uplifting.  To hear parents, administration and counselors acknowledge that our teens need to be educated on difficult mental health topics is heart warming because maybe, just maybe, we can save other kids. I am so proud of our daughter, Lauren who has spent the last 9 months working tirelessly and successfully to get meaningful, effective programs into local schools.  So when my mind's eye looks back between now and last Mother's Day, the JAF is a true highlight.

Maybe the good that is being done has counter-balanced the feelings of loss.  Or maybe it is just the passage of time that eases the pain.  Or a combination of both - I am not sure.

Today is another anniversary month and just like last month, I will share some thoughts and a poem from The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief & Healing edited by Kevin Young.

In his introduction, Young speaks to the healing process, marked by the actual lessening of felt grief.  He begins by quoting a section from Philip Larkin's "The Trees":

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief. 

The greenness of grief - its returning, like the leaves - seems to me one of the best ways to understand it as an experience.  It is perennial, yet ebbs and flows, "Like something almost being said."  Even grief's lessening can be something to be mourned; ironically, there are days when, by not feeling so bad, we fear and feel we are betraying our loved ones.

YES - I write in the margin!   Sometimes, instead of feeling sad, I actually feel content in my life right now because of the stronger ties to my immediate and extended family, to my friends and to the community through JAF, and wonder how can I feel content, when Josh is not here?  What kind of mother am I?  And then I feel guilt, but in a different kind of way.  Not guilt about his death, but guilt in moving past his death.   Kind of a "catch 22" or "damned if I do and damned if I don't".   Who knew the grieving process could be so complicated?

The challenging thing is that there is no user manual; no "How to Survive Grief for Dummies", no "12-Step Process to Overcoming Grief", no guide, course or program that gives the answers.  The grieving process is as individual as we are which means no two journeys will be the same, even if we experience the same loss.  I've mentioned this before and it still rings true - grieving is a lonely business.  This is why I find it so therapeutic to read, write in my journal and on this blog - it is a way for me to connect to other people through their writing and my own.

I hope my Josh can say these words from his present home.

Notes from the Other Side  
by Jane Kenyon 

I divested myself of despair
and fear when I came here. 

Now there is no more catching
one's own eye in the mirror, 

there are no bad books, no plastic,
no insurance premiums, and of course no illness.   

Contrition does not exist, nor gnashing of teeth.
No one howls as the first clod of earth hits the casket. 

The poor we no longer have with us.
Our calm hearts strike only the hour, 

and God, as promised, proves
to be mercy clothed in light.

Jordan Burnham at South Lakes High School

Today was a good day in spite of being an emotional one.   The Josh Anderson Foundation (JAF) has taken a large step in pursuing its mission of providing programs for today's kids that might have helped our beloved Josh.  

Due to the tireless advocacy of one particular counselor and the support from the principal, the JAF made possible Jordan Burnham, a nationally acclaimed speaker for the young adult audience to share his story of depression and attempted suicide while a senior in high school - at the very school that Josh attended when he died on March 18, 2009 as a junior.

Although at SLHS for only one year, Josh's death impacted the entire student body.  Going there today, over three years later and meeting kids who were freshman at the time but are now seniors, sharing about how they still think of him, was hard.  I couldn't keep the tears back when one boy told me how Josh was like a mentor in football and that he will always remember him.  Another girl, a junior, told me how she had heard about Josh while at middle school.  Many, many others shared their gratitude for JAF bringing a speaker who was relatable, brutally honest, and inspiring. 

Jordan was able to speak to 800 students (about one-third of the student body).   You could hear a pin drop in the auditorium during the 45 minute speech.  The Q&A lasted about 30 minutes with very thoughtful questions posed by students.  There were about 100 students who waited in line afterwards to meet him with some breaking down in tears as they shared their own personal stories.   It was a very moving and impacting time that I wish we could duplicate in all the high schools in our area.  

As I sat there, listening to Jordan share about his internal struggles as an accomplished, popular, athletic kid, who came from a close family, I couldn't help but imagine Josh sitting in the audience.  What if he had heard someone articulate deep, dark feelings that he could relate to?  Would it have helped him understand what was going on?  Be truly open? Seek help?  Understand that he was not along in his feelings?  Would listening to someone like Jordan speak so openly about depression and suicide helped him?  I think so. 

Kids were tweeting Jordan before and after his presentation.  One particular tweet sums it up: it is people like @jfburnham who have the strength & courage to tell their story that give me hope that there is a life worth living.

Kids waiting to see Jordan

Line goes up the aisle....

....up to the door

Photo ops

Guys came up to see him...

Jordan and student leadership group

Jordan and counseling staff

3 Years and 1 Month - "The Shout" by Simon Armitage

As evidenced by previous posts this year, my reading has taken me to the surprising realm of poetry - see Jan 1 post.

I have finished reading through this special anthology (The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief & Healing) and made little notes in the list of poems within the table of contents: "wow" next to some, stars by quite a few and "I don't get it" next to others.  It seems like a good plan to share some of the "wow" poems each anniversary month.

First, another quote from the introduction that rings true:

The process of grief, I have found, can mirror that of writing: it is surprising, trying, frustrating, daunting, terrifying, comforting, chastening, challenging, and at times, heartening; grief can provide fellowship with others interested in the experience; it brings out the best in us, and at times the worst, if only because it is utterly human.  It can feel inevitable, but it is so personal, so differently pitched for each, that it can reside across a great gulf.  Yet poetry, like grief, can be the thing that bridges the gap between us, that brings us together and binds us. 

 This poem makes me wonder what Josh's friends, close and peripheral, will remember after another seventeen years.  Will they still "hear" him?

The Shout

by Simon Armitage

We went out

into the school yard together, me and the boy

whose name and face

I don't remember.  We were testing the range

of the human voice:

he had to shout for all he was worth, 

I had to raise an arm

from across the divide to signal back

that the sound had carried.

He called from over the park - I lifted an arm.

Out of bounds,

he yelled from the end of the road,

from the foot of the hill,

from beyond the look-out post of Fretwell's Farm - 

I lifted an arm.

He left town, went on to be twenty years dead

with a gunshot hole

in the roof of his mouth, in Western Australia.

Boy with the name and face I don't remember,

you can stop shouting now, I can still hear you.

2012 Marathon/Half-Marathon - $24,000 raised!

The Third Annual Running to Remember Josh was held in Washington DC on Saturday, March 17th, 2012 - (see post for background and YouTube video.  Our goal was to raise $16,000, matching what was raised in the first two years.  With the generous donations from family and friends in the community, the total is over $24,000!  Fundraisers/runners include Lauren and Gillian, Lauren's boyfriend and three of her friends.  Eleven other friends ran the half-marathon/relay while others came out to support.

A number of Lauren's friends live right in DC while others came from Boston, NYC and Atlanta.  Gillian's friends came from UVA, Virginia Tech, UNC and William & Mary.  One of our neighbor's daughter who is going to college to study photography took pictures throughout the day.  As mentioned in a previous post, a very successful bar fundraiser was held 3 days before.  Gillian created this YouTube video of the 2010 run that was shown at our pasta dinner, the night before the race.

We are very grateful for all of the support.  Lauren has been busy meeting with community groups and local high schools to implement programs before the end of the school year.  This is why we have raised the money - we want it to directly impact high school students.  We are starting locally, but have a vision of expanding to other school systems.

Below are pictures, showcasing our new logo and t-shirts and a slideshow from the day.  We hope more runners will join us for next year's event!

SunTrust Rock N Roll Marathon start at the Washington DC Armory

Lauren's boyfriend John, showed his support by joining her at the half-way mark and running her in

Why we are running.....

Gillian's first half-marathon, supported by three of her friends

Lauren and her best friend from high school (also Lauren) are running the marathon - I love their expressions

Both Lauren's at Dupont Circle (mile 6) - looking good! 

Gillian and her friends running up to Dupont Circle

Gillian and friends running to the finish of the half-marathon

Yea - she did it!!

Tailgate after the half-marathon finish

Both Lauren's at the end of the marathon - it was hot!

We are so proud of them!

All for our beloved Josh

Champaigne celebration!! 

Slideshow with more pictures

3-18-2012 - Three Years Later

Many thanks for the emails, FB messages, texts and phone calls today.  And to my friend Rox, for coming all the way from Atlanta to be with us.  Getting on the computer late this afternoon, I saw this post on my daughter-in-law's blog which reminded me of a post written a little over two months after his death called Josh and Dogs.

I've been a bit numb.  The week leading up to today has been extremely busy with our two fundraising events - bar fundraiser on Wednesday and marathon/half-marathon run yesterday.  The support for both has been overwhelming and moving.  Despite the lack of time for true reflection, I did try to write a little in my journal this morning and here is the gist of my thoughts.

I am still in disbelief sometimes - not that Josh is gone - I know that is true.  It is more around the fact that it happened to us.  We are like many other close and loving families in our community.  Tim and I have been dedicated parents from the get go.  We were fortunate to have jobs that allowed both of us to be home during their younger years.  I don't think he and I ever disagreed on how we would raise our kids. We believed they should have rules and consequences if broken.  We worked hard not to discipline out of anger/frustration.  We were very involved in their academic, extra-curricular and social lives.  If they participated in a baseball, soccer, basketball, lacrosse, football game or dance competition, we were there.  Tim coached the boy's baseball teams.  We knew their friends.  The kids were our #1 priority.

We struggled and muddled our way through the difficult teen years.  I am sure we were too harsh at times and too lenient at other times.  In fact, our older kids have said that we lightened up a lot with Josh - letting him "get away with things."  Probably true since he was our 4th, and we unwittingly gave into  parental fatigue.  As I reflect now, I wonder if we unknowingly did or said things that made our kids feel competitive with each another.  And while we tried to have open lines of communication, I am sure we said our fair share of "because we said so" to the questions of "why?" or "why not?"

That said, we did our best.  And with a clear conscious, I can say that everything we did, while not always right, was motivated out of what was best for them.  So I struggle now with the inexplicable question - if you love your child(ren) with all of your heart and would do anything for them, and have hopefully proven that through the child-rearing years, how could this happen?

How could your son decide to leave?  A loving home?  Friends too numerous to count?

How?  Why?   I am always brought back to these two haunting and unanswerable questions.  And it is because of these questions that we are focused and passionate about the Josh Anderson Foundation.  We want to fund programs in schools that could have impacted our son to take a different course of action in the midst of his extreme despair.  We want kids to feel comfortable enough to be open about their issues and to get help before it becomes unbearable.  We don't want kids suffering alone. We want to stop teenage suicide so no other family will suffer the same tragic loss.

RIP Josh.
I love and miss you more than words can express,
Mom

Successful Bar Fundraiser - March 14, 2012

The support for the Josh Anderson Foundation (JAF) has been overwhelming.  Pulled together in just ten short days, with herculean efforts from one of Lauren's high school friends and her family, the bar fundraiser held at The Tavern in Great Falls, VA was an incredible success, bringing in around $8,000!  

Friends signed up to be guest bartenders, local businesses donated prizes for our raffle, The Tavern gave 10% of the bar proceeds, and generous individuals and companies sponsored the event.  

Lauren's high school and college friends came out in full force along with many from the community so it was a fun mixture of a young 20's crowd and those mine and Tim's age.  As a parent, it is gratifying to see how the younger generation has embraced and supported efforts such as the JAF.  

We have some exciting programs planned in the spring which I will share as they are firmed up.  Everything we are doing is focused on one goal:  establishing programs that promote Youth Mental Wellness so that no teenager will ever turn to suicide. 

"Darkness Visible" by William Styron

Another survivor memoir of an acclaimed writer - survival from himself.

This short 84 page book, published in 1990 and easily read in one night, is a poignant, powerful memoir in which Styron attempts to describe the indescribable - "the pain of severe depression is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it, and it kills in many instances because its anguish can no longer be borne."

Styron won the Pulitzer Prize in 1968 for his novel, The Confessions of Nat Turner.  Other well-known works include his first novel, Lie Down in Darkness (1951) and Sophie's Choice (1979).  He became clinically depressed and suicidal later in life (60's) although he admits that alcohol use probably masked the symptoms.

Styron has a beef with the word "depression" arguing that

"melancholia" would still appear to be a far more apt and evocative word for the blacker forms of the disorder, but it was usurped by a noun with a bland tonality and lacking any magisterial presence, used indifferently to describe an economic decline or a rut in the ground, a true wimp of a word for such a major illness.

Why do the blackest thoughts reside in some and not others?  He tries to answer this for himself and for the long list of other artists who succumbed to suicide, acknowledging that

bloody and bowed by the outrages of life, most human beings still stagger on down the road, unscathed by real depression.  To discover why some people plunge into the downward spiral of depression, one must search beyond the manifest crisis - and then still fail to come up with anything beyond wise conjecture.

Bottom line, who knows?

He describes the rapid descent of "anxiety, agitation, unfocused dread" and openly admits relating to Baudelair, the 19th century poet's words, I have felt the wind of the wing of madness.  He then very definitively says:

But never let it be doubted that depression, in its extreme form, is madness.  That madness results from an aberrant biochemical process.....such madness is chemically induced amid the neurotransmitters of the brain, probably as the result of systemic stress, which for unknown reasons causes a depletion of the chemicals norepinephrine and serotonin, and the increase of a hormone, cortisol.

This reminds me of Josh's psychologist's words when we spoke on the phone after his death. Somehow, that night, Josh suffered a psychotic break with reality.   I did not get it then, but Styron's words help give some framework to the comment.

As Styron's struggles intensified, he gives a vivid description of the mental pain and anguish that leads to suicidal thoughts.

It may be more accurate to say that despair owing to some evil trick played upon the sick brain by the inhabiting psyche, comes to resemble the diabolical discomfort of being imprisoned in a fiercely overheated room.  And because no breeze stirs in this cauldron, because there is no escape from this smothering confinement, it is entirely natural that the victim begins to think ceaselessly of oblivion.

He goes on to speak of the concept of loss:

It is the touchstone of depression - in the progress of the disease and, more likely, in its origin....the loss of self-esteem is a celebrated symptom...one dreads the loss of all things, all people close and dear.  There is an acute fear of abandonment....There is no doubt that as one nears the penultimate depths of depression - which is to say just before the stage when one begins to act out one's suicide instead of being a mere contemplator of it - the acute sense of loss is connected with a knowledge of life slipping away at accelerated speed.

He chronicles his own suicidal ideation and the reason why.

In depression this faith in deliverance, in ultimate restoration, is absent.  The pain is unrelenting and what makes the condition intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come - not in a day, an hour, a month, or a minute.  If there is mild relief, one knows that it is only temporary; more pain will follow.  It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul....the situation of the walking wounded.  

On the night he determined his own extinction, he "experienced a curious inner convulsion that I can describe only as despair beyond despair.  It came out of the cold night; I did not think such anguish possible."

He was so close to suicide but luckily for him, one song snapped him out of it.  He was voluntarily hospitalized the next day.  My thoughts upon reading this are, Why wasn't Josh saved?  Why wasn't he spared?  Why couldn't he have failed?  Why couldn't something have snapped him out of it?

"After a Funeral" by Diana Athill

I picked this book up in August 2011 at my local Border's closing sale.  The title caught my eye but the blurb on the back sealed the deal.

The story of how and why a talented writer came to kill himself - a classic memoir by one of our most esteemed authors.  When Diana Athill met the man she calls "Didi," she fell in love instantly and out of love just as quickly....With painful honesty, Athill explores the years she tried to help him, a period that culminated in Didi's suicide - in her apartment - an event he described in his journals as "the one authentic act of my life."

While I did not find myself drawn to the complicated relationship between Athill and Didi, a few quotes made it to my journal for further thought.

Didi was a diarist.  Like me, he wrote in his diary to survive.  Me from Josh's death, and he, from his own depression.

When I started writing I improved a lot, and then I discovered my salvation - a combination of salvation and writing.  My diaries.....I'd sit down and write - give vent to my feelings in writing, instead of in talking or behavior.  This would simmer me down, and I'd become normal again and often shake my head at the strangeness of it all.....In depression my diary becomes hopeless because it was writing it and reading it and seeing the way I sometimes am which often used to cause depression....This diary, then, this medicine, this dark and innermost secret womb of mine, is something I have created to save me (146-147).

Because I have no clues as to Josh's mental and emotional state which led to his fatal and irrevocable act, I want to read the suicidal ideation of others, whether from real people or fictional characters.  In fact, I have a little file box in which are recorded such quotes as below.  Morbid and a somewhat futile exercise, I know, because the only one who could tell me what he was thinking is gone, and who knows if he himself could articulate what dark thoughts were swirling in his mind, but still, I want to try and understand.

When I read such thoughts and copy the quotes in my journal or on notecards to file away, I wonder if Josh felt the same.  Then sadly, I wonder how many other young people or not-so-young people have similar thoughts.

Didi's feeling of self-repulsion were real and overwhelming.

Falling - falling - falling.  Perhaps I have been unable to touch my diary lately, except in short fits, because at times I am repulsive to myself, I don't want to touch me, to interest myself in me.  It is horrible to dislike your own self so much and there must be a vestige of genuine madness in all this....There is nothing I would welcome more than death at this moment, this very instant - here and now....I am left with what I am left with now: hopelessness, self-pity - and ugly and repulsive self-pity - and such despair, sadness loneliness and finally utter darkness....I have no affection or respect for myself at all.  I loathe and find intensely repulsive a man of my sort (53-55).

Because he was a faithful diarist, it stands to reason that he would record thoughts after ingesting a bottle of sleeping pills.

And the most dramatic moment of my life - the only authentic one - is a terrible let-down.  I have already swallowed my death.  I could vomit it out if I wanted to.  Honestly and sincerely, I really don't want to.  It is a pleasure.  I am doing this not in a sad, unhappy way; but on the contrary, happily and even (a state of being and a word I have always loved) SERENELY....serenely.

He did not die serenely at all.  Because he called a friend, (Athill thought he wanted a witness), he was taken to the hospital where his stomach was pumped.  But it was too late.  After ten days in which he "moaned endlessly," he passed away.

After reading the five volume diary he left for her, Athill's conclusion:

It was not intolerable that he had killed himself.  It was intolerable that he had been right to do so - that he had no alternative.  It was intolerable that a man should be so crippled by things done to him in his defenseless childhood that he had been made, literally and precisely, unendurable to himself....He was certain at too deep a level, in the very fibres of his being, that he was unworthy of love.  Being unworthy of love, he must be punished; and the only way he could secure this was by plunging out to the point where he was driven to punish himself.  To be murdered would be a fate much simpler, and less sad. 

Haunting words.

Prose Poem - "The Dead" by Billy Collins and "Where He Lay" by Sue Anderson

Poetry and survivor memoirs are what I have been reading lately.  I've finished How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry by Edward Hirsch and Making Toast by Roger Rosenblatt.  I am currently reading The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief & Healing edited by Kevin Young.

Reading poems by fellow grievers is apropos for this month - the death anniversary month.  A jarring yet accurate description of March where the hindsight clock ticks away - for example, on this day three years ago, Josh was alive and unbeknownst to us and maybe even himself, would only be so for 7 more days.  This is where REGRET kicks in with her constant monologue of "if onlys" and "what ifs".

"If only" I had asked this or done that or said this or noticed that - maybe he would be alive.  Or "what if" we had decided to forgo the disciplinary hearing or "what if" I had woken up that night - would he be here now?  Nagging questions buzz around my head like an annoying, relentless mosquito.   Irrelevant questions for a past deed that won't let me go or I won't let go - I am not sure which.

Back to poetry.  Prose poems are most accessible to me - those which tell a story "preserving poetic qualities such as heightened imagery and emotional effects" (Wikipedia).  I simply wrote "wow" in the margin of this one.

The Dead
by Billy Collins 

The dead are always looking down on us, they say,

while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,

they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats of heaven as they row themselves slowly through eternity. 

They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,

and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,

drugged perhaps by the hum of a warm afternoon,

they think we are looking back at them, 

which makes them lift their oars and fall silent

and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.

I've read a number of poems that speak to the funeral service and final resting place.  My subconscious must have been ruminating while asleep because when I woke up this morning, certain words and phrases were stuck, begging to be written down.

Where He Lay
Sue Anderson 

Traveling here, after an hour's hard work,

my voice breaking while telling my cycle class of your death and our fundraiser in one week's time, so that other kids do not die like you did. 

So much work on the Beltway; controlled confusion,

but as long as everyone stays in their skinny lanes, all OK. 

Where is everyone going?

This bright, blue Saturday morning? 

To places not like me. 

Driving down Braddock road,

the budding bare trees wave hello and ask,

"Going on your weekly visit, mom?"

Behind cars with Robinson Honor Roll and Virginia Tech and I Love My Dog stickers.

Where are they going? 

This bright, blue, crisp Saturday morning?

To places not like me.  

I pull up and the park is bare,

because twice yearly, they clear out all flowers, old and new. I guess if they didn't some would stay for years, and get ratty, detracting from the serene beauty.  

A red tent is set up in the distance with chairs.

So I know that someone has recently died 

and if that person was loved,

like Josh, fresh grief is consuming others somewhere. 

Where he lay, entombed in Mother Earth's womb forever,

where luckily there is no claustrophobia,

because the dead are unaware.  

Surrounded by fellow dead 

like poor 2-year old Amber,

who died the year Josh was born,

so it has been 20 years now and her grave shows it. 

No one comes to visit her,

so Mother Earth has not only enclosed her body,

but is consuming her marker. 

"That will never be Josh" my today voice says

but who knows where I will be in 20 years?  

Where he lay, frozen in time, 

by a fatal deed done in the early morning of 3-18-09,

while the house was quiet and I was sleeping,

a virgin, innocent, naive sleep. 

Where he lay, in a silken pincushion,

but where is the soul?  Gone? Still here? Hovering?

Is there a welcome party for other tragic losses

like a "Hospitality Club" for the dead? 

Help for the displaced soul to acclimate to new digs?

And once the dust settles, does Josh glide over

(for how do souls move?) and befriends? 

I envision him with a posse of other youngsters,

tragically pulled from this life to his,

by accident, illness, violence including his - by self.

Chilling, hanging out like kids do.   

But wistful...wishing....longing.....

to be ALIVE....to be BACK....to be HERE;

dealing with all the crap that our youth have to deal with,

but knowing that as long as one is alive,

there is hope for a better moment, hour, day, week, 

month, year or future.  Experiences, growth, change, maturity, love, life. 

Because he now knows that when you're dead, all that is gone.  Poof.  Done.  Over.  Kapputz.  Gonzo.  Sayonara.  Adios.  Au revoir.  C'est fini.

March - tough month

Part of my weekly ritual on Saturday mornings is to teach my indoor cycle class, visit Josh and write a letter to him.  This is what I wrote yesterday:

Dear Josh,
We are now in March - the month in which events occurred that led to your death.  How I wish....long... no that is not strong enough...I would give my life, and I mean it, to go back to that time, a "do-over", do things differently, ask more questions, probe, intervene, SOMETHING so that you would still be here...alive...with us.  Instead, I sit here in the car, after finishing my little housekeeping chores at your gravesite, looking at the chimes on "your" tree, (for we have really taken it over), and writing.  This is my time to "visit" you.

I received some new pictures of you in the mail.  In one, you were probably 9 or 10 years old, smiling broadly at the camera with your hand up, saying "hi".  My heart stopped for a millisecond when I saw it.  You looked so happy.  I kissed the picture and put my hand up to match yours, palm-to-palm.

We are preparing for the marathon fundraiser - 2 weeks from today and the bar fundraiser - 10 days from today!  I have shared about you and what we are doing with my aerobics classes, without tears.  But I cry now.  For you.  For what is lost.  For what could be that never will be.  Tears of regret, more than of sheer grief and pain.

I can tell you, Josh, that you are still in the hearts of so many of your friends and their families.  They have not forgotten.  I hope you are at peace.

Love,
Mom
XXOO

Teenage suicidal ideation in Romeo and Juliet

Most are probably familiar with this tragic play.  As young "star-crossed" lovers, unable to be together due to a long-standing feud between families, Romeo and Juliet would rather die than be apart.  The expression of their love is excessively romantic:

Juliet 

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep.  The more I give to thee,

The more I have, for both are infinite (II,II, 133-135).

Romeo

Heaven is here,

Where Juliet lives (III,III, 29-30).

They are idealistic, romantic, "all in", and willing to pay the ultimate sacrifice for their love.  

I find, however, in the suicidal ideation quotes below, their self-annihilating thoughts come from immature teen brains: impetuous and impulsive.  The tragic and irrevocable deeds are fueled by a black and white perspective, typical of teens.   If they can't be together, they don't want to live; it's as simple as that. 

It begins with Juliet.

If all else fails, myself have power to die (III,V, 243).

When Romeo hears of Juliet's "death", he goes to the apothecary for poison.

Let me have a dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins
That the life-weary taker may fall dead,
And that the trunk may be discharged of breath (V, I, 61-64).

He is a young man and yet describes himself as "life-weary".  How can this be?

Profound speech by Romeo as he leaves with the poison:

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murder in this loathsome world,
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
I sell thee poison.  Thou hast sold me none.
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee (V, I, 82-88).

He has turned away from life, for who would want to live in a "loathsome world" where gold truly is the root of all evil?  He longs to be reunited with Juliet.

As he opens her tomb:

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
And in despite I'll cram thee with more food! (V, III, 45-48).

The tomb has "eaten" Juliet and he will soon give it more food - himself.

After Romeo opens the tomb and sees Juliet; a haunting speech in which he justifies suicide:

Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair?  Shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that, I still will stay with thee,
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again.  Here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chamber maids.  Oh, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious starts
From this world-wearied flesh.  Eyes, look your last.
Arms, take your last embrace.  And, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death.
(kisses Juliet, takes out the poison)  
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy seasick, weary bark.
Here's to my love! (drinks the poison) O true apothecary,
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide,
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die (V, III, 101-120).

He imagines that Death desires his beloved and so she needs his protection.  Once again, he describes himself as "world-wearied".

Juliet - after she awakens from supposed death and sees a dead Romeo:

What here?  A cup closed in my true love's hand?
Poison, I see hath been his timeless end...
I will kiss thy lips,
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make me die with a restorative.
Thy lips are warm. 

O happy dagger,
This is thy sheath.  There rust and let me die (V, III, 161-170)

I find these passages haunting.  Although fiction and written over four hundred years ago, I think it shows that when desperate, the teenage mind can fixate on death as the ONLY solution.  

In order to prevent teenage suicides in our time, this is what needs to stop.  We must get it into our youth's developing minds that suicide is NEVER an option to their problem.  What if Josh had known this?  Would he be here today?   

Thoughts for grieving parents from Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet

In these two plays, the loss and pain of grieving parents is captured by Shakespeare with succinctness and compassion.  I find the words relevant and authentic which attests to Shakespeare's ability to connect and convey deep human emotion using his unparalleled mastery of the English language.

The following two quotes are taken from Macbeth.

These words are spoke to Macduff by a fellow Scottish nobleman after they are told of the horrific murders of Macduff's wife and children at Macbeth's command. These two sentences articulate why I write in my journal and on this blog.  See this post for more thoughts.

Give sorrow words.  The grief that does not speak

Whispers the o'refraught heart and bids it break (IV, III, 211-212).

In the last battle of the play, a father loses his son.  These words articulate why a parent's sorrow over the loss of a treasured child will never cease. 

Your cause of sorrow

Must not be measured by his worth, for then

It hath no end (V, VIII, 44-46).

In Act IV, Scene V of Romeo and Juliet, the anguish expressed by Juliet's parents along with her nurse when they find her "dead" ring true.  

Capulet - Juliet's father

She's cold.
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff.
Life and these lips have long been separated.
Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 

Death, that hath taken her hence to make me wail,
Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak. 

Death is my son-in-law.  Death is my heir.
My daughter he hath wedded.  I will die,
And leave him all.  Life, living, all is Death's.

O child, O child!  My soul, and not my child!
Dead art thou!  Alack, my child's death,
And with my child my joys are buried. 

Lady Capulet - Juliet's mother

Accursed, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Most miserable hour that e'er time saw
In lasting labor of his pilgrimage.
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in.
And cruel death that catches it from my sight!

Nurse

O woe!  O woeful, woeful, woeful day!
Most lamentable day, most woeful day
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day, O day, O day, O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this.
O woeful day, O woeful day!

What stands out to me is the repetition of words.  This makes me think back to that horrible morning when I found Josh.   My brain froze and these phrases looped over and over in my mind for hours and even days: "I can't believe this is happening.....this is just a bad dream.....this can't be happening to us.....why, Josh, why?"

3rd Annual Running to Remember Josh on March 17, 2012

It is hard to believe that it is almost three years since Josh's passing.  While his absence is acutely felt each day, it has helped to channel our pain into something positive - the Josh Anderson Foundation, dedicated to promoting youth mental wellness.

After working in the corporate world for two years, our daughter Lauren, moved home in August 2011 to devote all her time to establishing the foundation and identifying programs that we will support with donations received.  We have raised about $16,000 the last two years and have a goal to raise that much in this year's 3rd Annual Running to Remember Josh.  (See pictures and YouTube video from the first year and the second year).

In her note below, she shares more details about the foundation's mission and links to the on-line giving page.

We are so grateful for all the love and support received,
The Anderson Family


Dear Friends,
The Third Annual Running to Remember Josh is coming up and all who are running are in training, motivated by what the foundation intends to accomplish in Josh's memory.  We have set the bar high on the amount of money we wish to raise for this year's fundraiser - and we hope you can contribute in some way.  Your contributions will go directly to The Josh Anderson Foundation, which works to promote youth mental wellness in our community.

The Josh Anderson Foundation was formed in the wake of Josh's tragic death on March 18, 2009 - and it has been a positive avenue for my family and I to channel our energy.  Our vision is to use creative programming to reduce the negative stigma that is associated with mental and emotional challenges, to increase the dialogue between youth, their peers and adults, and to provide youth adults with the knowledge that they are not alone and resources exist to help them.  Our hope is that teenagers know suicide is not an option.  We have quite a few events in the pipeline that will move us toward accomplishing this goal.

While I am running the marathon, my sister Gillian is running the half marathon.  Please visit our  fundraising pages (Lauren and Gillian) and consider sponsoring us this year.

We also accept checks made out to The Josh Anderson Foundation, sent to 1300 Carpers Farm Way, Vienna VA 22182.

My sincere thanks for your continued support - without it, we would not be where we are today - closer to helping create a more just and safe world for our youth.

Best,
Lauren Anderson
laurena40@gmail.com
Where there is a Will, there is a Way

Poem - "No Answer"

It is coming up on three years since I have been thrust on this grief journey by the tragic and irrevocable action of our youngest son, Josh. This blog was created with a duel purpose: to remember him and to chronicle the painful trek.  As I try to find ways to express myself, a new path has emerged, one evidenced by recent posts - POETRY.

I am losing myself in this unchartered world, profoundly impacted by the writing of newly found authors such as Lord Alfred Tennyson, Robert Pinsky, Anne Sexton, W.H. Auden, and John Berryman, while excited to discover more.

My attraction to this genre is surprising.  I've never been one for poetry, finding it too obscure, archaic and ambiguous for my simple taste and analytical mind.  I've not had the patience or motivation to read closely, dig deep for meaning, or make the extra effort to find and interpret ideas or supply connections.  I've gravitated towards the vast material written in prose form: fiction, memoir, biography, non-fiction.  And while I find prose easier to read and comprehend, it is far harder for me to write. Poems, at least right now, are an easier medium for me to portray a certain thought, feeling or emotion as evidenced by the three penned so far:  A Mother's Love, Silence Is the Answer and Over and Over Again.

For example, I have tried to write about the horrible day that I found Josh, not necessarily as a blog post but just within my own journal.  Where do I start?  What do I say?  How can I ever hope to convey what happened in that life-changing second?  Simply put, I cannot.  But when I was writing in my journal this morning, I started stringing words together that began describing that terrible morning.   The resulting poem says it all:

No Answer

by Sue Anderson

1/29/2012

No answer,

   Voice silent.

No response, 

   Mind gone.

No sight, 

   Eyes unblinking.

No movement,

   Body stiff.

No breath,

   Chest still.

No beat, 

   Extremities blue.

No life,

   Hope abandoned.

Why?  I screamed,

   No answer.

Can't Sleep - Words Fall Short

It is now 1:12am and I can't sleep.  I feel like writing a post but don't know what to say.  So am staring at a blank page with the cursor blinking, waiting for the next thought, word, sentence.  My mind is blank but that is an illusion.  I know I can't sleep because my mind won't turn off but try as hard as I might, my thoughts are slippery, elusive and refuse to be tamed.

So now, I turn to my feelings.  What do I feel?  Cursor is blinking while I think about this.  Answer: nothing.

So now I turn to books.  What have I read recently that can describe what I feel?  Or where I am at?  Ahhh, now I am getting somewhere.  Immediately, I think of two poems that basically say that when one is grieving the death of a loved one, words fall short.

Epilogue

by John Berryman

He died in December. He must descend
Somewhere, vague and cold, the spirit and seal,
The gift descend, and all that insight fail
Somewhere.  Imagination one's one friend
Cannot see there.  Both of us at the end.
Nouns, verbs do not exist for what I feel.

So maybe it is not that I don't feel anything....maybe it is that I have run out of ways to express what I feel.

Another poem that speaks to and for me:

In Memoriam A.H.H. - Canto V

by Lord Alfred Tennyson

I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.

RIP beloved Josh