Monday, March 30, 2015
Where do I begin? This Friday will mark two and a half years since you’ve been gone, and I feel like I’m losing you more and more every day. So much has happened. So much sadness, anger, a general sense of feeling lost. Every day is a battle. It’s a fight to cling to hope that I know is there and joy that I know is to come, but I just can’t feel it yet. I miss you. That’s an understatement. I feel like I’ve lost you—what made you who you are and who you are to me.
You taking your life has robbed me of connecting with all of the things that made you the awesome mom you were. Your constant kisses and little surprises left for me every time I came home. The way the house smelled and how you were late to everything, but always so organized. I’ve forgotten “angel love” and “angel breath” along with the other loving and random pet names you had for us. And instead, I only fill my head with “why” and “how” and “what did I miss that could have prevented this”. I can’t reconcile my mom with the person who took her life, and I wonder where it all fell apart.
I won’t know the answers to those questions, and I often down play the effects of depression and borderline personality disorder—not on purpose, but because I couldn’t see the illness. I could see the sadness, the lack of energy and despondence, but I couldn’t see how you were deteriorating day in and day out. I didn’t know the end was coming, yet I knew (not right away, but soon after the call) that you had done this which makes me ask myself time and time again how I couldn’t have saved you.
But that’s not why I’m writing. I’m writing because I miss you, and I’m tired of focusing on your final days—the ones where I only replay the moments that you’d hate for me to replay. The moments where I saw the illness. I’m beginning to write you to help me remember you.
I think I’ve wanted to punish you somehow and leave you out in the cold, not a part of these last two and a half years even though I wanted you here with every tear that rolled down my check and laugh that escaped my mouth. I didn’t want to “talk” to you or write you. I didn’t want to forgive. I’m still working on that. I didn’t want to admit that I need you any way I can have you. But now I’m ready. This is the only way I know how to say I love you, to include you in my everyday life and to help me remember you, my mother, who was so much more than someone who took her life. I love you.