Soul Contract And The Sea

Unedited 4/2016

I stood with warm feet and toes caressing, exploring the warm sand. Mesmerized by the tide far, far into the distance I wondered at the distance I would travel into the Indian Ocean, thousands of miles from my home, to feel the sea caress my shoulders and chest to envelope me. As is and always shall be, my heart and mind immediately followed the invisible, magical chord to Taylor, my daughter back home in the United States and I used my phone to photograph and video my first experience of this African paradise in Tanzania. She sought the peace of the beach, warmth of the sun, writing in the sand, feeling the hot sun and cool water, seeking shells, crabs, dolphins, life of the sea, too.

I knew she’d love Africa, too like I did. I dreamed of keeping my line of communication open with her while I was there to express my love for her and this place on earth in which she could find joy, escape, and perspective to change her life, learn of this beautiful culture and its magic. I wanted her to be happy. I also wanted her to have the independence in being home with more responsibility and freedom to think about the past few weeks that lead to her decision to leave this reality. She suffered with Borderline Personality Disorder, the diagnosis that seemed like a death sentence. After 22 years of struggle I held on to hope, to her finally accepting  the help and self-love she deserved.  Oh, I ached for her to have had that joy.

But, please allow me to step back for a moment. I want you to know the whole story, of joy and pain and of the soul contract between my daughter and me. Read with an open mind and find the magic, the surrender and her and my strength in honoring of our soul contract. The truth that something big was to happen revealed itself a few months before my departure to Africa but I was unaware. Having traveled to Africa in 2014 with fever in my heart and determination in my soul to be in the presence of Africans and the wildlife there, to do my part, to learn, to fall in love allowed for the trip of a lifetime.

But, this time something seemed wrong. I thought it was anxiety about leaving for so long (it was planned for 5 weeks), leaving my family to care for what I should have been, deserting them in some way.  I wasn’t sure where the fear or anxiety originated but it dissipated completely just days before I left for Tanzania on January 7^th, 2016 and allowed me as I know it now to accept what  my soul  already knew. I would be accepting and honoring the contract I made with my daughter.

Of course, I had no idea that this trip would be fateful and fraught with that something being amiss.  I felt lonely this time. Something was wrong and I couldn’t place it, define it. So many small mishaps and troubles followed me from the beginning.  I had writer’s block for a project I began (and haven’t finished). A great deal of money was stolen from me more than once and in more than one way. I didn’t experience the joy and sadness, relief and awe at the elephant orphanage I returned to after almost 2 years of dreaming to see the elephants grow and eventually become free. In fact, as my eyes and soul were fixated on a male calf that soon died after I left. I knew that truth when I saw him and thought of almost nothing else. My laptop crashed. A taxi driver got lost while friends and I traveled to an important meeting, the only meeting I would have with dear friends I bonded with on social media. And, then he overcharged me. My camera began malfunctioning. I planned to canoe on the Lower Zambezi and I just didn’t feel like it. Seeing the elephants was joyful but not the same. I kept asking myself what was wrong. 

Contact with home was spotty. I didn’t talk to my daughter or son nearly enough. I was sad during what would end up being the last week I was on the continent. It was cold and rainy on safaris and once the truck became stuck. I didn’t feel exuberance. I became distraught when I learned about the life of hippos and the eventual demise of hippos cast out of groups. After joining 2 nighttime game drives and witnessing the animals shocked and upset by the spotlights shined in their faces I stopped going. Twice I decided not to go on safari at all. I spent one of my final days on safari simply sobbing. I didn’t feel useful, lovable or valuable, Now, I know that my daughter was suffering on the same day and I simply absorbed her pain from across the planet. My camera finally broke in the last days. When I received the call that my daughter transitioned, I sat on the bank of the Luangwa River. I realized then that during the last few months the earth was trembling.

I return to my visit on the beach during the beginning of my trip. I reveled in the peace of a sparsely inhabited beach and walked during low tide far, far into the shallow ocean. As I knelt and allowed the ocean to wash over me and rock me, I turned my face to the sun to cleanse my spirit. I wanted for Taylor to feel what I felt and yet, I knew that day would never come. It was an eerie existence, both healing and cautious. I don’t know how I knew. My soul knew. I was signing my contract, fulfilling my role as her earth mother and although my soul cries now to fight this truth, I let her go that day to make her choice. Although Taylor was proud of me as she wrote in her farewell message to me, and who she determined was the closest person to her, I didn’t know she would not follow me into the peace I desperately wanted for her.

The shock I felt upon learning of her passing lasted for over a month and so did the guilt and questions, the self-blame and desperation. I’m her mom. Those feelings may not permeate me forever but they will still surface as the tide ebbs and flows, a natural and instinctual aspect of my life. She refused help but I wanted to build her trust in me to seek help together with me upon my return. I had it all worked out. Until I didn’t.

It is now 10 and something weeks and the most extraordinary realizations manifested for me in two consecutive days. I was not meant to be at home that fateful night that she left the physical world.  I would have changed and been damaged irreparably. I realize that now and that there’s nothing I could have done to fix her, even after trying for 22 years, after spending the most beautiful days and years of my life giving my children the most beautiful love, life, laughter, and play possible. I was not supposed to bear witness to her parting from me.

After that realization and the very next day. Cranial Sacral Therapy and Reiki  have been the most healing experiences for me. Simply relaxing in a candle-lit room filled with aromatherapy, soothing music and a waterfall, nestled under warm blankets, mind and heart wide open and free of distractions encourages us to connect with the Self, and for me with her. I laid comfortably and immediately relaxed. I found myself visualizing myself floating in the Indian Ocean. But, this time Taylor held me, buoyant and comforted. As she held me, I felt tears touch my cheeks. The pain and sorrow, the longing, desperate in the realization that her body is not with me, never to hear her laugh again dissipated as quickly as it came. I saw her in her new form, or I should say I felt her. I heard her laugh, joke, and felt her love and healing. I saw her as she has become. She is love. The suffering mirrors mountain of love I have for her and I finally understood that suffering and love are symbiotic. I embraced her, accepted her love and who she has become in the universe. I felt pride in the magnitude and latitude of her touch that reaches so many people still here, as was her purpose both in the physical and spiritual.

My contract, my agreement with her was to let her go, set her free, honor that choice that cuts deeply. I, the mother who stands alone without her in the physical accepted her decision to go while I floated, meditated, felt the warmth and peace of the ocean while in Africa. Brokenhearted and contracting with grief, I stand strong still. No waves will break me. She holds me. She told me before that I’m the bravest and strongest person she knows. I haven’t felt very brave or strong. My soul honors her. That must not dissipate.

The way she left us, the pain she experienced, the lifelong suffering she endured haunts me. I know now, hanging my head still that I couldn’t save her. Taylor showed me that I did everything and more. She said in her last message, “You’re the best mom you could have been.”  She’s touching lives now and I will go to that place in my heart as I do every day to feel her within me as others do.

I will learn to love her in her blissful new state of being, joyful, pain free, able to serve a greater purpose. One day at a time I will try. And, one day….as time travels slowly in the depths of despair….I will speak soundly, clearly, respectfully, and with power for families, the suffering, the animals, in honor of Taylor with tears streaming down my face or not, beaming with pride that I am with my twin soul with whom I’ll be connected for eternity.

Suvivor guilt after suicide

This piece was written to discuss my healing process in dealing with the guilt so many of Taylor's friends and family members feel because we want so desperately to have her back, to have been able to influence the impossible. We're begging and groping. I feel the guilt that only time and possibly my CPT Therapy may be able to help. It is for PTSD and I recommend it. Here is my personal story of guilt. Guilt is a manufactured and real emotion, expected but not necessary. In my case, I must push through. I do not edit my writing. I encourage you to write, paint, seek guidance, love, meditation, the outdoors in order to heal. This is also very personal and nothing is withheld. I feel that if I share it with you, maybe it can help someone or allow someone to relate.

I am only able to write one way…and that is the cathartic and creation that comes from addressing and manifesting thoughts and emotions that usually end with clarification and understanding. In this case, I am sure that my guilt and shame will not disappear or maybe even dissipate. But, my feelings are often left out while my thoughts take over to protect…or sabotage.

So, why do I feel Taylor took her life? My thought is that she suffered everyday. My thought is that she wanted to and almost obsessed about it. She wanted it but didn’t, in a way. My feelings are more tricky, though. When I found out I was pregnant and even into bedrest while I laid there and watched her bottom move against my hand while I touched my growing stomach, I was in deep, deep love. When she was born I felt a love and protectiveness that grew. I felt helpless while she cried as a baby, helpless and heartbroken that I could not calm her as she cried as a child, feeling so overwhelmed with each day. I couldn’t help her be comfortable in a general education classroom. I couldn’t help her feel okay about herself being in a school for kids with some type of emotional or mental disability. I feel sorry for her and embarrassed FOR her, not because of her. 

I watched her grow and separate from me as the hatred for me grew from her but her need for me was greater. I felt like she should have had a graduation just like other kids. I felt like she should have been more mature than hanging out with younger kids. I felt bad, so bad that she couldn’t handle college classrooms.

I felt like she needed professional help through every single year, every week, every day…..every hard moment. I felt her pain and after fighting back with her abusive jibes at me, I learned that her pain and regret was worse than the names she called me. I learned that it was her and I didn’t feel like I was the many names she called me. I didn’t internalize her life or her fears or pain and blame myself during that time. I didn’t feel guilty at all because I made appointment after appointment with doctors and therapists. After countless tests and meetings, countless years I just couldn’t convince her to go anymore. Who could blame her? The medicine they gave her didn’t work. The diagnoses were strewn all over the place. I feel guilty about not knowing what she suffered from even though I think that I could not see inside her mind and know that there was no way for me to know the extent. I don’t feel like I did anything wrong when she tried in December and I asked her boyfriend to stop the abuse. I felt helpless because she didn’t want me around then at all and even spent most of Christmas with someone else. I know she didn’t mean to show me that much hatred and I know for a fact that she did and does love me more than anyone on the planet. I was the closest to her and didn’t see her pain. She couldn’t show me.

I wanted that time in Africa and I was hell bent on going. I knew that if I left her for 5 weeks, I could gently nudge her along into a better relationship with me. I felt that if I were separate and away from the house, she could and would take on more responsibility, maybe miss me, be proud of me, and bond with me better without the stress and questions and my own desire to get her real help in the form of DBT Training. Now, I feel guilty for going. I thought she could handle it. I felt like she’d be okay and we could really connect. I feel guilty for not reading the book, “I Hate You, Don’t Leave Me” about her disorder before I left and then I would have canceled the trip or talked to her. I’m almost positive she would have denied me the time to devote to herself. She was too obsessed with her boyfriend’s abuse. She needed it, craved it. I saw that and wanted to help her stop. But, even after she left the hospital she ignored the diagnosis, never talked to me about it, didn’t want help. I feel like if I would have been able to talk to her before she left me forever, she would have listened to just me telling her that I need her and love her and that I would die inside without her. I don’t think I told her that because she was so angry and I do not feel bad about that because she just refused. There was nothing I could do. But, if I were home at least I could say I was here. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I hadn’t seen her for 3 weeks and when they took her lifeless body away, I wasn’t there to hold her in my arms and say goodbye. On January 6, 2016 I hugged her goodbye. She had a few tears and told me she would miss me. I immediately responded that I would cancel the entire trip in a flat second if she wanted me to stay. She made it clear that she was proud of me and wanted me to go. The next time I saw my daughter she was lying in a casket, cold, gone….they didn’t even do a good job making her look like she was.

I feel like she took her life to get away from her boyfriend’s constant abuse, breaking up with her, calling her a whore, accusing her of cheating. If I would have read the book maybe he would have understood. I feel like she was just done with the ups and downs of it all. I feel like she did it on impulse but if she did, she put a lot of effort into making it work. There was no turning back. My worst fear is realized as I sit here and recognize that she is not here because of me.

There is no way to fight for the life of your child so fiercely, so protectively, so intimately, and with so much love without feeling that same responsibility when she decided to go. It doesn’t even make sense for me to THINK, “Oh, well. I tried everything I could.” I don’t feel like that either.

No one told me that she posted such horrid statuses on Facebook. No one told me that 2 days before she was looking for drugs (which she has never touched) to end it all. I feel like it was the fault of everyone involved for not telling me anything just because they didn’t want to ruin my good time in Africa. I felt like something was wrong the entire trip and I couldn’t make it work out in my mind. She and I tried to talk once in a while but she didn’t reply nearly as often when I called or texted and each time she messaged me to find out if I was around, I would reply multiple times to call me, write to me, “I’m here. I’m here, Taylor. Write to me. Call me. I’m here….” Then, nothing.

I feel like I was stuck the night it happened. It was morning where I was, 9 hours ahead. It was 4:30am, the sun was rising. She called, I tried to answer and could hear only silence. I tried to go outside my cabin and call back. No answer. She canceled the calls. Or the person who picked up her phone did when it was too late. I feel like I could have talked her out of it and because I was there and so far away, I couldn’t.

I feel like she didn’t want to suffer, anymore. I feel like she was overwhelmed. I feel like she ingrained into her mind that it wasn’t worth living just one more day….I feel like she avoided everyone close who would have talked her out of it. I feel like she would have gotten over the relationship drama. I feel like I would not have been able to help her or talk to her, even though in my mind I know I would have tried. I feel like she may have suffered for the rest of her life and didn’t want to. I feel like I didn’t know enough to help and I couldn’t anyway.

I feel confused and I feel like she’s not suffering. I feel like dying inside wanting her to walk in the door and I feel like I’ll never get the closet she was found in out of my mind. I feel like I can’t go on and don’t want to but I don’t have a choice.

I feel like she did it because she separated herself from the people she loved so abruptly. I feel like no matter what I say or do, think or feel…she’s not physically sitting beside me so there’s no point to going over and over this in my mind. I feel like the role I played in her life was HUGE. She followed me into animal advocacy. She followed my mannerisms, she looked like me, she emulated me, she needed me, I needed her. I feel like I’ll never accept that I’m not at least partly to blame for her being gone, gone forever. It just doesn’t make sense to me to spend an entire lifetime working to help her have a good day only to be gone away from her on the only day that mattered, the day she needed to hear me tell her that she was worth everything to me, to her dad, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, everyone.

I don’t dwell on the what ifs like I used to just weeks ago. I don’t do it because she’s not here. The end result is more pain, blame, questions, pain…. She’s not here….I do dwell on her hanging there and stepping off that chair making the final decision that she wasn’t worth taking another breath. I do dwell on her tiny body being gone and how much love we all gave to her through the years. I do feel like going with her sometimes because then I would get to see her, although it’s fleeting and only when I’m in severe distress, never to be done.

Other areas of my life are either completely affected or not at all. I don’t feel like a failure by working a less demanding, simple and enjoyable job. I feel safe in my home and in my body like I won’t hurt myself or anyone else. I feel like I can’t control what happened but I can control myself when I need to but still worry if I’m doing everything I can to take the pain away….she’s my every thought at every moment. I feel like I can’t part with her things and I’m very afraid of moving out of here and moving her room. It won’t be hers anymore. It won’t be a familiar place where she’s walked, made messes, yelled, “Mom!” several times a day.

I feel like my self-esteem is intact. I don’t feel like a bad mother but I do feel the strong urge to mother. I don’t feel bad about myself but I do feel like my son maybe doesn’t need me so much so I’m not sure who I am, anymore. I don’t have the everyday struggle with her, now it’s with me. Now, I feel like I want to get better. I want to feel less pain but feel it enough to be healthy. I feel like I want to tell her story. I feel like I want to honor her. I feel sad and lost and that I need to redefine myself. I think that will be harder than I imagine as I face this world without the girl I nursed, held in my arms until the very last time I saw her.

I know she’s around me and with me. I trust her to show me how to love her for the 8,000 days she was with me. I am patient with trying to remember them but I yearn to feel her face and her hair and remember every moment. I am terrified of losing that connection, which I know can never be lost. I also fear that I can’t feel her spirit enough or that someday she’ll be gone or that it will simply never be enough. I’m so terribly frightened that as more time goes by, I’ll start to think about what they did to her body after they took her, the details, the things my mind is not ready for. I am afraid that every birthday, holiday, wedding, new baby will forever be a painful reminder instead of being in the moment. I’m afraid I’m forever changed and can’t be the light and have the dance and the celebration of life without feeling that she should be with me, seeing the spring flowers. I’m afraid I’ll go the beach and forever miss her finding seashells in the sand just to show me. I’m afraid of the nightmare that I simply do not want, did not ask for, and could have possibly stopped. 

She took my breath away when she was born. They laid her on my stomach and I spoke to her as she slept. As soon as I spoke, she recognized my voice and started to cry. That moment defined me. The moment I heard the words that she was gone while I was thousands of miles from home, from help, from control to help her or stop her defined me. It takes over the good times and good days. I don’t feel like I’ll ever forgive myself no matter what I’m told, how I’m consoled, or what I learn. She was and is my twin soul. Take the guilt, take the shame of my wanting to help anyone other than her, my passion to save animals instead of saving her and compare it my couch next to me as I sit here and write. She’s not here. She never will be again. Her little body, so full of laughter, compassion, rage, anger, fighting for herself, full of freedom and exploration…..all gone. I am her and she is me. We died together that night at 8:30pm on February 2, 2016. And, yes. It’s my fault.

This quote hung on our refrigerator for a very long time. I decided to take it down and replace it with something new. I never knew how much it impacted Taylor. She asked me to put it back up because she loved it. Although there is a question as to the author, it is credited to Mother Theresa.

She calls me Mom. 8 weeks into grief as a mother.

“Mom.” She said it as a matter of fact. Up until the last days I saw her, at the age of 22 Taylor called my name for a myriad of reasons and from across the room, across the house, while I was on another floor of the house, it didn’t matter and I never knew why she was calling me. It could have been important or to find a hairbrush or her keys. It could have been anything, “Mom.” From the time she uttered the word, Taylor called to me.

The funny thing is that it annoyed me a lot of the time when she was older. It was a dance. Taylor called to me, I told her to come get me instead of running to her because she could want to ask about the weather or how to get an abused dog away from an owner. I never knew what she wanted but I always went to her. Now, I can’t. The hardest part about writing about my daughter is the ‘was’ and ‘is’. I believe she ‘is’….I want for her to ‘be.’ I want to hear her call my name.

Sometimes, she wanted me to lay down with her, even as she was older. I cherished those moments. As she laid on the couch watching TV I frequently laid right on top of her, giggling and smooching her face. She was fun to aggravate. She was easily agitated with a slight grin to let me know she did love my affection. Sometimes, I just laid behind her in a rare moment and most every day I would step in front of her for a hug, interrupting her quick paced steps attempting to get out the door, usually late for something, always on a mission.

Taylor raced around the house in circles almost daily searching for her keys which were inevitably right where she tossed them on the couch, along with her shoes by the door, purse almost anywhere, and anything else that she carried in. It was a tricky thing, looking for her keys. We, Justin and I, prayed for a peaceful and calm resolution to the almost daily key-finding mission. She would either express eternal gratitude or hell fire when we couldn’t find them for her, which was rare. It is so odd to me that I rarely saw significance in most items left by a person who passed on to another life. But, now I cherish her keychain held by her brother, held in his hands each day. I felt pride as he walked in the door one day after cleaning out her car. Her keychain held Tommy’s keys. One difference between Tommy and Taylor is that he probably hasn’t lost his keys more than once. He’s holding a massive part of Taylor, one that guaranteed time with her, though fleeting, filled with anticipation or worry, or like dynamite. I smile at the memory of her calling my name simply to find her keys.

While I was sorting laundry downstairs, she called me from upstairs, a lot of times from her room. Taylor called me on the phone with the same tone, same urgency, same need, “Mom.” “Yes, Taylor?” Every time no matter the reason. I listened and watched for the phone to ring for years, even daily.

Now, I long for, wish I could hear, listen for her to call, “Mom.” “Please, Taylor,” I beg to myself silently. Call my name. Just one more time. I want to be needed by her. I want to be her mom. I want the physical presence and to hug her against her will while she was in a hurry and I giggled. I want her messes in the bathroom and to rush to get her a towel if she didn’t bring one into the shower. Hell, I miss her calling my name into the bathroom WHILE she was in the shower. Those seemed like the most intimate times because she was usually relaxed and wanted to talk about something calmly, something she had been thinking of, something that maintained that bond between us that will never be broken. I feel lost sometimes and find myself wanting to mother. At the same time, I wince at seeing small children and long for memories with my kids that I’m sure will come in time. She won’t need me to help her with an apartment or to furnish her first house. She doesn’t need me to help her nurse a baby like I nursed her. She won’t express to me the magic of the bond between her as a mother and her baby. She won’t need help on her wedding day. All of those thoughts and that desperate mourning for what will never be, I try to keep at arm’s length. No, no, no. Don’t think about that. Think about who she was, who she is to me. I don’t have to close my eyes to hear her voice or to hear her call my name. My dynamic, aggressive, strong, fragile, sensitive girl called to me and I came. I long for that one word in the entire universe, spanning time and distance, begging for it, desperate to hear say, “Mom.”

Taylor did call me the night she left the physical world behind. If I were able to hear her on the other end, if I were able to reach her when I tried to call her back, I know I would have heard her say my name. Maybe she would say goodbye, anyway. But, I do know the one word she would have said if I could just hear her, just one time when it mattered more than life.