From Anne Puryear

     Perhaps your child or a relative or a friend has already taken his or her own life and you want to understand why. You may feel you are to blame or responsible in some way. Itis never just one thing that causes a young person to take this final step but rather a series of actions and reactions accumulating over the years. One or more events may trigger the final act, but there is al ways more than that. You may need to understand your role in the event, but you also need to release blame or fault or guilt and get on with your life. Ultimately, the person who takes his or her life is the one who must take the greater responsibility for what he or she has done, no matter what the age.

     The death of a partner, husband, or wife is usually heartbreaking, traumatic, and overwhelming. The death of a parent is very difficult for most of us. The death of family members or friends can leave a tremendous void.

     But if your child dies, it is all these things and more. It is as if someone has reached into your chest and squeezed your heart over and over again and the resulting pain is almost beyond your endurance. It feels as if a part of your body has been severed and will never heal or grow back. Eventually, the pain eases, and you do learn to survive without that part - to compensate, to function.

     If your child commits suicide, your pain and agony is doubled. Besides all the pain associated with the loss of a loved one, you also agonize over how you failed in your role as nurturer, as parent. Your child would rather die than live, would rather leave you than stay with you. Your child didn't give you a chance to help or even let you say good- bye. He has left forever- gone where you can't see or talk to him-and he has taken all your joy with him.

     Who but you can possibly be to blame? This child was your responsibility. While your attention was elsewhere, he died. You failed to notice something was wrong. You failed to stop him. You failed to be there for him when he needed you. You killed him. You might as well have taken a knife and pushed it through his heart. He is dead and someone is to blame; and while you can direct your anger to all of the people around that did this to him, eventually, in your darkest hour, there is no one left to blame but yourself. You killed this one you said you loved. He is dead and gone forever, and there is nothing you can do to change that. There is no way you can ever tell him you are sorry or even that you understand. There is no way to find out how he is or even if there's a place where he is. You may even begin to hate God. How could a loving, just God let this happen?

     This is the kind of thinking we do in that confused state in which we find ourselves. It is in that state we often remain, and in which we begin to die emotionally and break down physically. I was there. I remember.

     I have begun to heal at last. I believe you can too. We can heal by sharing our grief and fear and by remembering the times of joy. We can heal by talking about our child and not hiding the facts of his death. We can heal by acknowledging our influencing role in our child's death, then forgiving ourselves and getting on with our lives. We can heal most by knowing that though the physical body is not present, the soul whom we love continues, often in our presence, in his or her life and love for us.

     Stephen made a choice to end his physical life. I believe it was an incorrect choice. He also believes it was an incorrect choice. But the act was irreversible. A lifetime of regrets, guilt, and questioning cannot change the finality of it.

     I was his mother for the fifteen years that he graced my life. I loved him with all my heart and soul. My love and caring were not enough. In one moment, he stripped the world of his youth, vitality and promise. With that act, my life and the lives of my three children would never be the same.

     But in my darkest hour, a marvelous thing began to happen. I was given a gift beyond imagining. I could feel his presence and hear his voice--not only I but others. There would be an electric, thick energy that filled the room when Stephen entered, and my heartbeat would speed up. Sometimes I could hardly breathe and my whole body and brain reacted. It was the way you feel when you see someone you really love that you haven't seen for awhile. It was somewhat the way I always felt when Stephen was alive and walked into a room. The feeling of Stephen's presence was so powerful that without thinking I would say,

"Stephen. Stephen, you're here!" I couldn't see him or touch him, but I could feel his  pesence.

     Shortly after these feelings began, I would hear a voice inside my head, talking to me. He would say, "Hi, Mom. It's me, Steve." The sentences and expressions were phrased exactly like Stephen talked. The information he gave me was often verifiable. Even though I was at first filled with doubt and thought it must be my imagination, his words were so comforting and the information he wanted to share so fascinating, that I soon relaxed and just listened. Then I began to dialogue with him.

     I spoke to him out loud; he usually spoke to me telepathically. Occasionally, he spoke out loud so clearly that I turned in the direction of the voice. On those occasions when someone else was in the room as he spoke "aloud," not inside my head but from  somewhere in the room, they usually could not hear him. However, there were several friends who could hear him just as I did. Sometimes they wrote down what they heard and shared it with all of us. When he finished, he would say goodbye, and the feeling of his presence left the room.

     I am thankful to be able to hear him and to communicate with him from the spirit realm. But I wish he were here beside me so I could give him a hug and fix him his favorite meal and check his homework as I once did. I would much prefer to see his loving smile and  blue eyes and watch his face light up with laughter as he leaned forward to talk to me. I miss hearing his barbell bump against the floor in his room as he did his workouts to keep in shape. I miss seeing the man he would have become and having the house filled with the sound of his children.

     What I have with him now will have to do until we are together in the same dimension again one day. I don't hurry toward that time; it will come in good measure. Though there isn't a day I don't miss him after all these years, I find myself feeling stronger as the healing continues.

     As he shared information, month after month, about his new life and provided clearer advice about my own, I too began to live again.