The Write Way to Grieve: Journaling Through the Aftermath of a Suicide

By Terri Johnson

The death of a child is one of the deepest traumas known. When a child commits suicide, the trauma strikes deeper because of the guilt, social stigma and unanswered questions associated with suicide. How did everyone miss the signs of this child's emotional turmoil? Why did this happen? There is no right way to grieve the death of a loved one. The Write Way to Grieve tells the story of one mother's journey through grief in the years that followed her fourteen-year-old son Ryan's suicide. Author Terri Johnson's journal of poetry, prose, and pain reveals the steps and setbacks in her journey. The discovery of Ryan's journal at school empowered her to find the truth in what happened and what might have happened if the journal had been treated differently. The Write Way to Grieve is one mother's answer to her son's cry for help. Suicide should never be the answer. Terri Johnson wrote from her experience to inform others of suicide awareness, prevention and intervention so Ryan's death would not be in vain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640037427

Terri Johnson

Ms. Terri Johnson has over 20 years of experience as a licensed(clinical) social worker, working in education, correctional facilities, Baltimore City Health Department, hospitals and managed care settings. Ms. T. Johnson, as she's lovingly called by her students, has been in private practice since 2009 and serves African American women, transitioning adults and various couples. Ms. Johnson is a proud graduate of Morgan State University where she received a Bachelor's in Social Work and received a Master's in Social Work from the University of MD, School of Social Work, Baltimore. The author of Body Safety Zones (BSZ) has spent more than twenty years working with young people making sure that they understand how special they are and how important it is for them to know how to protect themselves from people who would physically and/or sexually abuse or exploit them. She enjoys singing, dancing, reading, coloring, creating, and spending time with her two young adult children, Jameela and Jabari, and her pets: Bubbles (cat), Zoe Lee (Yorkie), and Hickory (turtle). She loves to volunteer cuddling NICU babies and driving the elderly. Ms. Johnson has a Body Safety Zones (BSZ) Activity and Coloring Book coming out Fall 2020 and available on her website www.persistenceistheway.com. She is on social media as follows: Instagram: @persistenceistheway, Facebook: @persistencet1, and Twitter: @persistenceist1.

Book preview

Letter from Ryan to his Grandparents

November 1, 1989

Dear GP and CC,

Just wanted to write you back and say thanks for the great pictures you sent us. They’re very nice! I haven’t been feeling very well lately. It seems to be a little like the flu. I also have had some trouble with my ears so I went to the ear doctor and I found out I had two ear infections and he gave Mom and I a prescription which we later found out cost $50.00!

School is going pretty good, although it still has its moments, but those times come along and I just think something good like an eternal summer or a trip back to North Carolina or to Minnesota. My first report card was O.K. Band: A, Math: A, Gym: A, Language Arts, B: Science: B, U.S. History: C.

Well, there is not much else to say except that everything here is O.K.!

Talk to you later,

Love,

Ryan

Ryan loved the North Carolina Mountains and visiting with his Grandparents.

Ryan’s Personality

Three boys, all different, all the love of my life. Ryan, being the youngest, always tried to prove that though he was the youngest, he was just as smart, just as athletic, and just as much a member of this thriving threesome as the other two.

Ryan and Stuart were invited to spend a couple of weeks in North Carolina with their grandparents a year before he died. Jeremy had already moved up to Gainesville, Florida, to attend college. My dad made a movie that summer about their adventures, using the wood chipper, building birdhouses, tubing, white-water rafting, and picnicking.

The letter Ryan wrote on the preceding page reminded me, once my father handed the letter over to me after twenty-six years, how much Ryan loved people. It also reminded me how he battled with ear infections and a bout of pneumonia when he wrote the letter. I remember how very sick he was, but he rarely complained. Ryan was more worried about how much his prescription cost.

He would be sure to tell me about the new kid in school that he sat with during lunch. He’ll be my new friend, Mom.

When he traveled with his class to Washington, DC, he told me how sad it was to see homeless people on the streets begging for money. When a friend missed coming to school, Ryan would make sure to call them to see how they were doing. He loved being a patrol guard and raising the flag. He seemed to love so much about life.

Ryan had a heart for the broken, the lonely, and the insecure. Perhaps because he felt that way too? I wonder after all these years how Ryan really felt. He used to say he wanted to have a bunch of kids when he got married, and he would be the greatest dad in the whole world. I always thought Ryan felt hopeful.

After I read Ryan’s letter, I was drawn to his desire for the eternal summer he mentioned. Was it just his way of saying he wished summer would last forever, or was he looking for eternal rest?

Memories

September 1990

Mom, let’s have some fun, my fourteen-year old son Ryan giggled. How about the fifties? You know which one Mom.

Sure, you pick, Ry, I quickly responded as I focused on getting around some busy evening traffic for a quick trip to the mall to buy Ryan a new pair of his favorite high-top tennis shoes. Dinner was done, and it was just the two of us in my VW tooling down the road.

Ryan leaned toward me with a big grin, his blond, feather-fine hair catching a bit of a gleam from the sunset. He shoved the cassette into the drive, and with an invisible microphone in hand, he swooned, So, darlin’, darlin’, stand by me, oooh, stand by me, just stand, stand by me, stand by me.

The song continued and so did we with our rhythmic wails of glee. We were both caught up in one of our sincerely silly sing-alongs. Ryan loved to kid and clown around. He relished in showing off his big, wide-as-his-face grin after years of wearing braces. He was growing up, and it was such a happy time for our family. Ryan’s infectious giggle had me laughing. Who would have known this would be our last song?

The End of Normal

On November 29, 1990, I arrived home from work with a trunk load of groceries and a Santa cap for Ryan to wear in the annual Christmas parade. I noticed two unfamiliar cars parked in the driveway. I reasoned quickly it was probably friends of our son Stuart, enjoying an after-school visit. Perhaps Jeremy, my oldest son, had ventured down from Gainesville? Being the mother of three boys, all in their teens, was anything but boring. Upon the birth of my youngest son, Ryan, my pediatrician said that he believed any mother with three sons were very special, as God only gives us what we can handle. I believed that too!

The garage door was closed, so I detoured to the front door, anxious for the boys to haul in the groceries and even more anxious to see the smile on Ryan’s face when he saw the Santa hat. I opened the front door.

Stepping inside, I was met by two adult strangers. I saw no boys, only one man and one woman. They calmly stepped toward me. I don’t remember shutting the door. Their words were brief and direct.

Are you Terri? the man asked quietly.

Yes, I am. What’s going on? Why are you in my house?

The woman spoke first, I am the vice principal from Southwest Middle School.

The man reached toward me, hand out as if prepared to greet, I am the police chaplain for the Palm Bay Police Department.

Please sit down, the chaplain whispered, directing me to the couch. Your son attempted suicide at school today and was successful.

I do not remember which one of the two strangers uttered those horrid words. I thought they must have the wrong house.

Is Jeremy all right? He’s okay, right? I pleaded.

Ryan attempted suicide at school today and was successful, one of the voices echoed in my head again. Your son Ryan is dead.

No, no, no! Not Ryan, no! I repeated as I wrapped my arms around my waist and rocked back and forth. I felt sick to my stomach.

Ryan was only fourteen years old. He said goodbye that morning and told me he would be home late because he had rehearsal for the Christmas parade. These people were wrong! Ryan couldn’t be dead. This was all a huge horrible mistake.

By the way, Mom, I need a Santa hat to wear Saturday. All the drummers are going to wear one. We’ll look so cool for the parade. Thanks, Mom. Love ya.

No, Ryan wouldn’t do that, I faintly replied. This is all a mistake. Not my Ryan! I could barely speak. My throat felt dry and tight.

I asked where my other son, Stuart, was. He was supposed to be home from school. The police chaplain explained that Stuart was in the garage showing our antique wooden boat to a deputy sheriff who had been called to intercede in advance of my return. He was not present when the strangers gave me the news that his brother was dead. The chaplain asked me if I wanted to tell Stuart, or if I wanted them to tell him. I knew I had to tell my own son about his little brother, not a stranger.

The chaplain brought Stuart into the living room. I stood up, facing him, eyes swollen, arms and legs trembling. Oh, Stu, Ryan’s dead. He killed himself at school today. Oh, God! Stu, Ryan committed suicide. He’s never coming home again!

I will never forget Stuart’s reaction. I will never forget our sobbing, shaking hugs and relentless whys? Time stood dark and still at that moment. There was only one thing we could say to each other and that was, Why? Our lives changed that day. The normal family circle we shared was shattered, and the pieces were scattered, impacting unimaginable pain on our family.

The aftermath of a suicide does not end with the death but begins with the death. Everyone grieves differently. My grief felt as if I was stepping daily on pins and needles and getting stuck in miry quicksand while trying to find a microscopic beam of light to navigate through a morbidly vile everlasting dark tunnel filled with sewage.

Suicide survivors are veiled by guilt that only complicates their grief process, which I discovered had no guide book to follow. As a family, we began to struggle and navigate through a loss of unsurmountable proportion. Our grief was tangled like a web of twisted distorted misery with frequent eruptions of poor communication and irrational behavior. I never understood what a dysfunctional family was until Ryan’s suicide.

No Way to Say Goodbye

You gave a hug a smile and said, See you later, Mom.

I waved goodbye with I love you as you carried off your drum.

The morning was not different than it had been the day before,

And off I drove, not knowing I would see you nevermore.

There was no final moment that I thought you were so sad;

There was no chance to help you, and