My Mother, Suicide, and Wisdom

Photo of me and my mother in 1997.

My mother died in 2002, at the beginning of summer after my first year of graduate school.  One of the most formative experiences of my life occurred at the Catholic church where part of the funeral services were conducted.

A few days before the funeral, someone asked myself, my brother, and my sister if we would like to say something about our mother during the services, and, among the three of us, only I elected to do so.

During the services, a number of family members went up to the podium in the church to speak of my mother.  The priest politely called the name of a speaker, that speaker went up, said what they had prepared, and then sat back down.  At that time the priest called the next person.

I was extraordinarily nervous, for a variety of reasons as I am sure you can imagine, not the least of which was what I deemed as my responsibility toward my brother and sister.  You see, my mother suffered deeply from a myriad of drug addictions -- from alcohol, pain killers, (perhaps) cocaine, marijuana, and some things I am certain I do not know of -- and growing up in her house was extraordinarily difficult for me.  For my brother and sister -- 5 years, and 2 years younger than me -- it had been much worse.  While I was able to go away to college shortly after my mother first started to hit rock bottom, my brother and my sister, because of their behavior, had to continue to live with her as her life fell apart for years following.  In addition, I felt I was the only one in my entire family to know how much my mother had hurt the three of us, and that if I did not present that to the rest of the gathered family and friends, that my brother and sister would be hurt even more.

I expected him to call my name, but he did not.  After asking if my brother wanted to speak (my brother did not respond, naturally, because he had already said he did not), the priest signaled to the alter boys that it was time to move on to the next part of the services.  I was completely shocked; my heart was racing with fear, anxiety, anger, and confusion.  My aunt was beside me asking me if I wanted to speak, and summoning up willpower I did not know I had, I stood up and interrupted the service to say that I wanted to speak.

The priest stopped the service in the middle, signaled to the alter boys to stop what they were doing.  I went up to deliver my eulogy.  I don't have exactly what I wrote anymore, but I remember very clearly the intention of my words.  I wanted to tell everyone that my mother made some choices in life that hurt others, that I did not know where she went after she died, but that I hoped that she could learn from what she did, would make better choices in the future, and would find happiness by acting in a more judicious way.

An uncle on my father's side was the only one I remember speaking to me about my eulogy.  He mentioned that he liked that I spoke of my mother in the present tense.  At the time, I simply did it because I was trying to let my brother and my sister know that I understood what she had put us through, and that I wanted to acknowledge that our mother still had work to do.

How could I know, 8 years later, in 2010, that I would, at IDP, discover philosophy that was already in line with what I intuitively had sensed in 2002?  At the beginning of 2010, I was in a pretty perilous place.  Although I was not addicted to any substances, and I more or less regularly exercised and lived a pretty healthy life, I regularly considered suicide.  I made no plans or attempts to do so, and didn't participate in any self destructive acts, but the George Washington Bridge has was (and still is) very close to me.  I regularly imagined jumping off of it.

My friend Josh was quite kind to me during this time, and invited me to participate with him in building his theatre company, which, at the time, was closely connected to IDP.  I knew that the connection between the two organizations was somewhat tenuous, so I set about trying to figure out ways to strengthen that connection.  I felt it would be a good idea to get to know IDP (since I already knew Josh), so I attended my first IDP class at that time.  The class I first attended was about Pema Chödrön's book When Things Fall Apart, taught by Ethan Nichtern.  During that class, Ethan said something about suicide that immediately changed my perspective on it.

Though I cannot possible recall the exact words he said, I can recall the meaning.  He basically said, "People commit suicide because they think they can escape."  Something clicked for me.  There is no escape.  It does not make sense that I will ever get away with suicide.  Somehow, I will be called to task.  Somehow, I will have to make better choices.  Somehow, I will have to deal with whatever it is that I am trying to escape.   There is no getting away from it.  I didn't know why it made so much sense to me, but it did.

I still think about jumping off that bridge.  Only a block away, I have a magnificent view of it.  Almost every time I walk out there, day, or night, I think to myself, "I could just jump and no one would stop me."  That is true.  I could literally do it.  But, I could not get away with it, even if no one stopped me and I died.

There is only one right path to take in this gift of a consciousness:  the one toward the basic wisdom that we all share, but find so hard to discover.  Fortunately for my mother, for my family, for my friends, for all of us, the path in the opposite direction is cyclical, and eventually, should we turn the wrong way, our basic wisdom will bring us back.  Whether it is in this life, or the next, we must eventually ask, and answer, what is this all about?

As I was walking away from the IDP party last night, it struck me that my mother might be somewhere on this Earth right now.  That is why I wrote this today. Though she caused a great deal of suffering, her suffering and confusion was likely greater, as it so often in the offender of hurtful actions than in those who are slighted.  As I said in 2002, she has important decisions to make now.  Though we will never meet again in the same way as we met in this life, I still wish for her the strength and clarity to find the basic wisdom that was hers all along.

I wish it for you (and me) as well.