There was a red line across his throat and cuts on his wrists. I tried to reach him, told him I loved him and begged him to please stay. He kept pulling away. He seemed possessed, in a way, intent on self-destruction. In exasperation I told him, "Go ahead … you can go." I woke from the dream, my heart pounding, tears wet on my cheeks. A feeling of deep shame sat in my belly. I couldn't save him. Worse, I gave him permission.
I've been contemplating this dream for the past couple of days. I'm not one to analyze everything, as much of what gets played out while I'm sleeping is a result of what I've been feeling, eating or watching on TV. But some dreams demand our attention, and point the way to places inside ourselves that need clarifying.
I opened the door to the thought of suicide after my son left. It was partly out of curiosity. I wanted to know what he was thinking. Once that door was open, it was hard to shut. The thought became very seductive, especially since I was swimming in suffering, a breeding ground for thoughts that mislead. Habitual grief, depression and negativity create thought forms that seem to have a life of their own. Some people call them entities.
Suicide is on the rise in America. Studies show that whites and Native Americans/Alaska Natives have the highest rates. In comparison, blacks, Hispanics and Pacific Islanders have lower rates of suicide by more than half. Why is that? If we are looking purely from a historical context, African-Americans were taken from their ancestral homelands in chains, injured and degraded in the most inhumane ways. Everything but their spirit was taken, and nothing was given. Yet there is a zest for life that seems prevalent in the African-American community — a vibrant expression of living, like the faucet of life is going full blast, not held back. I wonder about that.
While I don't like to put people in categories, every culture has general characteristics that can be observed, for better and for worse. White culture has a certain forcefulness about it. We're not too rooted in earth, tribe or ceremony. Could this be part of the reason why white people, with all of our "privilege," have double the incidence of suicide? Or maybe it's a belief that life should be pain-free. What about Native Americans, who are rooted in their homeland, but have some of the highest rates of all. What is causing the fall? We can't just say it's from colonization and call it a day. We have to look at what's going on in the minds of people now. Today.
It bothered me that my son was lumped into statistics after his passing. His number was added to the list of Alaska Natives who died by suicide, for purposes of social program funding. This was ironic because while he was living, he was considered white. He finally proved his suffering, I guess, and earned his Native identity. I don't say that flippantly. Suffering is part of the Native American story. That is a fact of history. Cultures are more than history though. They are living expressions of humanity, constructed of stories that strengthen the human spirit, or weaken it. We don't need a new grant to promote healthy living. We need a new story.
After my son's passing, I wanted to blame everybody. He was bullied, for sure. Ostracized. Sexually abused. Didn't do well in school. Those are all true stories. But at the end of the day, I can see that he inherited a habit of negative thinking from his environment, including me. I entered a cycle of victimization early in life, and didn't know how to get out. I modeled a certain way and, in doing so, gave my son permission to do the same. Some of the things that happened to me weren't my fault. But it was still my responsibility to get unstuck from the story. I didn't know how and had no one to teach me differently. I let suffering become a part of my identity. Habits of thought tend to spread in tight-knit networks such as tribes and communities. A cycle set in motion easily keeps rolling until it crashes — or someone stops it.
I've turned over every stone, trying to reconcile why my son left the way he did. And how it could have been prevented. I don't want to keep digging. I'm sick of the sadness, but I share this because it's important.
Negativity is deadly. We can't serve two masters. We can't be victims and self-empowered at the same time. We can't cling to the past and step into the future simultaneously. We will always feel bad by telling sad tales once they've gone stale. Even the writing of this article has pulled me — temporarily — toward hell, which is why I don't want to write or speak about sad subjects too much. We simply can't dwell on the bad and feel good.
This isn't about denying the suffering in life. It's important to honor our wounds, especially in the beginning, or if they were never treated and got infected. We have to take special care to promote healing. Then comes rehabilitation, which requires a certain amount of discipline and a desire to rise up. Some wounds hurt even after they scar, years later. That's one thing I learned from my time in the darkness. Life is both joy and pain. Somehow it's sweeter that way.
I don't write any of this in jest. I know what it is to suffer. When despair takes over, there is no such thing as easy access to positive thinking. The best we can do sometimes is to cry and release our resistance, or use anger as a motivation to move forward. Ultimately, everyone wants peace. Meditation has been introduced in some schools, with positive results. Teaching kids to quiet their minds and access the pure innocence inside is a program I could get behind.
I can't save my firstborn. He is gone. No amount of blame or looking at the past will bring him back. That hurts, but I can learn from it. I'm learning how to forgive myself and step out of the stories of the past. I'm learning to walk away from anything and anyone who steals my peace or happiness. I've accepted that tears are a part of life, like a cleansing rain, but I feel best when I stand in the sun. It makes me a better mum.
I've been invited to attend the annual Out of The Darkness Walk, on May 12 in Anchorage, in recognition of those lost to suicide. I've declined two years in a row because it seems too sad to me. And I understand now, more than ever, the need to be happy. On this third anniversary of my son's passing, I am ready. I'll walk. Maybe with others, down at the Delaney Park Strip. Or I might find a quiet trail, by myself. But I won't be looking longingly at the ones who left. I'll be thinking of the ones still here who feel lost. I hope they find a beacon of light and learn tools to create a new story. One that brings joy.
Chantelle Pence is an author from the Copper River region of Alaska.
If someone you know is considering self-harm, the Alaska Careline, 877-266-4357, is a statewide suicide prevention and crisis support hotline. It is available 24 hours per day, seven days per week, year-round.