
The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness. ~Honoré de Balzac
This morning will probably be one of my most intimate, and darkest posts ever, because I am about share something I have been working on here lately.
March 3 will mark seven years since I had received a call from my father that my mother had been found dead with a gunshot wound to the head, most likely self-inflicted. This was not the first call we had received like this, where she was living at the time was always a hotbed of rumor, and if anyone ever left for a few days for whatever reason was rumored to be dead.
However something deep inside me knew this time it was true. I instructed my father to drive down to her place to confirm that this was true, but knowing deep inside that it was I still went ahead and gave the news to the girls. We all handled it a bit differently. Megan stayed on the couch and cried, Michelle sat at her computer desk and said nothing. Hanna crawled into bed and cried and I just laid next to her and comforted her.
The thoughts that were going through my head as I awaited confirmation were “Please let it be murder.” I know that sounds harsh, but for anyone to die by gunshot whether it be murder or suicide is horrible, but if it was murder, it meant that my mother did not once again reject her children.
My mother suffered from a lot of issues including both her mental and physical health. She was bi-polar and in and out of hospitals for most of my life. She also suffered from a variety of chemical dependency issues ranging from alcohol to pain killers. I do not fault my mother for these issues, I know she was just a product of an extremely abusive mother and absent father. My Grandmother Ferguson was an evil woman, and I never fully realized the effect she had on my mother until as a grown man I watched my mother take a call from her and start to visibly shake.
My father called back rather quickly and it was true, she was dead and they were going to rule it suicide. There would be no investigation other than a cursory look at the body on the scene. My father and I began to try to rationalize things, denying that this was true because there was no real investigation, but once again, I knew in my heart the truth.
I then spent most of the night at my desk crying non-stop, and honestly more for myself. I wasn’t just feeling this loss off my mother, but extreme amounts of guilt for being such a horrible son and letting her down on so many occasions.
While my father and I have a great relationship now, growing up I was definitely a mama’s boy. She is the one who I got my love of movies and books from. She is the one I spent most of my time with being the baby of the family. We would sneak off for a matinee while the older kids were in school, or sometimes sneak out and see a movie at the drive-in. She introduced me to classic movies and took me to see some of the most interesting movies of that time. We saw almost every Woody Allen movie that came out, she even took me to see movies like Cabaret and Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein. In high school when she would come home from her job on the road for a couple of days, we would rent three to four movies a night and stay up all night and watch them, sleep for a few hours, go to the video store and get more.
But our relationship changed over the years, there were a lot of divisive issues that faced our family, way too personal to share. But my mother in her last few years became very hateful towards me. More than once I received phone calls late at night where she was either drunk, or extremely depressed and she would tell me how she was going to shoot herself over the phone so I could hear it. I finally confronted her one day and asked her what kind of mother would say such things to her child?
So this is the burden I bear with my mother. The painful reminder of her suicide, the unanswered questions she left us with (no note, just a strange phone call to her sister). The feeling of being hated until she passed, the feeling of part of this was my fault, rejection, all forms of guilt.
It took me about four years to finally forgive my mother, and honestly I have. But I sit here today and can honestly say I have not quite forgiven myself. There can be no amount of words that anyone can say to ease my mind, regardless of how rational they are. This is a process I will have to go through and come to forgiving myself, and I will in time. I know I did not pull that trigger, nor did I move her hands to commit such an act. I also know that my siblings deep down all share a sense of the same guilt and I am not alone in this, but we all walk a different path and will hopefully come to forgive ourselves in due time.
I miss my mother who was such an influential part of my life, I miss making her laugh, I miss calling her and sharing in good news and asking her advice on issues that are plaguing me. Even seven years later I still think about picking up the phone to call her when something new happens. I have dreamt of her often and those dreams were vivid, warm and as beautiful as she was. I am grateful for the time I had with her, how short it all seemed to be.
I titled this post “I am grateful for forgiveness,” not because I have already forgiven her, but to bring into my own life that forgiveness I need for myself, in order to stop being mobilized by thoughts that I don’t deserve this, or that, including happiness, because of how horrible a son I thought I was.
Thank you for listening and allowing me to share. This was definitely one of the toughest things I have ever had to write down.




