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The Dividing Line: Reflections on Living Beyond Suicide Loss

By Jeanne Moran (Adams)

All of our lives are punctuated with events of special recall. Some good, some bad, but I know that for me, and for many other survivors, the sudden shock of a suicide becomes the dividing line of our lives. We talk about life “before the suicide” and “after the suicide” as if there were an indelible demarcation in time.

I clearly remember my 11th wedding anniversary with Bill; having an evening filled with friends. I had a good feeling about our life together, the two wonderful children we had, and all of the comforts and accomplishments we enjoyed. As we slowly came across the lake on our boat on a perfect July night, the Northern Lights could be seen. I felt the warmth of the night and that steady arm around me. I thought there was no way that I could be happier. Could I have ever imagined that less than 5 months later I would experience the dividing line of my life?

Actually, I had been born into an atmosphere of grief, as my father had died seven months before I was born. I had experienced grief at the deaths of my grandparents, other relatives and friends. That was all “before” and their deaths were “natural” deaths. When Bill died, the grief seemed so different. This was the start of dealing with the “after” and the complication of an “unnatural”’ death. “Before,” grieving had been a process; “after,” it was a challenge. I tried to go by the old rules that I had learned from past grief, but it didn’t work.

Certainly I had known trials and tribulations “before” but it always seemed to be something that could be worked out, settled, solved and eventually resolved. The problems that came “after” seemed unsolvable, overwhelming and often even the solutions made no sense. When I tried to solve a problem, the events seemed exaggerated, distorted, engorged with feelings. I wasn’t sure who my allies were in each situation. I struggled when there were no real struggles in the eyes of others. I felt annoyed at the insensitivity of many that did not share my pain. I was angry with those whose concern over trivial things seemed constantly present. One time I remember my daughter crying at the front of a store because she wanted a gumball out of a penny machine. I dragged her from the store saying, “It’s just a gumball, get something real to cry about.” Of course, she already had something real to cry about but she was too young to feel the brunt of it.

My attitude about many things changed at a pace that I couldn’t record. I found that although many small things annoyed me, I also derived small pleasures and joys that I had not experienced “before.” This slap in the face of suicide that led me to despair, confusion, guilt, over-reaction and hypervigilance also had brought me to enjoy laying on the floor in front of the window on a winter day and simply absorb the healing warmth of the sun. I began to feel the reward of making some good choice to balance all of the bad choices I had made. The return of the feeling of actually being able to make choices came slowly. The “after” had led me to believe that I had no longer had choices and that this death would rile everything I did for the rest of my life.

My support system “before” seemed well defined and accessible. “After” Bill’s death I used my friends’ support without giving much back. Some of them just went away; most of them weathered it with me, allowing my ups and downs. I found a new support from other survivors but I didn’t realize the value of that support until 6 years “after” when I attended my first support group meeting. My family was always there for me in one way or another “before” and “after.” It’s complicated when everyone is working out his or her own pain yet you are forever bound together by having experienced the loss.

When I think about “before” and how things might have been, I get to write my own endings. I have no way of really knowing what might have been. The things that have happened “after” have their own conclusions and that is the real part of life. The real fact is that the period of time that I have not had Bill in my life is now longer than the period of time that I did. It amazes me how clear most of the “before” memories are and how the dividing line remains.

I truly believe that as time passes it gives us space to search, reflect, reorganize, change, learn and grow. Again and again survivors meet the challenge of the “after.” We do find whatever it is that allows each of us not only to survive but also to thrive beyond the dividing line.

This “chapter” is from the book “The Dividing Line”. The book brings together a series of articles that were originally written over a number of years for the Survivors of Suicide Newsletter published by The Mental Health Center of Dane County, Madison, Wisconsin. Jeanne Moren (Adams) published the book in 2007 with a reprint in 2008. The chapters are reflections on the passage of time since the suicide death of her husband, Bill Adams, on November 27, 1974, when their children were 5 and 8 years old. To obtain a copy of the book at no charge, send a request by email to thedividingline@sbcglobal.net.