A Story of Letting Go - Part I

Letting Go  (part one) 

I’m sitting in the driver seat of my car, like always.  I’m holding the keys to start the ignition, like always.  I am staring down at my favorite picture of the son I lost to the monster of mental illness and suicide, like I have done so many times in the past six months. 

Suddenly with the stab of pain that literally pierces my heart, I think, maybe I need to change this.  Maybe this just isn’t working any more.  And I stare out the windshield toward the gloomy weather.

I had put this picture of Erik in the plastic window of my worn out pink change purse, attached to my keys.  It is his last picture from high school.  It’s my favorite because... as he stares back at me, I can see the true Erik, the one with the twinkle in his eye and the lopsided smirk he had when expected to smile, his easy-going spirit that everyone loved him for, jumping off the little pocket sized photo. 

By the time we lost him at age twenty-five, the few photos we had of him belied the torturous downward spiral his life had taken, with a mask-like expression on his face, and dull emotionless eyes, the face of a young man with schizophrenia.

I had placed this picture with great deliberation in this window of my key chain purse, knowing I would see it many times in the course of the day, thinking it would keep him close to me.  My other very deliberate strategy is that other people would notice it, and it would give me an excuse to talk about him, mention his name.

But, it had seemed like not a good thing for a while now.   After more than half a year without him, it was very apparent to me that I didn’t need anything to keep him close to me.  I always felt his presence deep in the cavity of my soul, in my heart, within my chest, at the deepest part of my physical being.  This had brought me great peace, and often made me smile as I went through my daily routine. 

Instead, there had been numerous times when I was having a difficult day, missing him more than usual, driving around with visions of him in my head, and the sight of the picture became a cruel punch in the stomach.  Where was this beautiful teenager, a starter on his high school basketball team, the shy, unassuming guy that was so popular with all of his classmates, the guy with the irresistible grin?

Yet, I felt that I somehow owed it to Erik to keep the picture there as one of my tiny tributes to his life.  After all, if he had endured all he had endured, how could I remove his countenance from my day just because sometimes it jolted me, making me sad?

But something was nagging me about this moment, this time.  There was nothing special or inspirational about the moment, I was sitting in a parking lot, ready to go on the rest of my day’s errands, negotiating neither very bad nor very good weather, not really in a rush but also with a next destiny in mind.

As I continue to stare at nothing, I let my mind wander.  I start my self-talk.  What the heck is wrong with me?  I tell myself,  For goodness sake, either leave the picture there, or take it out.  It is a picture, you have not signed a contract, Erik won’t be mad, it’s okay if you are doing something to make yourself less upset.  No one even knows about this, it’s not like smashing his gravestone or removing all his pictures from the house.  This is such a little thing.

Then I remember.  I remember a conversation I recently had with my friend, Peter.  Peter, who had known Erik since he was a baby, and who as fate would have it, had in recent years become a spiritualist and done work for others as a medium.  It had been one of several conversations between us that were difficult.  It should have been easy, since we both so truly embraced the same beliefs regarding afterlife.  But it was that very reason that made this argument so difficult.

Peter was sure that Erik had not crossed over to his final destination.  This made sense to me, as I had read a good deal about spirits after suicide, and that the transition for these souls was not as easy or delightful as those who had made a more peaceful transition out of their earthly bodies.  And so Peter would urge me, “Mary Ann, you have to let go.  You are keeping him here.  He knows you are too sad”.

To which I would respond in no uncertain terms... “Too bad.  I don’t want to let him go.  I’m not ready.  I want him here on earth, here in my heart.  I like the way it feels.  He should have thought of that when he left me.  I – am – not – ready”.

The thought struck me gently, but sternly.  This seems like I’m letting a little piece of things go.  My seeing his picture at different intervals during the day, my intention of keeping him close to me, I would be disappointing him… or me?

Looking back, I can’t explain why this happened at this juncture, except to say I feel certain Erik had something to do with it.  And ultimately the solution was so simple.

I took the twinkly eyes and silly smirk out of the clear pocket.  I put them in the other side, where they were hidden, but where I knew they could stay and be brought out whenever I chose to take them out.  When I needed to take them out.  When it would make me feel happy, or at the least when I could handle the sadness.  I was in control of those moments.

I started the car and left for my next destination.