Oh, the misguided things we do in the name of love.
Oh, the wicked things we do in the name of love.
* * * *
Welcome to death week, my friends.
May contains too many Death Holidays to list, too many pain points to discuss. I draw small blue hearts in my calendar on each Death Holiday/anniversary/marker to delineate the importance of the day: five blue hearts for May.
One of my siblings has a birthday this month — a glimmer of hope amidst a month marked with endings. It will be his first birthday without his Momma though, and that will be difficult. I marked my birthday with a blue heart this past year. Because, like I inscribed last week, every milestone regardless of how happy is shaded by what isn’t. It’s as if every moment is captured in a black-and-white photograph: you can see the smiles, you can see the joy, but the dissonance chills the ambiance.
* * * *
This week I’ve been struck by the cruelty of imperfect love.
Some say people die by suicide in an attempt to unburden their loved ones, others say anger drives people to violence, and many say shame or depression or overwhelm or a mirad of other things… all things we can’t validate because the only people who know are dead.
Rita Schulte pens it well in her book Surviving Suicide Loss, educating “Suicide doesn’t end the pain. It only lays it on the broken shoulders of survivors.” So, we survivors carry it and oftentimes feel more dead than alive. We feel hallow rather than of substance, opaque rather than solid.
People who knew my mom feel a special connection to us because we were a part of her, even if they did not know us well before she ended her life.
Some people honor that connection with kindness, empathy, and love. These are a balm to our shattered heart and aid in our healing.
Others treat us with contempt and cruelty — I’m not writing about people who couldn’t show up [that is okay], I’m writing about the people and organization who intentionally inflicted wounds. It happens to all suicide survivors in some form. Books tell us to expect it.
But one thought haunts me in the wake of their cruelty…
If you could be so cruel to me and my family, what did you do to my mother?
I miss when life was effortlessly happy. I miss when it was easy to go out with my husband and simply enjoy the moment or the meal or the adventure.
Now, memories and grief cloud every moment. Dinners are particularly difficult and I’m not exactly sure why, but I suspect it has something to do with the thousands of dinners I enjoyed with my family. There used to be six of us: four rowdy kids and a Mom and Dad. It was fast — with three growing boys, especially, dinner seemed to go so quick. I love having dinner with my sweet husband, but it’s a stark contrast to what was once was my home.
We go to places we used to take my parents, and I can’t help but think of the smiles and laughter the four of us once shared. Many were places Scott and I first discovered together, then brought my parents to escapade with us.
Presence, they say, is the key to happiness. I wholly believe that — romanticizing the past and dreaming of the future tends to destroy any chance at present happiness, but there is also a time to grieve.
Grief is a whole body experience — its brain damage, as its simplest explanation, and it affects everything. The more traumatic the death and the closer connection, the more damage is inflicted.
Brain damage takes time: slow, lethargic, low-stimulus, and quiet to heal. In our western world, grievers are not often privileged to this… we have to go to work, we have to keep up with responsibilities, we have to continue with normal living. For the majority of our days, we have to pretend it’s okay. And to an extent, it is okay. To an extent, it is happy. Because, once again, it’s a both-and.
It’s a dichotomy of emotions.
But I miss when it was just one — just happiness, just tiredness, just excitement. I miss that simplicity.
I miss just celebrating and really celebrating, not thinking of those who can’t celebrate with me.
Even at our wedding, I remember crying with my Mom about how Patrick couldn’t be there. We didn’t have to say it aloud — one look and it was easy to tell we were both heartbroken about it.
And then she left me, too.
That fact will be painful everyday and even more poignant at every milestone for the rest of my life. And that just sucks.
* * * *
So we celebrate, and I cry. I try not to… not to suppress the grief, but to experience the today.
I don’t want to be happy and sad [simultaneously], I just want to be happy, but I don’t think that can ever happen again.
I don’t think it’s very miraculous that we can’t kill a God — I don’t think it’s miraculous that Jesus rose from the grave. It’s miraculous that we murdered the son of God and that he loves us anyway.
Jesus didn’t come to this earth to die — he came to embody love. He came to see the marginalized, to be with the hurting, to heal the broken… and humanity killed him for that.
Of course we can’t kill a god.
I think we’ve missed the point, focusing on his resurrection as if we really had the power to vanquish the creator of life.
The miracle isn’t that he died, the miracle is that he came and thenhe returned when mankind treated him atrociously. The miracle is that he knew he’d be treat maliciously and he still chose to love us. The miracle is his love and compassion and grace and dignity. The miracle isn’t that mankind couldn’t kill God, the miracle is that he came back.
We’ve missed the why.
Jesus came to offer us a glorious life where we live in community, care for the marginalized, and aid in one another’s healing and he came back even when it killed him. He came and he returned to love.
Love never ends.
You cannot kill it, you cannot deny it, you cannot avoid it, you cannot pretend it doesn’t exist. Love is eternal. It transcends space, time, memory, life, and even death.
We feel tortured and agonized and anguished in grief because sorrow is love’s winter: grief is the other side of love, because love is endless and unfathomable. Love does not end in death — that is why grief stays with us forever, because love is eternal.
Mankind cannot kill Jesus, not eternally, because Jesus is love, and love cannot be killed… just like how a god cannot be killed. Mankind absolutely murdered Jesus, but you can’t obliterate something eternal. It’s not possible, and, therefore the resurrection isn’t miraculous. The miracle is that he loves people despite the fact that we murdered him.
In the Christian world, the Easter season seems to glorify death. There’s nothing beautiful about murder. There’s nothing good about Good Friday — nothing at all. Jesus didn’t have to die to save us, Jesus died because he was murdered. As Peter declared, “You denied the Holy and Righteous One… You killed the source of life” and God raised him from the dead (Acts 3:14-15).
In his own words, Jesus said “I have come so that they may have life and have it in abundance” (John 10:10). He said this to his murderers and to the people who despised him. Our miracle isn’t his resurrection, it’s his love for us.
* * * *
I’ve grown to despise the Christian — perhaps the Western — glorification of death. I reject it, and it sickens me.
Yes, this is the first Easter without my Mom. She always called it “Resurrection Sunday.” She still made us Easter baskets, she even made Scott one too.
This time of year is terribly triggering for me. I spent Easter 2019 in the hospital with Patrick. I found him at a hotel, passed out and over dosed. I called 911 and they pumped his stomach. My roommate dropped me off at the hospital and I spent the night there with him as he came off of his high.
He was shocked I stayed the whole night, and I was saddened that he would be so shocked. I told him that he’s my brother, I loved him, and I would not leave him like that. He asked me if I really believed that God could set people free (John 8:36), and I sang to him Hillsong’s rendition of “Who You Say I Am.” I was 21, I felt 60 that night. I told my roommate a few days later I wasn’t sure how he could keep living like this. I pondered that the alcohol or hallucinogens would end him, but I never would have imagined that he would commit suicide less than 10 days later.
Spring ushers a multitude of mourning: Easter, my sweet friend Walter’s death, Patrick’s death, Mother’s Day, Mother’s birthday, Mother’s death.
I mourn the dead, and I mourn the living: I mourn my grandparents and my Mother’s church. Sometimes it feels like they killed me, too.
* * * *
Good Friday and Easter are about so much more than a deity’s life and death: it’s about a murder and a radical love that changed the world.
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.
I was so eager to say goodbye to 2025. I was holding my breath until the simple man-made marker ticked to a fabricated turn of events, holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe 2026 won’t be as awful as 2025.
Realistically, 2026 will be hard. The more time passes, the more survivors are confronted with the reality of the loss. Each new milestone permeates where the mind worked endlessly to protect itself with the beautiful art of denial. Stress/survival mode and denial guard one’s mind until he or she is safe enough to experience the most brutal emotions. Time wears away at this protection and opens one’s heart to experience caverns of pain. Thus, 2025 will be hard. More anniversaries, more milestones, more bullshit.
These man-made annual festivities beautifully prompt reflection. Trauma does a funny thing to the mind: it hijacks the brain’s memory by severely depleting the ability to store new memories and to recollect old ones. Whole weeks and months can be stolen from the traumatized mind.
This December as I reflected on my brisk 28 years, I have been irritated. I’m almost done with my twenties — a time where I’m supposed to be full of energy and life and fun and crazy — and instead I’ve spent the last decade barely surviving. I had a couple good years, 2022-2024 specifically, but other than that, my mind and body have been ravaged by trauma.
Exhaustion, high cortisol, heart arrhythmias, PCOS, barely living. Years and years of living a half-life. This year, I’m irritated about it. I’m bitter about it. I am bitter about it.
I’m so sick of living like this. I’m jealous of people that don’t have to carry this weight. I don’t want others to endure what I have, I just don’t want to carry all that I have endured. I’m agitated about stress and trauma wreaking havoc on my mind and my body, no matter how much I attempt to manage the stress.
No amount of therapy, exercise, and stress management can minimize the amount of pain other people in my life have inflicted on me. No amount of good or joyous memories can take away or replace the amount of trauma my body stores.
It’s an unending battle with so little reward. High cortisol means weight gain, no matter what I eat nor how much I exercise. Weight gain, acne, hair loss, I’m disgusting. I feel disgusting. I feel hideous and exhausted and it feels like everything I do is pointless, and nothing I do works.
So yeah, I’m bitter about it right now. I’m sad about it, I’m mad about it, and I wish I could be “over it.”
I wish I could wake up and everything would feel okay, but it’s impossible. It’s all impossible.
I have years and years of ridiculously hard work to attempt to heal and create a healthier life… and it will take years. My body won’t be healed for years, my mind won’t be healed for years, and somethings — some things will simply never heal. There are some things the mind never recovers from, and death is one of those things. The mind physically cannot comprehend death, and, thus, it never heals from those losses. The more traumatic and unexpected the loss, the less healing the brain experiences… ever.
I hate my life. I hate all of this.
AND YET, Life is a gift.
Life is a gift.
Every breath is a gift. Every moment is a gift.
Every single day is a gift. My life is a gift. My presence in your life is a gift. Others are blessed because I exist. Others are blessed simply to know me. And what is blessed? Comforted, loved, cherished, appreciated, noticed, known: Others experience all these beautiful things from me. My life is a gift, it’s a gift to you. I know my life is a gift to me, too, even when I can’t feel it. Even when all my efforts feel fruitless, even when I feel disgusting and stupid and worthless, my life is a gift.
It’s a gift to love and be loved. It’s a gift to give and receive comfort. It’s a gift to know and be known. Ir’s a gift to feel and experience life deeply. It’s a gift to live. Life is a gift.
Trauma is not a gift. Pain is not a gift. Abuse is not a gift. The bad things that have happened to you? They’re not a gift. They weren’t part of “God’s plan” and God didn’t “allow” them to build your character or make you a better person. Bad things are not good, and they will never be good. There is nothing good about murder and suicide. There is nothing good about physical and sexual abuse. There is nothing good about cruelty and depravity.
Yes, life can be beautiful after pain. Yes, pain may yield new and beautiful perspectives. These good things do not occur because of pain but rather in spite of pain.
My Dad’s life is a gift. My brothers’ lives are a gift. My husband’s life is a gift. My sister in laws’ lives are gifts. My nieces’ and nephews’ lives are a gift. My friends’ lives are gifts. These people bless — they comfort, love, cherish, appreciate, notice, know — me. Every day their lives are a gift.
Yes, I am angry and sad and bitter about what people have done to hurt me, how that has manifested in my mind and body, and the years behind and ahead of me that these traumas have stolen. Yes, I hate these major defining moments of my life, but my life is a gift. Your life is a gift to me, too. Your life is a gift to you, too. I love you 💙
Life is a gift: honor it, tend to it, cherish it. Every day. Especially on your worst days.
It’s been six months since my mom died by suicide. Twenty-six weeks, six months.
* * * *
Six weeks after she died, the police allowed us to collect her belongings. In them, we found a deleted email that she wrote to me and my siblings. Another layer of grief, another thing to process. Some may think it should be comforting for us to know she thought about us before she died, but [to us] our mother thought about us and still chose to leave us. That stings.
We kept the letter to ourselves: it contained highly sensitive and personal information that we didn’t want shared with the world.
* * * *
Four weeks after she died, my mother’s family decided that Mom’s death was my father’s fault. My Daddy… my wonderful, wonderful daddy.
They called our church, telling them that my dad was a wicked man, sharing fraudulent stories, and slandering him. I’m not sure if the church believed them — no one reached out to me or my siblings or my father about it. I hadn’t heard from the executive church staff since a week after the funeral.
* * * *
Six weeks after she died, the police included that private deleted email in their report. I called asking for it to be redacted — it was a message my mother typed for me and my brothers, and even she decided not to send it to us… what right did the world have to the email? — but it couldn’t be redacted. Detectives said it was a clear admission of her guilt: it proved no one else was at fault, no one else was to blame.
Ironically, my mother’s family received this information, made copies of the letter and the report, and sent it out to the masses with notes blaming my father.
When people called us crying, saying they’re not sure why they received such information from Mom’s family and sharing their support for my Daddy, I reached out to those family members via text:
I meant it. This was entirely distressing. Another layer of grief, another hurt. It cut me to the core that they would do something like that, violating my mother’s privacy, violating my privacy, and, above all, doing something so wicked to my Daddy.
They didn’t answer the message. I haven’t heard from them since.
* * * *
Six weeks after that, I got a letter from someone on staff at the church. A kind letter, a letter filled with love, care, and memories of my mother. This was the first legitimate form of communication anyone from my family had received from an executive staff member from the church since a week after the funeral.
* * * *
One week later, we found out Mom’s family sent the police report and letters to the church. They’d been talking with the church all this time, telling staff members that my Dad and my brothers and I blamed the church for Mom’s death. The church, believing my mother’s family, chose to “take a step back” from my family because of narratives my mother’s family shared.
I spent months writing how we shouldn’t blame each other, and yet, ironically, our church thought we blamed them. How sad is that?
That same week, we had the Out of The Darkness Community Walk. Several church members came to honor my mom and my family and show their support, but I was too scared to appreciate their support at that time — it’s terrifying to go into large crowds when hate mail has been sent out about one’s family.
We hadn’t heard from the executive church staff, the people we thought we’d received the most support from… so I assumed they blamed us, I assumed they hated us, too.
* * * *
A week after that, Scott and I met the staff member who wrote that kind letter. We had dinner, we stayed for a couple hours. We cleared some of the air, I think. I think we learned from one another. It was the first time I’d seen them since a week after my Mom died — it was awkward at first, but it was kind and loving. We talked about the chaos, we talked about the fall out, we talked about missing my Mom. We talked about how the church took a step back, we talked about how they thought we blamed them.
I’m still puzzled by that: troubled that they thought we blamed them, but did not seek us out to know if we actually did.
* * * *
Last week, I met with another executive staff member. We, too, enjoyed dinner and talked about the past six months. We talked about the fear people have of reaching out to my family. Some fear the intensity, some fear the heaviness, some fear the awkwardness, some fear bombarding us.
The dinner was peaceful, healing, sweet, honest.
* * * *
Yesterday, my brother Sawyer posted alluding to these details, and, in some ways, he freed us. He freed us to tell the truth of what has happened to us. He posted it in such a tasteful way — not grotesquely, not angrily, not wickedly. He simply told the truth.
Yesterday, Scott and I went back to the church. He had been wanting to go back for a while… I couldn’t bring myself to want to go to a church where most of the executive staff hadn’t reached out to me or my family. In fact, still only those two people on the executive staff have.
It’s painful to feel abandoned by people my Mom gave so much to… her time, her life, her energy. She gave so much to the church she loved, and yes, it feels like they did abandon us.
* * * *
One of the two executive staff members that had reached out to me shared that he or she feared their “presence wouldn’t be enough” for us. The truth is, their presence was all we ever wanted.
We saw both those staff members yesterday, and I was deeply happy to see them. We smiled and we hugged and we shared how much we love each other. I love them — I love them so much. I saw another sweet friend, someone who reaches out almost on a weekly basis. They saw us and immediately came to give the warmest hug, just the hug I needed. I love them so much, too.
Presence brings healing. Togetherness brings healing. Conversations bring healing. Compassion brings healing. Eye contact brings healing. Seeing each other brings healing. Love, love brings so much healing.
I love you, Mom.
I love you, Daddy. I’m so sorry for the hurt and the injustices that have happened to you over the past six months. I’m so sorry you lost your best friend in the worst way. I’m so sorry you lost everything. You’re my hero.
I love you, Brothers. I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through these new hurts week after week. I’m so sorry we don’t have a mom.
I love you, Church staff. You’re not perfect and I don’t expect you to be, but I did expect you to be here and you weren’t. I’m sorry you lost my mom, too. I know you loved her.
I love you, Mom’s family. I hope you experience healing.
* * * *
I’m not sure what the next six weeks will look like, but I hope they’re filled with less drama than the past six months.
I hope they’re filled with healing and with renewed community. I hope relationships mend and forgiveness and trust and love grows. I hope that new life comes and new joy buds amongst the thorns of this life.
I know that I will experience a lot of pain during the next few months and years as I continue to process these numerous hurts. I know it won’t be okay, and that’s okay.
I leave old sticky notes from my mother around the house because… what else should I do with them when I find them? I don’t want to throw them away and I don’t want to put them away, either. So they sit out, collecting dust, beguiling to be read, hauntingly there.
In the first few weeks following Mom’s death, so many loving people gave and gave and gave. Aside from meals that nourished my whole family, people gave me face masks, candles, stickers, socks, etc.
Peoples’ hearts can be so beautiful in heartbreak.
At the time, I had so little capacity to process the gifts, so I set them aside as if part of a collection. Now, I can’t even remember who all gave things. Someone gave me a necklace — I don’t remember who now. She gave a card, but it was separated from the necklace. I can’t remember who to say “thank you,” to… but…
Thank you.
Thank you each person who gave food or a card or some piece of comfort. Thank you for reaching out, thank you for reading these, thank you for commenting, thank you for showing up and bearing witness to a pain that seems as unbearable as it is. It’s not easy or comfortable to watch this incomprehensible level of pain. I know many of you who knew and loved my Momma hurt too, and many of you who simply know me hurt for me. Thank you for giving out of your pain and for showing up.
I tried to go through that collection of gifts — those tokens of love and comfort — yesterday, 133 days later, but I still can’t get through it. It’s still too raw, it’s still too fresh of a reminder that my world was ripped apart… that my Mommy is gone. Yet, the things that I got through reminded me of all the love you have given me and all of the love you had for my Momma. It felt raw to touch and see these gifts of love from people I could not even remember. So I will try again another day, and be reminded once more of all this love.
Love is all we have left, and love is both enough and not impossibly enough at all. But love does, as the old saying teaches, “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends,” and what is grief but love that persists?
I began writing these posts to bring awareness to grief, loss, and surviving suicide.
I lost my brother to suicide when I was 21: back then, very few people in my life had experienced any type of familial loss. I lost my mother to suicide when I was 27, and, still, few people in my life have experienced familial loss.
A majority of people my age haven’t experienced loss, and a majority of people who have experienced loss have not experienced suicide.
Most people reading these posts know me and my family, and have thus now been affected by suicide.
These posts are meant to bring awareness and to highlight a community of mourners. I try to write about my individual experience with grief and it seems that many have found solace and community from these words.
A few weeks ago, I wrote how many have experienced me at my worst while I have experienced them at their best — their tenderest, their most thoughtful, their most considerate, their most generous. It has been beautiful to see people show up for me and my family.
I would be remiss not to mention how this brings out the worst in us, too. Unexpected loss makes people quick to anger or irritability as the brain tries to process a world that no longer makes sense.
Suicide loss forces people to try to find meaning behind a senseless and terrible loss, and this can turn people against one another in the vilest ways. Endless questions of Why did she end her life? exhaust survivors’ minds and, too quickly, the community that should rally to support one another the most instead turns on each other.
In trying to find meaning, survivors can all too easily blame one another — It must have been her job stress. It must have been the church. It must have been her family. It must have been her parents’. It must have been her kids. It must have been her spouse. It must have been her sibling. It must have been her friends. It must have been myself. You should have seen the signs. I should have seen the signs.
Do you see how damning those statements are?
Damning.
Those statements destroy, and, yet, those who should support one another the most can viscously accuse one another with similar statements.
People think it. Some people say it. All survivors feel it.
The truth is that all of this is horrific. The truth is that no one on the planet wanted this. The truth is that any of us would have done anything to prevent this outcome. And yet, people still whisper accusations about survivors and can scream them at her closest friends and family members.
Nobody wanted this. Nobody caused this. Don’t blame her community. Don’t blame her friends. Don’t blame her family. Don’t blame yourself.
Don’t add more hurt to the most painful situation imaginable.
This has been one of the hardest weeks to get out of bed. Perhaps it’s a mix of jet lag, allergies, and grief. Perhaps it’s simply reality sinking in deeper and deeper as the days pass away, each new day taking me farther away from my mother.
I woke up at 3 am other day with the slightest fever and spent the next few hours weeping and feeling the weight of this catastrophic loss. I want my Mommy, I yelped again and again and again. She always made sure to stop by if I was sick, even if it was just for a quick hug or to play with my hair, but mainly just to make sure I was okay. She’d bring medicine, ginger ale or Gatorade, maybe some soup, and all the compassion in the world.
But no more Momma.
I’ve gotten out of bed every day since she passed. I’ve brushed my hair and my teeth each morning and each night without fail. Last week, I finally started putting some jewelry on… it’s funny the little things you do or don’t do in deep grief… but this week I have not wanted to get out of bed at all.
Several grief books discuss the experience of derealization and depersonalization — the out-of-body feeling where one can’t ground himself/herself to the present moment. The sense that the griever is observing oneself from outside his/her body, feeling robotic or numb. I find this occurring most often in large groups and, hence, I am a bit uncomfortable and almost alarmed amidst them. These group activities become a source of anxiety and tension, where I end up spending an inordinate amount of energy on pretending to be normal or pretending to have fun.
The good thing about pretending, though, is that it can often result in positive experiences, but at the cost of an exponential amount of energy.
I think I am pretty spent from the few social activities I have mustered the courage to participate in. I’m not quite sure how one finds balance in this. Maybe I need to plan more one-on-one activities with patient listeners, eager to indulge me with their empathy and kindness. Buuut scheduling that is exhausting, too.
Thus, in the end, everything is simply hard. So excruciatingly difficult and sad and painful.
I’m still getting out of bed, I’m still brushing my hair and my teeth each morning and each evening, but this week it’s seemed to require so much more from me than past weeks.
Friends have done their best to help ease the suffering and mental load, showing up with kindness by bringing me soup, dropping in just to give me a hug, and so much more, and I’m so grateful for that. More grateful than I can probably communicate, but…
It’s a living nightmare, and that’s the reality of living with pain that cannot be fixed. Time and new memories will heal, but not today, not this week, not anytime soon.
Exposed 