A few years ago, a friend asked me if I were angry at God because of Ariel’s death. I unequivocally said no. I have plenty of anger, but it is not directed at God. On a philosophical level, I believe strongly in the concept of free will and self-determination and, as I wrote in my eulogy, Ariel ended his life on his terms – it was his decision. My belief is that God created the world and then became the quintessential facilitator, enabling us to live our lives by making our own choices. From a religious perspective, God gave us Waze – the Torah – with a list of specific commandments about how to live our lives. But people still have to choose to abide by the commandments. For someone like me who does not abide by the halachic interpretation of the Torah, I still feel the awesome power of God’s creation and beauty that I observe in the world around me.
But, oh yes, I am angry.
This was my response to my friend’s question about God:
- I am angry at myself for failing to sufficiently support, understand, help, and protect my son.
- I am angry at my son for ending his life without fully thinking about the consequences of his decision and all the pain and anguish that he would inflict on so many people – especially his immediate family.
- I am angry at the mental health system and the army that failed Ariel and my family so miserably.
- I am especially angry at people who tell me how I ought to feel.
I have let go of a few friends who could not, for whatever reason, support me in a way that I felt was helpful. With other friends I have tried to be more patient and explain what I need as I grieve for my son. For example, a friend wrote to me after reading my post about being angry at myself and Ariel that I really ought to be gentler with Ariel and myself. He noted that we both did our best in a most difficult situation. My response to him was as follows:
I do not like being judged and do not need to be told how to process my mourning. You know that I have been in trauma therapy, have participated in a support group for parents who have lost children to suicide and am riding through in a healthy way. I do not need you trying to protect me or to put words in my mouth. What I do need though is: to be heard; to be held and to be hugged.
When asked about the difference between being held and hugged, I explained that a hug is something physical. But to be held means that my friends should resist their need to feel they need to fix me and that they should be able to accept my raw anger without judgment. My friend asked me to stand up and repeat the three h’s (heard/held/hugged) and gave me a warm hug.
I felt heard.
Another time that I did not feel heard is when someone flippantly said, “Just let go of the pain. This is the best, in fact, the only way to process loss – let it go.” I was incensed by this suggestion and later found a statement by Xavier Dagha that aptly expressed my intense dislike of this glib phrase:
Let it go
Let it in.
Let it be seen.
Let it be heard.
Let it be felt.
Let it be acknowledged.
Let it be validated.
Let it be grieved.
These words helped to assuage my sense that I had been judged and ultimately abandoned by the friend who had urged me to ‘just let go.’ I do it my way! Riding through is not about speed and power. Rather, it’s about processing loss and moving forward with it at your side.
Ride through!