Scared of rejection
Or to be placed in a fool collection
In a class of my own
Teaching myself to be alone
I try not to listen
But thoughts don’t stop,
Making their own conviction
They are causing demolition.
If only I could lock away my brain,
I’m sure I could gain remorse
And find a girl to put me back on course.

We were walking along the side of St. James Park in London on a warm June evening when she turned to me and suddenly said, “Edward’s death was his gift to you. You must remember that.”

I felt shaken by her words and the familiar hot feeling of unshed tears burned behind my eyes and my throat ached, all I could say was “What?”
“Edward taking his own life, it was his gift to you. You must realise if he had lived he would have killed you or murdered a member of your family.”

She spoke with such conviction that my sadness turned in that moment to hot anger; I shook my head wanting to shake her words out of my mind. How dare she I thought, wanting to scream at her so I waited until I could speak calmly.

“Edward was never a violent person,” I said at last my voice was shaking “and when he became ill with schizophrenia he remained a gentle person, but he became very fearful of people and situations and tended to keep himself to himself. Before he died he was terrified, he thought people were out to harm him. People with his illness very rarely harm anyone, other than themselves. And that was my greatest fear and I was right to feel like that, because that is what he did, he took his own life. But he did not want to die; he said that continuously the day he made his first attempt. He died on his second attempt that same day, even though we had placed him in a place of safety.”

The rest of the evening I felt strained and sad, I found images of my youngest child in the forefront of my mind. My friend, I knew she meant well but like many others she thought “I should be over it by now” just three years after his death, and I’m beginning to realise the death of one’s child is not something you “get over” you just learn to live with it. An empty space appeared in my life when my child died and it will remain there forever. Eighteen months after my son’s death my mother died, I was sad I grieved and I miss her not being in my life, but I always knew she would one day die, that is the way things are. But I never expected that to happen to my child, I spent time preparing my children to become independent, so they could live happily once I have gone. Nothing prepared me for my child dieing, and with such horrendous injuries, it is the worst pain I have ever experienced, and it does not go away, it sits deep inside me like an icy spot where he once lay and from time to time it rises up and the pain is in my head, my eyes run with tears as I think of him. It’s always there on waking I often find myself sighing his name as memory hits me, even before my eyes open.

My friend in her clumsy way was just trying to make me feel better I realised that. But found it hard to forgive her irrational fear of my son, who would never have harmed a soul, even when in a psychotic state. I did not blame her, before Edward became ill I was as ignorant, and thought seriously mentally ill people were to be feared. My only knowledge came from the news papers, T.V. and films were people doing terrible murders and harm are described as ‘schizo’s’ or ‘psychos’, I knew so little even though I had suffered from bouts of depression most of my adult life, but I have been lucky enough to only require medication and contact with my GP until Edward’s death.