Diary of the Teenage Dead - Part One
I'm Dead - I think!

Note from Anthony: Although this article is confronting, I feel it needs to be. It reflects the truth in the only way all truths can be seen... hard to read, hear or see. This is the first installment of a 3 part series on Diary of the Teenage Dead...

Arguably, teenage suicide is the hardest of all deaths to cope with. When a young person takes his or her own life, a bomb drops on family and friends. Dreams are shattered, relationships are torn apart and emotions are blown sky high. Initially, feelings of disbelief, guilt, anger, and regret rain down on family, friends and relatives. Then ever so slowly, an emotional and mental fog closes in. The future, the way forward vanishes from sight. Some families take years to recover. Some never do. Some never manage to glue the shattered pieces of their lives back together again. A piece will always be missing.

For those of you still grieving the loss of a young person due to suicide please keep reading. I know each word makes you relive some of your pain, but within these words you may find some comfort.

At every seminar Anthony holds, one or two young teenage spirit energies invariably make their way through. Their mission is to reach out to their loved-ones in the audience and pass on a message via Anthony. While the circumstances that cause a young person to take his or her life vary greatly, a common thread runs through the messages passed on. That is, “It was not your fault. There is nothing more you could have done for me. I take responsibility for my actions.”

For any parent currently raising a teenager the statement, “I take responsibility for my own actions” is short of a miracle in itself. But to hear it from a teenager lost to suicide, a cathartic healing takes place on both sides.

What you’re going to read next is the first entry made in a fictitious diary Anthony and I have called “Diary of the Teenage Dead”. If you find the title confronting, it’s meant to be. Anthony and I have had many long discussions asking ourselves, “How can we help grieving families and friends understand suicide? How can we show suicide from the other side (Heaven, the Divine Universe; the Light or what ever term rests with you comfortably)? At the same time, we asked ourselves, “How can we make young people understand suicide is not the easy way out?” As you read this month’s diary entry, keep in mind the source material has come from the many connections Anthony has made with young teenage spirits that suicided and information from his own spirit guides. Over the next three months, the diary entries will give you incite as to how it is in Heaven and on earth for Zak, a young 17 year old boy who suicided.

Diary of the Teenage Dead

I’m Dead – I think

That’s funny… when I went to write the date. There wasn’t… isn’t one. There is no time here. Time has no meaning.

I can remember seeing my family gathered in our lounge room. My Uncle and Aunt were there. Someone had made tea, but no one was drinking it, nor were they eating the biscuits. Not even my little brother. Mum wasn’t just crying, she was howling. I’d never seen her so upset. Dad was standing next to her like a robot. His movements were stiff and numb. My, 'I-know-everything' thirteen year old sister was hysterical. And my baby brother was wandering from person to person inconsolable. He didn’t know what was going on, but he could feel the sadness in the room. He just kept asking where I was. That was the strange part. I was there in the room with them. I tried to kiss mum on the forehead. I used to do that to tease her. It was our joke that I’d grown taller than her. Now I could ruffle her hair. I tried to give dad a bear hug but he was as stiff as a statue. I stroked my sister’s hair - just like I used to when she was nine. She just looked straight through me. I tried to take my baby brother’s hand but he didn’t respond. Mum was almost incoherent when she said, “I can feel him touching my face.” Of course you can mum; I’m right in front of you. Why couldn’t she see me? My sister screamed, “I can feel him stroking my hair.” Of course she could. I was. What had happened? What tragedy had taken over our lives? Why was the doctor there? Why was he telling dad that mum had to be sedated to cope? Cope with what? Why couldn’t anyone see me? What was going on?

From nowhere Zute appeared. “Zute old boy,” I remember saying, roughing him behind the ears. That was something he loved me doing right up until the day he died. At that moment time froze. Zute died when I was ten, I can remember thinking. Then, in instant replay, it all came flooding back to me. The drugs, alcohol, and finally the car crash.

I’d lost my job earlier that day. I’d been caught doing a line of speed in my car at lunch time. I told the boss to f___ off. Anger was surging through my veins. I stormed away from work. I burst through the kitchen door. Mum took one look at me and said, “You’re high.” I told her where to go too. I stormed out of the house. I spent the rest of the afternoon in the pub.

I was very drunk by the time I staggered into the kitchen around 7 p.m. that night. Both mum and dad were sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me. Even before I had slammed the door behind me, they started at me. “The drugs are messing with your head.” “Look at you, you’re on a constant emotional roller coaster ride.” They kept at me. Nag, nag, nag. I stormed off to my bedroom. I was very angry. I did another line of speed. I hated the World and everyone in it. The speed charged me up. I jumped into my car. Drunk and drugged out of my mind, I hit the open highway. I’d never felt so angry. I screamed with rage. I remember my knuckles turned white I was gripping the steering wheel so hard. I kept pushing the accelerator down. One-twenty, one-forty until finally, the speedometer needle hit 180 kilometres per hour. At that moment I swerved. I smashed head on into a huge tree. I felt comforted by the fact that when I woke up my worries would be gone. Imagine that, I actually thought I’d wake up.

Had Zute not come bounding up to me, I may never have realised I was dead. The moment I thought, “Oh God, I am dead” white light streamed in around me. The scene of mum and dad crying in our lounge room began to fade out. I tried hard to hang on. I didn’t want to leave them, but the light was too strong. I new I had to follow Zute where ever it was he was taking me. For the first time in a long time, I felt at peace. The white light was warm and welcoming. It made me smile.

Next month, we’ll travel with Zak as he crosses over into the Light. Zak’s journey is just beginning, as his family enters their dark nights of the soul.