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.
“Merry Christmas!” “Happy Holidays!” “Joy to the World!” We proclaim in the darkest season, with the brightest lights illuminating our obsidian neighborhoods. The most light-centric and joyous holidays amidst the coldest and darkest moments of the year — it’s a beautiful tradition. Warm hot chocolates in our hands and cozy candles on our shelves, and sorrow in many of our hearts.
Yes, firsts are hard. First Christmas without Mommy. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. Holidays are particularly difficult because they are family-centric: extended families gather and honor traditions. Most of our siblings have kids… all my nieces and nephews have a Mommy. My husband has a Mommy, and his Momma has a Mommy too. Everyone has a Mommy… except me and my siblings. “Why don’t I get to have a Mommy?” I ask Scott, through reddened eyes. Most of us have a spouse, too, except my Daddy. She’s gone now. Holidays and family gatherings like these amplify the isolation we already feel. The void my mother left companions us always, but holidays can make it feel as though a spotlight highlights the void.
Togetherness, though, feels like medicine for this severing pain. When something like this happens to one’s family, uniting with surviving family members is like taking aleve or ibuprofen: we’re all fully aware of the gaping wound, we all still feel it, but there’s a measure of relief in each other’s company. Days leading up to the reunion pass slowly and agonizingly. We hold our breath until we can hold each other in our loving arms, united by our terribly sealed past and fighting to press on towards a healthier future.
There’s ease with this reunion. There’s a peace in shared pain, an unspoken understanding, and a space to speak about a pain only we few understand. It provides a chance to process together and to share our pain… togetherness brings healing.
This Christmas, this thought assails me: two-thousand years ago, a baby lived and died and changed the world. Six months ago, my mother died because she wanted to meet that baby. She didn’t want to wait any longer to meet her precious Jesus. These days, I often wonder if my family would have been far better off without the Church (global, not any specific church). The idolization of heaven has killed two of my family members. That’s not what Jesus wanted, I know, but our pain-saturated culture seems obsessed with this unobtainable paradise.
The point of life is not to get to heaven, and heaven is not our home… at least, not yet. Heaven may be God’s dwelling place, and it may be the land of the dead, and it may be a place of renewal and eternity, but heaven isn’t everything and it’s not the point of our existence.
Jesus came to restore the earth. Jesus came to heal the earth. Jesus didn’t come so that we would scorn and leave the earth, and Jesus didn’t come for Christians to wish their lives away hoping in heaven. On my Mom’s best days, she knew that. She taught that, she lived that.
I’m not sure if my family would have been better off without the Church, but I think dreams of heaven are dangerous to those who suffer from mental illness.
Bring heaven to earth. Bring healing to earth. Bring joy to earth. Bring peace to earth. Isn’t that why Jesus came?
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.
Once upon a time, there lived a relatively happy family. They were a solemn family, where sorrow was ever before their doorstep, but happiness loomed at their threshold as well.
Their smiles were bright and welcoming, their tidings were of joy and compassion. They danced among a community of happy faces, committed to the cause of goodness and grace. Though they lived many states apart, they upheld that solemn unity that family and trauma require.
The mother, yes, she was the shining star. She was the jewel of the community, welcoming the shiny happy people — celebrated for her friendliness and hospitality, honored for her good nature. A shepherd to her community, a shepherd to her family. She boasted of her beloved family — children, the apples of her eyes, and her one beloved, her friend.
But, like all beautiful things, she died.
And what of her community? This shepherd did not pastor alone. No, she had several who could have looked after her flock. Only, they didn’t.
Her family was left to grovel, abandoned by the community that celebrated their wife and mother. Shunned by those whom called her a “co-laborer in Christ” and a friend. Exiled by the very community that spoke of her love and beauty at her funeral. Her family was judged and rejected, abandoned but not forgotten.
They thought of — and prayed for, of course — her family, they said, when five or six months passed and they finally decided to check in.
Five or six months of silence, of gossip, of abandonment from the very place their wife and mother once shined. She was the woman who really “saw” people, and they couldn’t see her survivors.
I’m sick of the veiled statements and the cryptic messages: I’m disappointed and hurt by how much my mother’s pastoral staff didn’t show up for us — after all she gave to them. She gave them her life, and they repaid her by shunning her family after her death.
But, as they read this, they’ll say “See! She’s angry at us,” and not “oh, we’ve hurt her.” It’s always the sufferer who must snuff her feelings, protecting the egos of those who did the hurting. Those who inflicted pain seldom care to take ownership of their wrongs, choosing rather to call the wounded impaired.
I’m sick of the injustice of it all, I’m sick of the gossip. I’m sick of the people who got my mother’s police report, made copies of it, and mailed and/or texted it out to people who had no right to her private information. I’m sickened by the people who continue to share it, choosing not to protect my mother nor my family from harm. I’m sick of being afraid to leave my house and wonder if somebody’s going to ask me about — someone I don’t know, saying things she would never tell them, looking to exploit answers from me. I’m sick of feeling so powerless, so voiceless, against those who have hurt and who keep hurting me and my family.
There were people who blamed my mom for my brother’s death, and those same people blame my family for her death. They were vile to her, sending nasty letters and saying wicked things.
They whisper and they lie, they spread misinformation in hopes of isolating us from our community. And guess what? It worked. Shunned. Isolated. Abandoned. All in the name of Jesus.
She’s not dead in my dreams. She’s never dead in my dreams. Sometimes she’s a ghost, but she’s never really dead. She’s always responsive… or ignoring me, but nonetheless she’s active.
But they’re always about death. In the first few weeks, I most often dreamed that she was a ghost or just too busy to talk to me — in these dreams, I knew she was dead. She wouldn’t talk to me in these dreams. I begged and pleaded for her to talk with me, but I could never quite reach her.
Now, nearly six months later, we catch her before she chooses fatality. Sometimes it’s just me and Mom. Sometimes my husband, Dad, and siblings are there too. She talks to me in these dreams. I/we are always trying to talk her out of it — to talk her out of dying. To beg her to stay. But they all end the same — I wake up. I remember she’s gone and she’s never coming back. Sometimes that brings tears to my dull eyes, sometimes it cultivates anger and protest, and sometimes it steals my breath and replaces it with anxiety.
I watched Where the CrawdadsSing the day before my Mom died, and I remember feeling so comforted when the main character’s mom walks out of her life forever. It’s a main plot of the movie — trying to figure out how a mother could leave her young. I remember thinking my Mom would never.
Ha. Isn’t life ironic like that? It’s so cruel.
* * * *
This has been of the hardest weeks to do anything. To get out of bed, to go to work, to want to do anything. I’d rather turn my phone off, ditch work, and cut myself off from the rest of the world for a couple of weeks and just sleep.
Scott woke up the other night to the sound of me screaming: he reported that I was staring at our fan, shrieking. One of the strangest part about night terrors is that one won’t recall the dream whatsoever, and people experiencing night terrors won’t typically wake up on their own. They’re not very common for adults, but almost always caused by immense stress. It’s unsettling to wake up to the sound of yourself howling in horror and shaking violently.
And then you have to go to work the next day, put on your best “I’m okay” face and complete whatever task is due by whenever deadline, half alive. A shell of what once. A candle burnt to its wick, melting whatever potential was once there.
The closer we get to the Christmas, the less I want to get out of bed. But I have end of year deadlines, places to be, things to do. So we trek on, one abysmal step at a time.
* * * *
I look forward to dreams now. They’re the one place I get to interact with my Mom, even though they’re just visages from my broken heart and my weary mind. Ever so briefly, it feels like she’s with me again, even if the dream is sad and dark and heavy. At least I “saw” her, at least I could spend just a few minutes with her ghost.
Complex creatures, terribly complex creatures… Humans are terribly complex creatures. Complex, perhaps, to our own detriment, and yet perhaps complex to our own salvation, too.
We can smile while we cry, our eyes can dazzle while they feel dead inside. We can hide our true emotions phenomenally, and we can feel multitudes of emotions simultaneously. Sometimes we aren’t hiding — we simply feel two things at once: happy, sad, scared, excited, depressed, grateful, grieving.
Grateful. Grieving.
Thanksgiving.
Ah, Thanksgiving can feel antagonistic to mourners. We don’t need to be reminded of all we have to be of grateful for. We know… we simply hurt, more.
Gratefulness doesn’t erase pain, thankfulness doesn’t even ease pain. It can offer a different perspective while we suffer, but it can’t fix it.
Some things will never be fixed. Some things will always be broken. Some things will always produce pain.
Yes, I am grateful that my family gathered once more for Thanksgiving, but I’m not grateful for the absence I will forever feel during every holiday, every family gathering… everyday.
Terribly complex creatures. We smile with our eyes, we remember terrible things in our minds. We press on, we press on, we press on. We feel both, we feel nothing.
With our complexity we hide from one another. With our complexity we hide from ourselves. How terrifying detrimental this complexity may become.
I’m a little “late” to my write this post because I have been so enormously frustrated and exhausted.
Let he who is without sin throw the first stone.
John 8:7
Within the past month, there have been some who surmise that they have discovered the answer for “why” my mother ended her life, and with that “answer,” they cast stones at my family.
Lovely.
In the name of love for my Mother, they seek to harm those she loved most.
Those who believe they discovered the answer claim that they saw the signs, and, to that, I ask, “why did you not share them?” If you think you found the root cause, if you think you saw it while she still lived, why were you silent?
Let he who is without sin throw the first stone.
There is no room in this sacred space of mourning and bereavement for blame, self-righteousness, shame, and condemnation. It is shame that kills us most. Do not speak of things you do not know or understand. Do not assume to know the mind of the departed. Do not impart discord, hatred, and cruelty on her survivors.
Victims and perpetrators, that’s what everyone is in the wake of a suicide, including the one who physically died. Those left behind simply become more dead than alive, people walking without their hearts. Sullen, sunken, and tired eyes barely greeting those around them.
There is much we do not know, and there is much we do know. Do not be foolish enough to think that you have it figured out, and do not be cruel enough to speak abhorrent conjectures into existence.
This is the mess that fuels the stigma suicide survivors live through. This is the loss that begets loss, the suffering that begets suffering.
Yes, it’s harsh. Yes, it’s cruel. And yes, unfortunately, it’s the reality.
* * * * *
For those seeking to help and ease the suffering, the best thing you could do for your friends in mourning is simply to show up and listen with empathy and understanding. Advice doesn’t help. Platitudes don’t help. Conjecture doesn’t help. Empathy and compassion help.
Calm kindness helps. Showing up helps, checking in helps.
Reader, may your lives never experience this horror [again], and may love and compassion greet you. may kindness and humility envelop you. May reconciliation find you. May peace carry your broken heart.
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 