I was never Mom’s “mini-me” and I wonder if she resented that.
Sure, I look like her… but we’re definitely not twins.
After three boys, maybe she wanted a daughter just like her… but I wasn’t.
On my birthdays, she used to tell me that when she found out I was a girl she hoped I would have blue eyes. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it wasn’t.
I’ve always thought I was the perfect 50/50 blend of both my parents in both looks and personality. We talked about it a lot — me and my parents — I thought we all liked me that way. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she said it with resentment. I don’t know.
She loved doing makeup, I didn’t. She wanted me to have her curly hair too — she tried to make mine curl like hers, but it never really did. She’d often do my hair and makeup when I went to her house, even as an adult.
I think she wanted me to be just like her, and I wasn’t, and I think that hurt her.
That leaves me feeling… guilty? A little sick? Not great.
Sure, it’s all speculative thinking. Perhaps you’ll say I shouldn’t waste my time on thoughts like these, and maybe you’re right… but the thoughts still generate.
I’ve written over 60 posts since my Mom ended her life, and maybe a handful of them have alluded to other people. I try primarily to write about my own experience, but some dramas obviously include my husband, dad, and siblings. I work not to tell their stories, though our stories are intricately untwined, but their stories are their own. Their experiences are their own: their own stories to share, their own experiences to suffer, and it’s not my place to create memoirs of their lives.
However, today is different.
I dedicate today’s post to my Daddy 💙
My Daddy, who’s had to endure what no one should endure. My Daddy, who’s had to be too strong his entire life. My Daddy, whose life has never been easy. My Daddy, who’s lost a son. My Daddy, who’s lost his partner and best friend. My Daddy, who’s fought his whole life to create a better life for his family, but whose family betrayed this life.
This weekend is my parents’ anniversary. It was Wednesday this week before I realized just how much that fact stings me. I know it’s agonizing for my father.
I journaled a few weeks ago mourning the loss of both my parents. I miss when I had parents, now I just have a parent and my parent is having to reinvent himself because my mother left us without warning. I love my Daddy, I love every version of my Daddy, but I miss the version of my Dad that had my Mom.
I miss the security of having two parents who loved each other so deeply. I miss them randomly dancing with each other in the kitchen. I miss their adoring eyes. I miss their fun. I miss their smiles, I miss their joy together. I miss their partnership. I miss admiring them. They endured so much together — always together — they loved to be together. My Mom used to say that being apart for my dad for more than a couple days was agony, especially after my brother died. They helped each other. They loved each other. I mean, they really loved each other.
Together, holding hands, laughing, sharing, just being together. They could do anything together.
Together, they build a beautiful life. They raised a beautiful family. They helped us children through tragedy after tragedy. They cared for us during all seasons. I miss that, I miss them. They seemed to have every answer in the world — not proudly, not that they told us every answer in the world, but that they simply lived a life that testified that anything could be conquered and endured together.
But now here’s my Daddy, my wonderful Daddy, mourning his wife on the anniversary of their beginning. The anniversary when two names became one, and my mom was crowned with a new name and a new life.
They escaped the turmoil of their upbringing and built a beautiful life for each other and their children. A life built on love, centered around family, and upholding the strongest foundation any child could long for.
I love my Daddy.
I’m grateful for this life he curated for me and my siblings. My brothers have a strong and beautiful sense of family that we inherited from my Daddy. Family has always been the most important thing to my Daddy, he sacrificed so much for us.
He’s the best Dad in the world. He always has been. I’ve never seen someone so kind, tender, and loving to his wife like my dad was to my mom. I love spending time with him, I love living near him, I love working with him. I love that he’s my Daddy.
I love his depth, I love his beautiful mind. I love his realism and his commitment to continual growth. I love his vulnerability and honesty. I love him. I love him so much. I love that he always helps me, I love that he listens to me and speaks life and truth into me. I’m so grateful for my Daddy. He’s the best.
I’m so sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry you have to live through this, too. I know Momma loved you. I’m so sorry she left us when she was unwell. I know you would have done anything to prevent this. None of this is your fault, Daddy. I’m so sorry for all the hurt and pain and wrongfulness that has come since her death.
I love you, Daddy. I’m so sorry that every day without Mom sucks, and I’m sorry this weekend amplifies that pain.
I’m so proud of you, Daddy. I’m so proud of your battle to continue living each day. I’m so proud of you for doing the hard work of healing each day. I’m so proud of you for being my Daddy. I love you, always. I love every version of you, and I’ll always love you.
She was beginning to age gracefully and beautifully. She had crow’s feet and smile lines, whiting hair and tired bones. I loved these little things, I loved her testaments of a life well lived. A life fought for and endured with laughter in good measure.
She was brilliant, too, you know: a delighted student and longing scholar.
But she fell victim to her mind, and murdered any chance at life and redemption.
She knew what it was like to be a survivor of suicide and still chose…
We just weren’t worth living for.
Because of my brother Patrick, we used to discuss how people who want to kill themselves typically won’t tell others they struggle with suicide — voicing it can feel like limiting the option. People who admit they’re ideating can receive support and, in some ways, accountability. We assumed then that was why Patrick didn’t tell us he wanted to end his life. I know now that’s why she was dishonest about her yearning for the grave.
I’ve written it before and I’ll write it again — Secrets kill people. Shame kills people.
If you’re ideating suicide (thinking of ways to make yourself die, fixating on death, contemplating self-harm), reach out while you’re still mentally healthy enough to do so. Care enough to reach out. We want to see you grow old, even if you don’t. Don’t leave us behind, wondering why you didn’t think we were worth it to enough for you to stay around.
Your life is important. Your life is a gift. You are a gift. Please, seek professional help if you notice yourself yearning for death. Small steps and changes can transform one’s life from miserable towards healing, growth, and beauty. Don’t let pain win.
My mother was like the sun, everyone felt how bright she shine. Her presence instantly lit up the room: she dazzled with light, warmth, and life everywhere she shined. Those closest to her orbited her and grew from her tender care, but they were severely scorched when our bright star transposed into a supernova. Our sun blazed and left us in ashes. What once brought warmth became an epicenter of frigidity. What once held life holds only withering dreams of what could have been. Our universe, once safe and secure, forever centers around a black hole.
* * * *
There are a few places where I feel my mother’s presence, or rather absence, most keenly. Places where memories implanted forever in my scarred mind. The spa by my home is one of these places — somewhere I can remember so well it’s almost as if she’s there. I see her in the lounge chair next to mine… only, I don’t. I see the empty chair, but her memory is so palpable I can vividly imagine her. It’s not just a spa anymore, it’s a sacred space where I once met my Mom, and where I wish so badly she was with me again.
In my mind, I imagine she’s with me. I pretend I see her smiling and welcoming me into the room, inviting me to sit with her. The sofas are so large that we sometimes shared one so we could whisper to each other. So, I imagine she’s here. I look at her empty seat and speak silently to myself “I love you, Mom. I wish you really were here with me.” I think, maybe she is. Who knows? So, I pretend she is. I carry on my empty conversation: “I love you, Mom. That’s all I want you to know.”
It’s a question my therapist often asks — “If your Mom was here, what would you want to say to her?” I cannot utter much get past “I love you, Mommy. I wish you were here.”
But today, I continue my imaginary chat. “We really were best friends. I should have told you that more often.” Maybe I did, I just can’t remember.
And I cry, and I cry, and I cry quietly to myself. Softly in the silent room of the spa, staring at an empty chair where I can’t actually see my mother. I imagine she gets out of her chair to come sit by me, I imagine she holds my hand, and I imagine she pulls me into her arms as I cry. She strokes my hair.
I imagine all of it as if it really happened. I imagine all of it alone. So quiet, so cold, so empty.
I rest my head in the gray lounge chair, as if the chair offers a hug. My imagination fades and only the simple chair remains, reminding me of my loneliness here without her.
And yet, despite the tears and heartache of that still room, it may be my favorite part of the spa because I can see her so well there.
Traveling while grieving can become a sick game of “how many places can I be sad in?” Each new experience serves as a reminder of how I can never share any of this with my mom.
Grief mutes the senses and dulls the atmosphere. It prohibits its host from experiencing anything to the full. The infamous brain fog clouds everything one’s eyes behold and rains on the memory of one’s memory newest experiences.
Traveling is helpful, I suppose, in that it requires a massive amount of focus from one’s mind — one must keep moving, walking towards the goal of his or her next destination. One’s loss can’t be at the forefront of the mind when navigating unknown places, but the ache is there. It’s always there.
Death is such an unwelcome visitor, knocking on the doors of our lives and bursting them open despite our protests. Illnesses can creep in to poison’s one’s life, accidents can wreak havoc and destroy life, wicked people can barge in and steal life, but what is this?
What is this?
How terrifying that one’s own mind can betray itself and create death in a most unnatural way. How terrifying that we can’t even see it coming.
And then there’s the stigma: Stigma about grief, stigma about suicide, stigma about mental health, and the deep shame these stigmas create for people who struggle and for survivors left behind by those who lost the battle. Stigmas that prevent people from getting help. How can one reach out for help when everyone around them expects to have the answers?
Our church did not/has not publicly acknowledged my Mom’s death — my mom, a highly influential staff member of the church. What type of message does that send to the stigmatized? What message does that send to the thousand who attended her service and who are in deep mourning?
Maybe they don’t address it because they’re terrified of it, too. Silence always helps, doesn’t it?
Ignoring problems never makes them go away: Silence simply suffocates the suffering, and stigma shames them into solitude.
There should not be shame in “having demons.” Life is abundantly difficult and misery isn’t something to be ashamed of. There should not be shame for having a good life and still struggling with terrible intrusive thoughts. You should be safe to voice that. You should not be shamed or silenced for voicing how horrible life can be and how tormenting your own mind can be. Even God acknowledged that it was not good for man to be alone. Even Jesus acknowledged that life is troublesome. Even Jesus asked for a different way out.
I return home from a trip I aimed to keep very private — there’s a comfort in enjoying quiet and hidden moments after the world discovers something so deeply personal out about one’s life — but all I can think of is the fact that my Mom won’t be there when I get home.
She used to say that she couldn’t wait to get home after traveling because “there’s no place like Florida.” She loved its warmth and its beauty and its vibrancy. She loved that it was home, and she built her home in the loveliest ways.
I can’t reconcile how someone who loved life so much, and who loved me so much, could execute the cruelest action against all that she loved.
I wish she thought that she could get help. I’m sickened that she couldn’t verbalize her struggle. I hate the stigma, I hate the silence, I hate the finality.
If you have ever — ever — ideated, please speak out. Seek a professional counselor and share your ideations. Don’t let shame kill you. Don’t let shame destroy everything that you do love in life.
Be there when someone gets home. Be there when your friend gets home. Be there when your family gets home. Be there to welcome your loved one back. Don’t let stigma take that from all of us.
Exposed 