Travis and I in 2013. I couldn’t have been more proud of my son.

Travis and I were always close. We’d had our fights over the years (including a couple of times that I had kicked him out of the house), but we always made things right with one another, and we loved one another. He could be a real hard-ass at times like his father, but for the most part he was cut from my cloth. I loved being around Travis. He was sensitive, funny, caring, compassionate, and would have given me the shirt off his back. He was also strong, a hard worker, wouldn’t take shit off anyone, and always fought for the underdog. He loved me and he loved his brothers. Three red roses tattooed on his right shoulder represented his love for his brothers. He would have done anything for them.

Four years younger, Aaron had always been socially awkward and preferred solitude over anything. When Travis started school, I used to take Aaron with me to the school to eat lunch with Travis. Aaron was fair complected and had dark hair, dark eyes, dark eyebrows and lashes. He was a beautiful child and people couldn’t take their eyes off him. Aaron hated the stares he received and was only about three when he said he wished he had a different face. He would lay his head on his arm and ignore the compliments and gawks of the school girls and teachers around him. Years later when Aaron decided to go to college (after being “home-schooled” from the 9th grade on and living in my parents’ basement for a couple of years doing nothing), Travis couldn’t be happier for him. Travis was so proud of Aaron, and I remember him coming home that weekend and telling me all about Aaron’s plans. He talked for a solid hour about Aaron and then said, “Aaron’s going to be okay, Mom.” I realized then how much Travis loved and cared about his younger brother and wanted the absolute best for him.

Chris and Travis wrestling

Travis had always looked up to his oldest brother, Chris, and the two were inseparable growing up. Two-and-a-half years apart in age, Travis wanted to go everywhere Chris went, wanted to share Chris’s friends, do everything Chris did. I wish I could say that Chris protected Travis and was the perfect big brother to him, but he really wasn’t. He stole Travis’s friends, bullied him in high school, and essentially made Travis cry a lot. But even through all this grief and disappointment, Travis still loved and worshiped Chris, and the two were best buddies.

Luke, 11

Luke, Travis’s youngest brother by fourteen years, stole his heart the day he was born. In fact, all the brothers were enamored with Luke and they all spent time with him — holding him, feeding him, bonding with him and sometimes fighting over him. But no bond was stronger than the bond shared between Travis and Luke. I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my face now. I pulled out the family photo albums and page after page are pictures of Travis holding Luke, or playing with Luke, or laughing with Luke. It hurts me knowing how hard Travis’s death has been for Luke these past five years.

Luke now

Luke (now 16) wrote an article on Medium recently, and titled it, “Lessons My Brother Taught Me After His Suicide.” I cried as he read it to me and his girlfriend, Courtney, and I asked him if it was okay if I borrowed his title to write mine. Luke has always been my inspiration. He encourages me to write and do things I love and watch cat videos whenever I’m feeling down. He’s more like Travis than Chris or Aaron. He looks like him and acts like him. And like me, he wants to keep Travis’s memory alive.

Immediately following Travis’s suicide, Luke was angry with him. When I had asked Luke to talk about his feelings, he told me he was angry because all this time he had thought Travis was tough, but he now realized he was just a coward to do something like that. It hurt me to the core to hear him say that about his favorite brother, shocked me just a little bit, too; but I knew Luke didn’t really mean it, he just didn’t understand depression. He also said he felt bad and thought Travis didn’t know he loved him because the last time he saw Travis, Travis had opened Luke’s bedroom door and was telling him he loved him, and Luke had been too busy gaming with his online friends and didn’t tell him he loved him back. I tried to assure Luke that Travis still knew he loved him. But just like Luke, I dissected those last few moments, days, weeks and months with Travis to determine how I might have played a part in his suicide.

This is the story of what Travis taught me about him, about life, and about myself, after his suicide.

I received a phone call on Monday morning, June 2nd, 2014, around 10:30 a.m. It was my son Travis’s supervisor, Michael, and he was concerned because Travis hadn’t shown up for work at Oklahoma Bridge Company where he worked as a mechanic. Michael said he couldn’t reach him on either his work phone or his personal phone. It was strange because we had just had this exact conversation on Thursday morning, and on that day when Michael and I had hung up I had immediately called Trav and he had promptly answered.

“I’m here Mom,” he said. “I just pulled in to OBC and I’m talking to Michael.”

“Okay, good,” I remember saying. “What happened?”

“I fucking overslept,” he said. He was dropping F-bombs left and right, talking about how he was trying to quit dipping tobacco, how he couldn’t sleep, and I remember telling him it was okay to go get some nicotine if it was that bad. Maybe don’t quit cold turkey? The way he was talking was extremely out of character for Travis, and I knew something was amiss. He said he’d come over after work.

He came over to my apartment that evening and I made us mixed drinks and we smoked cigarettes and “fake pot” and had some really good, long talks. I asked him if he’d seen his Aunt Ivette when he went to Arkansas (our home state) the previous weekend, and I told him about this really strange dream I’d had about her. In the dream, I had walked into this large building with rows of chairs, and my brother and his wife and Ivette (married to my ex-husband’s oldest brother) were sitting off to my left, and my dad’s family was sitting in chairs in front of me, and I held a pamphlet in my hand. All of mine and my ex-husband’s family were there, and I kept trying to get Ivette’s attention by waving that pamphlet at her, but she kept ignoring me. Finally, she admitted she wasn’t going to talk to me because she sided with my brother (whom I had recently testified against). I thought the dream was so strange, and I focused more on being shunned by Ivette because of my brother than question why my entire family and friends were there. Travis found the dream strange, too, but offered up no insights. But a week later when I was at the First Freewill Baptist Church and they ushered me and other family members into the family room, the dream came back to me. I looked at the funeral program I held in my hand and then I saw Ivette and I crumbled. She must have thought I had lost my damned mind because I told her about the dream, and I asked her if I could hug her and her daughters (she didn’t shun me like in the dream). I sometimes wonder if Travis knew I was describing his funeral in my dream? I also questioned how it was possible to have a dream like that. I don’t believe like that, do I? It’s just not possible. Is it? But it’s happened to me more than once. I’ve had another funeral dream that came true (this time an aunt) and vivid premonitions. Some things just can’t be explained.

Our conversation eventually turned to some of the strange things that had been happening in his life recently, starting with his ex-girlfriend Mara. I was still angry with her for lying about Travis and having him arrested on domestic abuse charges, which she later admitted never happened. She was just angry because he had broken up with her. But instead of allowing me to be angry with her, Travis asked that I forgive her and not be angry with her anymore, and not seek revenge. Just let it go. He was always like that. He was the most forgiving person I had ever known besides my father whom I lost a year-and-a-half ago. In fact, those two were a lot alike. Dad had always wanted me to forgive my unforgivable brother.

Trav and Dad were also amazing musicians… Dad had studied music in college and went on to be a band director briefly and even composed and published music. Travis was a percussionist in the band and we were always carting around his drum set. He entered and won various talent shows and band tryouts, and received metals from the Arkansas School Band & Orchestra Association. He also played the keyboard and the guitar and recorded his own songs, and had been in two or three different bands with friends. Music made him happy.

Travis practicing on his drum set

Around 2:30 a.m. I was starting to doze off in my chair and I excused myself from the balcony to go retire to my bedroom. First I asked Trav to come in and sleep on the couch or in Luke’s room, because Luke would (a) either stay awake all night gaming or (b) sleep with me as usual. [ ;) Sorry, Luke, the secret’s out!] Trav wanted to stay outside on the balcony in my comfy red lounger, where he eventually dozed off. It was a beautiful evening on May 29th. The next morning we both got up and showered and went to work on time, and he came back over again that Friday evening the 30th.

Again we went out on the balcony and drank and smoked and talked about everything from our various views on religion to politics to his brothers and his job and some strange things that had been going on. “I’ve been seeing dead people,” he said and I guffawed, thinking back to the movie “The Sixth Sense” with Bruce Willis.

“No, seriously,” he said. “Last weekend when I was headed to Arkansas, I came across a wreck right after it happened, and I saw what appeared to be a dead guy laying on the side of the road.”

“Oh my god Travis, are you serious? Are you sure he was dead?”

“Yeah, he was bloody and he looked dead,” he said. He reminded me about the car he had been following one weekend after drill that had wrecked head-on with an approaching vehicle, killing the people inside. He and his friends were lucky that day; but none of them had forgotten the horror of seeing those people. It had shaken them up badly.

“And did you hear about that guy on the bicycle getting hit and killed? That guy in Russellville that used to sit outside Little Ceaser’s and wave to everyone?” he asked.

“The guy with the large basket on the front on the front of his bike? He got hit and killed?”

“Yes, and I came across the scene right after it happened,” he said. “The wheel was still spinning.”

“That’s horrible!” I cried. I put my face in my hands and held back sobs.

“Yeah, and when I told Dad he kept asking me why I was so upset about it,” Travis said. “And I kept telling him because I knew the guy, and I saw him right after it happened. Dad just didn’t understand.”

There was a long lull between us as I tried to comprehend the information he’d just shared.

“We’re so fragile,” he said. “You just never know what’s going to happen.”

I agreed with him. He had made a comment like that before to me, how fragile we all are. He had said it right after he told me he would want me and Luke to have his brand new 50" TV if anything were to happen to him.

“Whoa, stop right there,” I had said, thinking he sounded like he was contemplating suicide. “Are you suicidal?” I had asked him.

“No, Mom,” he said, looking me square in the eye, his hands on my shoulders. “I’m just saying we’re all fragile. We never know what could happen to us.”

He convinced me with that. Besides, he and I had made an anti-suicide pact. I would never commit suicide and he would never commit suicide. And I had believed him. Oh, was I in for a shock.

The following morning, Saturday, he wanted to have an apology session where we would each discuss how the other person had hurt us, how it made us feel, and we would ask for one another’s forgiveness. It went really well, and it was nice to clear the air and start fresh. And I remember telling him how we should always do that. He just looked at me and nodded. Later I would think back to this conversation and wish I could remember every single word and every single thing he said that I apologized for and he forgave me for. Later I would want to know what part I had played in his suicide.

He slept most of the morning away, and at one point he asked if he could use my car to run to the store really quick. I found it slightly odd since he had his work truck with him, but I didn’t question it. “Sure, here’s the keys,” was all I said. Later that day I would realize he had filled my tank up with gas.

I ordered pizza delivery for lunch and he let me use his debit card to pay for it. We ate lunch and I got a flirty text message from a guy I used to work with at OBC (I had since quit doing accounts payables there and had gone to work as an independent contractor). The guy was married, and Travis got irritated with me for texting him back. Travis didn’t think I should be flirting with a married man. I was just happy to have the male attention.

Travis asked me if I trusted Wendy and I said something like, “Not really.” Later I would wish I had asked him why.

Travis left my apartment around 1pm. My friend Wendy called right as he was leaving and told me to tell him they think he’s doing a marvelous job there at OBC (which she had just heard through her husband Danny who worked there). I can remember his perfect white smile and beautiful tan face as he stood patiently halfway down the steps, holding a box I was sending with him, while I said goodbye and told him I loved him. I would later reflect on this moment a million times.

That evening while I was laying on the couch where Travis had been sleeping earlier, Luke (11 at the time) said something to me about me being a fat cow or something (in a joking manner, of course) and tears began to stream down my face. A depression as dark and cold as an Alaskan evening fell down over me. I remember pulling the blanket over my face and crying. It came out of nowhere. Luke, increasingly alarmed, asked me what was wrong. “I don’t know, sweetie. I’m just so depressed,” I said, gulping air and sobbing. I wanted to reach out to Travis, but Lord, he’d just spent the last two nights with me and I didn’t want to burden him with my problems. “I promise to go to the doctor Monday and get my antidepressant medication doubled.” I would remember this promise on Monday afternoon when I went to the doctor and did just that.

Sunday afternoon as I drove to McDonald’s to pick up chicken nuggets for Luke, I still felt uneasy and depressed. I wanted to drive to Travis’s apartment, but again I told myself I wasn’t going to burden Travis with my depression. He hadn’t responded to my text messages and maybe he was busy. Later I would beat myself up for not calling him Saturday night or going over there on Sunday. But I think it was already too late on Sunday.

Monday morning as I spoke with Trav’s supervisor Michael, I offered to go by Travis’s apartment if I couldn’t reach him by phone.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Michael said. “Just tell him to call me.”

“Please don’t fire Travis,” I said. “He’s been going through some depression and he hasn’t been able to sleep.”

“I’m not going to fire him, Stephanie. Don’t worry about that. I’m just concerned about him,” Michael said.

“Well, thanks Michael. I’ll go over there around 11:30 when I take lunch if I don’t reach him by phone. I’ll keep you posted,” I said.

“Okay thanks,” he said and we hung up.

I immediately tried Travis’s cellphone and it went straight to voicemail. Then I tried his other number, and it, too, went straight to voicemail. I started to text him and saw the last four text messages I had sent him over the weekend. The first one was from Saturday afternoon right after he left my apartment: Did you make it home okay? To which he replied Yes. And I said Good. Goooooood. The next one was later that day: Did you put gas in my car?! No response. And the next one: Hellllooooooo…. Did you put gas in my car?? Still no response. Another one that read: Helllooooooo. Thank you for putting gas in my car. Are you there??

I put my earbuds in and listened to some music. Oddly enough, most of the songs were Travis’s. With each passing minute I began to worry more and more about Travis. My brain was screaming, “SOMETHING’S WRONG!! HE NEVER ANSWERED YOUR TEXTS ALL WEEKEND!! HIS PHONE IS DEAD!!! MAYBE HE’S DEAD TOO!!!” And it seemed like every song that played had something to do with death and dying. I could wait no longer. I told my co-workers what was going on and promised I would let them know something the minute I checked on him.

I jumped into my car in a panic and cried the entire fifteen minute drive to his apartment. On the way there I thought about the what if’s (what if he killed himself? what if he just overslept?) and even though I’ve never slapped him, I thought about how I would like to slap the piss out of him for making me cry all the way there with worry if he’s actually fine. All I knew was that one of two things were possible. I just didn’t know which one it would be.

I walked the three flights of stairs up to his apartment door, and on the way up I saw one of his stoic, unsociable neighbors go into their apartment and close the door. I approached his door and rapped loudly. “Travis?!” I yelled and waited. Listened. No steps or noise inside and I rapped again, louder this time. “Travis! Travis! It’s mom!! Are you there?” I held his apartment key between my fingers but I didn’t want to use it. I wanted to stand outside his door and wait for him to open it for me. But he never came to the door.

I put the copper-colored key into the lock and turned it. The door unlocked and I pushed it open. “Travis?” I called and then I saw him, lying on the couch in the living room. He was just sleeping. He had a schmear of dried tobacco spittle that had run down his face — just like the other times when he’d fallen asleep with dip in his mouth — and I let out a huge sigh of relief and removed my sunglasses so I could see a little better. The apartment was dark and smelled sour. He was laying on his back on the couch, with his head resting on the arm of the couch. He wore his green Nike pants and no shirt. His left arm lay across his chest and the other arm was tucked under it.

“Travis?” I called to him again as I walked closer. He didn’t stir. Didn’t hear me. And then I saw it: A large blue area on the side of his neck and down his left arm. “Travis?!” I screamed, but I didn’t recognize the sound my own voice made. “Travis?! I screamed again. The ground beneath me gave way and I collapsed to my knees screaming my dead son’s name over and over but he never woke. Never answered me.

“Travis!! Travis!! What have you done, Travis?!” I wailed. “I can’t help you now!” I didn’t recognize the deep, gutteral groans that escaped my throat. I didn’t know I could make sounds like that. I screamed and cried and rocked myself on the floor before finally willing myself to stand. I grabbed his heavy coffee table with both hands and slid it out of the way so that I could get closer to him. I sobbed over my poor boy. My baby. “My god my baby’s dead!” I shrieked. I wanted to grab him and hold him to me, to hug him one last time, but I knew I shouldn’t. I don’t know why, but I knew I shouldn’t do that. Instead, I allowed myself to stroke his soft, short hair while I wept and talked to him.

I don’t remember a lot of what I said. But I do remember challenging God. I told God that if he really loved me and cared about me and wanted to prove to me that he was real, to let Travis open his eyes and talk to me one last time! Let him hug me one last time! I begged.

I touched something hard near the top of Trav’s head, and I picked it up and inspected it. It was a shell casing. And that’s when I knew how he’d killed himself. But I hadn’t seen a gun. I looked closer at what I had originally thought was tobacco and realized it was dried blood. It came from a small hole above his right eye.

I called Michael. “Travis shot himself!” I cried into my phone.

“What?!” Michael asked in shock.

“He shot himself, Michael! He’s dead!”

“Oh my god Stephanie! Have you called 911?” he asked.

“Is that what I need to do?”

“Yes!” he said.

I hung up and dialed 911.

I remember the man on the other line saying he was sending an ambulance, and I told him we didn’t need an ambulance. “He’s dead!” I kept yelling at this man. He wanted me to go into a different room and I asked him if it was so I didn’t contaminate the crime scene (I’ve watched way too many crime shows) and he said, “No, I just don’t want you to keep looking at him. I don’t want you to keep getting upset.”

The tears are continuing to stream down my face right now as I write this. But it’s important. I need to tell my story. But it hurts to relive that day. It’s still so incredibly raw even five years later.

When I heard the sirens approaching, I knew they’d escort me out of the apartment and it was the last time I would see him. So I pulled my cell phone out and snapped a couple of pictures. I was right. They immediately ushered me outside. I forgot my purse and sunglasses inside and I couldn’t go back in and get them. A forensics team was making sure it was a suicide and not a murder disguised as a suicide.

Michael was there when I got outside, and he held me and comforted me and let me sob in his ear. He had been on the phone with Scotty, my ex-boyfriend, when I had called with the news, and he had told Scotty, who called his best friend Danny, who called his wife and my best friend, Wendy. Wendy was there in a split second. She offered me a cigarette while we all stood outside in the June 2nd day. It was a sunny day, and under any other circumstances I would have called it a beautiful day.

A policeman directed me to a car and had me get into the front seat. The man in the driver’s seat told me his name and identified himself as a homicide detective. He was kind and warm and tried to console me by saying how sorry he was for my loss. He said that no one ever truly knows why someone might take their own life, but after his years of working suicides, the best he could figure was when the pain of living became too great, the fear of dying lessened. He took out a notepad and a form and started asking me a few questions.

“There was a woman’s purse and a pair of sunglasses sitting on the kitchen counter. Is that yours?”

“Yes,” I said. “I forgot them in there.”

“Also, the back sliding glass door was open. Was it open when you got there?”

“No,” I said. “I opened it to let some fresh air in there.” The air was acrid.

“I see,” he said. It was obvious they were trying to rule out foul play.

“I touched his hair,” I said, “and I found a shell casing above his head, but I put it back. I don’t think I touched anything else.”

“That’s okay,” he said gently, nodding.

Later, Wendy drove me to the doctor’s office where I got my anti-depressant doubled and also received some Valium which I took immediately. When we left the doctor’s office, Wendy pulled out her one-hitter and we each took a couple of hits off it. I was in no condition to drive (even before the Valium and Marijuana), so she drove me home so I could give Luke the horrible news. I thought I was going to have a panic attack worrying about telling Luke. I cried just thinking about breaking it to my sweet eleven-year-old. What would I say? How would I tell him he’d never see Travis again?! I didn’t know how Luke was going to react to the news. What if he wanted details? How much is too much? What should I explain about how I found him? I didn’t want the image that was already haunting me to also haunt Luke. But would it be worse if I didn’t tell him? Would his imagination conjure up something far worse than the truth? How could this be happening? I felt abandoned and vulnerable. Travis was the person I always leaned on during a crisis. Now I was facing the biggest crisis of my life and Travis was gone. Forever. No one to lean on. I began spiraling into what would become my black hole.

When Wendy and I arrived at my apartment, she said hello to Luke and then excused herself from the bedroom so we could be alone. I sat next to him on the bed and he studied the steady stream of tears falling from my eyes. I hugged him and I just wanted to hold onto him forever. Never let go. Make all the horrors go away. Please let me wake up from this nightmare.

“First, I love you more than you can imagine,” I said. And as much as I tried to talk — to make my mouth and tongue work — I couldn’t seem to make words form in my brain.

“What is it, Mom?” he asked. This was it. This was the moment when my sweet Luke’s life would change forever.

“Luke, something bad happened, Bunny.” More tears fell. Fatter. Faster.

“Did something happen to Papawe?” he asked, pulling away and looking into my eyes.

I shook my head. “No, sweetie. It’s not Papawe. It’s Travis,” I said and watched his expression. He had no idea how his life was about to change. “I’m so sorry bunny,” I sobbed. “Do you remember how I got really depressed Saturday night and didn’t know why?”

He nodded.

“Well, it turns out Travis was really depressed, and he killed himself, Luke. He’s gone,” I said, choking back sobs. Travis is dead, baby.” With that I touched his precious face, touched his curly hair, and sobbed and waited for him to ask me how. How did he do it? But the question never came. I watched his eyes go from me to the floor of the bedroom and then back to me. He shook his head and cried into my chest, and I held him.

The visions of Travis’s face with the bullet hole and dried blood kept flashing through my mind. They were there all night and the next morning when I woke up, and they would become permanent fixtures over the coming months. I couldn’t stand to watch Luke sleep. I never wanted to see him with his eyes closed. It reminded me of the way I had found Travis, as if he were simply sleeping. I couldn’t watch anyone sleep without seeing Travis and breaking down.

Wendy took me to Smith & Kernke funeral home the next morning and told me not to worry about the cost (Travis didn’t have insurance through work, and I didn’t have insurance on him). She told me her husband Danny wanted to pay for the funeral expenses. I couldn’t believe it but I graciously accepted it and thanked them both over and over. I picked out the lowest priced coffin they had, and we quickly gathered information and photos for the funeral home. They made a beautiful video that we played on loop during the viewing in Oklahoma City and before the funeral in Russellville, AR, where he was buried.

All of his friends and coworkers turned up to the viewings, and the funeral was a packed house. Afterward, at the gravesite, Travis received a military burial complete with weapons discharged (which startled most of us), and his best friend and fellow Marine, Johnny, presented me with the flag, fighting back tears.

The first month I allowed myself to do anything I felt like doing. I smoked a lot of marijuana, lived on Valium, and poured myself into a bottle. The valium helped with the crying, but once I ran out my doctor wouldn’t give me any more. I hated her for that. I hated the non-stop crying. I hated the way I felt. Why couldn’t I seem to get any relief?

Luke and I joined a survivor’s group for people who had lost a loved one to suicide. He was in a room with other kids, and I was in a room of about seven or eight adults who each had their own story to tell. One man — a cop — had lost his ex-wife to suicide, and he was there with his three children. His new wife (of three months) stayed outside in the car, unable to support him, and would divorce him within a couple of weeks. A Mexican man with lots of tattoos had lost his teenage daughter to suicide. A woman who sat to my left had lost her husband to suicide. Her two children were there also. The lady to my right had lost her sister to suicide. And there were others. We all had heart-wrenching stories to tell, and even though the stories were all different, and the people were as diverse as the stories, there was a welcome sense of kinship just knowing we weren’t alone.

Luke and I probably attended a couple of these sessions, until he nor I felt we could do it anymore. It was too soon. Too raw. Too painful for each of us. But we should have kept going. I know that now.

The months ahead would prove to be the worst months of our lives. Luke shut me out of his room more than usual. I locked myself in my bathroom for hours and cried. Getting through a day of work was more difficult than running a 25K marathon barefooted. I just couldn’t keep up. My brain couldn’t keep up. I felt like I was stuck in quicksand. My memory began failing and at work I probably acted like someone with dementia. The simplest things were too difficult for me.

I went to a new doctor who discovered that my blood pressure had risen to 211/169. Stroke range. I had Luke with me that day and he later joked about how hyper everyone was at that doctor’s office — “ jumping over desks and running down the hall” which was a slight exaggeration, but not far from the truth. I never told Luke they were afraid I was about to stroke out or go into cardiac arrest. My doctor put me on three different blood pressure medications and two different anti-anxiety/anti-depressant meds. He also asked if he could pray for me. He was one of the best doctors I’d ever had. Tall, slender and middle eastern. Oh, and good looking. Did I mention good looking?

I started feeling better physically, but not mentally. I was still having trouble with my memory, still crying all the time, and just couldn’t see an end in sight. I found a shrink and attended several sessions, but he seemed to want to do most of the talking and I quit. I bought a book. And then another. I kept a diary. I allowed myself to feel the emotions, but I still felt stuck.

Wendy (not just my best friend, but also my recruiter) had placed me at the City of Oklahoma City payroll office and after a couple of months there I hit rock bottom. I had one friendly coworker in the office who was ostracized (along with me) by everyone else in the office. I ended up quitting/getting fired from that position, and Wendy and I were also on the outs as friends. I told her not to bother helping me find my next position — I could do just fine without her.

In the meantime, my ex-husband called and asked if he could take Luke with him to Arkansas for the week. He actually lived in New Mexico, but one of his grown kids had just had a child and he was on his way to see them. Luke didn’t want to go but I made him. It would give me time to sort some things out and he needed to get out of the apartment and go be with his dad and other siblings. He needed that now more than ever.

The morning I dropped Luke off with his dad, Kent, and Kent’s wife, Susan, and her kids, they just all seemed so happy. Kent was looking better than ever, and he and Susan seemed like a happy, loving couple with happy, well-adjusted kids. Luke seemed awkward around them, but he also responded awkwardly with me, which I found strange. I hoped he would have a good time with them and not be miserable like the last time he had visited.

I left there and just drove around a little bit, enjoying the crisp spring day in Oklahoma City. I knew I needed to be at home scouring the job ads (something I absolutely despised), but I decided to stop off at the library first. Books have always had a way of settling my nerves and helping me feel refreshed and focused. Just walking through the large library full of aisles and aisles of books floor to six feet high made me happier than I’d been in a long time. I quickly found several books on job hunts and career changes, and even a work-from-home book for moms. I checked out and headed home.

Once at home, I started skimming the books and surfing the job boards. It didn’t take long before I had looked at my bank account and started panicking about where I was going to get our rent money and how I was going to find a job pronto and make ends meet before all hell came crashing down around me. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was dealing with “Complicated Grief” after Travis’s suicide and I had never really learned good coping skills. I felt like a shit mother for all the boozing and men I had done, and one dark thought after another I decided to end my month-long sobriety and go buy a bottle of Vodka to help me through my day.

When I got into the liquor store, I bought the exact same bottle that Travis had drank on the last day of his life. I also bought a pack of cigarettes and stopped at the Sonic drive through for a combo meal and a Route 44 drink to mix with my vodka. In no time at all I was hammered. It felt really good. I seemed to have clarity of thought, and suddenly I thought I knew the perfect solution to my problem: Suicide.

It was brilliant! Why hadn’t I ever thought of it before?! Good God! I wouldn’t have to stress over finding a job ever again, I wouldn’t have to feel shitty emotionally ever again, I wouldn’t have any more nasty breakups with boyfriends or best friends, and I wouldn’t have to worry about how I was going to pay our rent! It was genius. It turned my frown upside down and before I knew it I was putting my plan into motion. I grabbed a notepad and a pen and started writing my suicide notes to Luke, Mom, Dad, Aaron, Chris & Britney, and even Kent and Susan.

Saturday, 3/28/15 Luke — Baby. Bunny. Kitten. I’m so sorry. Please don’t ever blame yourself. In fact, this was the hardest decision of my life! I so confidently believe you will be so much better off with your Dad and Susan. :) You’ll be in such good care! And you’ll have Kaylee, Austin, Collin and you’ll never be lonely! And I will always be with you — in your heart and in your memories. You’re going to be okay. I know you’ll miss me — it’s okay to cry. But I want you to be happy! Just know that I’m in a better place — no more tears, no more pain! I’m finally free. Just know that I love you with all of my heart! I have never loved anyone the way I have loved you, Luke. This has been the hardest decision ever because of my love for you. I just want you to be the best person you can absolutely be. Do this for me. I love you, Luke. I’m so sorry for hurting you. :( Grieving for Travis has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My decision to end my pain and suffering has absolutely nothing to do with you. You were the only good thing in my life. It kills me knowing this is going to hurt you!! Please forgive me. I’m sorry kitten!!! I love you!! Mom :) P.S. Watch lots of cat fail videos! I’ll tell Travis “Hi” for you! You’re going to be okay! Please know I love you. Please don’t ever ever ever blame yourself. It’s my depression. :( I love you Luke!! Anything you want from the apartment is yours!! — Mommy Last Will and Testament Saturday, March 28, 2015: I, Stephanie Frank, being of sound mind, do hereby leave ALL of my worldly possessions to my son, Luke Wilson. To Mom, Sat 3/28/15: I love you. Please don’t ever blame yourself for my choice to end my life. We all die. Some of us just choose earlier than later. :) Do not pay any of my bills! Do not!! And I’m so sorry I never paid you back the money I owed you. I’m so sorry, Mom. I love you! You’re my mom! And I’m sorry to hurt you like this. I’m just in so much pain, and I need for it to stop. It is absolutely no one’s fault! I miss my baby Travis and I lost my job and I haven’t been happy for a very long time. You can be in charge of my funeral, and you can do it any way you like. My preference would be to be cremated and give my sealed ashes to Luke so he knows I’m always with him. I want a happy funeral, with smiling balloons — or no funeral at all. If there’s an afterlife I plan to find Travis. If not, oh well. I’ll sleep peacefully. I’m dead — nothing hurts me anymore. The tears are gone, the struggles are gone, the fear and anxiety is gone. I’m sorry to hurt you like this. I know exactly how it feels. I just hope you can understand. I love you, Dad and Aaron forever. To Aaron — I’m sorry baby. I wish I didn’t have this depression. I’m sorry for any pain I have ever caused you. I love you more than you could ever possibly know! I’m sorry for the time I chewed you out. I’m sorry for when I moved into Jerry’s house and you went to live with Mamawe and Papawe. I’m so sorry for every single thing I’ve ever done that’s hurt you. I’ve always dealt with depression since I was a kid. I just wish all the treatments and meds would have worked for me. But they didn’t. I have a mental illness, Sweetheart. None of this is your fault or anyone’s fault. Please don’t ever question that I love you so much! It breaks my heart doing this to you, but I have been in so much pain and agony for so long! I love you Aaron! Please please please forgive me. And be happy for me. :D Love, Mom I’m finally FREE! To Dad — I love you Dad. I’m sorry. I know you’ll understand better than anyone. I’ve just got to find Travis. I can’t stay in this cruel world any more. Life has been so painful and difficult but now I’m free! Please try and be happy for me. You were the best father I could have ever hoped for. I Love You! Snock To Chris & Britney — Wow. Please forgive me for what I must do. I love you both so much, and I’m sure you won’t understand — I hope you’ll never know the feeling of deep depression. If there’s an afterlife, I’ll find Travis — and after I kick his ass — I’ll be sure and tell him hello. :) I love you both. Forever and Ever. Please hang onto one another. You two are so meant to be together. I love you! Mom 3/28/15 Kent & Susan — 4:16pm, Sat 3/28/15: God! It was so good getting to see you two this morning — as well as Austin, Collin & Kaylee. Please take really good care of my sweet baby Luke. He’s very special. I am sooooooo fucking sorry for hurting him like this. It absolutely KILLS me. I am just so done with this world. I can’t go on. I’ve lost my faith. I grieve for Trav every minute of every day. Luke has seen me cry too much. This can’t be good for him. He deserves so much better!! I love him more than life itself, and I know you’ll take good care of him. I love you both. Please tell my son every day for at least six months that this was the most difficult decision I ever made because of my love for him. He has always been there for me! This kills me!! I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please ask him to forgive me, too. I just can’t go on. I’m in a better place now. Forever, Stephanie.

I drew a broken heart. And then I swallowed two bottles of pills, drove to my dead son’s apartment, and woke up two days later in the hospital.

It’s painful and depressing reading through all of those notes. I had completely forgotten about most of what I’d said. I guess this is the first time I’ve read them. But I had filed them away for a day just like today. One of the biggest things I’ve learned about suicide is you should at least offer the decency of a well articulated letter.

Travis’s Suicide Note

The first thing that strikes me is how I kept saying it’s been the toughest decision of my life. But the truth is that although I had thought about it a million times since Travis’s death, I had never seriously considered it until the day of my attempt. Up until then I just knew I couldn’t do that to Luke. Luke was all I lived for and he was my only reason for living. But then, in the wake of the pain and in the realization that a part of me had already died, I started to feel resentful towards Luke because I couldn’t end my life. And I guess him being gone with his dad for a week opened up an opportunity that I seized upon. But I obviously wanted them to understand I had thought it through. And I guess it was important for me to express that because Travis’s suicide note didn’t explain anything to us. And I guess a part of me has always wondered how much Travis had thought it through. Or had he just gotten drunk and said Fuck It?

The other thing I’m aware of is how much I didn’t want anyone blaming themselves. It’s a natural thing to blame yourself when someone commits suicide, or to look for the tiniest of ways you may have contributed to their death. To this day I continue to blame myself for Travis being so unhappy that he took his own life. It may not be why he did it, but I still hold myself responsible. Almost everyone I’ve talked to who knew and loved him have asked themselves what they might have done, or what they could have done. Chris blames himself for not answering the phone when Travis called. One of Trav’s friends blames himself for letting him have the gun. We’ve all blamed ourselves, and I wanted to make sure that no one blamed themselves for MY suicide. It was my decision to end the pain and go find Travis.

I kept saying, “If there’s an afterlife” I’ll go find Travis. I missed him so terribly, and I still do. I was so grief stricken that I just felt like I could no longer live without him. I no longer wanted to live without him. I didn’t remember wanting to go find him in the “afterlife,” because I really don’t believe there IS an afterlife. But after reading the notes I remembered how stuck I was. I just couldn’t move on. And I also hope there’s not an afterlife, because if there is I feel even guiltier because of my conversation with Travis before his suicide. I shared with him my atheistic views on the balcony before his death, and I think a part of what was stopping him from committing suicide before was because he was afraid of burning in hell for all of eternity. Once I told him there was no hell, he wasn’t afraid of what would happen AFTER the suicide.

It choked me up to read in my note to my mom how I wanted her to give my cremated ashes to Luke so he would know I was always with him. I can’t believe I was willing to do that to my son just to ease my pain. I know from my own pain and grief from Travis’s suicide how it destroys people’s lives. But I also know that I wouldn’t have reached the decision or taken two bottles of pills had it not been for the alcohol. And I recognize that I’ve always had a problem with alcohol, made lots of poor choices because of my problem with it, and I’m happy to report that I’m now sober since that day on March 28, 2015, nearly four years to the day.

But I lost custody of Luke to his father, which really isn’t such a bad thing. Luke is in a loving and supportive home; he loves the school he now attends; and he has an awesome girlfriend, Courtney. My son Chris hasn’t spoken to me since I got out of the hospital. I guess I’m forever dead to him. But I’ve moved on with my life, faithfully attended counselling and feel like a new person. Aaron loves, supports and forgives me, and he wants to be in my life. We like to go for walks and hikes, and he’s hoping to join the Air Force as an officer sometime this year. I apologized to both Mom and Dad who drove to Oklahoma City after I got out of the hospital (and crisis center, more about that in a different article). Dad made me promise I wouldn’t commit suicide. I could tell it really scared him. We lost Dad November 15, 2017, after a long battle with Lewey Bodies Dementia and prostate cancer. Mom and I are best friends again, and she’s forgiven me for my attempt and also for testifying against my brother. Neither of us speak to him. And none of my dad’s side of the family speaks to me (with the exception of my Uncle Bill).

And as I sit outside writing this, I’m listening to the birds happily chirping to one another, and I can hear my neighbor’s wind chime dinging loudly in the warmish breeze. The sun is shining brilliantly through the tree limbs, and as I strain my eyes toward the heavens I am reminded of the lessons my son taught me after his suicide.

First, he taught me that people have three lives: Their professional life, their personal life (behind closed doors), and the one they choose to share with you. They’ll share what they want to share. You may think you know everything about them, but you really only know what they want you to know. Secondly, he taught me that we all hurt, and we all sometimes hurt one another, even though that’s not our intent. It’s important to recognize the difference between being hurt by someone intentionally or innocently, and to forgive and forget accordingly. He taught me that even though it’s someone’s choice to end their life, it doesn’t make it any easier to accept. I thought it was going to be easier to accept than if Travis had been murdered or killed in an accident, but death and loss go hand in hand. He’s gone forever, and the pain stays. You’ll never “get over it.” Anyone who has lost someone close to suicide will tell you that it leaves a permanent, indelible impression. And some people don’t know what to say, and that’s okay. Because you won’t know what to say either. But some people, in trying to be helpful, will say things like, ‘You’ll get over it’ or ‘He’s in a better place’ or ‘people who commit suicide go to hell’ or any number of unhelpful things, and when they do (and they will), say or do whatever the hell you feel like saying or doing. Don’t hold it in.

He taught me to question things. He taught me to treat each moment with those I love as though they would be the last moments spent together. He taught me to take note and pay attention and ask for explanations to anything that don’t seem right. He taught me to listen and reflect and stop rushing and being in a hurry and take time to soak in the people you love. He taught me that drugs and alcohol are not our friends. They don’t help any situation.

I learned that smoking marijuana (even the “fake” stuff) and pouring myself into a bottle and having lots of sex was the worst possible thing I could have done to “cope.” I needed to devote time to Luke and be firm with him and give him structure and stability and occasionally practice using the word NO. I needed to be good to myself instead of letting others take advantage of my vulnerability (and you won’t believe how many people will do that!). I needed to stand up for myself and for Luke and stand out against Suicide rather than being understanding and accepting of why Travis did it. People need to know the risks and the damage one person’s suicide can do, and how it can have a ripple effect not only in families but in communities, in the states we live and work in, and in our Nation.

We have to talk about this suicide epidemic. We have to understand what’s causing it and then join together and fix it. We have to be willing to discuss the good, the bad and the ugly. We have to accept responsibility for what we’ve done and what we haven’t done. Only then can we begin to save lives and stop the cycle. And I hope that if you’re reading this, it will give you hope and maybe you’ll share it with someone else, or share your own story, and we can do our part to stop the cycle. We can save lives.

Travis taught me a lot of lessons after his suicide. He taught me to live again. To set boundaries for myself and others. He taught me it’s okay to lean on people and to need people and to graciously accept their help, rather than feel like I always have to be self reliant. But he also taught me to be more self reliant. He taught me we’re fragile and we never know what’s going to happen. But most of all, he taught me it’s okay to forgive myself and to move on, and to be happy. Travis would have wanted that.