34 Days. I would have sat with you every single night. Forever.

If I could have just one more day with you, I would take you out in the fresh air for the longest walk.

I would hold your hand, feel your fingers in mine and link arms.

I would rest my head next to your shoulder, it’s the perfect height for that.

I would breathe you in the whole time.

I would remind you how amazing you are and we would talk about all things random the whole time.

I would spend more time looking at the way your beautiful blue eyes sparkle.

I would tell you that you could tell me anything, ever, and I would really listen and really hear you.

I would bring you home and keep you with me. I would cook for you and when you got tired, I would sit with you all night.

I would have sat with you every

Single.

Night.

Forever.

28 days.

28 days since I found you. 28 days without you. 28 nights where I have hoped I wouldn’t wake up and nearly 28 mornings when I have. 28 days where I have had to carry on being a mum to your brother and sister without you. Doing all the shit I don’t care about and don’t want to do anymore, make food, washing, cleaning, bath time, playtime, bedtime, sorting uniform, school dinners, bills. All those things that seem to have paled into insignificance. These are dark days. Today I am agitated and I hate everyone. I would have liked to tell you about my day but I haven’t been able to, for 28 dragging god forsaken days. You’d have laughed and cringed at parts. ‘I’m sticking with you, ‘cause I’m made out of glue…’ We didn’t sing that in ages.

27 days.

If I had the chance, I would tell you that the day you die, so will I.

I would hear you, really hear you, not listen and offer solutions.

I would encourage you to see what an amazing person you are and what an exciting future lay ahead.

I would tell you that what you are feeling now, isn’t the way you are always going to feel.

I would remind you that I love you unconditionally and I will take care of you. I would let you rest your eyes, but I would be there waiting for you when you woke.

I would deal with all those things that felt overwhelming so you didn’t have to. I would talk with you about anything you wanted to talk about, for however long.

I would hold your hands and smell your skin and your hair. I would stay with you until however long it took for you to feel strong enough, forever if I needed to. I would tell you that my hopes and dreams are only possible because of you.

I would tell you that without you, there would be nothing.

I would tell you that the struggle would kill me.

If I had the chance, I would tell you over and over that you are my world, all the world.

If I had the chance, I would remind you that I will always have you, no matter what, because I think, for a short time, you forgot. I love you more than all the people and all the animals and all the living things in all this world and universe, all that love put together, I love you more than that.

How could you forget that?

22 days.

I have read that people don’t like to hear your distressing thoughts and feelings at times like this. They grow tired of hearing them and they make them feel uncomfortable. But those people aren’t your people. And I do not intend to be quiet. In those moments where my only thought isn’t that I want my heart to stop beating, I find talking or writing slightly distracting. I am still very much aware that my world has ended. I am still very much aware that I am in a deep, unbearable, overwhelming pit of despair that I won’t ever escape from, tormented by the million missed opportunities to save you. I am still reliving that day and the days following. They play on a loud, repetitive loop that won’t let up. But I am numb enough for a short while to have other thoughts that run alongside of those.

I have called helplines these past few weeks, mainly in the early days when I was convinced someone could provide some kind of answer or help to this absolute unbelievable hell I have found myself in. ‘Oh how tragic’ they said. ‘Poor, poor you’. The Samaritans didn’t say much of anything and the silence was so loud. Jesus someone just help me! But they couldn’t. And how could they? How can anyone? ‘Do you think you might harm yourself?’ This is in my plan, yes. But what about those that can’t say? What about those who muster up courage to call a helpline and are met with silence? What about those who don’t realise things are not okay? We tell people to talk but what if they don’t feel there is anything they need to talk about? Or what if they can’t? What’s the plan then? I called Papyrus Hopeline. I wished that other people would call these. But if you don’t feel able or if you don’t recognise a problem, why would you?

There seems to be a massive difference in those that openly admit to feeling suicidal (like me now. Too much? No fucking secrets from my end. I’ve always encouraged my kids to talk things through and always said there is nothing I can’t fix, well that clearly didn’t work. I will shout the importance of this from the rooftops if it helps someone). And those that complete the act without reaching out. Those ones are the ones that just blindside their family and friends. Those that present as being ‘okay’, managing with the usual trials and tribulations that life brings. How do we fix that? How can we read their mind?

Would it help if I told you that you are destroying lives? That the people who love you would give up their lives for you to live yours? A lady on a helpline said to me ‘maybe you could have saved him and he would’ve gone on to live happily ever after, but you would have lived the rest of your life on tenterhooks’. Are you kidding me? I’d have given that boy my sight, my heart, my lungs, I would have given up my life and walked beside him for the rest of his if that’s what it took to keep him alive. Should I have reminded him more of that? Should we remind people more of how our lives would crumble in a split second if they were to choose this?

Would it help if we told them that seeing their lifeless body and trying with all our being to resuscitate them will bore into our memory, leaving only room for guilt, self loathing and despair every single second of the day or night for the rest of their days? Would it help them if they knew that their loved ones would have to give a statement to the police for the rest of that very same evening, pausing throughout to vomit and scream? Would it help if they knew that their mother writhed and howled and her legs buckled trying to take their shoes into the funeral directors? Don’t even get me started on the ordeal of funeral arrangements. Would it help if you knew your mum spent her days breathing in your smell from your clothes because that’s all she had? That she did not want to take another breath in this world and had thoughts of wanting to be with you, in your coffin, her ashes mixed in with yours?

Suicide is a significant national social issue in the United Kingdom. In 2019 there were 5,691 registered deaths by suicide in England and Wales, equating to an average of 18 suicides per day in the country. Suicide is the single biggest killer of men under the age of 45 in the country. What does it take? What would help?

Would it help if we pleaded and begged our children to just tell us? To talk? Just talk! I guarantee you there will be someone who will be ready to pick up your pieces, to hold you, to talk with you, to fix you. And they will be so thankful that they are able to. You can not even begin to comprehend the mess you leave behind. Maybe knowing that will help? What has happened is far from okay.

What now?

It’s mesmerising the way you look so much like me, but so much better looking with your amazing blue eyes and gorgeous smile with those perfect teeth, exactly the same shaped teeth as mine. It doesn’t feel real. What now? Who will I talk to late into the night about the things only we talked about? You always knew the answer to everything. How can anything go on? I hate that the birds still sing and the sun still sets and people go about their day. Today is 3 weeks since the colour and meaning drained from this life. I should have reminded you more about how special you were and how much you meant. I hate this ending. I hate this existence.

21 days.

“When you are in that desperate, frantic, lightless moment of despair—reason fails. There is no processing of things that seem so clear to people sitting calmly in parks and at desks and living rooms offering detached, knee-jerk commentary; those in their right minds, unclouded, lucid, and sober. That is what mental illness does, that is what addiction does, that is what depression does: it convinces your head that nothing matters, that this terrible moment will not pass, that nothing will get better, that you are fully, irreparably, and permanently f*cked. It doesn’t have to make sense, it doesn’t require objective proof, and it has no need for logic—you just feel it. In those moments the only thing you want is escape—and the choices people make in those moments are beyond what any of us have the right to criticize from outside of it.”

And then, in that moment, all of this pain is transferred to the mother that grew you inside of her, that fell unconditionally in love with you, whose world revolved around you and your happiness, who would have moved mountains to fix your problems, to take you away from all of this and to hold you and make it all okay. Because that is her sole purpose in life, to be there for you in every single minute of every single day, no matter how long that takes or how much love, help and support you need. Because of this moment, lives are ruined beyond repair, just ended. They have no purpose. There is no joy in the world, only a deep despair that will never ease. Unless you have experienced your child taking their own life by suicide, you do not have ANYTHING to compare this deep, overwhelming, consuming, pain and grief that drowns you. And you want it to. You feel it may kill you and you want it to, because that is the only way it will ever end.

I have these moments when I am able to write or to talk, when I feel almost numb. It is in these moments that I read and respond to messages and the distraction they bring for a short while. I have realised in these past few weeks since my world ended that some people will never even be able to begin to understand, that they do not have the capacity within them to grasp the enormousness of this. They are unable to comprehend the raging pit of despair that I have fallen in to and will never be free from. I have realised that some relationships are severed in an instant. The people who have this distorted view that I give any care at all for the meaningless, insensitive questions they have. I do not want or need anyone’s hollow sympathy. I do not care for anyone’s insignificant opinion. I have no clue how I am still breathing or how long I will continue to breath for but I am truly grateful for those that have been there and have been helpful.

This was not how our story was meant to go.

Liam’s mum.

How did it come to this?

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.