Chapter 10.  Surviving Mentally and Spiritually

So many people have asked if I found comfort in God after Paul’s death. And the answer is a flat “no.” Paul’s death has not brought me closer to God. For me, there is no God. I can’t relate to a God that would take away my son. I look for a spiritual connection but can’t seem to find one. I’ve tried praying. But to whom and for what? Paul’s death has brought me closer to myself. I’ve become more in touch with my feelings and ways to cope by myself. These are the things that comfort me. Going to Esalen Institute and Big Sur helps, but that is not turning to God. That is getting away from my regular life and giving myself space to reflect and write and be with people who have the same writing interests as mine. My writing has become my therapy and the way I get in touch with my feelings and myself. I’ve found my own way.

So I’ve turned further away from God. And it’s not only about Paul. It’s about the disasters in the world and in our nation. I never really be- lieved in God—even before Paul died. I’ve always been an agnostic with a strong leaning toward atheism.

The scare tactics of religion turned me off as a teenager. Live a good life and you’ll have a good afterlife. To me, once you’re dead, you’re dead. You’re gone. That’s it. There’s nothing after that. There’s no God, no heaven, no nothing. No matter how much magical thinking comforted me, I knew leaving the hall light on for him wouldn’t bring Paul back.

Even with these feelings, I joined a religious synagogue after Paul died because the rabbi who came to our house almost immediately and then officiated at his memorial service was so helpful and compassionate. I wanted to support him. I also thought at first that it might help me. But, no, belonging to the synagogue hasn’t helped. Having the rabbi as a good friend does.

I also still show up in synagogue for Jewish high holidays—the New Year and Day of Atonement. I’ve always enjoyed the Jewish traditions—family Passover dinners and break-the-fasts, the socialization of being in the synagogue with my family. I use the time to sit quietly, think, meditate, but not to pray. I wouldn’t know how to pray. I’ve never done it. But I like the music, the feeling of belonging, and having my family surrounding me.

I also don’t believe that Paul is with God. Even though I wrote a poem about my vision of him in a heaven of some sort—I called it Buddha because he was a Buddha kind of character—I don’t really picture him in heaven. I don’t picture him anywhere but back here with us on earth among the living. That’s where a young guy like him should be.

Although it may be completely nuts, I do believe that if I dream about him he is close by or with me. It’s interesting that when September rolls around, I dream about him more. That’s the month he died. One year—on his death day—the phone rang very early in the morn- ing. As I reached for the phone, I knocked over a crystal perfume bottle off my dresser, and picked up after one ring. No one was on the line, but I couldn’t help but think it was Paul checking in. I even mentioned it to a friend who also lost a son to suicide, and he said he had experi- enced the same kind of thing, that that kind of magical thinking is not unusual.