It was the 1980’s, I was just 22, wrapped in a coat the boyfriend had given me. I was lying on the floor of my closet. I was cried out. I was solutioned out. I was shocked – stunned – and self-helped out. I still could not keep food down nor could I get warm. I could never get warm.
Lying there was the closest to any kind of comfort I could find.
For months, months, I remember walking to work, walking home – letting the dog out then drawing a bath, hoping I could warm up. Knowing it wouldn’t work. Hoping I could eat but not really caring. In bed by 6 pm.
I’ve spent the better part of my life, like most people, shaking my head at even the slightest mention of suicide. It touched my family, way too close, and I’m willing to bet most people know someone who has attempted or successfully carried out a suicide. As a matter of fact, I think most of us have entertained, if only for 1/100th of a second, it ourselves.
We all landed where we did. We may have been drop-kicked or gently placed, but we’re where we are supposed to be.
With all due respect and gratitude to my therapist and all the other magic makers world-wide, quite simply, I am often at the mercy of my blindness; my ability to overlook the completely obvious. I don’t need anyone to help me figure it out, I just need a smack upside the head.
Today is Mother’s Day. Today is also my birthday. And today is not how I expected it to look. Not at all how it was planned out. Nor were probably several before.
My mother took her own life a very long time ago. Her own demons just wouldn’t let go and so she did.