A Date to Die: And an Unexpected Choice to Live

Copyright © 2014 Rion Mary Gabriel.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-0306-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-0307-1 (e)

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 10/15/2014

CONTENTS

SECTION I

1     My Promise

2     Running From Grief

3     Alcoholism Begins

4     Suicidal Thoughts Emerge

5     Running From More Grief To More Alcohol

6     Sobriety

7     First Counselor: Mental Illness Emerging Quickly

8     First Diagnosis: First Thoughts of Self-Harm by Cutting

9     Bipolar Disorder Diagnosed

10   Sobriety, Again

11   Daily Life–With Grief

12   Self-Harm Behavior: Hitting Begins

13   Self-Harm Behavior: Cutting Begins

14   First Hospitalization

15   Suicidal Ambivalence

16   Hospitalization #2: 1999

17   Hospitalizations 3 & 4: 1999

18   Hospitalization # 5: 1999

19   Final Hospitalization In 1999: Challenging Years Ahead

20   Year 2001: To Cut Or Not To Cut

21   Year 2002: Grieve & Cut, But Don’t Get Caught

22   Grief & The Endless Mood Roller Coaster

23   Three Year PSYC Hospital Celibacy Ends: Two Hospitalizations, One Week Apart

24   Hospitalization #10: 2003

25   Hospitalization #11: 2003, Omar’s Death

26   Hospitalizations 12 & 13: 2003

27   2004: Countdown To The Promise

28   36 Days Remaining

29   Death To My Promise

SECTION II: Intermission

SECTION III: Miracle

DEDICATION

My reason for this book is to address anyone seriously thinking or attempting to end their life. Living is possible—I did it through an extremely rough journey outlined in this book; I hope saving your life is easier. I gave up on myself for nine years while my parents never lost hope. Thanks to all who ever prayed for me. I also owe thanks to the lady—once a university professor for English classes and writing courses, who helped me edit this book.

FOREWORD

In the field of suicidology many clinical trainers caution therapists and mental health professionals to inquire about foreshortened future when working with someone who has experienced the traumatic death of a loved one. In some of the literature it is considered an avoidance symptom of PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). In my experience working with those who have lost a loved one to suicide it can be as clear as I don’t expect I will live as long as he/she did to someone hospitalized on the day they outlived their loved one and never connecting the events as facilitating the crisis. Within the pages of A Date to Die the reader will have a very personal and accurate encounter with the risk of foreshortened future. Suicide is a form of coping with the stress in life and for those who want to understand what is so hard to imagine, this book will provide that deeper meaningful opportunity. The author has shared in detail the journal entries and narration of years of navigating her way through the perilous grief she experienced as a child and then a teenager with the suicide of her brother. Sharing a date of birth but separated by 11 years created a date in the future to die, so that she might leave having had the same number of days alive as her beloved brother. This overidentification with the deceased can be the fuel that drives a legacy of suicide in families and communities. With the suicide being more than double that of homicide in the United States, answers are challenging to find. The reader will learn how to work with someone who is standing on that edge of life and leaning toward death as their solution. Cutting and self harm behavior are growing along with changes in how we communicate with each other and how we seek out helping resources. Many therapists feel overwhelmed with clients who come for counseling with any one of these issues for treatment, much less someone with all the challenges outlined in the text. Most often when those who have lost someone to suicide inform our clinical work it is by sharing their story in hopes of sparing others the torment that they have experienced, A Date to Die has continued that commitment. The author follows in the path of Dr. Kay Redfield Jamieson’s An Unquiet Mind and Carla Fine’s No Time to Say Goodbye by her honest documentation of her journey we can all learn without the pain of making that trip.

Her date with death might have been easily accomplished had she just resigned herself to keep that appointment and then the reader would have felt a helplessness to intervene or speak out against such a loss. Such a text offers information but no hope, which this book will show how to change that appointment to one for life not death. Not just living, but really living with hope and a future that extends out beyond any date to die.

Michael Arch, Ph.D, LCSW, C.T.

INTRODUCTION

To think the story of my life would interest anyone would have made me laugh in your face 10 to 15 years ago. No laughter today. My brother Joey’s suicide and my stark plans for my own suicide were nothing to laugh about. What I need to let you, the reader, know early in this book is that Joey and I shared the same birthday even though it was eleven years apart. We were as close as the crème between the layers of our birthday cake with a wonderful flavor no one could share or imagine. Our shared birthday defined us—even at eleven years apart. Therefore, when I had a moment all alone in the funeral home, staring at Joey in the casket, I said, "Joey, we were born on the same day eleven years apart and we will die on the same day eleven years apart—April 16, 2004, I will be with you. (I never told this to a single person until about a year and a half before this date.)

Wanting to hear my story is exactly what happened when two gentlemen from Ireland, introduced to me by Dr. Michael Arch (at that time, a leading expert on suicide prevention, and CEO of a local Crisis Intervention Center), sat next to me in Dr. Arch’s office. I only told my story because I trusted Dr. Arch and who he brought to hear my story (although I was still in my story—Part II. I honestly had no idea why or what they wanted to hear. I told my story from the moment I heard of my brother’s suicide on April 19th, 1993, until the day I was with them in that office in July 2004—only months after that unfulfilled promise. These gentlemen from Ireland were nursing professionals. In the United States they would be considered social workers, clinical workers, and graduate level psychiatric nurses. They desperately and earnestly encouraged me to write my story. Actually, I did not freak out at their suggestion because I had years of journals about my life traumas. I have relied heavily on my journal entries.

In this book, these journal entries are in italics, and please note, they may not be perfect in grammar and spelling, they are intense thoughts and feelings; therefore they may seem inappropriate at times, but I hope not offensive. Some are raw and all exist from deep within my soul! My journals are the blood and guts of me. There are no greater truths in my life than what I write in my journals.

One final bit of information to introduce this book is that I have given some information about Part I and leaving the reader with only Part I is unfair. Part II: Intermission: this covers those four years of a daily desire to die by my own hands and I felt mental insanity. Many people, including professionals, thought life would be smooth after passing the promise. Finally is Part III: Miracle: and an end to my daily ambiguity for suicide with daily desires for life.

SECTION I

CHAPTER 1

My Promise

6-18-2004

As I listened to my therapist briefly explain the details of my past to a visiting Irish therapist (who listened attentively to every word), I went numb…to believe I endured all of that and I am not in a permanent psyc ward; that is a miracle! I have also maintained most of my sanity; these are not only my opinions about myself, but also those of well-trained professionals and of ‘well-trained friends’ of mine.

I could start off with my birth and take you through every day until the recent months; instead, I will start with Monday, April 19, 1993, the day I found out that my brother died. This day brought great pain—pain that I cannot describe with words. I had experienced other horrendous events as a child and as a teen, yet I was always the optimist and would not allow myself to feel the pain. This time I could not escape the impact–the direct blow which my brother Joey’s death had on me. The pain was instant and rubbed me raw like sandpaper. I told myself, Rion, life will never be the same, and that line still holds true.

Joey turned 30 only a month and a week prior to his death, the same day I turned 19. The closeness brought to us by Mother Nature through our shared birthdays is only the tip of the iceberg when I look back at the bond between us. He was eleven years older than me, and yet he treated me like a queen. (In fact, Joey called me Peaches, my one and only nickname, and only he was allowed to call me by that name. I called him Joe-Joe.) We both thought of our middle brother Augustin, nine and a half years older than me, as a pest. Joey spoiled me, something Augustin never did, and that was very important to me as a young child.

Joey lived out of state, and when his body was found, he had no emergency contact information on him. (He almost had a Potter’s Burial.) When officials were able to find my mom three days later, she called me and Jorge’ (my adopted stepfather—in my opinion, my only father) home from work. I arrived first. I felt total disbelief when she told me that Joey had taken his own life, and at the first chance, I took off with a good friend. I began to do what I would continue to do for about nine to eleven years: distract myself from the entire issue. If you have never experienced a suicide, I pray you never will. I do not wish this pain upon my own worst enemy. With suicide, one has to deal not only with grief, but also with horrific trauma.

4-20-1993

I don’t hate or resent Joey for taking his life…His life has been Hell recently…

Reading over many of my journal entries from the time of Joey’s death, I can see that Joey was almost a God for me. In my eyes, he was never wrong (except maybe when he was drunk). Joey’s influence was so strong in my life; maybe it was because he appeared to be the only stable (minus the alcoholism) male figure in my life for so long, or maybe because he spoiled me. I am certain, however, of the mental anguish I felt looking at him in that coffin, wearing his favorite jeans and the shirt I had mailed to him only weeks earlier for our birthdays.

4-21-1993

Oh, it was awful watching mom. She cried and cried, ‘I’ll never hold or touch him again’. And she was right.

As for my traumatic response, I immediately began to run from the entire issue. I could not accept that he was gone. There was no possible way I could or would even try to live without Joey. Mom forced me to look into the casket, saying I would regret not doing it. As a result, I took a quiet opportunity, with no one in the room, to lean over his and body and make my promise, that on April 16, 2004, I would take my own life. We were born on the same day eleven years apart, and we would die on the same day eleven years apart. Obviously, that did not happen, yet in NO way did my victory over this suicide death occur easily or quickly. I kept that 11 year secret for almost ten years.

Living in a state of suicidal tension and ambivalence for eleven years will take a toll on a person. A couple of attempts at suicide also wore me down. Insanity and maladaptive coping skills oozed out of every pore of my body. I lived on the edge for all of those years, and I did it with style. I made numerous walls to hide behind so that not only would I fool others in to thinking I was okay, but I actually fooled myself, also. Some of these walls were quite attractive. Being a retreat leader at my parish church and at my university was probably the most convincing act of my sanity and level-headedness. (No lie, I fooled myself, too!) This heroic portrayal of a sane person was followed by: attempting to join a religious order (become a nun), relationship frenzies (including dating exclusively out of my race), keeping a 3.0 GPA at my university (even in the semester of Joey’s death, only two weeks before finals), constantly moving my physical address, changing majors/careers, and laughing at everything as much as possible, a simple but very successful maladaptive coping skill.

4-21-1993

I always knew Joey and I had something special between us besides March 9th…the first thing nearly everyone said was ‘he said so much about his sister Peaches’.

4-22-1993

Until Augustin finally emptied the trash, I had to see that horrible mountain of Bud cans in Joey’s trash. Gnats flying over it, I am so sick thinking about it. That was not the Joey I knew…

As I wrote this 4-22-93 journal entry I vowed I would never drink alcohol again. That promise lasted exactly nine months to the day. Then I was on my road to alcoholism until I began recovery in 1996. I thought again that life will never be the same.

Six days after Joey’s death, a real physical and mental battle began for me. A combination of my past and my struggling with grief took control of my life. I had yet to develop any positive coping skills. I was barely 19 and with one look at my life, it was evident I was a victim of late adolescence. In fact, my relationship with Joey targeted my age at about ten or twelve years old. His suicide stripped me of an adult sibling relationship. Anger had set in, a normal reaction to grief that I failed to realize. I wish I had let that anger out more in those first few days, because keeping it until the year 2003, with the constant thought of April 2004—my promise) was dangerous to my mental and physical health. (It would later become a major reason for my addiction to self-harm behavior, particularly my cutting behavior.)

When we had to see a lawyer to settle Joey’s affairs, my past came crashing back into my consciousness. I felt six or seven years old all over again, with the legal system entering my life once more. I began to remember all of those horrible custody hearings from my childhood. Joey’s savings and checking accounts had to be closed. The highly successful antique furniture-moving business and interior designing business had to be dissolved. Lawyers’ fees and funeral costs followed–money! People wanted huge sums of money from my mother and Jorge’. Witnessing these demands from a lawyer made me think of someone I still hated in my life, my biological father (now deceased since 2003).

4-22-1993

I saw the stress of all these days hit Jorge’ at once. He turned red and looked really sick. He held the back of his neck, and mom flew out of the room, took Jorge’, and I followed. She screamed a little at Augustin, and the anger I expected to come did indeed erupt. Mom and I fought and she slapped me; I really did feel some anger–but now even more.

I wanted to run–to leave and go hang-out back home with my best-friend Catherine, the same thing I did after mom broke the news to me about Joe-Joe. This was not a possible desire or a positive coping skill—and I felt trapped. The entire city felt like a trap. All of us had been conned by one of Joey’s supposedly close friends and when Joey’s body was cremated, this friend actually tried to steal Joey’s ashes! My world began to spin. My life had been unraveling since mom broke the news of Joey’s death. Now the speed increased tenfold.

Arriving home brought more confusion, yet I received comfort from many strangers. That is correct! Being around strangers such as church friends and classmates made me feel most comfortable since they usually asked fewer questions about what had happened. Mom had laid down the law; NO ONE was to know how Joey died–not even Augustin, my biological father, uncles, cousins—not anyone! As soon as we returned home, there was a short memorial service at home for close family and our Small Faith Group from church. Mom made everything hasty, I believe out of fear of others finding out the truth and the cremation–not the type of burial she wanted for him. I remembered some past casual discussion with Joey in which he had mentioned that he wanted to be cremated. Actually, it turned out for the better since we could not afford a regular, full-service funeral. Our biological father gave no support in any of the funeral arrangements, neither with expenses nor any visitation at the short and simple wake, thus increasing my hatred for him.

Often God works opposite of what I want in life. My best friend, Catherine, is no longer in my life. I have long since lost contact with her. Even though she is no longer around, she helped carry me through those first few weeks when I actually allowed myself to grieve. I asked mom for permission to tell Catherine how Joey died, and she gave a quick, "Yes, but only her."

Joey’s death was the first I had ever experienced of someone I even remotely knew. All I could fathom was that Joey’s death had all of the makings of a living Hell, and I was not going to let that happen in my life. I fought grief tooth and nail. I never realized until years after that because the death was a suicide, the grief was far more complicated and traumatic.

How was I to get help in dealing with suicide when no one around me even knew I needed help? After all, remember, I could not speak of the death as a suicide. No one, not even myself, knew the depth of the help I needed. I was 19 and running from grief was ultimately my decision, but mom never pursued helping me very much. My world continued to speed out of control within my mind, and the confusion I had over becoming independent became an ever-increasing problem.

4-24-1993

My lack of focus this semester, my increased interest in retreats, and ultimately Joey’s death, all make me look to N.E.T. (National Evangelization Team). I wish it could work–mom could make it without me for a year. I just don’t know about being myself for a while.

Some people were like my neighboring aunt, very inquisitive about Joey’s death. To begin with, Joey was somewhat like the Masked Marvel, the Herman Munster, the one all the relatives wanted to know more about since he only spent about a fourth of his life near his family–a family already split into many parts by divorces (i.e. both of my uncles were divorced as well as my mom). I heeded mom’s strong warning and remembered her words that others do not need to know how Joey died because they were only being nosey. A little white lie about a car accident (maybe add the alcohol factor with non-gossiping friends) won’t hurt anything. Great coping skills, mom. Follow that coping skill with another good one, this one from my best friend Catherine: I will not allow you to listen to any slow music which may depress you (about Joey).

People come up with all sorts of distractions to handling grief, including focusing either all on the negative or all on the positive. Mom would only remind me of the positive, I guess to assure I was staying in a positive frame of mind. She was often quite good at bringing out some of the best memories of Joey. I tried to forget them all–any memories—to avoid any possible emotional pain about Joey.

4-26-1993

Mom and I were just laughing in reference to our trip to out of state when at the hotel, mom said, ‘if you don’t go swimming you will be severely punished.’ She was serious because I had talked all day about wanting to swim, and now I wanted to back out and be lazy. When Joey and I left the room, we thought it was hilarious. He teased me and eventually we picked at mom about it. It then became a common phrase.

Mom also constantly commented that my build, gait, personality, and facial features resembled Joey’s. I enjoyed this, but it became a deadly comparison in 2003-2004, when I was approaching my date with death. There was an eleven year age difference between Joey and myself, and he was my idol. God gave me physical features like his, but the personality traits, well I embellished upon those tenfold after Joey’s death. The more I could feel like him and less like me, the more justified I became about my promise, the suicide plan. After all, Joey never did anything wrong in my eyes. I now agree with my doctor that I still do keep blinders on to preserve Joey’s ideal role in my life.

I honestly had no idea of how to grieve, nor the time to grieve, for what I considered extremely valid reasons: I had never experienced a death even remotely close to me in my 19 years; my best friend was only 16 and she had serious family problems of her own that disqualified her as my strong support; my university forced me to stay in school if I wanted to keep my scholarship; and I was quite scared by mom’s stern warning not to tell anyone that Joey’s death was suicide. I could tell others it was a car accident–since that was a distant part of the death. Three years later, when I got sober, we got a bit more honest and said it was an alcohol related car accident.

4-27-93

Then I began to think, what the Hell am I doing acting normal? Look what school forces me into–my own old world…Am I on the right track or do I have a lot to face? Do I still have a lot of grief and tears?

I was definitely lost and in need of some professional help that I did not get until years later. By the end of the summer, only four months after the suicide, Catherine left for college and my priest moved from my church; they were the only two I had trusted with intense details about Joey. I built a wall in a flash and ran from life like the speed of light. I felt quite justified in doing so.

I closed the door as best I could on my feelings and my grief over Joey. I had to if I was to survive. I ached inside at the slightest thought of him. Unfortunately, with the loss of Catherine and my priest (temporarily)—my spiritual director, who would have had a profound impact on my life, only a few immediate relatives and a couple of very close church friends were there for me.) Joey’s ashes were in the center of our living room in a marble monument box with a nameplate saying JOEY and centered underneath: PEACE, as well as the traditional birth and death dates. Pictures of him in the coffin from the service were lying next to the box. These reminders made his death seem so official–so final.

I stared at those dates intently and reaffirmed my promise made beside the coffin, to die on the same date 11 years later. I was so stricken with grief and poisoned by pent up emotions that my promise was the only comfort I felt. Every time I saw those dates I felt relieved. I didn’t think of "my promise" every minute of the day, mostly only when I saw the dates written out. The whole idea of actually fulfilling my promise by my own hands–by suicide, was something I did not begin to plan in detail until 2003. I also never told one single person my promise until 2003. Even though I worked closely with many priests through retreats, shared with a number of therapists my suicidal ideas and attempts and went to psychiatric (psyc) hospitals with cuts and bruises, I still secretly held onto my promise. Thinking about it was the only peace I ever felt. I cannot express enough how convinced I was that I could not live without Joey.

CHAPTER 2

Running From Grief

5-8-93

I really miss Joey, yet I’m scared because I’ve been close to normal–I’ve been forced to normalcy by my class work; yet, I still can’t focus–not that I’m thinking about him consciously; but I am subconsciously. Actually, yesterday I bought a little symbol of Joe-Joe, and I picked it up today; a miniature parrot–a golden-capped conure I named ‘Kiwi’.

Every minute of the day I thought of Joey, and every minute I had a grand excuse for not being able to allow myself to grieve. My parrot became a great distraction. The bird looked almost exactly like the one my brother had gotten a few months before he died. Replacement therapy with a bird! I studied psychology at a university, so why not dabble a little? Having that little bird for eight years of companionship helped me immensely through the typical unconditional love pets give to their owners. I could have received four psychotherapy sessions for the $400 I spent on the bird, but somehow, having Kiwi seemed a better choice for me. I continued to run from the most traumatic experience of my life. I ran the fastest from hugs of support–even at retreats–and I ran even faster from tears at all cost.

5-30-93

Now I’m listening to my ELO tape and letting myself think–about Joey. These past two weeks–some days worse–especially these past few; I miss him so much. I want to hug him and rub the back of his neck where his hair is cut short–like I always did.

I continued to use running and distraction to escape the ever-increasing poison inside me from not grieving Joey. Before my best friend Catherine left for college, she was a huge distraction for me. She was two years younger and in the prime of her adolescence and her struggle for independence. I myself was struggling with similar independence issues. Also, there was some shifting of roles between the many characteristics she shared with Joey (i.e. outgoing personality, spoiling me, adoring me). I was quite scared of losing my best-friend and my best distraction.

6-14-93

Last night I remembered how I spoke her (Catherine’s) name over Joey on that day I last saw him. I told him that he never got to meet the closest friend I’ve ever had and that he’d like her. Catherine was a lot like Joey–completely open-minded… Hey, maybe that’s my problem. She’s enough like him that I want her to be him.

All I know is that from the time Joey died, Catherine was at my side. We prayed together and were mischievous together, but always together. Her presence was always a comfortable distraction for me. Somehow, assuming he would have loved Catherine justified my doing anything and everything with her.

Mom saw the unhealthy relationship I had with Catherine and attempted to caution me. I greatly resented mom’s interference; remember, I was at maximum motivation for independence. (At this time in my life I still defined independence as being apart from my parents. Until compiling these journals, I had forgotten how many arguments mom and I got into, and how many arguments Catherine and I got into. I hate reading those old journal entries with mom and me fighting and struggling. After a struggle with mom, I would run and write in my journal about missing Joey. (When Joey was alive, I would run and call him for support and guidance after big arguments with mom; this journal writing was a similar technique.)

Whether I was with mom or