I clearly remember the first time I was conscious of being "that guy". Dad and I were having lunch not too long after Tyler died. A person that I hadn't seen in a long time came up to me and told me how sorry they were. It wasn't a big deal, but I felt like the only reason they came over was because Tyler had died. Later on, in different settings, I would feel the looks and the stares and I absolutely knew that the attention was solely due to Tyler's death. For a while I was "that guy" and I didn't like it.
I thought about being "that guy" not too long ago and it made me consider how long I want to keep posting to this blog. I have bared my soul and truthfully shared my experiences in an effort to honor Tyler, heal myself, and hopefully help someone else. But there is a danger here of becoming "that guy" again. Cheryl and I told each other early on after Tyler's death that his passing would always be a huge part of our lives, but it would not define our identity. We would not let our identity evolve into suicide survivors. So this may be my last post for a while. Not saying I will never post again, but for the forseeable future I think I am finished. So one last post.
Recovery. The word implies something that starts and finishes. If you have recovered from illness or surgery then the damage has been repaired and you are good as new. Recovery from Tyler's death will never be finished. I realize that the bad times may be further apart, but there will always be a sad time coming. You never know when the tears are going to come, you just know they will. That pain is always going to be there, thankfully muted more often than not, but you never know when a reggae song, a picture, a dream of Tyler, a high school football player wearing 66, a grey dodge truck passing you on the highway, or anything else Tyler related is going to cause that grief to churn your gut and moisten your eyes.
My recovery started in fits and starts. The days and weeks immediately following Tyler's death were a fog. My brain felt like I had a severe concussion. I found myself mentally unable to perform simple tasks. I constantly forgot things. I felt like just getting out of bed each day and making coffee was an achievement.
Gradually that fog lifted and my brain felt like it was trying to normalize. About that time, we started two forms of counseling. Cheryl, Courtney, Cheryl's parents, and I attended a program called Grief Share. It was ok and it did help, a little. But I missed much of the program due to football officiating commitments. And I felt like my grief was so much different than the older adults who had lost loved ones they had been married to for decades after a long illness. Loss is loss and grief is grief, but mine just felt so much worse. Not fair I know, but it was how I felt and it impaired my ability to benefit from the groups.
Cheryl and I also started seeing a counselor once a week. The counselor was fine, but I quickly realized I could sidetrack the sessions and take them down bunny trails that allowed me to avoid the hard discussions. I wasn't really ready to do the heavy therapy lifting.
Then in February, 2012 I enrolled in group therapy called Suicide Survivors. Suicide Survivors consists of 8 weekly sessions in a group setting. Cheryl had attended the previous fall and suggested that I participate. Couples and individuals can attend and everyone that attends has recently lost a loved one to suicide. A professional facilitator moderates the groups and a suicide survivor who has participated in a group before also helps facilitate. I can't describe how much these sessions helped. Everyone in the group understood what I was going through. There was no need to explain my anger, my guilt, my regrets, my shame to the group - they had experienced it all.
I won't go through the details of the sessions, but suffice it to say that from an emotional perspective, they were the hardest things I had ever done. I cried literal rivers of tears. I shared things that I never would have shared with strangers. I talked about my feelings. I confronted things that needed to be confronted. I learned that Tyler's choice was his and his alone and that no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't blame myself for his death. That's a lesson I have to revisit periodically, but I know it's true.
Those Suicide Survivor sessions were painful, but after the first one, I kind of looked forward to them. I knew it was going to hurt, but I knew it was going to help. Those sessions helped because I finally committed to working on myself no matter how hard it was and no matter how much it hurt.
That's the thought I want to leave everyone with, especially my guy friends. There's no shame in working on your emotional, sensitive side. There's no shame in crying. There's no shame in opening up and sharing your thoughts and feelings. I know that now, but I still have to force myself to share with those I love. For a guy who was raised in the 60's and 70's it is always going to be an uphill battle to be willing to share.
Loss and grief will happen to all of us eventually. It's just a matter of time. When it does, do whatever it take to work through it.
