Ghost

I stopped writhing. The ocean tossed me out and I feel like I’m laying on a deserted beach secured. Tightly bound ropes hold me down. Even as I renew my commitment to journal my thoughts and feelings, I can see the word rope and scream inside. It hurts my throat. I pant; broken and hoping to see a glimmer of the fading sun. The tide still comes in, rocks me, like a Siren she screams for me to return to the depths of despair that I now hold inside me. I can’t go in. I can’t cry anymore because it hurts too much. I can’t get the ropes off, they burn now. I am still.

But, I see my efforts all around me. I see the glimmer of crystals. Did they really help me or maybe I was lying to myself to think that I could be healed with a divine magical rock or rocks. I see the cards strewn on the beach, the foretelling of the nothing. Yes, I see your god. Ask “Him” for help. To save me. Now, I’m writhing. Now, I’m screaming. “Why didn’t your god save her? Why didn’t I know? Why do you allow people to feel so deeply for our children that we’re forever broken? I don’t want this!” The ropes cut into my flesh as they rub and my fingers dig deep into the sand. I’m panting, still looking.

Photos of her. Photos of my family, even my sister missing from this Earth. Why? This is just life. I see my son and the people I love in the photos and feel love for them. Sorry for them because we share this pain. I see the phone and hope it dies. I don’t want it anymore. I tried to replace her with love for others and mostly her friends and I didn’t understand. Remember? I was drowning, grasping at the water, screaming from my burning throat. Why isn’t it enough? Why am I not enough so they, the tiny few who love me, can have what I could have given. I don’t remember what that was, now.

I close my eyes and I still can’t cry, can’t move. I hear the waves and think of the beach we used to visit. I don’t want to see a beach again. Just this one. This is the one in which I almost drown. Remember that night that I tried to choke myself? It hurt too much and I drank too much and I cried and screamed but I stayed. I stayed for everyone else.

I stayed because I thought she’d stay with me. I see her standing in the tide but is she? Is this some kind of sick joke? Did she reincarnate? Is she in heaven with my sister? Is she inside my soul, are we together and I don’t know it? She’s a ghost. 

I had to stop believing in ghosts.

I can wiggle my legs free. I look and she’s gone. She’s been gone and she is never coming back. I looked for signs a long time ago or maybe a few days ago. I looked for signs in the woods: turtles, hummingbirds, butterflies, a random light bulb popping. It’s her. She’s here. I can touch her. I can’t talk to her. I can’t hold her. There is nothing to hold. She is ashes. They burned her body. I can’t chase a ghost anymore.

I kept looking everywhere; one year, two years…no words of wisdom, no daughter of mine to appear magically. How is it possible to let that go, to let her go without screaming. The Sirens are deafening my ears and I want to pull my hair out. I didn’t ask for this. I thought I would be okay and maybe one day I will.

I’m sitting up now. The ropes left marks but I can hear the waves crashing. I know I have to go back in there, into the black. I must heal. I read that you’re no good to anyone if you’re not good to yourself. That’s a classic. I’m only here because of everyone else. I don’t care about my Self. I don’t want to change my beliefs. I don’t want to sit on this beach. What time is it, anyway? I’m sure there’s someone somewhere who knows.

As I stand, a sea turtle lopes and claws to her nest. I see her. The photos are blowing in the wind, the crystals have sunk to be found by someone else. The turtle is a mother. She’s alive. She’s a miracle to me. She’s fascinating. How did she grow without being eaten? How did she survive the holes visitors scrape out of the sand to build their castles? How does she know she must leave the nest and what if her babies don’t make it be a mother like her? My heart is racing, again. I’m spinning my abrasive ropes into stories that become nightmares.

No one wants to hear my screams so I scream inside. No one wants to talk to me about what happened so I can prove my insane guilt or some need to convince them that it wasn’t their fault? I didn’t realize I was walking. The waves have calmed. The moon is high. They will be here for millions of years after I die. I don’t realize I’m walking into the ocean alone. You’re a ghost. I dive into the warm water, trying to convince myself that one day, one day I will stop looking for you, Taylor. I’ll stop glancing at the ashes that remind me. I can’t chase what I can’t see. I have no faith in anything except the love I hold for the people here who need me. Do you really need me? Or, maybe you need the ghost I've become.

Choose

I knew I wasn’t ready. I kept asking over and over and it was exhausting, I’m sure for everyone. I had to figure it out on my own. I can be trusted to be alone at night now. I chose Life. I want to Live to enjoy my son, my fiancé, my parents, my everyone….

I feel like I need to rewind because I’ve been a bit introverted while this shift is happening. I said that I wanted to miss my daughter without wanting to die. Without the guilt. I was killing my Self. Advise to me was a little bit of patience and a lot of people telling me that when it doesn’t serve me, it doesn’t do anything for me, I would let it go. Just knowing it’s possible to let go without letting go of my love for my daughter. I just lived with the guilt, shame, put myself on trial and the sentence was grim. I don’t necessarily have an answer for anyone going through that kind of pain over anything, much less a parent’s guilt about her or his child’s death. But, my desire to suicide stopped. I believe I didn’t want to die at all, I just wanted the pain to stop. Suicide is barely an option when faced with the honor of walking another beautiful soul to Heaven. No magic, no amount of talk would change my mind. I had to change my mind for my son, my fiancé , parents, sister…

I chose not to allow the word death to bother me. I chose to think that was one day and I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Reliving that day or the reasons or the questions  doesn’t serve me. And, I am choosing that mess to lose its’ power over me just like words. I can’t give in.

I chose to see my son at all costs and I think I wanted to spend time with him in his element, comfort zone, no one pulling for him to visit them on his short trip to our state. Our time together was relaxing. We enjoyed our conversations. We hung out and talked. I saw it that week. I knew the guilt was not serving me so I chose to let it go. No questions or discussion. Just go. I wanted some time to think, too. Things were changing in me. Vague. I can’t name the Things. But, I being with my son for that week allowed me to see a future. I have no idea what the future holds. He gave me new Life. I want to Live. I want to enjoy my son. I want to enjoy Life.

I really don’t know where to start on this difficult journey. It's embarrassing that my brain doesn't function well, yet. I don't like talking about myself, still. I am good at a few things but I'll not admit it and I believe I must practice letting go and letting go. I don't care to talk about me or my accomplishments yet. If you use the word yet, it means that change is possible. I changed my language, my tune, changed my mind, changed my heart.

You should listen to the way I talk about my children. I knew how to be a constant mother for 22 years and I strengthened my Self over the years to show them Life and Love and being genuine and kind. I talk about Taylor differently. And my sister. I brush over the part about them being gone from the Earth and I talk about my sister’s cooking, my son’s snarky and smart sense of humor. I talk about Taylor.

She was 4’11” and told people she was 5’, I love that. She wore frilly summer dresses and flip flops with a thick long mane of dark or purple hair. She adorned her body with 9 tattoos, once punched a tall man in the face for attempting to sell drugs to a friend and I could bet she was wearing pearls at the time. That’s Taylor. She loved glitter but not diamonds. She loved dogs and people. 

I chose that. I chose to change and to type those words with a smile and not a tear shed today. Another day, I’m sure. But, I think it’s pretty simple. I have to Live a rich and full life…as much as possible after losing part of me. Right now, I’m living for others. In order to find out who I am now after the wreckage, I have to simply be aware of the That standing in my way and move it over…like Carla and Taylor would. Thank you, Tom.

Resources on Changing Grief, Embracing Hope after Suicide

Life continues to evolve 2 years after the loss of my child. Here are a few ways I've changed and some resources for hope.

1.      Redefining. I don’t know who I am in the world. I feel lost, abandoned, and sometimes without purpose. I know it’s important for me to find that passion I once held for animals and people in need. I am far from apathetic about issues I encounter. In fact, after 2 years  into my loss and just a few months of losing my big sister, I can barely cope with events or circumstances I feel are tragic. I believe we who grieve experience a heightened state of fear and sensitivity until we are able to release it. Aside from becoming more emotional and sensitive, I feel as if I will return to being functional and even happy one day. So, I don’t push myself. Even if a child or family member moves away, or your heart suffers from an empty nest, we must redefine ourselves and many times over our lifetimes. Where do we start and how do we keep up the momentum or hope? Life takes work. Brain training takes on many forms and it has helped me move from my Emotional mind to my Logical mind.

2.     Purpose. As stated above, I find difficulty in choosing how to live a meaningful and purpose-driven life as I used to. For some reason, I now equate my previous passion and determination with my loss, as if I lived and functioned only for my daughter. This is simply not true. I have other family members and friends I care deeply for. But, when I’m alone and especially when I’m sad or nostalgic, the feeling of loss and lack of purpose arises quickly. An example of this change is times in which I look at old photos, even of me as a child. I wonder what it was all for if the end result would be a lifetime of pain lies ahead. I will never truly heal from my daughter’s suicide but I have learned to live with the pain. I can control my reactions better, now and hope to see the light.

3.     Stuff. In reflecting on purpose and passion, I see around my home the items, trinkets, memories, ashes…of people who I have lost. In a surge of strength and a desire to remove my surrounding memorabilia of the lost, I want to create space that is solely mine, or at least honors the living or helps me remind myself that it’s okay to create a “new me” instead of walking into every room of my house and seeing constant reminders of them. I have not created this space because, frankly, I’m afraid to. I feel guilty and overwhelmed with their Stuff. I don’t want to focus on it while redefining myself in the world. I believe that transition will come in time. I want to know it's okay. 

4.      Loneliness. I feel lonely a lot of the time. I miss the days when my home was filled with kids, friends, and family. I used to become abandoned in the first year of loss. I was lonely, the phone stopped ringing, my daughter’s friends moved on as they should. I realize now that I miss my daughter and sister. I don’t mind being alone most of the time. I know when a wave of grief is coming by my search to bond with others. The paradox is that life now is about a new me and strengthening my role as a mother of a son, a friend, and so on. I do miss my friends and my daughter and sister’s friends but I now recognize that the loneliness is the loss, not the lack of social interaction. Social interaction, I believe, is paramount in keeping busy and feeling useful in this time. Empathy has proven to heal us. I believe I must keep going.

5.     Cry. I help myself to cry when I am alone, feel grief and have the privacy to mourn. I learned not to dive so deeply into the depths of question after question about my family members’ passing. In doing so, I have learned how to avoid. If the pain is with me, I try to make myself cry, and feel that it helps me release pain. Choosing time to grieve and when not to fall in too deeply is a helpful tool.

6.      Friendship. My friendships and the dynamics of the many friends of my daughter have changed. Some  of my friends have been suffering for quite a while with their own issues after my daughter’s passing.  I no longer feel as if they need to pick up the phone first or take care of me. I simply need to reach out more and be more social. When friends confide in me, I am useful, I have meaning, I am needed. It’s hard for people to confide in me because they say they feel as if my pain is “bigger” than their issues so they feel as if they should not reach out. Reach out.

7.      Presence. The pain I carry today and the thread I’ve heard expressed by others who have lost close loved ones dissipates in moments in which I can be Present. When I feel alone or lost, when I feel depressed or in pain, I distract myself if the time or place is not conducive to a good cry. Loss like this will never heal completely. But, focusing on the Now is all there is. Do not confuse being Present to mean that we don’t remember. It’s okay to enjoy company and walk into the bathroom to cry or take a moment if needed. It’s okay to cry at a party. But, if you can look into another human’s eyes and just Be, the love you feel for them heals.

8.     Guilt. I believe almost all parents feel guilty about a child’s passing. I believe that once we own that guilt (although it’s almost never the fault of the parents or others who feel that they should have done more), we can move forward a step. The guilt will stay until I choose for it not to. Whatever doesn’t serve me must pass. Guilt is a barrier that I have not overcome yet. According to many books and testimonies, guilt is the most damaging and greatest barrier to overcome.

      If you or someone you know are thinking of suicide, 

text HELLO to 741741 or call the National Suicide Hotline 

1-800-273-8255. Please Stay.

9.    Thoughts. For 2 years, I could not pick up a book to concentrate. I can’t always remember people’s names. I think the most opposite and intrusive thoughts I have never had. I hear of stories of mothers who don’t talk to or want their daughters and I see moms and daughters in stores together and I feel jealous. I envy them. I have not experienced envy in the past. Now, the intrusive thoughts have shifted away from question after question about what I did wrong and they will shift again. I tell my Self to be happy for them as I used to be. This takes work. I can’t remember a lifetime of stories at the moment. I know this too will change slowly. I believe that in my case, medication for depression is helping me through and I feel okay about taking it until I feel I can cope better.

The goal in my life is to fulfill my own needs of belonging, presence, expressing my grief, and climbing out of despair that leads to guilt and shame. I hope the links in this writing will help others. I want to talk about my daughter’s and my sister’s wild, free, funny, endearing personalities and to tell stories about them. I also want to hear stories of people others have lost. One day, I hope to tell more stories to remind myself of the beautiful years I spent with them. The key word is hope.

Suicide, Borderline Personality Disorder, and Grief

I carried my coat and cake into room 239 on the last night of class. Placing the cake among the faculty and student contributions, I listened to the professor talk about her cousin who passed on. She told some interesting stories to the class in the past but this time, she spoke of a medium at her place of work. She spoke of listening to the medium’s encounter with a young man who hung himself. The medium told the family member, “He didn’t mean to do it.”

I hunched in the middle of a Master’s class and still standing, I sobbed. I wondered if that story was for me. I thought it must be. I wanted to know if Taylor meant to do it. She would normally persevere and I just asked through sobs, “I wonder if my daughter meant to do it.” No one really knew what to say and I didn’t need for anyone to say or do anything. They mostly ignored probably the professor’s and my story and query into the deep.

How could this be any worse? In suicide prevention trainings, they show video footage of people who attempted suicide, failed, and stated that the second they made the decision to end their lives, they changed their minds.

Maybe Taylor’s Borderline Personality Disorder took over and the abuse from the man and the lack of my presence and the psychosis added up and Taylor literally lost sense. Would it have happened continuously?  Would she have had children? Would she have suffered for her entire life? Did she mean to do it?

Brain training is sold in all forms and sorts through meditation, medication to get your mind right so that you CAN meditate or run, bike, write, draw, talk to a counselor…there’s so much I know now that I didn’t know about before she left. We could have learned together. It’s been just over 2 years now and I’m still bargaining. BUT, I trained my brain for a while to stop slipping so deeply into the questions, doubts, physical pain and psychological damage. I just used a skill from Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) to put a “STOP” to myself when I wanted to share stories about why it was my fault and why I couldn’t think straight enough to have her funeral cards made with a photo of her that she wasn’t eventually cremated in. Suicide is sickening.

Thoughts of suicide pervaded throughout the most difficult of my days. I chose to call around until I could find someone home to talk to me through it, talk to me while I was laying knees to chest bawling. A friend talked to me one night about a tool used in Dialectic Behavioral Therapy (DBT), and as a matter of fact, DBT is the only treatment known to help Borderline Personality Disorder. There’s no medicine, no cure, nothing but exposing yourself as a raw, frightened, confused person in pain. It is possible to work through. It is hard to reach out. But, we must or we leave a hole in the souls of too many people who blame themselves. I will never be okay without her.

My friend shared one possible solution, a thought even that helped me change course when the pain was like hemorrhaging her body and soul from mine. Grief is too much, sometimes. Grief is lonely and my friend taught me how to help myself. When I thought of taking my life, she said I used my Emotional mind. She told me to think with my Logical mind to decide if suicide would be a good decision.  I don’t share my daughter’s disability so I was able to be brought out of the core of my despair.

I did not choose not to suicide because I wanted to stay. I chose to stay because I have a son who I love as much as my daughter. I didn’t “think” he needed me, I mean look at what I did to his sister. I killed her. Of course, logically I had to know that I was not responsible wholly for her suicide. Emotion vs. Logic. A feeling vs. a thought. I chose to stay for my parents and sister who I walked to heaven. Carla asked me to take care of her as she slowly died. I stayed for my fiancé who stands with me now and loves me through the betrayal of my wanting, for a time to leave him behind in this world.

If you or someone you love is thinking of suicide, call or chat online 24/7 to 1-800-273-2855 or text Hello to 741741.

I’m back at the beginning. I’m back to the people who wanted to kill themselves to escape their pain and who decided not to. My reality at the moment is a silent depression, one for which I saw a doctor, am taking medication, and will eventually pull away from. I’m taking the steps. I don’t try to offer people my advice when they say they’re depressed. I offer to help find resources. I just don’t think I could function without taking care of myself. I can work full-time now, go for a day without crying, and tell my mind to stop and think, give myself time. If I’m too depressed, I go to bed. Going to bed is not a cure. It's buying time for you to change your mind by morning. Put your ear buds in and listen to meditations, talks, breath work, calming music and go to bed. In the morning,start researching to get help. There are free services and low-cost services available wherever you are.

We must help ourselves by reaching out for support, even when we believe the world would be better without us. It won't. She tried to call so many people…even me. Ultimately, our lives are our responsibility and we sometimes can’t fight for ourselves in our Emotional mind. But, for the taken and the ones whose ashes we sift into the ocean, they couldn’t make their mind logical and they couldn’t stop and they couldn’t go to bed. She didn’t mean to do it. I cry about it every single day. No matter whether you think you matter to people or not, I am telling you that you do. I can barely hold on, knowing that my bright and beautiful, funny, charming, smart-mouthed, water-loving daughter would have chosen to live. 

Sifting Sands of Taylor

I see my fist in front of me, outstretched arm, thumb on the outside. I see my wrist and hand turned sideways, sand; or ashes, but sand please slipping through my fingers. That’s my thought at midnight on Halloween and yes, it is scary to be inside my mind and to know the horrors I think of and dare not write of until now. I am shocked and found out. I waited until the day was done.

Why, why, what was it that brought the thought of her ashes to mind? I know I want a different urn or maybe to take her ashes to sea, all of them, not some. But, I can’t and my mind floats to my outstretched hand and the sand, sifting, diffusing, disseminating her. The mother and daughter I saw this morning, calling my dad because I can. She can’t.

I know what it was. One day she was here and then, she vanished. Like magic. She’s in my mind like magic and I play tricks on myself with thoughts of ashes and sand and I lie. I act like it’s okay, it’s okay. She’s okay. I feel like I’m rocking, incessantly, she’s okay. I’m not okay. I wonder what character she'd be this Halloween?

Halloween is Taylor’s favorite holiday. I have her favorite costumes hanging in my closet. I move them around with my clothes. I finally held her costumes in my outstretched hand, walked into the guest room and placed them in the closet. A betrayal or healing; it depends on the day.

Again, there is no preparation for this pain and I thought I have been “doing great, moving on, honoring her…” The pain is immense because I can see her getting ready and finding shoes and laughing, making a mess of the bathroom with a friend, me on the other end of the camera. One day she was here. Sand slipping through my fist.

I want to make something to hold her ashes. I don’t want this urn from the funeral home. That day forever to be my honor, my horror, our hell. I want to make a thing with some of her seashells, maybe. I want to create something or buy something that would be funny to her and I don’t want any of this.

During a recent and rare shopping trip, I saw a mom shopping with her daughter. She called to her daughter, “Honey, I don’t see anything here.” I said, “Honey” under my breath and I smiled and I thought hard about all of the kids I call “honey” and I can’t talk to her anymore for the rest of my life.

Have I been doing better or faking it for as long as I could? I don’t usually cave under this sand. The waves calmed for a while and I had some peace. I ignored so much of what I saw everyday, I watch myself choose clothes and I don’t have her anymore to ask if she likes or wants a shirt or send her a text with a reply that usually consisted of, “Ew. Get me some Taco Bell, please. K, thanks.”

I feel so bad thinking of my daughter, no more, no more. Her body is her ashes. How is that okay for me? I have to honor the pain because I’m sick of ignoring it and pretending people are living a life I've never been jealous of right there in front of me and I can’t call her and I can’t do it over and I can’t feel her body or her hair. I can’t jump clear across the couch to hug her goodbye or take a photo of her on her favorite holiday of Halloween and I can’t do so much with her and that will never go away.

I had to save myself. I had to do it alone and I was left alone to heal somewhat because that’s how it works. I had to hold my head high and be happy for mothers and daughters or sons and fathers. I’m thrilled to see my son soon. I cannot live without my daughter and feel this magnitude of pain every day, I had to choose to ignore it, divert the love to others, show love to others, be grateful for so much.

That random cry, though. Those perverted thoughts of sand that I know in my mind are her ashes. I had a daughter one day and the next she was no more in my physical world. Sometimes, I must be allowed to sit with that. I can think of her evermore clearly now, the shape of her wrist twisting her hair, sweat pants, I can see her face more clearly now.

I sit with her in mind when we discuss accommodations in schools. I sit with her when I hear a baby cry in a store (a hallmark tradition for a parent to shop, ignoring her screaming baby) for us. I sit in it all day, every day and sometimes I feel like I need a baseball bat and a tree to scream and to beat and to grow hoarse screaming, pleading, demanding a why. Why.

I’ll be back to almost normal tomorrow until I see my dad for his birthday. I’ll hold my head low in shame as she will not hand him a card and hug him, her face cradled in his hand, head on his chest, his covering arms around his girl. I know I’ll feel guilt and shame for her passing to her new life. I’ll let it go more easily and swiftly this time.

I just don’t know what to do about her ashes. Maybe I’ll get lucky and keep my rage and pain inside me tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. I’ll be happy for a week or weeks because I will see the people I love, talk with my son, and feel gratitude. This pain should sift through me like the sand sifting through my hand. I allow it, blow it off my fingers, and live another day.

The Transforming Tapestry of Life and Your Tribe After Suicide

 I could hear the fabric in the Universe tear apart to reveal space. If I raise my fist or flat palm into the air to touch Taylor’s Universe, I could have seen the rip already. Taylor, on Earth was the nucleus to the cell, friends and family rotating, spinning, mostly in uniform, around her in a set rotation. She calculated schedules and personalities, clustered friends who served purposes for which she orchestrated trips to the beach, parks, restaurants, protests, or friends’ houses to hang out.

While the orbits were set in motion and all people and their satellites played well together, no major planetary mishaps on her watch unless she caused or righted them. Taylor navigated her atmosphere quite well. She knew who needed help with alignment, who to turn to for solace, food, and missions to buy the latest phone on the market, find the right hair color (and leave traces of it all over the bathroom and towels) or create her next tattoo that she would not like to be asked about.

Florida! From left: Taylor, TJ, Paulie, Tommy, Haley

I’ve read that the 2^nd year in grief is harder than the first. I think this is true in the case of the torn fabric of Taylor’s Universe. You see, the people who love Taylor, the people who she collected and loved, nurtured and explored with did not necessarily bond together with each other outside of their relationship with Taylor. Some did, of course. Lifelong friendships were forged with and because of her. But, it’s only been since this June, a year and a few months after Taylor left the physical Universe that I discovered the tear. I can push my hand through to the nothingness, to the space outside. It’s lonely out there.

Taylor held everyone together and while in the first year of her departure due to Borderline Personality Disorder I tried desperately to celebrate her birthday and plan a vigil or Christmas party for her friends who I happened to find in my home and on my couch for most of their lives. Most years I babysat or just planned parties with so many growing kids. I remember scenes of pillows, blankets, wet towels on my couch, clothes and random socks on the floor or in the wash, and dirty dishes for most of Taylor’s 22 short years.

Taylor and cousin Nick

The planets, sun, moons and stars could not remain woven in this web of Taylor’s love because Taylor was and is the sun and without her there is no gravity that bonds them to each other and in some of the most painful losses is the people with whom I’m no longer in contact. Tommy, her brother, is in college now 15 hours away. People and circumstances change. I remain lonely for her and the people who will always remain “my kids” are loved unconditionally. No one was handed a grief manual as I distributed her clothes, jewelry, mementos, memories. My reality is without most of them, the ones I love as is natural even if I were the mother of these grown up children. I am in flux, flotsam and jetsam under a wobbly moon.

I look at my new space without my son in college and still wish for dirty dishes, clothes on the floor, the sounds of occasional yelling at the computer from the basement. I cried a lot before and after he left for college. When I returned from Africa to the devastation that was all of our lives, the house was not silent for a few months. Gradually, people returned to life. The quiet and physical pain are my only memories of those first months. I waited for someone to need me, to call me, to text me, anyone. I did not realize at the time that I was waiting and wanting and needing her. I’m immensely proud of “my” kids. They have relationships, children, attend school, maintain jobs, and they’re self-actuating, something Taylor craved but was not able to do. It is natural that they, too would be leaving my continual space but not completely. Fear is part of grief. I fear loss. Fear of loss leads to depression, loss of hope. I had to break through.

Trevor Hall concert from left Amanda, TJ, Taylor, and Mom

This time of my life has been difficult not just because I miss my daughter or her friends or even my son. I lived in service to them, I loved to care for them, I learned to care for others before my Self. I forged an identity when she was born. It was based on giving to others, to her and then Tommy. Tommy played an integral role in Taylor’s life. She seemed to see him as a playmate and then, although 4 years younger, the big brother who she could trust.

As a parent suffering the aftershocks of the Universe trembling and tearing and them silently slipping into new orbits and habits and homes, I am still here. My mission is to see my Self as Love, to see Taylor in me, to see and to know I am needed and worth more than the condemnation I throw at myself because my daughter took her life. I want to be a living example of the her who was an extension of me, sometimes. If people learn to love by first loving themselves, I must make good choices and take a proactive stance in my self-care. It’s a struggle and sometimes, I can take a step forward. I have a support system I can count on. I don’t reach out nearly enough. If you’re grieving now, you probably understand the race to get home after work, the exhaustion of “grief brain” and fog. You may understand the feeling of loneliness and simultaneous inability to pick up the phone yourself.

Six Flags Ariel, Mom, and Taylor

I love my life partner (and king of patience), son, family, and friends. I must try to forgive and love my Self. Until I do, that tear in her Universe? It allowed me to see into mine. It’s a topsy-turvy view with wonky space junk, a few solid strong planets, moons and stars…and a struggling sun striving to shine brightly and right the Universe I live in. Tonight, I just want to see the 3D universe and live my dream, in the country, sitting outside and staring at the stars.

If you or someone you know is considering suicide text HELLO to 741741, call The National Suicide Prevention Hotline at Call 1-800-273-8255 or chat online through Google.

A Life In Words

Taylor Tremusini arrived at 9:05 a.m. on June 23, 1993. Almost from the beginning, Taylor experienced signs of stress. She cried…a lot. I was told she had colic. Although breastfed at first, she couldn’t tolerate almost any formula. She almost never napped in her bed. She was held in order to sleep. Too much movement, light, singing, patting all at once was simply too much. Calm and soothing was her medicine but the recipe meant as little stimulation as possible and being held in order for this beautiful, tiny black haired girl with warm, glowing skin and fragile nervous system. She was always in the 3rd percentile, meaning kids her size were 97% likely to be bigger. Taylor lived a mighty life and held such power for a petite and perfect girl, my girl.

As she grew, her personality showed to be one full of curiosity, random kindness,  and raucous laughter. Taylor loved to take long walks with Papa, especially. People around us called a spoiled brat because she suffered tantrums. I felt helpless trying to take care of her and I know it looked like I allowed her to behave poorly but I knew she struggled because some things, she didn't understand. Maybe her confusion and despair led to aggression, I don't know. I know that the underlying issue is fear. 

She pushed other young children. And then she hugged them. The tantrums remained and followed a pattern. Each evening around 6pm, Taylor crawled under the coffee table and she screamed until she rid herself of the overwhelming stress of the day. Moreover, she ate little until later and it was difficult to soothe her when she didn’t get what she wanted. In order for me to persuade her to eat, I played games that included lots of play. Later, when I taught Project Construct curriculum at her school campus, I understood the value of learning through play. Taylor loved laughing above all. She and I laughed when I cooked and of course, she wasn't hungry. I sat down by her with my dinner. I talked happily to her and pretended to look away from my fork that held a little bite. I waved it gently midair only to discover my cheeky girl had eaten my bite of food! She roared with laughter and a mouthful of “my” food and it worked. The struggles were woven into laughter and love and trying...always trying. 

Taylor attended preschool for 4 hours, 2 days per week. Almost each day she played alone. She started preschool young for social interaction, her mother always seeking ways to encourage her growth and love of play. We enrolled in Parents As Teachers in order for me to watch Taylor's development and grow with her. She created many of the same art projects in school; a pair of toilet paper roll binoculars which she taped and colored almost every week. It was an early coping mechanism. I remember watching her and she didn't seem to struggle but I felt like she was missing out and I felt sad for her and again, couldn't help my daughter or understand her tantrums when I came to visit her class. I knew things could be too much for her or maybe something was wrong even at this tiny age, I felt helpless to know how to help her and to have everyone back off. I couldn't explain her behavior or what it was like for her to suffer. I knew she could never be a brat. Honestly, no child can be labeled as bad. I wanted her to get all of her needs met. She grew into the class and finally engaged with the other children, often displaying care for them, building relationships. I volunteered often with the school and we laughed and sang with the class. We shared such intimacy all her life. How I missed the fact that getting a divorce when she was 4 years old really caused her and my son so much trauma. I thought I was doing the right thing. 

Taylor attended ½ day kindergarten, a time still trying, difficult. She experienced enuresis. Then, in 1st grade, encopresis. These early warning signs of stress remained with her as she attended primary school from 2^nd-4^th grade in a public school. It manifested in extra help when she dazed off, separated herself from the class. I didn't know how to explain to the school that things were...just too much for her even though socially and academically she remained bright and sweet. Was it my fault? My decision to stay home to raise her and work part-time for most years, even later ones, remains the best decision I made for my children. I caused pain, experienced my own trauma and that had to compound for the kids. We didn't know about trauma enough for anyone to support me through it. For Taylor, separation anxiety that manifested at birth would remain with her for a lifetime. She said, "I want my mom" so much and that she missed me but I experienced all of the fits and rage and anger from her. We were bonded and separate forever. We consulted counselors, pediatricians, and psychiatrists. They drew blood, talked, and tested. No one knew the cause of Taylor’s suffering. I watched the miracle that was my little girl so full of questions and so full of life and care for other people. Her infectious laugh and tiny frame met with cuddles and smiles, much of the time for her new baby brother when Taylor was 4 years old.

Tutors, volunteers, and special education teachers assisted Taylor with her classwork. She was a bright and engaging girl but stared into space, often unable to keep up with school. 4^th grade brought a 504 Plan, which does not create complete intervention at school but it allows for accommodations that included more time on tests, special seating, recognition of her school phobia, and more. Of course, people questioned me about that, too. School phobia sounds like a kid who just wants to stay home from school. At home, Taylor created fun for friends and family. 

We invited kids into out home before and after school and during the summer. From home base, we created lifelong friendships and held many, many play dates and parties. In the summers, we hosted a summer camp in our home where the kids truly thrived with experiences. Even then, she experienced fits of rage followed by hilarious stunts with friends. Kids spent time with us jumping on the trampoline, watching movies, and playing games in a house full of loud music, food, road trips, parties at Christmas, birthdays, and swimming in the pool playing Colors or Marco Polo until too late during those dreamy, hot summer nights. No matter the problems, we met them with an incredible and rich group of kids I still love to this day. 

We struggled for answers. She never talked about feeling depressed or sad that she couldn’t integrate the way other students had. I regret that now. I found some educational documents (not a great idea to sift through that stuff a lot) that talked about her being depressed. I remember that we tried Zoloft but all medication left her sick in some way. I wanted to talk so many times and the conversation quickly turned confusing for her and she blew up. I never knew what to do and I know that being around it for my son must have been difficult for him, too. She suffered in silence.

For middle school, we tried a smaller, private school with smaller class sizes for Taylor  and her brother, who she loved to play with and protect. I didn't realize that change would be too much even twenty years ago. Taylor’s response to the general school setting deteriorated. She was still smart and capable but the atmosphere left her shaking. She had no friends, she said. That hurts me, still. When I was called to pick Taylor up early several times per week, she'd be sitting in the office, swinging her feet, and chatting with the secretaries, but the rush of sadness and pain in me when I met her face of a pale, grey pallor, her little arms shaking but still smiling. My heart sank and my soul ached to take away her pain. I have never met anyone so brave. 

By this time, we had seen more therapists who wanted to review her history again and again and this continued until Taylor arrived at the age of 18 when I could no longer influence her to seek or complete treatment. She was diagnosed with Separation Anxiety, School Phobia, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Generalized Anxiety, Major Depressive Disorder, and Bipolar. They were all wrong.

7^th grade introduced us to Metropolitan School for alternative learners with ED, or emotional disturbance, like in Taylor who thrived in a smaller classroom with modifications and opportunities for her to be creative, and she shined brightly. Teachers expressed delight in her behavior and care for others. We remain grateful for Metropolitan’s small class sizes of 4-6 students who wore headphones and work in a group or at their own paces through kinesthetic learning, art, poetry, song, and a multitude of rewards. Their praise was socio-emotional in nature including following the rules, helping other students, trying something difficult, and being a kind individual. This was a time in Taylor's life when she met friends she kept for life. At home, we struggled but at Metro, she felt part of something and obtained more social skills help. She still struggled and we still tried.

When Metropolitan School closed unexpectedly, education lost Taylor in the public school system. Now in high school, she suffered silently. Her trips to the school counselor were frequent and so were calls home. In a short order, the special school district referred Taylor to obtain a personal tutor outside of school within the Missouri Options program. The program provided Taylor with a high school diploma. Even during these turbulent times and fits of anger, Taylor developed a high sense of duty to protect others and even animals. She made friends and almost no enemies. She laughed so hard, she fell off the couch or slapped the cushions beside her. Her loves were food, laughter, friends, tattoos, dogs, and our yearly jaunts to Florida with a gang of kids. No adults, only me.

We celebrated birthdays, hosted Christmas parties at hotels with indoor pools, swam in the summer, traveled with her friends to concerts, parks, and skating rinks, both on and off the ice. Taylor’s favorite destination was the beach. Each year, about 8 of us, 7 children or teens, descended upon the beaches of Florida where Taylor found, “the only place she felt truly free.”

After high school, we continued to try to find a diagnosis for Taylor. Amid the mix of prescription medications that only caused nausea or fatigue, driving recklessly seemed to be Taylor’s most threatening enemy. I never knew that driving recklessly is part of Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) a fateful diagnosis she received too late. I still wonder if any one of the myriad of professionals we sought, if any of the caring adults she met had even mentioned BPD, would she still be here? Luckily, she did not form habits of drugs, drinking, or cutting which are also part of criteria for BPD. She didn’t talk about how or why other young adults her age could and did succeed in school or college. She changed jobs frequently. She was admitted twice for inpatient mental health treatment with no results and no discussion with me by the doctors. They never asked me a thing. Why did several hospitals release her at a time when her volatility and fear prevented her from seeking support on her own? They weren't interested in my opinion or criteria that would have given them and Taylor help and hope for wellness. I felt so guilty for subjecting her to the horrid mental health services we received. She talked about the vulnerability and feelings of fear and outrage at being expected to change from her clothes (protection) into hospital clothes with cameras watching. Of course, I took care of that issue but in one instance, after she said she wanted to hurt herself (and didn't know why), we stayed in a hospital emergency ward for 9 hours only to be met by a psychiatrist who released her within a half hour, long after she calmed from the storm with not a word to or from me. I regret not doing more, saying more.

No one asked me if she expressed angry outbursts or crashed several cars, began and ended and began and ended friendships… or couldn’t manage the general education environment. No one asked about her picky and tricky eating habits.  I was not allowed to speak with doctors, even in the emergency room when she felt suicidal. She was 18 by then. She lost faith in the medical community, and I was helpless to find help for her as she finally refused any more questions, probing, or treatment that amounted to misdiagnosis after repeated and uncomfortable questioning that lasted for years. She allowed me to set up appointments with counselors and a new psychiatrist. Sometimes, she walked out or never showed up. One counselor advised that I should "kick her out if she doesn't stop disrespecting you." And a psychiatrist who had seen her said, "She did not suicide because of Borderline. They do not suicide. Only people with Bipolar suicide." I feel now that we were doomed to this fate. None of the doctors asked the criteria for Borderline. After the age of 18, they weren't even interested in my opinion. And the doctor who insisted that people with BPD should have known that 70% of people diagnosed with BPD attempt suicide and 10% of those succeed. It truly was a perfect storm.

A beautiful and charismatic girl, Taylor appeared to only suffer from anxiety. She raged and screamed at me. I knew that anger and rage can look like something it’s not. In fact, I tried all  her life to tell teachers, doctors, family, and friends that something was wrong and her behavior was not a reflection of my perfect girl. But, her flashy smile, charm and wit, her attention to the needs of others, and resilience to bounce back so quickly after a fit of rage confused everyone. I knew she suffered some of the time. She spent most of her time planning her next tattoo (she wore 9) or trip to Florida. She must have suffered in silence as so many people with BPD do.

In work, Taylor found purpose in serving others—literally. She became a server at a few local restaurants. Changing jobs frequently should have been a clue that something was amiss with her. In October, 2015 Taylor’s weight dropped as it had during stressful times in the past. She had been planning to attend a rigorous Veterinary Tech program after trying unsuccessfully to attend a community college twice. Even at the college level, anxiety destabilized Taylor. The lectures, people, books, lights...it was all too much.

But, she tried. She attended two classes, never to return and never to talk openly about how she felt. Should I have pushed the issue? I don’t know. By now, she was 22 and I knew better than to dissuade her from her goal of attending this new program. I hinted at the rigorous schedule and grueling hours but Taylor wanted to prove that she could do it. “If other people can do it who aren’t as smart as me, I can do it.” I knew it would be too much for her but I was her champion and met with the school alongside her, anyway. Even then, she didn’t discuss any fear or trepidation at the thought of school. I supported her and knew that if the veterinary tech program didn't succeed, she would have blamed herself. I felt helpless.

Beyond the drop in weight, Taylor broke off her most stable relationship with the love of her life in November, 2015. She started going out on the town later at night and then dated a troubled young man who emotionally abused her, something no man would have been able to do had she not been weakening in those last few months. By the 3^rd week of December, 2015 I admitted Taylor to an inpatient facility for a suicide attempt, one in which she confessed to me that only moments before she swallowed a “bottle of pills,” that she only did it because she was angry with the new love interest but was “fine, now.” The medication was for nausea but I knew I had to take Taylor to the emergency room. I told her that she simply could not swallow a bottle of pills and believe that I would let it go. We needed to make sure she would be okay. This was the beginning of the end. I wonder now if it was the right decision to take her to the hospital. Maybe without the diagnosis she would be here, maybe she would have allowed for support. Maybe I inadvertently helped seal her fate by forcing the issue at such a delicate time. I wanted this opportunity to take her once again, maybe a little by force, but with all of my heart and mind directed at receiving the support she so desperately needed.

At the hospital, Taylor raged as they stripped her of her phone and lifeline to this new boy, who constantly called her a whore, then broke up with her, then wanted her back in his life again and again. I texted him from the waiting room, shaky and scared. I asked that he break off the relationship until she stabilized. He agreed. Even then, I tried to help her return to her previous and stable relationship but it was too late. She made the choice to stay in a relationship that a few months earlier, she would never have tolerated. In the past, Taylor refused to accept abuse in this way. It was not part of her childhood or my life. She was obsessed with him and it was a warning.

Taylor refused to see me during the 3 days in which she was observed for suicidal behavior. Finally, though she was diagnosed properly: Borderline Personality Disorder. I had never heard of BPD after 22 years of searching. The doctor called me and he described the symptoms she displayed and criteria for diagnosis having never spoken with me. I felt it to be a blessing and a curse. He told me that there is no cure for Borderline; there is no medication. The doctor suggested a year of intensive treatment in Dialectic Behavioral Therapy before she would begin to feel better. I knew it sounded like a death sentence to her. I was not welcome at the center to discuss this with her because I “put her there,” away from her obsession.  After 22 years of struggle, we finally found the answer. And, the way in which it was conveyed ultimately added to her decision to end her life. She would never discuss it with me.

Taylor and lifelong friend Haley

The doctor delivered Taylor her diagnosis in the same words and in the same dry manner as he conveyed to me. A counseling visit each week and group therapy each week for a year? I knew she would not follow through; that she would be too embarrassed. She still refused to talk to me. I couldn't fathom how a doctor would deliver a serious, life-threatening diagnosis to a person who had no one there to support her in the news and hope for healing.

The new boy was back in her life and allowed had become a full-blown obsession of hers. They were back together when she was released from the mental health facility on December 23, 2016, 72 hours after she was admitted. About a year after her passing, one of Taylor's closest friends said that after the diagnosis, Taylor simply “deflated." She lost hope. The first time I knew of Borderline Personality Disorder was during that fateful stay. For the first time in her life, Taylor stayed with a friend on Christmas Eve, sure that we "hated her." I felt ecstatic when she stopped by our home to open gifts with her brother on Christmas day. 

Ariel, Taylor, and mom

On January 6, 2016 I left for Africa on a planned conservation trip. I thought it would be best for me to keep my arranged plan to travel to try to rebuild our broken relationship. I knew that I could sneak in some loving words when we spoke and that I may be able to convince Taylor to allow me to work with her, for her.

The boy, however, continued to taunt her and sent her GIF images of sexual acts, calling her names, breaking off the relationship, on and off it went. I sent her photos of animals and short texts of love and inspiration and sometimes just made small talk. I boldly offered to support her when I returned home. I posted photos, videos, and updates about my trip on social media and she shared my joy, saying she was proud of me. I knew that leaving would separate us enough to give her space and time to forgive me. I though it would allow us to rebuild our relationship that had always been so very close. Even her best friend said she was proud of me for going. As her mother, I feel as if I should have stayed with her.I had no idea about the boy's emotional abuse until Taylor was gone. 

After another threat of suicide on February 1^st, 2016 the boy broke off the relationship again with Taylor. Her phone reveals texts of fighting, as well as her desperate attempts and then ultimate success in finding and buying heroin for her to use to overdose. She rarely drank and had never used a hard drug. A photo on her phone reveals the two small pink pills. She told this boy about the pills. He demanded that she bring them to him immediately and he destroyed them. He did not call me to tell me about this cry for help. He threatened that he would tell me, took them away from her and her cry for help fell in shatters. After 22 years with my daughter, I knew that she wanted this boy to heed her cry, tell me what she just couldn't. Her lack of response to his threat of exposing her was her acquiescence for him to stand up for her, find her the deserved support he robbed her of. She wanted him to tell me. She was in trouble. I could have called her father or even the police just to keep her safe until I arrived home from Africa. In grief, we call that bargaining...what I should have done...

On February 2, 2016 Taylor and the boy continued to fight. By this time, Taylor was tired, confused, and unstable. She made a visit to her aunt and uncle's and to grandparents' home, her sanctuary. She acted grumpy, as was usual those days. Taylor showed no signs of trouble that day. She arrived home by 6:30pm. More fighting, more accusations. She continued to text with the boy and told him of her device she made to use to end her life. "It really hurts, just so you know," she said. "I found a wood pillar so I'm gravy," she said. She found the information she needed to end her life on the internet. The boy never called me or 911.

She called me at 8:30pm; Zambian time 4:30am. Surprisingly, I was awake and so excited to hear from her! I tried to answer my cell phone when she called but either she said nothing or I couldn’t hear due to poor cell service. I lost the call. I knew I could chat by the river before my final safari so I showered and called her. My call was answered, then disconnected. While in the shower, my phone chimed with a message from her, which I answered in text, without knowing she would never read it. To me, she wrote:

“It’s not your fault. You were the best mom you could have been. I love you and the person you are and always will be. You’ll be okay. Go do what you love and what I aspired to do. No matter what you hear this isn’t anyone’s fault but my own. I’m sick and wouldn’t get help. I love you forever.

You’ll always be the closest person to me.  I’m so sorry.”

Taylor took her life on February 2, 2016 at the age of 22. 70% of people diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder attempt suicide. 10% of those die by suicide.

Taylor and cousin TJ

If you know someone who is threatening suicide, please find immediate support. Be a good friend. Listen and hold your friend on the line until help arrives. If he/she has a plan, a time, a place, a method call 911 immediately, anonymously if you have to. If they speak of suicide at all, offer to help find resources and professionals. Listening and keeping someone on the phone can provide time for the episode to pass. Even if it does, a parent, guardian, or professional must be consulted. Even a single mention of suicide warrants immediate help from a professional.

I am updating this post in November, 2019, as we approach the 4th anniversary of Taylor passing. I feel madness still. I feel this pain to be relentless, tiring, hard. It's just hard to stop myself from questioning and being okay in the world without my daughter. I know for me, for a time, suicide seemed like it would stop the pain. I know Taylor suffered, I know it. I just thought there was hope. Borderline Personality Disorder confuses and increases fear, even instigates madness. I am still madly in love with my girl who no one mentions today. I loved her life for her overall. Taylor experienced love. Taylor IS love. 

If you are having suicidal thoughts, text HELLO to 741741 or call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255 or Google search National Suicide Hotline for online chat.