I am a Freelance Writer and Copywriter and live with my wonderful partner Mike, the father of my youngest daughter Lauren, who is 9. My other surviving children are Anneliese, aged 25 and Carsten aged 23. I also have one grandaughter, Kayla, who was born to my son Kristian and his girlfriend in November 2001 and two grandsons from my daughter Anneliese: Bailey Kristian, who was born in October 2004 and Ashton, born in July 2006.
Kristian was my eldest son and tragically took an intentional overdose of Heroin on the night of 31 October 2002. He was pronounced dead at 12.20pm on Friday 1 November 2002, after the hospital staff battled in vain for three and a half hours to save his life. He died just 9 days before his daughter's first birthday and 11 days before his sister's third birthday. Kristian was 20-years-old.
I have always used writing as as a coping mechanism and yet, when my son took his own life, I found that there were no words that truly described the intensity of the pain I felt. I was trapped in an agonising storm of emotions. I wanted to write about my experiences in an effort to help other parents who had experienced a similar tragedy, but also wanted to educate people who hadn't, so that they could maybe respond more effectively to those they knew who had lost a child to suicide. I also felt a need to warn other parents about drugs and depression in an attempt to prevent at least one other family from enduring the same anguish that we and so many other families have suffered. When I began writing on the evening of Kristian's death, I realised that a whole new vocabulary would need to be invented to describe a pain that extends far beyond words such as "agonising", "excruciating" and "intense".
One of the organisations that I found immensely helpful and supportive following Kristian's loss was The Compassionate Friends. I was privileged to have been the Editor-in-Chief of their quarterly publication, Compassion between 2005 and 2006. I feel thankful that I can give something back to an organisation that does so much for others.
*Immediately after Kristian's death, I felt as though I were completely detached from my body. The shock and disbelief knocked me into a dreamlike state and I was sure that I was a spectator in one of my very worst nightmares. The difference was that I couldn't wake up to the real world, because this was cruel reality. I performed routine functions on autopilot, existing rather than living. There were many moments when I thought that the grief and guilt would kill me.
For the first few days, I couldn't eat and I couldn't sleep. Every morsel of food I placed in my mouth lodged at the back of my throat, as a river of guilt tears cascaded down my cheeks. Kristian would never eat again. He had always loved his food and rather than celebrating his life by partaking in one of his favourite pastimes, I felt that enjoying food was an insult to his memory. I felt as though we were mocking him. I did not see eating as being intrinsic to survival, because at that time, I did not care whether I lived or died. I felt selfish continuing to nurture my own body, when I had not been able to keep my son alive. I couldn't understand how the rest of my family managed to eat with ease and clear their plates with gusto. I was in limbo, whilst the rest of the world carried on around me.
Even though I was emotionally shattered, sleep evaded me for the first few nights. I sobbed, screamed and howled like a wild animal caught in a poacher's trap, finding solace in nothing. In between open displays of unyielding anguish, I frantically searched for folders of Kristian's old schoolwork, as though anything that he had once created in life were the most valuable object on earth. In fact, anything that Kristian had made, touched or worn became priceless to me.*
I know that nothing that I do will bring my son back to me in this life, so I know that I have to do my best for those who are still alive - my other children, my partner, my family and all those other bereaved families out there who feel isolated in their grief and who feel that they cannot survivive yet another day without their beloved child.
My heart goes out to each and everyone of you who have lost a child to suicide and I hope that you will find some comfort and support within these pages.
Jan Andersen
*Text in italics is an excerpt from my book, "Chasing Death - Losing a Child to Suicide"
My other websites:
"Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.
William Shakespeare
