Writing. It saved my life countless times. Maybe one day, it can bring someone else a sense of comfort.
#suicideprevention #comingsoon #southernfriedasian
There is some part of me that repeats moments. Throughout my life there have been moments that involved other people and that seem incomplete to me. My mind is watching a movie without ever getting to the end of it. I see these people in my memories and they never evolve in life to me. Some part of my heart needs closure. Some part of me craves it but how do you find peace with someone who you no longer know? How do you forgive people that are no longer around? What if they don’t even remember those moments where they hurt You?
I have caused others pain. We have all done it. We have all been ignorant, mean, or just plain oblivious and because of that we have caused pain in the lives of others. I have also sought forgiveness at times. I have found my apologies had no effect or affect. I have spoken or written sorries to people who didn’t respond whatsoever. Some part of that hurt. Some part of me wanted some sort of response. An acceptance, anger, anything, but a refusal to acknowledge me meant that my earnestness was in some way meaningless.
I have wondered about these moments. I have questioned why they would simply stare at me with blank eyes and look past everything. I have apologized when I knew it wasn’t solely my fault and yet I have gotten nothing. Do we all want to hear it and not be required to say it? Is it pride? Is it something more hate filled that keeps people from owning their faults?
There are times that I have been approached and I have given my forgiveness when they were earnestly apologizing. Some people will throw an apology at you without even knowing what they are saying. I don’t mean these types of apologies. I mean the real ones. The ones that are heartfelt. The ones that people have thought about and known inside and out. People have done things that caused me immense pain. I forgave them. Wholeheartedly forgave them. There are a few that wanted to move back into my life and I couldn’t allow that though. My forgiveness allowed me to move past the pain of what had been, but my mind would not allow me to open up that “what if” again. I understand that sometimes people don’t have room in their lives for others. I understand that we all move forward and some times our paths should no longer intertwine, but does that mean that we should not overcome ourselves and allow others the closure they seek?
Some parts of my life will never have closure. I know that. I know that there are people who I will never hear an apology from. I know that there are people who will never believe that they had faulted me. I know that. Even though I know that my heart will never be at ease because it still longs to know that it was justified in its pain. My heart longs to forgive, but will never be given the opportunity to do so.
What does that mean?
My father completed suicide when I was 10 years old. It is strange to tell strangers that. It is strange to say it out loud. It happened and then it was done. There is an emptiness that stems from death. Any type of death. That emptiness seeks out the loved ones left and takes root within them. We convey that emptiness in our grief. We all know that those who are grieving do so in their own way. Some seek solace from God, others fall to fear, there are those who display denial, and then we have some who break apart completely.
Death is an experience that we must all face. It is final and it is unknown. Many have seen its wake and yet it leaves us little details to understand true meaning and aftermath. As a child I knew that death was final and yet final had little meaning to me. I did not understand the loss that I had suffered and I did not understand what coping was or how to do it. No one talked to me about my feelings or my thoughts on the loss I had suffered. For the most part people brushed the circumstances of his death under the proverbial rug. He died and it was sad. The end.
There was more though. I was empty. I felt that emptiness like a frost that had infected my toes and creeped into my very soul. My father had been all that I had known and all that I had adored. His abandonment of me and the way in which he chose to do so had rocked my frail form like a wind battled leaf. I was not the same within yet I was still the same without. Without him and without myself, I was no longer the little girl I had been only days before.
There are statistics. People like statistics. I can’t recall the exact numbers and I don’t care to look for them, but these statistics say that surviving children of suicide are at a higher risk to attempt and commit it themselves. It is a stigma in many ways. We are doomed to repeat that which doomed us in the first place. I can’t deny that this statistic isn’t correct. That emptiness filled me in many ways. It became the father I no longer had and it saw me through many of my life’s moments that he would not see me through.
I was lost and there was no one willing to take the time to help me understand. Perhaps willing is not the best term to encompass them all. I think some were lost as well, and others had no idea how to help a small child cope. Still, I was lost in the middle of a darkened desolate desert and there was no salvation in sight.
I can recall attempting suicide myself several times. I can recall wishing to die more times than you or I could count together. I do not know why I thought that way. I still struggle even today. Saying that emptiness became a part of my soul does not illustrate the truth of my situation. I was dying emotionally and mentally over and over. A fog of death would overwhelm me and I would be terrified of myself yet I felt as though there was no person who would understand or take the time to care. I felt abandoned by my family, misunderstood by my friends, and mocked by society. I was an outcast in every sense of the meaning.
My wanting death was not for pleasure. My craving death was not for attention. It was solely for peace. Peace within my soul that I had never known. I was being held captive by thoughts I could not control and I would not tell anyone. I did not want to be any more of an outcast than I already was. The death my father left me with never truly left me at all. It held itself deep within my heart and slowed its beating as often as it was allowed to.
These thoughts are never gone completely for me. They take residence in my darkest of days and bring images into my mind that my normal self would never bring into light. I cannot control them or quiet their breathing. I can push them aside and ignore them as best I am able, but I know they will never fully leave me. They are ,in whole, my imaginary security blanket that fills me with insecurity and doubt. They are the fog that I cannot see past. They are a need that I can never quench.
I am still here. I am still fighting. I am a mother, a wife, a daughter, a friend, a volunteer, a fighter, a woman made of complications and darkness. In the end I will not let that emptiness win because I will NOT allow my legacy to be one of doom as well.