I always fancied myself a bit of a writer. But not like this. Maybe a writer of children’s stories like the ones I would sit and make up with the kids. Never ever did I imagine it would be like this.
On March 21st 2021, my world crumbled. Everything I knew, or thought I knew, was ripped out from under me. I found my son dead. He had taken his own life. He would have been 23 on 6th April. My son’s name is Liam. A beautiful name for a beautiful individual.
My life became a ‘before’ and ‘after’. I absolutely did not want to be involved in the ‘after’ and quite frankly, I am not completely sure how I am still here, or if this is even real. Is this my life now? Most of the time I vehemently refuse to believe that it is. I think this is my minds way of protecting me.
I have spent the last 10 weeks on a roller coaster of unimaginable hell. There have been many days I have wanted to take my own life, and days where I thought I would almost certainly die on the spot from a broken heart. But I am still here, for now.
I have found that this journey is not only horrendous but it is incredibly lonely. I have found that those who you expect to be there for might not be, and the people you least expect to hear from, can be the ones reach out. I have found comfort in online groups and conversations with other people who have been bereaved by suicide.
The most helpful source of support, for me, has been to hear stories of other parents who have expressed their struggle in all its raw ugliness and are still here to keep sharing. The ones who acknowledge this for what it is; the absolute worst. What I do not find helpful, is professionals and well meaning people offering platitudes and telling me this will be okay, that it will get better. Because it won’t. There is no better and there is no okay, not for me anyway, but maybe there is different, and maybe the different is something that we can bear? And maybe this different is more bearable together?
And this is the reason for this blog. I want to share my story, in all its rawness. I want you to see and hear how I felt from that moment to now and for as long as I am able to continue. Is what I felt and continue to feel normal? What even is normal anymore? There is no normal anymore that I can see. Maybe this could be described as normal in the aftermath of grief by suicide? A different kind of crazy normal where grief manifests in the oddest of ways. In ways that become so consuming that you aren’t sure you’ll make it out alive. But maybe you’ll feel better able to go with these crazy normal feelings of grief and feel less crazy and a little less alone. I hope anyway.
Even if I was particularly articulate, which I am not, there are no words that I could make use of that would properly give the feelings of this kind of loss any justice. There are just not the words. I know this and I know you know this. And together we get it in way that no one else ever could.
I don’t particularly know what I am doing, both with this blog and with my life in general anymore. I am completely winging it. I hope that journaling so openly like this will help me get through this nightmare and also help others who are experiencing loss. But as with my journey of life with Liam, we were just winging it together.
It will likely be messy and all over the place. But I guess that’s just life.
1 year and 74 days since this nightmare began. 1 year and 74 days since I saw your face and since I heard your voice. It still feels like yesterday. Grief is weird. And it does not get ‘easier’ or ‘better’, or any of those things. The only people who will tell you that, haven’t lost a child. The only thing that has changed, for me at least, is that it feels different but certainly no less painful.
I still wake up to that now familiar sinking feeling every morning when I open my eyes and I still curse the universe when I do, for making me live another day on this earth without you.
It still hurts just as much as ever did. It is still impossible to describe such excruciating pain. There are no words in any language to describe the magnitude of this loss. I still have many moments where I feel as though I am watching this all happen to someone else, because it cannot possibly be happening to me.
I find most things a struggle. I get up, I shower and dress and eat. I go to work and do all the things that are expected of me. I talk to people if I have to and nod and smile in all the right places, but I don’t really care. I don’t care about the things that matter to other people, their topics of conversation are uninteresting and their words are just noise that don’t make sense. The entire world is too loud and I feel like an outsider. Everything is flat and grey.
I go through the motions every day, without any purpose or meaning, constantly asking myself how and why and still wondering what the hell happened. Most people have left now, their lives have just gone on as they always did. After the shock of the secondary losses wears off, I was left feeling some relief for having seen people for who they really are and incredibly grateful for those who stayed, despite everything and for those who have welcomed me into the most painful and sorrow filled group in existence. The compassion and love shown by others never ceases to amaze me. There is no other connection like that of grieving hearts.
I still spend every day trying to painstakingly search for the elusive answers to the ‘whys’ and every night chasing you aimlessly, trying to save you before it’s too late, but it’s always too late. I have seen people desperate to dream of their person. Maybe the grass is always greener on the other side but after 438 torturous nightmares, I pray to a god I don’t believe in that the dreams would stop.
Of all the dreams I have had, only in one of them did I reach you in time and save you. I brought you home with me. I made your bed, cooked you a meal, I fixed everything, down to the last detail, and I saved you. But it wasn’t comforting at all. It was probably worse than the nights spent chasing but never catching you. The days and the nights still feel like they blur into one long nightmare either way. I still wake consumed with guilt and pain that never lets up.
Some days I completely shut the world out. I sit with my thoughts and try and make sense of them. I never can. I continuously look at certain points in life before all of this and wonder if it was there where it went wrong. Then I piece together another narrative, one where you live. One where we all live and where our lives are not shattered into irretrievable pieces. I think it will always be this way. There is no peace, no happiness, no contentment, only a desire for it to end.
I am more aware of what is helpful and what isn’t. I like quiet, coffee, comfy clothes and staying away from people. People expect far too much, when in reality, they should expect nothing at all from anyone enduring this impossible burden of pain and sorrow. It takes all I have in me to function at a fraction of what I once did. It’s almost impossible to find space in a head filled with so much anguish and pain. I try to focus on being strong enough to hike up a mountain to scatter your ashes, more words that I can’t believe relate to our lives now.
I often find myself thinking “What a waste of a life”. You had so much left to do. But you were amazing and you lived. And your life was the most magnificent part of mine. You touched so many people. It really is an injustice that everyone you never met will miss out on knowing you.
You lived.
You mattered.
You will always matter.
I don’t know if there will ever be a time when I can focus on your life, more than your death, but I try. Trying is the only thing I am good at now.
If you wanted an uplifting blog about finding joy and meaning then you’ve come to the wrong place. This is not that. It is just me, a grieving mum, sinking further into a pit of hopelessness and despair.
Some days are worse than others, like today. I’ve found that the waves of grief are constantly ebbing and flowing. Sometimes they will pull you completely under and thrash you around without allowing you up for air. Other times the feeling of numbness seems to keep them under control at least long enough to be able to function for a short while, but the deep sadness is always there. It came on the day my son died and it has never left. Sometimes I can sit with it. Other times it is too heavy and overwhelming and I don’t know how I can go on like this, with these feelings, forever. I know it’s okay to feel sad but I would like to feel less sad. I would be grateful for even a few minutes respite from this excruciating pain.
I wake up and I remember you’re dead and this is my life. My stomach sinks and I will reluctantly get ready for the day. I brush my teeth and think of you being dead, I make coffee and think of you being dead. It doesn’t ever stop. I am tired of waking up. I am tired of feeling you die every single day.
I leave the house on a morning with your sister, my social anxiety, and a body that feels too heavy for me to carry and wait for the school bus. I can’t bear to listen to the people around me talk about all these things that seem so meaningless now. Your sister is counting down the days to her birthday and all can think of is how you will not be here. I no longer see the beauty in the world around me. Everything is too loud, too busy and too peopley. I will wave goodbye to your little sister and think about you being dead. I will think about how I would also like to be dead and free of this unforgiving pain, no longer having to wake another day in this real life nightmare. I am shit at being a mum. I thought this was the one thing I got right, but I didn’t. I am completely failing.
I am so deeply unhappy. I struggle to find anything to be grateful for. I should be trying to focus on my fitness, getting myself prepared to climb Old Man Mountain on our trip to Canada in the summer but my body just hurts. I hurt everywhere and I feel as though I am walking in treacle. And no matter what I tell myself, I can’t pretend this is a holiday. I can’t begin to wrap my head around having to carry my childs ashes…
in a rucksack…
on my back…
up a mountain…
to tip them out onto the ground.
I am not okay with this. I should be going there with you. You should be the one taking us to all the places you loved. I should be meeting your friends with you. You were meant to take me to Bavaria to see the beautiful Neuschwanstein Castle. We were meant to have different life to this one. I should not be sitting here with your ashes held in a cardboard tube in the cupboard next to me, labelled, ‘The cremated remains of Liam Foster’. This can not be my fucking life.
No one should ever know this pain. Everything is a horrible mess and I am completely lost.
Life without you is exhausting and I am so deeply unhappy. More than anything, I just want to disappear.
You have been dead for 305 days but it feels like just yesterday. The events of that day and the days leading up to it, play on a loop in my mind, over and over. There are moments when the flashbacks catapult me right back to that awful day, where I am screaming at you to breathe whilst I pound my shaking, clenched hands onto your chest. I can hear the sirens in the background, smell the fragrant scent of essential oils coming from your humidifier, feel the sweat on my skin. I can feel the vomit rising in my throat as my whole body tenses and my chest feels tight. In these moments, I struggle to tell the past and the present apart. I am there with you, screaming, except I am here, silent and transfixed, unable to separate what is real and what isn’t.
My dreams are the same. I see other mothers who have lost children, desperate for their child to come to them in a dream when I wish mine would stop. 304 nights I have dreamed of you being dead then 305 mornings I have woken to that sucker punch to the gut realisation that you are still…dead. I never imagined that dreaming of you, my own child, would become such a torment that I would wake myself with the sound of my own screaming.
I have heard it said that in grief terms, days are like milliseconds and years are like days. I still believe you will walk through the door more than I believe you won’t. It feels like only yesterday we were chatting, yet it feels like an eternity all at once. It is difficult to explain to anyone who doesn’t live in this world of loss in which I now live. No one wants to be here. No one wants to know this excruciating, relentless pain, but there is huge comfort in knowing that there are others here who understand. I don’t believe I would be here today if it wasn’t for those who were here before me holding out their hands.
Another bereaved mother said “We have to choose hope, or sit in hopelessness forever”. I’m not sure where I am between the two, I feel mostly hopeless but I am still here, still writing, which I guess would indicate there is some hope. I mostly hope I don’t always hurt like I do but I know this pain isn’t going anywhere. I must either to learn how to carry it and hold it within me or succumb to despair. Both seem feasible options to me right now.
I never imagined a pain like this possible. I certainly never imagined a human heart being capable of surviving this. Maybe I won’t. I am still alive but I am not living. I do all the things; get out of bed, wash, dress, eat…most of the time. I am still unable to listen to music or read, to do anything really that I enjoyed before. There is no place for words like ‘enjoy’ now. I struggle to leave the house and take medication to help me sleep and more to function on some level throughout the day, usually adding a few extra over the counter medications into the mix for good measure which is possibly becoming a problem but, like most things at the minute, I don’t care enough to do anything about it. The main goal is getting through the day, however which way.
I have weekly sessions with a psychologist for EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing) that I find extremely difficult and don’t have much faith in it but it’s still early days.
I spend a lot of time chatting to others who have lost children or who have lost a child/someone to suicide and I find this is the most helpful way to pass my time. Which is literally what I am doing every single day; passing time, waking up and waiting until I can close my eyes again.
Most of my friends and family have dropped off the face of the earth, which I’ve found isn’t uncommon for grievers to experience. I got tired of reaching out to ‘friends’ who responded to my desperate pleas with heart emoji’s or unhelpful platitudes and I soon came to realise that there was no place in the after for most people that were a part of my life before. Although at the same time, I have met complete strangers who have showed me such love and compassion that I know I will be bonded with them forever and I am so grateful for that.
I have not had one single second that I have not thought about my child being dead. Not. One. Single. Fucking. Second. People who don’t know this pain will make well meaning suggestions about things you might do as a ‘distraction’. In my experience, there is nothing (other than not being awake) that provides a distraction from this god awful life I now live. The thoughts do vary in their intensity, so sometimes they feel incredibly loud and angry and completely all consuming, making me feel nauseous and desperate for a minute of respite. Other times it’s humming loudly away in the background but I can keep control of it long enough to manage to have a conversation with someone. Either way, the minute of respite never comes.
I find I have a very small window of tolerance; in my environment and with the people around me. Sometimes I feel anxious, overwhelmed and angry and other times I feel completely numb, like I am sitting above myself, watching life play out on film. I can only ‘pretend’ for short periods of time and that is usually when I am with the kids. My 8 year old prefers it when I don’t cry and am not angry so being with her is hard work. Just ‘being’ is such hard work. It feels impossible much of the time but I think I have become better at controlling and hiding how I feel so as not to make others feel uncomfortable.
I battle every day with suicidal thoughts of varying degree. When the thoughts are extremely intrusive, I find I become withdrawn and unable to talk. I would describe it as almost like finding comfort in planning out how this pain might come to an end. Like a get out clause. Most of the time though, I am able to speak about how I feel. I have found the less time I spend alone, so the less opportunity to act on the thoughts I guess, is helpful to me. I have a gained a lot of insight into the suicidal mind that, in the same way you only know this kind of pain when you experience a devastating loss, you can only really understand when you have battled with suicidal thoughts yourself.
305 days and I am still here. Today I want to do all I can to honour your name and never stop speaking of you, yesterday I wanted to join you. Either way, I am another day further away from the last time I saw you. I have to tell myself that I am one day closer to being with you again, that our souls are connected for eternity. The alternative is just impossible for me to comprehend.
Ever since Liam died, I said I’d make as much noise as possible about the need to talk and reach out. I said I would do all I could to raise awareness about mental health and suicide and always speak out. It may make uncomfortable reading for some, I know it does, my shrinking address book is proof of that, but those aren’t my people and believe me, my life now, my life after suicide, makes me feel far worse than uncomfortable.
I wish I was one of those people who could say how much they have been able to grow and how much they have learned from their tragedy. How they are striving to be a better person, determined to be everything they loved about their person or how they love harder, forgive easier or show more empathy and compassion, to all those around them but that’s not happening. I am still completely lost in this wreckage that was once my beautiful life. I feel a whole heap of rage and resentment at the world that this is happening to me. These are feelings I have never really felt much of before and they are not a part of me that I like, but like it or not, it’s how I feel right now. Day 206. I am tired of how I feel and I am tired of other people being tired of how I feel.
Although of course I would wish this on no one, I absolutely wish I could share the ache of this excruciating pain for a little while, so that others could feel what I feel. I could try for days to explain it but there are no words that could do it justice.
You only know when you know. And I wish others knew. Just for a while.
I wish they knew so they wouldn’t use well meaning platitudes. So they wouldn’t talk to me about the elusive all powerful magic that time seems to bring. They wouldn’t use words and phrases such as ‘closure’, ‘moving on’, ‘feeling better’, or ‘letting go’. They wouldn’t talk about finding something positive in a bad situation or send stupid affirmations that should all end with ‘…unless your child died, in which case, this is useless.’
I was asked recently if i was having ‘a rough day’, a rough day?!? That is not what this is. My whole world has been violently ripped from me and I can make no sense of why, how or what the hell I do now. My life has been drained of all its colours and the beauty that once made it a comfortable, pleasant place to be, something I was always so grateful for.
I am utterly sad.
Every very single day.
And I refuse to pretend that I’m not.
I am not okay.
This really is as bad as it gets.
I was asked recently if there was ‘something in particular that was bothering me or a little bit of everything.’ I mean are you kidding me? Is this yesterdays news for you? MY CHILD IS DEAD! I don’t understand what part of that people don’t understand.
I was told that keeping busy can be a helpful distraction when you’re feeling tense, going out for a walk or taking a shower. Really, you think I’m struggling with tension? Will my child be in the bathroom when I get there? Because unless this has all been a mistake and my child is alive and in the next room, then there is nothing on this earth that will ‘distract’ me from the fact he is dead.
I have been advised to change the way i think; ‘negativity brings negativity.’ I have been shut down when talking about Liam, or about my shitty life now, like I should be able to separate myself from this horror during a conversation with someone from the real world, so as not to make them feel uncomfortable. Clearly this is not going to happen. I am completely consumed by this darkness. We constantly think about our children, this doesn’t just stop when they die.
I completely get that I am not the easiest person to be around, but I think we just have to accept that there are some things that are just absolutely shit and unjust. End of. Like the death of a child. And no inspirational meme can make this any less shit. Just let me work on accepting it for the awful nightmare that it is.
We are so inept as a society, at being around grieving people. We either avoid the elephant in the room or try to fix something which can never be fixed.
I feel utterly hopeless. Stop telling me there is always hope. No, not right now there isn’t. Will I always feel like this? It certainly feels that way but I hope not. I don’t seem to have the ability to process this in the time society seems to allow (will I ever at all?) or to think about the future without being filled with absolute dread. My child is dead and right now, things are as bad as they can get.
I am lost in a pit of despair. Feel free to sit with me while I do whatever I need to make it to tomorrow, or leave me here alone. But please don’t talk to me about holding on to hope when I’m barely holding on to anything at all.
This is my truth. It’s not all feathers and rainbows. I am living every parents worst nightmare and I am pretty certain this must be as bad as it gets. I know you don’t get it. I didn’t either before. We think we can imagine the horror but our minds don’t allow us to think such abhorrent thoughts.
Just know that no one can fix this, just let us be sad. Let us do whatever we need to do on that day, in that hour, to make it to the next. Maybe you can cope with feeling uncomfortable for a little while so that we don’t have to be. Maybe that would be a start to making things feel easier. I don’t know.
Day 206 and I still just don’t know how we do this.
It’s been a while since I wrote anything. Things haven’t been great. I can’t find the words. I haven’t really cared enough about anything or anyone really. I haven’t ‘become accustomed to’ or ‘adjusted to’ this god awful nightmare that is now my life. I still curse the universe when I realise I am still alive on a morning and I still think it’s more likely that I’ll hear Liam shouting hello as he walks through the door than it is that I’ll never see his beautiful face again. But, I know that’s not going to happen, he isn’t going to walk through the door, that’s just more believable than the awful reality. Things still feel just as shit, and I hate my life but it’s different.
Be under no illusions, things have not become any better, not at all, time does not heal all wounds and whoever thinks that has likely not lost a child. But the different is not all bad. Some days I feel I want to conquer the world in Liam’s honour, other days I take a cocktail of tablets and hope I never have to see the light of day again. But those thoughts of actively wanting to end my life are less frequent. I still hate my life and myself, but I don’t hate everyone else. And I did.
I have realised that I am capable of such intense anger. I was angry at the people who I thought would come but didn’t, and at those who came. I was angry at those who didn’t say anything and at those who did. I think it was impossible for anyone to ‘do the right thing’ because I didn’t know what that was. If it didn’t bring back my son then what was the point? I didn’t have a clue what I wanted. ‘I’m here if you need anything’ was so unhelpful to me because I didn’t know what I needed. I realised what was helpful to me was those who stuck with me during my anger. Those who were consistent and just allowed me to vent and rage. Those people who did not make me feel any worse than I already did by judging me.
I also realise now, that other people are also hurting. I am not the only person who has lost Liam. He mattered to so many other people and these other people mattered to him. I feel such a strong connection now to the people who were special to Liam, because, as Liam’s grandma said to me; ‘Liam is ours’. I feel comfort now in this, which is something I didn’t feel before. I know we are alone is this grief journey but these people help me feel less alone.
I might have mentioned a few times already that I still hate everything about my life and I do not want to be here. But, the desire to not let this be for nothing is more often that not, stronger than my desire to leave. If I am not here, who will be Liam’s voice? Who will continue to spread his light and say his name in the way I will? And this is what drives me now. It isn’t strength, I am far from strong. But in the same way I am capable of such intense anger, I am also capable of so much love. And I never imagined I could love or feel passionate about anything ever again.
But I do and in the same way that Liam touched the lives of everyone he loved in his life, I want to continue to shine his light and touch the lives of others, to be his voice, to raise awareness around suicide and loss by suicide. So that is what I will try to do.
In the early days and weeks, I felt such despair. Physical pain that tore through my body and made me vomit. It didn’t matter where I was, or who with, it would come regardless. The uncontrollable screams and cries, urges to hit my head on the wall, to pull out my hair and claw at my arms and my face until I bled. The days just turned to night then night to day again but I was oblivious. I didn’t care if I ate, I didn’t wash or change my clothes. I think 8 days is my all time best. I still don’t always but I never imagined in those early days that I would be here 6 months later. Being here half a year later, without my son, was not even something I could contemplate. I often feel like I’m watching someone else’s life, like none of this is real. I remember reading that it is possible to survive a loss like this and that joy could exist alongside grief. This is not something I have experienced in these 6 months. I don’t feel joy or contentment and I also can’t imagine ever feeling that again. But I think it’s important not to think about that, not to think about the future because at this point, a future feeling like this, without our child is just beyond overwhelming.
I remember in those early days, reaching out to others, desperate for someone to help. for soemone to give me an amazing piece of life changing advice that would make some of these awful feelings go away, something that would make this bearable. But there is nothing that anyone can say to make this go away. But there is this community of amazing people who get you. They know that there is nothing they can say to ease your pain because they have also lost a child. They tell you to remember to breathe, to put one foot in front of the other, to scream and cry and shout. They know you can’t bear the pain and that you want to die. But they will share their raw and heartbreaking stories with brutal honesty and you will wonder if there could possibly be a glimmer of hope. They don’t ever tell you that things will get better and you wonder then how they are still here. How are these people still alive if this never gets any better? How has their heart not stopped? They don’t tell you this because this wouldn’t be the truth, because there really is no getting better, just different.
With broken hearts, these people reach out to you and try to carry you with them because they know that they couldn’t see the point in anything. They know how much you are hurting. Because they are hurting too and despite this, they do not want for you to feel alone. And that is a beautiful thing.
Just know that whilst this journey is yours, and yes, it is lonely, you are absolutely not alone. Do not try to imagine the future, about how you will feel the next day or the next. Just get through the next minute, just breathe and reach out. There are many groups and somewhere within them, you will find your people. We can all hold on together.
103 days. As if it has been 103 days. 103 days since we spoke. Fuck this is hard. I think I am still overcome with shock. I absolutely blame myself for all of this. Everything. And that’s just how I am dealing with things right now. Guilt and blame, I am told, are normal ‘stages’ of grief. As far as I can tell, grief manifests in a whole number of ways and doesn’t care one bit about stages. I would say that I am currently in the ‘blame myself a lot, hate myself even more stage’. And, as with the many of the other feelings associated with grief, this stage takes up a lot of room in your head and can make you feel physically sick. I have been told I am experiencing ‘complicated grief’. You think? I wouldn’t expect the sudden death of a child to be anything else but incredibly complicated.
I have decided to cancel my therapy sessions. I don’t find it helpful to try and weigh up my negative thoughts with positive ones. I’m not even sure that’s possible since I have no recollection of any of Liam’s childhood. Literally no memories. This happens apparently and I’ve been reassured that they’ll start to come back. Either way, I don’t want to keep being reminded that I can’t remember my own child. It’s proving way too hard and I just don’t think I am ready to try. It’s easier to hate and blame myself.
I don’t want to try and work through the trauma of finding Liam and the events that unfolded thereafter. I have enough flashbacks without purposely reliving it. This is the one thing I remember perfectly well unfortunately. I remember it as if it had just happened. It’s easier for me to hate and blame myself.
I’m also not interested in being told I’m not to blame. I’m actually really tired of being told that. Because it isn’t true. I am completely to blame. I want to take full responsibility, not try to deny it. I don’t want to try and come to accept a version of events I am able to cope with, because it is clear to me what happened. It’s easier to hate and blame myself. And the version I know to be true plays every single day. Over and over. And, whichever way you look at it, it was all my fault. This is my version. And that’s what I’m not sure I can live with.
It’s all my fault because he was my child and I am responsible for keeping my children safe from harm. It doesn’t matter that he was an adult. And he was barely an adult. He was my first born child. My baby. And I failed him. If I hadn’t have failed him, he would still be here. Alive. And I wouldn’t be writing this blog.
I can’t even share the responsibility, I wish I could. But that would be unfair. I was the one who brought Liam up. Just me. So the blame lies solely with me. Which is a substantial amount of guilt for anyone to carry. And the thing is, It’s not as if I’m just anyone. I’m Liam’s mum. And I love him more than words. Which is why this is such a heavy burden to bear. So, however which way you look at this, I failed my own son.
And I failed him in so many ways.
I did not see this coming. And, as his mother, if anyone should’ve seen this, it was me.
I did not realise he was feeling this way, at any point.
I did not ever have concerns about him growing up. He had a nice group of friends, did well at college, he was smart, funny, witty, focussed and happy (or so I thought). Things felt good. I should’ve noticed that they weren’t. But, I didn’t.
Not only was it my job to notice those occasions when Liam might not have been coping so well, it was my job to teach him the many coping skills he required in preparation for his adult life. It was up to me make sure he was well equipped for everything life might throw at him, so that he was prepared, resilient and able to tackle what came his way, or at least ask for help.
I actually never felt like he minded asking for help, I often helped him out. And I did see him tackling various things in life and finding solutions to issues that may arise. He could compile a 5 star complaint email, no problem and he certainly wouldn’t think twice before addressing problems at work and dealing with issues head on, in fact, his previous employer commended him on his ability to manage difficult situations with his quick thinking and top notch communication skills.
But, it was my job to make sure he knew he could always come to me for ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING. Because clearly he didn’t feel able to this time.
So if anyone is to blame, it’s me. I accept full responsibility as his mother. It wasn’t intentional but that doesn’t make me feel any better. And I am struggling to keep going with this heavy burden I’m now forced to carry. I guess as parents we are bound to make mistakes but we usually have the rest of our lives to make amends, to do better next time. I don’t have that luxury anymore.
I don’t have the opportunity to fix this. I can’t learn from my mistakes and do it better next time round. I can plead the rest of my days for a do over but I can’t have one. That’s it. It doesn’t get more final than this. I don’t hold out much hope for the future. I always had hope in abundance. In fact, Hope is my daughters middle name. But the hope has all gone now.
So, this is where I am 103 days in. A whole lot of blame and hate. For myself. It’s all consuming and extremely tiring but doesn’t often allow for sleep. Sleeping tablets continue to be particularly helpful.
There are other things I have found helpful too; writing is still helpful some days, online groups for bereaved parents have probably (almost certainly actually) saved my life on a number of occasions. The support from those parents is invaluable. Blogs, books and podcasts by other bereaved parents continue to help. I’d be lying if I said I saw a future now. It’s so hard to see a future when the person who’s life held more value than your own, isn’t here. So for now, I will continue to take things minute by minute or hour by hour, doing whatever I feel I can manage, whilst hating on myself.
Today has been a real struggle. This life now is a real struggle. I am just waiting about somewhere in between life and death, not really living but not yet dead, despite the fact I feel it inside. I have no real purpose anymore. Everything I do is because I have to do it, not because I particularly want to. I eat to stop the sickness, wash when it becomes unpleasant for others who have to be around me, speak to people who speak to me because that’s what I’m expected to do. Everything feels too much like hard work. I continue to take medication to send me to sleep. The dreams still come. Every night. Usually they involve me being able to save you, but they also resemble a scene from a horror movie.
I am now in a world where my horrific nightmares are more bearable than being awake.
The endless thoughts about your childhood and where it all went wrong continue. I am still unable to draw on any positive memories but I am told this is not unusual. Even so, I know I loved you more than life and love you still. I think back to when you had left home and you would visit, and during any visit, you would always become the centre of attention the whole time you were here. We would stop whatever we were doing and you became the centre of our attention. Your sister would nag at you to play, getting over excited around you, desperate for your attention. We would chat late into the night about whatever you were up to, what you had been doing, what you planned to do, but always around you. You would leave the house laden with food, tasty treats and whatever else I thought you might need. We would always encourage you to ‘just stay over’ instead of driving back home, and sometimes you would but not often. I would nag at you to ‘let me know when you were home safe’ and you always forgot, leaving me awake in bed until I eventually got a text reply saying, ‘sorry, I’m back!’. We would plan day trips around when you could fit us in on your days off, occasionally, we might only even manage a couple of hours to get lunch with you in between your shifts. I always said you worked too much.
I find it so hard to grasp how you could even contemplate taking your own life when you knew you mattered so much to us. You knew you were adored and admired by your younger brother and sister. You knew that my whole life revolved around your happiness. You knew this. You knew that I worried about you and that it mattered so very much to me that you were safe and happy, and that this is what made me happy.
You mattered. You really, really mattered to us.
I struggle to think of any moment when any of us could have possibly led you to believe otherwise. I can not comprehend a world in which you did not feel that you mattered to each and every one of us.
You always said you were my favourite child, and you meant it. I have to believe that, even in your last moments, you were not thinking rationally, that you knew you were loved unconditionally. I just really fucking struggle to grasp that this is happening to us. That this was ever, EVER, EVER an option for you.
It isn’t getting any easier. I don’t think I thought it would. But I didn’t think it would keep getting harder, which it does. I keep expecting you to walk through the door.
When I woke today, my phone beeped and for just a few seconds, I thought it would be you. Then the realisation hit me, like it does every morning. But I still don’t believe THIS is real.
My son, Liam, is amazing. He is amazing at everything he puts his hand to. He is the one we get in touch with when we need to know something, because he is the one who knows. He is the one who gives his younger brother a pep talk when he’s starting to stray off the rails. He is the one who tells us how to build the best models for his sister’s school projects. He is my go to for most things. He is the one I speak to first thing in the morning, last thing at night. Every day. Every single day.
How the hell did you think we would come through this? Did you think? You can’t possibly have thought about this.
When I am thinking rationally, I try to tell myself that you were not. You could not possibly have been thinking rationally. I don’t have the privilege of being able to afford myself that amount of kindness for any decent amount of time though. So the majority of the time, I’m dissecting all the memories I do have (ones when I feel I ought to have been a better mum) and working out what I did/said/missed/didn’t say/didn’t do/should’ve done until I feel physically sick. I try to imagine another outcome, one when you are alive and happy and I manage to fulfil my role as a your mum and keep you safe. Also until I feel physically sick.
I am not coping very well. I still curse the universe every day when I wake up. I still struggle to grasp what is reality and what isn’t. Everything is too much of a struggle. I don’t think my heart could take it if I didn’t believe that at some point you’ll walk through the door and bear hug me again.
It’s been a few days since I have felt able to write anything and I wasn’t going to bother because things just seem so fucked up in my head and in all honesty, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here anymore. But I figured it’s better out than in, no one has to read it, and the idea was always that someone else might (unfortunately) be able to relate. So, if you’re prepared for some serious negativity and energy draining then read on. This is just me, a mum who has lost her first born to suicide, trying to explain how I am holding up (or not).
I really want to be one of those parents who sees a robin or a feather and it brings them comfort. I really fucking need some comfort, I really do. But that isn’t me, and it wasn’t Liam. Liam would, and often did, absolutely bamboozle you with science and facts and figures. There wasn’t much he didn’t know and what he didn’t know, he would find out. He did not believe in life after death, ghosts or departed loved ones leaving feathers. He also never liked being wrong so I doubt he’d admit there was anything after death anyway. I’m not even sure it would bring me any comfort. I mean, how can anything bring comfort to this god awful situation?
This really is not about fluffy feathers and rainbows for me right now. It is dark and desperate and depressing. Day in day out. All day and all night. It’s like my life and everything around me has fallen into a hole and the ground is caving in on top of me. It’s like I’m in a bubble and I can’t breathe and it’s so heavy but no one else can see it. And everyone else just goes about their day and I have to pretend it doesn’t take every bit of energy I have just to speak and move this body I am in that feels so heavy. I can’t believe there were days, before this, that I thought things were pretty tough.
Sometimes I wonder if this is some kind of sick joke. I’m not kidding. Like a twisted experiment to test the endurance of the human mind. Or some weird movie that I had forgotten I was acting in, like the Truman Show. Anything else but this. I just can’t comprehend this now as my reality. This real life nightmare where I am unable to save my child.
Never in a million years did I imagine I would be facing an internal battle of suicidal thoughts every day. But never in a million years did I expect to be experiencing this living hell. Since the day I found my son’s lifeless body, the part of me that is left, is clinging on to this life by a tattered thread that I feel I will lose my grip of any minute. Do I even care? I care for my children. I care that they are going through hell already and I do not want to cause them more heartache, but this feeling is much bigger than that. And what use am I to them anyway? So much of me has died inside already that I don’t know this is even really me anymore. I am not the mum they knew. I am tired of being a mum. I just can’t do it anymore.
I do not claim to have insight into the suicidal mind. I am grieving, I am not mentally unwell, or at least I wasn’t before this. But I do feel I have some insight into the dark engulfing clouds of plaguing suicidal thoughts that can consume a persons mind, or at least my mind and they are not kind. It doesn’t seem to uncommon for grieving parents who have lost a child to feel suicidal.
Before this, I would have described myself as a generally happy, cup half full kind of person who always looked for, and usually could find, a silver lining. There is no silver lining after the loss of a child by suicide. But there are plenty of clouds. Dark, gloomy, smothering clouds that seep into your mind and torment you by stirring up the past and reminding you of memories you had stored away under ‘irrelevant’, in the depths of your mind. No event from the past remains hidden. Every single move you made, every comment, every action or inaction will be unearthed from every corner of your once fairly organised mind and they will all scream loudly to be heard. And there are thousands upon thousands of them. Some you never even knew you had and others you didn’t think had any bearing on anything at all. Well they all matter now. Everything you ever did or didn’t do or say, becomes part of the reason your child is no longer here.
You will sift through the memories over and over, analysing what was said, why you said it, what you ought to have said instead, how things could have had a different outcome and how you could have saved them. There will be a million things you did or didn’t do, and you will play them on repeat. You will pin point the moments in which you caused this or could’ve acted differently and achieved a different outcome. An outcome in which your child is happy and alive. And you didn’t fail in your role as a parent. How could I let this happen as a parent? How did I not see?
My thoughts are only this. This situation, what caused it, the blame, the guilt, the regret and the sheer horror when I realise this is real and this is what has happened in my life. I worry about the future for my children and the impact this will have on them, and the impact that I continue to have on them as I am now, an empty shell. I think this is where grief meets depression.
I spoke to a psychiatrist over the telephone yesterday and according to her scoring system, because I have ‘experienced low mood’ for longer than 2 weeks, my sleep is disrupted and I have a lack of appetite, I have depression and she will prescribe some antidepressants if I am ‘happy’ to try them’. Yes, she used that word. She asked me if I could tell her when I started to feel this low mood, as if it wasn’t glaringly obvious. She asked me what I did with my time and what I did for ‘enjoyment’. Another word that no longer has any meaning to me. She asked me why I thought I could no longer do the things I used to enjoy.
I JUST CAN’T.
She said she would record it as ‘lack of motivation’. Like I give a shit. She will prescribe some medication and if ‘do not get better’ with this one, I can try another. These must be some pretty special tablets if they can make all of this okay. I am not sick and I will not get better. It’s not helpful having someone speak to you like they can ‘cure’ this with magic pills of hope.
My son died. I found him. And now he is gone. Forever. I am not unwell and I will not get better or get over this. I am desperate for this pain to stop but I know it won’t, and dealing with that is not easy. I know I have other responsibilities but this normal life is just too overwhelming. What is happening is incomprehensible and I just can’t do this regular normal life stuff. I can’t concentrate on anything, the thoughts in my head are too angry and loud. I can’t bear to do anything. I don’t want to even be. At all.
Advising me to get up and go out, to eat and practice good sleep hygiene is unhelpful. I am well aware of what I ought to be doing. Telling me what I should be doing, does not make doing it come any easier to me. Telling me I should eat, does not give me the energy to buy food, make a meal, or give me an appetite. Telling me I will feel so much better if I shower and put on clean clothes, does not give me the energy to take one or to do any laundry. I don’t feel I am in the right place to hear about the benefits of good self care.
I am just trying really hard to stay alive. And I can’t do anything else today. I just can’t.
This grief is vast and hollow and angry and intense. It is confusing and debilitating and agonising and lonely. This grief annihilates everything in its wake. I could select a thousand different words in an attempt to explain the feelings associated with this grief but none would suffice. Words are feeble. But if you know, you know.
There is nothing in my world anymore that isn’t consumed by this grief. I guess that’s because my world is no longer whole. It is shattered and broken beyond repair. I am grieving for the loss of what once was and what can no longer ever be. Ever. For the happy memories that I can no longer retrieve. Were there any happy memories?
This grief that greets me like a punch to my gut every single morning and during the night, knocking the breath right out of me. It seeps into my nightmares and deprives me of sleep. It makes me nauseous and causes my whole body to physically ache, all day. And the crying is something else. In fact, it almost feels as though someone else is making the awful noises at times. I am absolutely unable to think of anything else, other than this life that can not possibly be mine. This hellish life that can not possibly be real.
This grief consumes all I am and it makes me want to die. It torments me with all the relentless ‘whys’ and ‘what ifs’ and should’ves’. It rips at my heart and fills me with anguish and dread. Sometimes I sob quietly and other times I howl and scream. I lash out and throw things and rock on the floor. I can’t listen to music, I don’t like leaving the house, I don’t enjoy eating, I can only read about this. I only ever talk about my son and about this grief. There is nothing around me that is not associated with this loss and this grief.
But from what I can gather, I think this is okay. Well, it’s not okay. It will never be okay, but at least it’s okay to feel whatever it is you feel. I don’t want to use the ‘normal’ because I don’t think anything within this situation could be described as normal. This is certainly not grief as I ever knew it to be. But, after experiencing the worst almost 3 months of my entire existence, I have realised how this grief has affected me and, seemingly, others around me.
Some people care about you. They want to help but they are unsure if they are potentially saying the wrong thing. You appreciate their efforts nonetheless. You are very much aware no one has a clue what the right thing to say is. That said, some people really don’t have a clue and manage to spectacularly put their foot in it, usually giving it little or no thought at all. The ones who care though, they will put themselves in your shoes as best they can. They will try and it will show. These are the ones you will always be grateful for. The ones who stuck around when you had no clue what you needed but they tried giving it a shot anyway.
Some people will make an obligatory call or text that will tick a box for them and then they will go about their lives, barely giving you a second thought. People seem to follow this weird notion that this gets better.
Some people will ask you how you are doing and if you tell them honestly, they will be massively unprepared for your response. They will go about their lives and probably never think of you again. Some people actually seem to go to great efforts to draw a response out of you, encourage you to talk to them but then leave you hanging and feeling like you needn’t have bothered.
Some people will tell you how sorry they are for Your loss and how deeply sad they are for you, heartbroken even, then immediately share ‘the funniest video ever’ on Facebook or share pictures of their ‘amazing’ day. Leaving you wondering why on earth they couldn’t experience their joy privately for a short while.
Some people become instant grief experts and ‘know just how you feel’. They are not only experts on grief, but sometimes even experts on grief after losing a child to suicide, despite never having experienced this. I can’t quite fathom this one. I have come across hundreds of parents who have lost a child by suicide and I wouldn’t have a clue as to how they might feel or how they can best be supported to deal with this. Whilst I can relate most to other parents bereaved by suicide, I am aware that our loss is still very different. I am unsure how someone who has experienced the loss of a family member to a terminal illness, for example, can liken it to my experience and can confidently tell me what I should expect on my journey through the stages of grief.
It become apparent in the instant that my child died, that despite my angry protests and absolute horror, the world is not going to stop. This is hard to deal with but it happens anyway. The neighbours continue with their garden parties and home improvements even in the days after the funeral, the mail still comes (albeit my sons redirected mostly), the sun still rises and sets and, despite not being pleased about it, you continue to put one foot in front of the other. For now.
I realise that it was only my own life that forever froze in that moment and immediately became a ‘before’ and ‘after’. It was only me that died inside but continued to breathe. Only me that curses the universe every morning when I realise I am here for another impossible day. And I know that this is just how it goes. I don’t know what I expected. A little more compassion from others maybe? I know nothing can change the situation but maybe I half expected others to make some effort to gain a tiny bit of an understanding of grief associated with this kind of traumatic loss. I also didn’t expect that others, who were practically strangers, would make such an effort to offer help and support.
Maybe due to the colossal amount of overwhelming thoughts (many intrusive) in my mind, I no longer have the capacity to respond to or care for well meaning platitudes or insensitive comments. Either way, I have decided that I do not need to engage with unnecessary small talk or communication that isn’t helpful to me. I just have nothing to give to anyone, myself included, and it is so tiring pretending otherwise. I also absolutely refuse to do that. I recognise that to enable me to manage my own grief, I must focus only on what is helpful to me and let go of what is not.
MY CHILD DIED BY SUICIDE.
I have every right to speak about this whenever and however I choose. I have every right to say aloud that I have nothing left in me. I have every right to have no hope, to find nothing at all positive in my life anymore. I have every right to be angry and to not care about how uncomfortable other people are when hearing about my grief. I do not have to pretend or be quiet.
I am no expert in managing grief but I am an expert in my own grief, as are you. Don’t let anyone try and tell you otherwise. Make as much noise as you need to, for as long as you need to. Maybe we all need to make more noise and let it out. Keeping things in is what led us here in the first place.
I miss you. Not with a fond smile or a warm feeling inside. With a relentless longing, pining, excruciating ache. Perhaps something that could be likened to having my heart ripped out of my chest and eaten by a wild animal. Obviously that would be more preferable. Anything would be.
I miss the feeling I got when my phone lit up with your name, when you walked in through the door. I miss the unpredictability of what our next topic of conversation would be. I miss being amazed at your intelligence and your dry humour. I miss your infectious smile and your amazing blue eyes. I miss the uniqueness and the beauty of you and all that you did, the way you gave everything your absolute all. I miss the future. I miss our before life. The before life when I felt joy and happiness, before all I knew was annihilated. Before my soul was crushed. Before, when I loved life and I didn’t wish it was over.
On the day you were born, I was overcome with an intense and immeasurable, unconditional love. I wanted nothing more than you. I had an incredible and overwhelming urge to always protect you and keep you safe. You were my world and I loved you more than life. You were my reason to live. Who could’ve ever foreseen that one day, your actions would destroy everything, all of this life. That one day you would take all of this away and the sheer force of it all would knock the breath right out of me and leave such devastating consequences and indescribable sorrow, so intense that it was intolerable for any human body or mind to bear.
But I have three children. Three pieces that I need to make me whole. Because you are not here, I am not whole and I can never be whole again. So how will that work? Some days I tell myself that I will have to try with all I am to spend my remaining time on earth, broken without you, to do my best to navigate through the wreckage. But some days I can’t. Some days I can not live without you and I do not want to try. Some days I know I am too broken to continue without all my pieces and that the damage is too severe and irreparable, that it would be pointless, or even impossible, to try.
I don’t want to live a life that has been destroyed in such a vile way. One where I have to watch people carry on with their lives, whist mine is in shreds and tatters. One where I have to listen to people talking about the weather and all the other meaningless things normal people drone on about, in their normal lives. I don’t want to feign interest in other people. I no longer have an ounce of compassion for anything with any resemblance of normal mundane life. Because mine is no more, and I can not relate, even slightly, to anything as it was before. Only after. The after is a hollow, ruined, shattered life, with nothing except despair and constant pain. A life where the guilt and regret are so consuming, it makes me physically sick. A life where I am constantly beaten up by the whys that I will never know the answer to. And even if I did, would it really matter?
I don’t want this life anymore but I don’t want to pass on this pain. But then could anyone feel this the way I do? The before me had such love for life. The after me despises it and curses when I wake in the morning.
Not This Ending. 