Grief In A Box

Grief is a package. It looks different to each person who experiences loss. Some tear the big box wide open, cutting themselves on the sharp edges of the box, dive inside the dark emptiness and find that the box is bigger, stronger, more suffocating than they thought. They find a way out, take a deep breath and trudge on with their day, tripping over the large package as the years roll by, the tears roll down. The box remains large and visible but it no longer needs such deep exploration because the depth of pain in the box is too big to lift out. Some people find the package in their hands, turn it around, shove it in their pockets and feel the edges of the box scratch their skin while they live in consummate denial and pain that appears as lashing out or divorce, lifelong depression.

Some cherish their grief as their lost child, a means to an end, a replacement for acceptance, a reason not to carry on but instead they carry their box in front of them, arms tired, the box heavy, constantly looking inside, repetitive and burning questions they scream into Alice’s rabbit hole. Some build an alter around their box. They place their deities, candles, and their gurus, their books, spiritual practices, faith, and they blindly lead themselves into a false sense of identity because the box belongs over there in that corner, and it’s fine. The box doesn’t need to be opened fully if they just believe that the pain in the box is simply not so real, if they focus on a god or belief system that to others may seem a fairytale.

 

My package is a large box that I painted with glitter glue and begged everyone to sign. Because she would like that. My box is deep and I jumped in with both feet looking for answers, first from the girl I grieve, then from the gods others believe, then I peeked out and grabbed books and people and messages and I brought them with me into the box. I sat with words and ideas, belief systems held strongly by people who knew my answers but who didn’t have a box of their own.
I know a mother who went back to work one week after her son passed on. She ran a marathon and named it after him. I know a mom who lost her son 13 years ago and created a successful campaign to advocate putting a stop to suicide. I know a dad who lost his son several years ago and he’s never quite healed. All of our packages are different. Don’t think we don’t compare.

We compare. I squint my eyes and furrow my brow listening to people talk to me about how much better my daughter is now that she’s dead. She’s happy, now. She wouldn’t want me to suffer. God took “his” precious child or she left this world because because because because because…… The people who speak the most know the least. I want my box back. I go inside, close the cardboard flaps and sit there. I do want to beat on the walls after a year and some months. I don’t count. Some people’s boxes have calendars in them to tell them when to be sad. I don’t want anyone to talk to me anymore. I pout inside my box. I scream and cry. I climb out sometimes and I laugh and dance and hike around. I see tiny miracles and engage with friends. I know my box is there but it’s in the corner sometimes because when it’s in the way too much, I trip and start asking, start begging for answers from people who don’t know or think they know or who want to take my box for me so they make it up.

But, isn’t that what we’re doing? We’re making it up. You read a book and think your answers to grief are in the book just because it gives you permission to grieve or because it explains the stages that are really steps you tumble down and crawl up, sit on, bound up, slide down the rail. They’re steady, they have a loose plank, you get a splinter, miss a step, paint them, sob while sitting on them. Come on.

I remember walking into my first group meeting with a pen and paper. I wanted to know how. I placed my box on the table and ignored the empty spaces where I felt someone should have signed. I brushed off the glitter and placed my box behind my chair so that I could listen to other parents tell me exactly how to care for my box and how to ship it back. I knew there was a way. I knew I needed time and then off ya go, pretty colored box with the deep black waters inside. I was almost killed by those waves and didn’t think an entire ocean could survive in a box! So, tell me how to make this go away. I have postage. I’m ready. I blurted out astounding words like, “Wait, it’s been 4 years and the guilt COMES BACK?!” I don’t think I was in the mail room. No one was mailing their boxes and no one had even properly ended their need for them. I didn’t understand.

I understand now. I understand that there are no answers to fit everyone. There is no right way to grieve. You cannot compare packages. You cannot write a book and THERE, people will forever be healed because there is no here, it’s in your mind or God said my daughter had to go, so off she went and I’m in Church because I need to pray for mercy because the world is evil and heaven is not so there’s that. The spiritually enlightened look at the box and tell me that my box isn’t real. Life isn’t real so my box is really love and love and pain make pain love and it all goes away don’t you see? I do not see as I lift the purple striped cat out of my box.

 

I have dragged my box to my therapist. Every box needs a therapist, I believe. She wrote PTSD on my box and I got to erase it after we worked together. She didn’t climb inside my box or make excuses as to why I didn’t need it. She didn’t tell me I was misinformed about life or god. I was in shock and the stress was too much. I needed to clean some of the pain out of my box and tidy it up a bit so I could focus on living with a clean package that both had its place and did not need to sprinkle glitter everywhere I went. But, I did get to write in marker on the sides of my box. I wrote my name. I declared ownership. I cleaned out the books and chatter of all of the well-wishers who just don’t know what to say. I took down all of the photos of the people I wanted to display as traitors. They never called to check on me. They left me. They deserted me here with this box and no one wants to see it so they act like it doesn’t matter… I almost kicked my box down those steps but instead I vowed to keep anger in my box and pull it out while carrying logs or riding my mountain bike. Sometimes, I ride so hard that when I stop my box is waiting for me with some Kleenex and a drink of water. The wind blows open a flap and allows me to see my words inside, “I’m supposed to miss her. She’s my daughter.”  I toss the Kleenex in the box, place it on my shoulders and ride home happy. There. I processed, I cried, I rode out my anger and I feel better. I put the box in the corner and go on with my day.

I don’t fall into the “followers” category of jumping on to any scripture of any book or find truth and solace in spiritual teachings. Knowing my daughter is with me, in me, of me is a story for a different day. But, I’m not easily led. I didn’t know a thing about loss in this capacity until Taylor left this world. But, I know this.

You own your package. You create space around that box. You live in it, you put it up, mark on it, write in it, fill it with thoughts of suicide, of hope, of surrender, of peace. You get to follow any religion or mindset that allows you to heal. There is healing. Edges become less sharp, the stairs more steady, and you can re-decorate your box however you want. No matter what anyone says, you have the right to your pain. You have the right to hope that one day you’ll pick yourself up and learn to use your box how you see fit. There is no return address on this package. You will suffer. You will ask and ask and ask and try to find answers and you’ll never know the answers to some questions. Your box doesn’t look like mine and you don’t want it to.

My anchors are different and none of them are wrong. Religion, faith, hope, joy, dancing in your kitchen. Whatever you need to feel ok one moment and then one hour and then one day and week at a time can only be determined by you. You are in control of the one thing you believe you have no control of; your grief. Take your time. Make time for your Self. Take care of your Self as you would your loved one for whom you mourn. Don’t let anyone tell you how to feel or what to expect. I tried so hard to find THE answers. The answer is whatever you want it to be. My answer is that my daughter will never walk this earth as my daughter again. And, after a year and some months I continue to sob, wipe my eyes, and carry on. Sometimes the waves are pretty rocky on my little boat in my box. There is healing for me, though. I don’t want to talk about her 3D death anymore. I want to explore and explode her life into being. I want to share who she is. So, I do have a guru or two who teach me things. I listen to their words because they don’t take my box away from me and place expectations on me or try to rub the glitter off my package. I can’t do it alone. But, you won’t find the forever peace you’re looking for. You’ll find joy and laughter, love and healing. If you want to.

 

 

Women Sages

Women sages
What do you know
Wild women mothers and daughters
Tell me what you know
Tell me what to think...
Tell me how to feel
Tell me it gets better
Tell me I am sacred
Tell me this is the way we created it
Tell me about the flowers and why they're so beautiful
Tell me about the trees and how they grow together
Tell me about the birds and the frogs and songs they sing
Wise women Sages
Mothers and daughters
You do not lie In suffering
You do not clutch your abdomen
You do not know of this pain
I know of the beauty and the miracle a life
I know the Despair and hunger for death
My wise woman
My sage
My wild woman
Has gone beyond the Veil
Please do not feel to utter a word
For there is nothing you can say
To erase the maddening pain
Of a wise woman Sage
Of a mother who lost her other
Shhhh
I'm trying to hear her

                                  - CA Tenti

Changing the Language of Grief

In the past year, I’ve never felt so alone. It feels like even close friends and family members have all but abandoned me in my grief. Grief is the loneliest of roads and I believe the abandonment we could be feeling is attributed to trying to fill those voids with the one we lost, in my case, my daughter. People just don’t know what to say about my pain and they have their own issues which to them, seems to pale in comparison to losing a child, spouse, or any loved one with 2 or 4 feet, for that matter. There were and are times when I just can’t be present for someone else’s dilemma. It could be something easy for me to talk about with him or her but I can’t find the emotional capacity to help. At times I feel useless, unneeded, and forgotten. But, if you stick with me you’ll find me ready to talk, willing to participate, check in, and feel so useful and needed by providing support. So, why is it important to stick with the grieving, for how long can you really stand listening to the pain without being able to help, and what is the right thing to say?

The newly grieving are protected by shock. In the case of the sudden loss of a child this shock can last for months and even manifest often as PTSD which must be treated. In these tumbling moments into the dark, we can expect to hear anything from, “I’m sorry for your loss;” “Please accept my condolences.” and “My prayers or thoughts are with you at this time.” Simple enough. I don’t remember much of the first 6 months so there wasn’t much focus on the “wrong things” said to me. But, I want to help people understand grief and that it’s not so terrifying to talk about. Being there to listen to friends or family when so many have given up on trying, is not only healing but life-saving.  

Here are some phrases that can be potentially damaging. I hold the utmost respect for the people who just don’t know what to say. As for the grieving, tell people what you need at the time. Your needs will change over the weeks, months, and yes…years. In this long and lonely journey, count on one hand the people who really know how to be there for you. And, reach out when you need to. Relationships can be one-sided for quite some time after loss but they don’t have to stay that way, especially with support.

Photo Credit: Timothy Carlson Photography

The stages of grief impact what the mourning hear and respond, and what we feel at the time. So, don’t be alarmed or surprised at responses that may sound as if you’re well-wishes are not appreciated. We don’t even know how we will feel from day to day sometimes. Be patient and heed some advice from the newly grieving:

1.       Never tell a grieving parent that at least he or she has another child or could potentially adopt. I was told I was leaving my son out of the conversation and that he probably felt left out.  I wasn’t asked how he was holding up and how our relationship is. For someone to insinuate that I cared more about the dead than the living created guilt and detachment from someone who had no idea how close my son and I are. Instead, ask how siblings, the other parent or partner, or family members are holding up. That’s okay. And so is asking, “How are you?” Even I said that after someone passed recently and I noticed the words as they landed. Of course, the grieving won’t respond with, “Just fabulous!” But we understand this is a conversation starter, and although feelings and emotions can be tumultuous, showing care is enough. Honoring the loss of a family member or child does not necessitate the need to look at the “bright side” or the implication that if the grieving parent does have another child he or she is ignoring that child or somehow minimizing the love we have for them. The concentration is of course focused on the lost child at first. It will be for some time. Ask what you can do, specifically for the family instead of what can seem like pressuring the family to move on more quickly as not to leave anyone behind or that by adopting another child or bearing another child will erase loss.

 

2.       Please do not tell a grieving parent that his or her grief is holding his or her deceased child or loved one from moving on into Heaven, the Universe or wherever you believe the soul travels or resides after the body is no longer utilized here. Whatever your beliefs, grief is happening all over the world so are all souls in your created limbo or pain? When you tell someone that his or her grief is holding the child back from ascension (if that is your belief), discern in what capacity you believe this declaration to be helpful and think about how damaging it could possibly be to someone who feels responsible for the death of his or her loved one. The rationale would imply that no one who has passed on would be able to become whole, a saint, an angel, a part of the Universe, at peace in Heaven or whatever your belief system is because, again the parent is at fault for keeping them from moving on by missing the child or loved one. Teach yourself about grief. I have been suicidal myself in my grief and have overcome many obstacles, and still I have days in which I’m physically ill, still fantasize about “going with her,” moving closer to my son (poor guy is in college and he doesn’t want mom to move in!) When I was told I was keeping her in pain or in a state less than bliss, I tried all over again to die. I felt the most guilt for creating despair for her in her afterlife, in her heaven. I didn’t want to continue living this way. That is the message you are delivering.  If you or the person you want to help believes in heaven or the spirit world or anything beyond the earthly plane, you are making assumptions and pushing the grieving mother to the edge. You’re handing down an unfounded declaration  and guilt (an emotion that I believe most parents carry and thank you but we don’t need more guilt.) And, you are setting time limits and crossing the most sacred boundaries.

 

 

3.       Call, text, write, send books, cook food, create art or whatever you would like to contribute but don’t stop supporting a grieving mother or father after the shock has worn off. It’s okay to call and say, “I’m just thinking about you.” The grief of a child lasts a lifetime. If you’re friends for life and can be there for your friend, you’ll find that in time the grieving mother wants to hear all about your trials and tribulations, your successes and your children. Don’t feel guilty about sharing your own joy or pain. As a mother, I feel the need to be wanted, included, and needed. Most days, thinking of my own friends’ dilemmas or triumphs gives me Purpose with a capital Reason to live.  You cannot fix your friend but it is surprising how many people tire of talking about the one who is no longer with us or how afraid people are to bring them up.

4.       We beg of you. Talk about our loved ones. Recall a story or memory, even if it brings tears. There is nothing I love more than hearing stories about both of my children. I am filled with pain sometimes but also a sense of wonder and joy. In the first year especially, our cognitive abilities slow, our memories are protected and by hearing tangible memories we are reminded of the silly and wondrous ways we love and loved our children or loved one.

 

5.    Please don’t tell us it will get better.  Please don’t say she’s still with me so I shouldn’t be sad. And please with everything inside me; never tell me that she would not want me to suffer. More guilt and yet another avenue to diminish our right to love and miss the ones who passed. We know you’re trying to help. We know you don’t know what to say. Keep the dialogue open. Often, there’s nothing you can say. But, you can ask if a loved one would like to talk. Back to listening. In fact, I confided in a coworker that I lost my daughter and her shock was visible. She said, “I lost my son 3 months ago.” Now, I’m a professional griever and I was in the same category of finding the right words. I expressed my condolences, I offered resources, I listened. I can’t help her. It was one of those days in which I experienced deep depression and I validated her feelings.  I gave her my number.  She said, “You know, sometimes all I want is to have someone to listen.”  How much burden is placed upon our family members and partners when people tire of our sob story? Support groups in their time can be key to venting, crying, opening up, or simply listening to others who experience similar pain.

6.       People may not share your religion or be ready to hear your message of love and compassion and of strength you received through your beliefs. Chances are, the grieving could receive your words and be saved pain by them in epic proportions. But, even the strongest believers in religion or spirituality can and will at some point question their god or even become angry and confused about almost anything spiritual on this journey.It seems as soon as people told me that their faith saved them, it alienated me. They wanted for me to believe what they believe so strongly that they were no longer my friends when I wasn’t ready to embrace their churches, beliefs, or way of seeing the world. Ask the person if he or she is interested in a faith-based path and acknowledge that you still want to be present for him or her even if the religious path is not someone else’s. She is my daughter. She is not here. I miss her. I miss touching her, caring for her, talking to her. This relationship has more than 2 participants but right now I'm confused, hurt, and would never suppose to know what another's beliefs are.

7.       Stay for the long haul. Most of my friends moved on. They are not the mother. I know friends who have stuck by me through the entire last year. The difference was there were no excuses why they couldn’t call or check in. The friends who disappeared are not suffering as I am but I still check on the friends I met who lost a child or lost a job or are moving or having a baby or even getting ready for a wedding or graduation. We feel a bit less lonely and lost.

 

Photo Credit Mark Moore Photography

 

The phone that doesn’t ring, the loneliness and despair, the late night phone calls to people, sobbing, strengthening, falling down, it’s all part of grief. You can only know this by asking, by calling, by checking in. This is not a timed event. This is life and this is forever. My heart beats strongly for my son and family but it will never be completely whole. Understanding grief, guilt, pain, confusion and the many moods, the ebb and flow of this harrowing journey is worthy of a good read at least. Don’t wait to grieve to learn how to communicate with the grieving, Pick up a book, research, and just try. Love and be present. One of my favorite phone calls was in the beginning when a long-time friend called and said, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.” We laughed and cried together. We made horrible jokes. She still calls me crying and almost knows the right time to come to my rescue. In fact, she threatens me with: “Don’t make me come get you.” I laugh as I cry through my tears. Or, we meet for coffee and a laugh.

 

 

Angels And Miracles

Dangerously close I stood in the park just a block away from the old house; the house I didn’t want to leave, the house in which she took her earth life, the house I clung to until moving to the country where I began to grieve openly and mostly alone.

I felt like I could reach out and touch the house but I dared not drive by in case I would happen to see her car or her…late for work, messy bun, large purse in hand, probably still looking for her keys. I would be racing to park and window down, frantic, “Don’t leave yet!” I jumped out of the car more than once just for a hug and if it was the right time, to help her find her keys. But, she’s not there. I couldn’t bring myself to go there. She’s not coming back.

My mind raced as we drove home in the dark, the tears finally falling, sobs erupting as I pictured all of the moms and daughters I’ve seen graduating, having babies, getting married, I longed for what I will never have with my daughter. But, more than that was my feeling of anger and desperation. Why?

 

 

Not why she took her life. I know and I don’t know. But, why are there everyday miracles, lives saved, some phenomenal occurrence finding a girl in a well or grabbing a little boy before he crosses the street kind of miracle that everyone talks about. The kind of story with the attempted suicide that went rightly wrong and the person who attempted lived to tell about why suicide is never the answer. Why did she not deserve a miracle? Why didn’t she have a guardian angel like I supposedly have surrounding me in my grief? I saw them. I felt her around me after she left. Why wasn’t she told by that one man who mattered, to stay? Why didn’t he tell her he loved her? Why didn’t someone randomly receive a whisper in the ear to go to the house? Why did everyone arrive just minutes too late? Why didn’t I know, thousands of miles from home that the wrongness I felt, “the earth is trembling and I don’t know why,” was her soul calling to me?

Why are there angels now and a god or gods to pray to in my despair, anguish, in my begging for freedom from the burden of coming to the city and remembering all of the restaurants we visited together, all of the shopping, all of the ice cream and playgrounds? Why are there meditations now and crystals and religions? Why am I called to teach people about mental health and about suicide prevention and about Borderline Personality Disorder now? Why couldn’t I have heard the diagnosis in a dream or in passing? Why must I be told I need to be the miracle who can possibly save someone’s life when I wanted to save hers for 22 years?

 

 

Why are there mediums and guides and books and prayers now? I could have taught her meditation, taken her to a church if she would have gone, taught her relaxation exercises. She could have met ANYONE just anyone please anyone to convince her to hold on for one more day, Taylor. Hold on for one more day. I am holding on and I will suffer for the rest of my life without her but she died without an angel, without a miracle, without the only people who mattered to her to tell her to stay. She died thinking she wasn’t worth one more day. Where was the miracle? Where was god, angels, guides, people, where was I? The day before she left the earth, I had no desire whatsoever to participate in a game drive to see elephants that I hungered to see, fought for from home, advocated, spoke, wrote, organized for and experienced a year ago. That year I felt as if I were in heaven, in the presence of God, Mother Nature. This time, something was wrong. I cried that day. I felt immense depression. I tried to call her. I couldn’t get through. The feeling went away as easily as it came. But, damn it, if it was a message I missed it.

And, when I sat up straight in bed 9 hours ahead of her on the bank of the Luangwa River at 4:30am she called me. I couldn’t hear her. I don’t think she was talking. I begged for her to call me right back and she didn’t. I tried a few more times. I took a shower and before I finished packing to fly out of the country, I wanted to try one more time. My call was answered but cancelled. Someone hung up on me. I guess it wasn’t her because she had typed a suicide note to me in that time and I wrote back that I would come home and get well with her. She never received my call or my message. I never spoke to her again.

 

 

Why are angels and miracles saved for anyone except the girl who created miracles for others? Why did she suffer for 22 years in the midst of her fierce loyalty to truth, honor, and compassion for animals and people? Why could she not be spared? Why must I pray now, love now, learn now, heal now, teach now without her?

At 4’11”, with a tiny sundress and long brown hair she looked up at anyone, a perfect stranger and could create a laugh or offer assistance or simply company. With brown and hazel-like eyes, you could see to her soul, you could see the Universe. My chest grew and my chin raised with a mother’s pride and a knowing smile that I could introduce her to anyone and she would at least light up a life, even for a moment. But, she didn’t deserve the grace, the dignity, the miracle, the angel, the god, the hand, the words to keep her from wanting to die?

I am in protest of this nightmare. I can live for my son and my family and fiancé. I can even live for the dogs. I can learn to love her and live for her, in her name…but not now. I am clear. I don’t want to be here without her. I didn’t choose this and if I did choose this with her, as my twin soul who has never left me since she left the earth she knows I fight this decision, this diagnosis delivered oh so poorly, the emotional abuse, the feeling of knowing but not knowing, the absolute that her death brings. No, I will not accept this. Not yet. No, I will not lean on a god or angel or person or miracle that didn’t come for her. You neglect my daughter, you neglect me. I neglected my daughter in her need and I reject all that is and will ever be without her. 

 

Last Hike October 2015

 

I will heal in time. Not in all ways and not on principle and not because people tell me to. I will live for my son and care for him, love him, nurture him and protect him for the rest of my life. I will teach and educate. I will raise funds to identify and cure Borderline Personality Disorder. But, I feel like it will take a miracle, a god, an angel, and abiding love to keep me grounded and above ground when and if I’m ready to accept help that I feel was refused to my girl.

 

But, Dad, it was Taylor

But, Dad, it was Taylor. I don’t understand. How am I supposed to able to live without her? Remember that she was so tiny, 4pounds and 11 ounces. You said I could fit in a breadbox when I was born and that Taylor was smaller. And, she was perfect and I remember at 3 weeks, I rested her in your arms and her eyes were open. She melted into you, Dad. That never went away. She just got sick.

Remember she would just cry every night and we couldn’t help her. But, she loved to laugh and play. She laughed easily, so tiny. She struggles in pre-school. You have a pair of the binoculars made of toilet paper rolls in Art, right? I have one. I think you do, too. I never showed them to her. I wonder what is wrong with me that I didn’t think of it before. I guess I wasn’t nostalgic because I was entranced in loving you in the present.

 

I remember picking her up in 5^th grade at the school. She would wait for you or me in the office, white with fear or almost grey. I looked at her and saw the fear, Dad. You and I remember. It was hard on us. But, she gave you joy. She used to kiss the turkey and she used to call you on the phone to tattle on me. She had fits of anger back then and I used to take her to her doctors and counselors and we never got an answer.

Neither you or Mom believed me that she needed help but Metro helped her. You drove her there and back. You brought her breakfast. You got to be there with her. It was hard but not all the time. She demanded you put her shoes on, “Papa do it.” You loved her so much.

I loved her long hair, thick and slightly purple. You always asked her, “What did you do to your hair?” That would start an argument with her or she’d say something silly like, “Papa, get over it.” I don’t really know what she’d say because you had so much time with her.

I don’t think of all of the fighting so much. I still love that every time you came over, you’d say that her room was dirty. Like it was a surprise. I am laughing out loud, now. I think her anxiety really made her scattered, Dad. She lost her keys. I know you had to go get her more than once at 1am. She didn’t even call me for that. She called you and Mama because she knew you’d come.

You are still the king of smartass one-liners. But, she shared that talent with you, too. “Don’t you have your own white car?” I think she was about four at the time? “Don’t touch me.” “Don’t talk to me.” “Mom won’t feed me.” You used to have something to say to me when I walked out the door when I lived at home and she did the same thing. She stormed out of the house in rage that no one could identify for some magical reason we’ll never know….and I made it worse. How many times did she wreck the cars? But, at the same time she was using those cars to help people and animals and go to work and she was genuinely a good person.

It was Taylor, Dad. I can’t do what everyone wants me to do. I can’t just forget about it and accept it and move on and be okay and strong and let her go and whatever people want to make me feel bad for. You and Mama are the only ones who loved her the way we did together. And, I’m sorry that she hurt you and she didn’t mean to. Bad things were happening because she was breaking and I didn’t stop it, Dad. I feel ashamed when I think of that.

I think we’re moving, maybe slowly, but I have responsibilities and I know what’s expected of me. Remember you and I when I was growing up. You took my friends or family and me everywhere. You stood for hours at Six Flags and Taylor grew to love the rides at that awful place just like me. You did that. And, my breath is frozen in my heart because I’ll never run with her through Six Flags again. She just naturally fit, you know.

 

Did you know the story of Taylor and a new friend sitting on a bench at Six Flags? People were walking by, I’m sure kids jumping, and a couple had a leash on their child, I guess Taylor phrased it better than child harness, don’t you? Anyway, this couple is walking by and Taylor plainly and with clarity addresses them, “I like your dog.” I missed that, But, we didn’t miss her at parks and playing in the pool. I think I put up about 4 pools at my house and every time, you’d ask, “Why are you putting up a pool?” Mostly, because Mom bought a few for us. But, it wasn’t a question for Taylor, Tommy, or me. We loved having summer camp at home. You used to wrap her up in a towel from the time she was tiny until she was almost full-grown. I remember you letting her play in a brand new trashcan lid in the backyard when she was a baby. Those are the best pictures, I think.

 

I need you to see her from my point of view. Every time I walked out of the house, Taylor had a  comment. “Oh, my Gawd you’re not wearing that.” My answer was, “What am I supposed to wear?” She quipped, “If you don’t know, I’m not telling you.”

 “Are you picking up food?” That’s your fault. She learned to call you so young. She called you above anyone.  “Mom won’t feed me,” as I was cooking dinner. You blamed me all the time for her doing that but you loved any chance to see her and I loved any chance to see you. At least we got to do it.

 

She hugged you always. From the first time you held her, you never let her go. She hugged you and you wrapped your strong hands around her face and she smiled. That gave me joy. That I could give you that gift of unconditional love from my daughter who I loved so much and was able to share with you and Mom. Until the very last moment I saw her alive, she and I held each other. She called me and said, “Come up to my work and say goodbye.” So, naturally we trained professionals did just that. I walked in and held her at the bar in front of who cares. But, I always did that anyway. She laid down on the couch and I would jump on her and hold her down to hug her. I stepped into her way almost daily to hug her and if it made her mad that didn’t help anything for her finding her keys or apron or shoes but it gave me joy . And, then we found her keys in her car with the window rolled down and her purse wide open in the center. That big green purse that’s hanging in her room now. You may have been with her when she bought the purse. You told me that she lost her phone in a shoebox in a shoe store. So, I’m surprised that she didn’t lose one in a purse! I loved the way you talked about shopping with her. She just didn’t want to or try to spend money for no reason. The tattoos is a different story and I won’t tell you about that. But, you liked the way she would look at everything and annoyingly but admirably buying nothing.

 

She called me from your house many times to come there with you and Mom. Most of the time she was playing cards with Mama and or Carla. She was always relaxed then. I don’t know if you ever watched her play Skip-Bo but she held her cards and always won. I asked her to tell me how she did that, She told me that because I wanted to know she was not telling me her secret. She kept that one, too. I hate to see Mama now with no cards and no Taylor and when I walk in she’s not there and I feel like it was my fault or help in stopping suffering but whatever happened, she was impulsive, Dad. She was also determined as a kid and bossy in the most flip-flop, sundress, long hair, tattooed, lip gloss, curse word kind of way. That was my life for 22 years. You and Mom gave me the best childhood I could have and we all tried to do that for Taylor and Tommy. Even though telling Tommy that we’d take him to the park when he refused to nap…and then drive him around the block at which time he’d fall asleep and we realize that we tricked him but he needed a nap. Sorry, Tom.

 

I remember the look on her face in that photo of her sitting on your leg at her 21^st birthday party when she wore my necklace and shoes. She was so proud to be sitting by her Papa. You see her light shine, Her whole face lit up. Look at the photos. Remember who she was to you and is to me now. I can’t get over her until I’m ready and I’m not making promises.  But, I am sorry she’s gone. I’ll never be able to know if she was mostly happy and then …broke? She was just figuring things out. As are we.

 

Oh, and through all of this and the stress right now in our family, I'm sure you'd be happy to know that mom and my relationship is improving dramatically. It's growing. And, you're still my hero.

 

 

 

Turn

I grasp my empty stomach
Clutch my constricted heart
Fight my mind
No no no
No pain right now
It's not time

Turn, turn, turn
No friends
No family
No outlets
Will take this from me

No one to turn to
Nowhere to run
No end of life
No end of time

Good days
Mask the tiny specks
Floating in my mind
Through me
She floats with me
Smiling
She's in me and of me
But not here

The good days
Looking away from the long-haired girls
Mothers and daughters
New babies
Flip flops
Summer dresses
Beaches
Who will show me how to dress?

The good days store the pain
The grief and sickness
Must return
The desperation
To end the pain
Returns


Nowhere to turn
No one to tell
No place to go
Nothing can save me
No one can help me

The answers lie inside
The suffering shows in my eyes
On my face
Defeat, desperation
Insecurity and anxiety
People say they see it
I didn't know
I don't want them to see it

Time will never bring my salvation
Twin souls not to be separated
Acceptance
She's dead
Faith
God heals
Hope
I have purpose
Energy
I can't feel you

Nowhere to turn
No one to talk to
No place to go
Nothing can assure me
No one can help me
I suffer and beg to be taken away
Until we meet again
This is my fate

Lonely
Alone
Desperate
Angry
Turn only inside and find a void
That once carried hope, faith
I clutch this body
My breasts
I carried her
Fed her
Where do I turn
Except in circles

 

One Year After Losing my Daughter to Suicide

Unedited from original 2016

Let’s get the questions out of the way first. No, I don’t feel any better. No, I’m not unusual in this. No, this is not a quick process and it doesn’t ease up after 11 months. No, I did not enjoy the holidays, even with family as there was a clear and significant part of our family missing. Yes, I’m getting help but grief has no timeline and no rules. The only healthy thing I would advise that everyone should do is to stay alive. It’s not a matter of what you want to do for yourself, especially as a parent. I stay alive for my family. Yes, suicidal thoughts are normal. No, they don’t last forever. No, having another child doesn’t help and people who have lost their only child, although I try to connect and even replace all of her needs by transferring them to my son, I believe I have done more harm than good to him. People who comment that at least I have another child is like erasing her from 22 years of our lives. My son is different with different needs and I focus on him as I feel I’ve always done. Just as I focus on my relationships with my family and partner.

I remember things now but almost never know the date. I don’t remember people’s birthdays that I clearly remembered in the past. I don’t remember the first 6 months or about after her passing from the physical. I don’t feel the immense and excruciating physical pain that rocked my body in the second and third months and I don’t wake up every day with panic but the anxiety presents.

 I feel as if I’m not rushing myself but failing at healing so that I can honor Taylor. I want to educate and raise funds for Borderline Personality Disorder and teach about mental health. I want to get a good job first for a year and have no interest in doing it because I feel like a massive weight is sitting on my chest still. I feel useless and hopeless. I tried to learn astrology, I tried to learn about crystals, I tried the I Ching and tarot cards, Christianity and I read about other religions to find out how others see death in the physical and how to reach her in her spirit form. None of it helps. Counseling has helped with other relationships and group meetings are horrible for me. People are “stuck” for years and years and I cannot live like this forever. I’ll give myself the time now but in this time I suffer with my Self. I do not feel useful and do not want to hear that people need me. My immediate and caustic response is that she needed me and I failed. I know that’s not the “right” perspective but good luck changing a parent’s process.

I’m not even close to the same optimistic, funny, hard-lined animal advocate. I don’t blame myself for focusing on Africa but I’m completely different now. I don’t feel hope except for my son and partner. I don’t feel happy inside. I am not optimistic. I am depressed and I believe still in shock. I do take medication and don’t care what people think about it.

I hang my head every single time I see my parents or her friends, feeling I took her away from them even though I know it’s not true. Stop giving me logic. I can be logical on some days and even for a week. But, there is nothing I can say to my crying parents who are now losing my big sister and their daughter to cancer. I am trying so hard not to have regrets about her and love her and help her transition peacefully. That’s all I can do.

I ask questions every day and try to go back and examine what happened in those last months and days and I want to know why no one told me, why I felt anxious and didn’t know why, why no doctor or counselor ever asked the right questions or even mentioned BPD. I am angry sometimes and I’m scared I’ll always feel this way. I want to go back and talk to her about the diagnosis and to the doctor who she said made her feel like there wasn’t much hope for her for at least a year. She wasn’t talking to me about that at the time. I want to expose her abuser because he hasn’t changed a bit, even after cutting her down. He was the last person she spoke to after she tried to call me. He abused her until the end and she stepped off the chair. How can you possibly think a year of this trauma would be better?

 

I know all of the rational answers and I don’t want to hear anyone mitigate the process I’m going through. The best answer I’ve received to date when I have had to tell people she passed is “I’m sorry.” That’s it. People don’t understand it and I’m ok with that. I understand. I’m not holding anyone accountable but myself. But, for me this is what an almost year looks like and this is where I am. I am angry, fearful, in despair, selfish, without an ounce of self-love (I don’t even understand what that means), and in physical pain. The only advice I can give now to anyone is to please phone a friend or 10 friends if it means you’d take your life. I understand completely why you want to if you’re suicidal. It makes sense to me. But, things will change and suicide is permanent and ruins the lives of those who will stick by you and will suffer. I won’t let anyone suffer for me the way I suffer for Taylor.

Inside my head I rage, I scream, I cry, I flail. My mind still cannot comprehend what has taken me a year to understand. I am in shock, I torture myself with questions, and no I am not better. No one who has lost a child has EVER told me that they are “better” after the first year. I heard it’s the worst but you don’t get “better.” The most I can do is wait…feel useless waiting…for the day that I can pick myself up and create a new “me,” which is the last thing I want to do.

I want to see my son happy and successful. I want a better relationship with my parents and partner. I want to WANT to do something good again. I want to WANT to live fully again. She cried as I held her and kissed her head. She said, “I don’t want you to leave but I’m proud of you.” I said, “I’ll cancel right now. I will not get on that plane if you just say the word.” She wanted me to go and walked away a little teary. She could not reach me as she was taking her life. I can’t reach her physically and a year is not even close to feeling a bit better.

 

I’m not writing this for sympathy, empathy or through the Ego. I’m writing to tell you that if someone is suffering, support them like I have been supported and don’t do it for that first week or month. So many friends have returned to their lives because Taylor was not their daughter. I understand that. But, if you do make the commitment to support someone, remember you’re walking with them and possibly holding them up or allowing them to hold on for one more day, for life…for hope. This writing is an example of one way I try to “fix” people. I want to help people and when people call me with problems because it gives me a sense of purpose. I just couldn’t fix her from Africa or for 22 years of her life. I will sit with my pain until it no longer serves me. I’m told that suffering is our greatest teacher. I’ll let you know when I figure out that lesson. But, it’s not after a year.