The Dark Day(s): A Personal Grief Story

This was written one year after my mother lost her battle with mental health, and why I am a deathworker now.

Trigger Warnings: Suicide, self harm, graphic gore, graphic language, the f word, photos with bloodstains Facebook reminded me of this via its memories feature [thanks!] - so here is my personal grief story. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I haven’t really talked about this before. I try to gloss over it and smile, say Im fine. Silently nod at condolences and change the subject.

But its been a year, and Im not ok.

I try to manufacture my own happiness. Be a perpetual motion machine of encouragement and strength for those around me and those who need someone to hold their hand for whatever reason. For myself, a lot of the time. I like it that way. I can control that. I can control my own level of happiness, of joy. I don’t have to rely on anyone else for my spark.

But sometimes, the well runs dry for a while.

On Tuesday night last week, I was having a rough night. No reason in particular- this approaching day, some personal stuff, reflecting on some recent stuff – and suddenly I was just down. I was going to take a shower to feel better and try to pep myself up, something. Anything. Some of you might have noticed my status go up.

Walked into the bathroom through the darkness of the house and flipped the light on, turned on the shower, etcetera. Behind the bathroom door, hangs one of moms tracksuits. Ive always kept it there for some reason. Unworn since the last time she had it on, hung up just as pristine as you please.

Something just broke. I snatched the jacket off the hanger and just wailed into it. I desperately searched for her smell in the fabric – and it wasn’t there. I shattered, knowing this was the closest thing Id ever have again to a hug from my mom. A fucking velveteen track jacket I had hung behind a door for a year.

I stepped into the shower and sobbed for half an hour.

The shower is normally where I cry about things.  I can convince myself that tears aren’t streaming down my face, its just the hot water from the faucet. The fast breathing is just the heat, the shortness of breath from the steam. The racing heart from the scalding water. I put my fists on the wall, arms straight, and held myself up as the water pulled my hair into my eyes. Its not tears. Its just the water. Im strong. I don’t cry. I can handle this. I am braided steel cables. I bend – I don’t break. I am strong and I am ok.

 And then I can slide down the wall and sit in the floor of the shower, clutching my knees, and no one ever has to know.

Theres no coddling. No pats on the head or awkward hugs. No words of consolation that I can only offer a pitiful “thanks” for.  Theres no showmanship of grief. Just me and my loss. All alone.

I sat there and thought about the time that very same 9mm had sat on the very desk I sit at now, late at night, when I considered suicide myself many many years ago. Over a bad breakup. I had put the muzzle in my mouth and touched the trigger with a quivering finger – but could never convince myself to pull. I sat there and thought about how that very same gun was held in a stronger hand much much later – whose finger didn’t quiver.

Ive dreaded this day for a while.

Simply marked with a sad face on my calendar.

I sit here wracked with guilt, convinced I could have stopped it.

The night it happened, I was playing Hashonen [a local LARP game with friends]. My mom’s behavior had deteriorated rapidly and horribly – my father and I were both so tired. So defeated. So crushed. I was so full of self loathing for being unable to help someone I loved so much – given my education, experience, and constitution. Her doctors wouldn’t listen – I was just an up and coming psych student who didn’t know shit. How could my diagnosis possibly be correct? (Guess what you fucks, it was.) We discussed institutionalization. Electroshock therapy. She was being treated for bipolar- but schizophrenia ran in the family and she was text book presenting.

My phone rang while I was in the cabin – I took my fangs out and answered.

The screen lit up “DAD” and I knew something was wrong.

I don’t even know now what started it – but it ended with him leaving and staying in a hotel. He called me desperate, wanting me to go to the house and try to check on her. He said she had threatened him with a rolling pin and just “looked crazy”. That she was snarling and screaming. He actually feared she – the person he loved with all his heart, whom he would never dream of being capable – would hurt him. So he gathered some things and went to a hotel to let her calm down.

He called me when he checked in and we talked. I refused to go. I stood there in my gear that night and I made a choice not to go. I will regret that choice forever –because even the moment that I made it I knew I would never see her again. I felt that if I went I might be able to save her – but I was so tired. So tired of it all.  And so I didn’t go.

We talked for about an hour – I told him that people who are serious about suicide cannot be stopped and that he did the right thing by leaving. That it was possible she would hurt him – and all he could do is cry and scream “SHE WOULD NEVER HURT ME ALEX! AND I LEFT HER WHEN SHE NEEDED ME MOST! I HAVE TO GO BACK!”

And I stopped him.

I fucking stopped him.

While I may have saved my fathers life that night – I may have been able to save hers too. And I refused to go.

We went over the choice and resigned ourselves to if she hurt herself, that it was her choice and there is nothing we could do without risking harm to ourselves. I told him I loved him, hung up, and tried to call her.  She didn’t answer. I called and called, eventually gave up, took a few moments – and went back into play.

As the game slowed up for the night, I walked off into the woods at Harrison Bay. I sat in the darkness by myself in the silence and just told the cosmos what I hoped she would hear over the wind. That I loved her, and that I wanted her to reach deep to come back. That I wanted her to fight the darkness as long as she could – and that if she couldn’t fight it anymore, I understood. You see, we had talked about suicide a lot before. She always told me that if the time came – it wasn’t anyones fault. That she was just tired and didn’t want to play anymore. Not to be upset. Not to be sad. That she would be free.

And that was that.

When I returned to the cabin that night – I looked at Jason, told him what had happened, and said

“She’s gone.”

I woke up at around 8am to my phone ringing. DAD on the screen. I knew what had happened before I answered. His voice was tired. Quiet.

“She’s gone. Your mom’s …gone. She’s shot herself. Get here quick.”

And he hung up.

I didn’t have to say a word. I dressed, told Jason, and ran to my car. Duke slid across the hood, climbed in, and flew to Signal Mountain.

The first call I made was to my brother’s house. My sister in law answered – how do you tell someone? I don’t even remember what I said.

I made the calls. Holding it together. My voice only wavering. Never breaking. Every call I made was one less for Dad to have to dial. The last call to my boss, who told me to take the time I needed and that he would contact HR for grieving leave.

When I got to the house, Dad was outside. Just sitting. Blank. He wrung his hands and just stared out into the trees. There were cops everywhere. They greeted me, got my information, and took coroner preference info from me. I was suddenly in charge.

Jesus Christ, what is happening. I grew up in that moment. I was the lion. My pride was injured and my roar was the rallying cry. The officers looked to me for queues. Dad looked to me for strength and courage. I rose. The steel door in my heart slammed shut and the spine took control.

I am in charge.

I am the strength here.

Do not cry.

Stand tall.

 Handle it.

I took over, came up the stairs on the porch to collect the dogs so they wouldn’t be underfoot. Max had laid with her body all night, sleeping in her lap. I saw her through the door and I will never forget the sight. She looked peaceful. Laid out on the couch, cd player in her hand. Headphones on. She had been listening to Elvis. Her mouth was open and her head leaned back.

I grabbed the dogs and walked back down the stairs, the officers allowing me a few moments to sate my need to look by pretending to do something else.

Autopilot.

The phone is ringing.

Answer.

Yes, its Alex. Its true. I know. Thank you. I will. Yes. I appreciate it. Love you too. Bye.

Repeat.

Dad still sat, wringing his hands. Periodically taking his glasses off to wipe the tears. He was repeating.

“I should have never left. I should’ve stayed. She needed me and I left her. I should have never left.”

I sat beside him as the officers apologetically swabbed his hands for gunpowder “just to rule him out per procedure”. His face was blank but his eyes were understanding.

One of the officers pulled me to the side and let me know they were going to take her out the back door and to the ambulance. Two other officers stood on the opposite side of Dad and talked about foot ball; he listened in. They had seen the UGA stuff in the house and known he was into football, and used that to distract him into turning his head so he didn’t have to see the stretcher.

The officer with me told me I could enter the house and that I “might want to before your Dad does.”

I understood what he meant. There was going to be some cleanup.

So I climbed the stairs and got to work.

The scene was neat enough at first. On the dining room table was a pillow – wet and glistening with gore. There were brains on the couch. The jokes are right – pretty much like tapioca. All that was left of her – I was wiping up with Brawny and some cleaner.

[I had to break writing here for about 45 minutes before continuing.]

I shoved the pillow in a trashbag so Dad wouldn’t see it. Even that felt perverse and wrong. The cops stalled him for me.

Family came and we all cried together. While no one was watching, I gave the pillow to Jason to dispose of. We walked down the steps to the driveway and I clutched the bag. He moved to take it from me and I couldn’t let it go. I begged him not to throw it away – that I couldn’t bear for the last of her to be put in the trash, in a dump somewhere.

I pulled the goresoaked pillow out, the weight of all the blood and matter in it almost causing me to drop it. I sat, collapsing as my knees finally gave way, in the same spot my Dad sat earlier. I clutched her pillow to my face and sobbed. I wailed and screamed and pleaded with God and Death and all who lay in between that this was a horrible dream.

That it wasn’t real.

That I was being punk’d.

That I was dead and in Hell.

Please let this be my eternity in Hell if that would mean she is alive. I was sad. I was angry. I was abandoned. I screamed at her. How could you do this? How could you leave me? I FUCKING NEED YOU GODDAMMIT. YOU WERE MY BEST FUCKING FRIEND. YOU WERENT DONE TEACHING ME. WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?

Her blood on my hands. My face. Mixed with tears and liquid brains. I lost it. It all came screaming out.

Just as quickly as it came – it faded.

Jason gently tugged the pillow out of my bloody hands and I didn’t have the strength to snatch it back.

He burned it for me in the firepit at my house, next to where she used to sit and drink beer and listen to the woods when she would come over and hang out. I have shreds of the pillowcase still, even with her blood on the fabric, that I keep like a holy relic. I sleep on the matching pillowcase every night.

The house was too clean. Too perfect. She had put away everything Dad said she had thrown and torn out the night before.  She drove Dad out of the house that night so she could prepare her final moments the way she wanted and “check out”, as she put it. She had fully intended to kill herself that night.  She had planned it, down to the last detail. She had taken the key to the guncase, removed the gun, and put the key back. The way she had positioned her body so that the pillow would catch most of the gore and blood from the wound. She cleaned the house for Dad one last time - there was laundry going in the machine. She had prepared a note and left it. It was unintelligible. Like two voices fighting for control. Everything in the house was pristine. Prepared. All the pages of her journals ripped out and destroyed. We never found them.

She was just …gone.

And yeah, I know. Shes in me. Shes in the lives of people she touched. Shes all around me.

But when all the world is still and quiet. In the dead of night. When Im doing laundry by myself. When I swipe my phone and hit “FAVORITES” only to hover my thumb above her picture and realize her number has been shut off…

…shes just gone.

I called the coroner. I made the arrangements. I smiled for the family who patted me on the shoulder and told me "youve got to be strong for your Dad. He's looking to you for courage". I pulled songs for the arrangements and photos for the wake. I worked with the funeral home so we could see her one last time before sending her into the valyries fire. My dad kissed her forehead and stroked her hair.

Her face was so peaceful - almost blissful. All the lines in her face were frozen into a serene smile. Restful. Free. With only a tiny bandaid under her chin and a handtowel wrapping the shattered remains of the top of her skull to hide it from us. Hollowpoints - they get the job done.

I, too, kissed her forehead - and laced my fingers into her icy hand. I laid my head on her chest so Dad wouldnt see me cry and left tears soaking into her black t shirt. I got one last hug from her cold physical body and stood, staring at her a few moments before turning my back and breathing deeply. I had to walk out the door. I had to leave. I had to take Dad's arm and walk with him, lead him out. It was over.

I used to call and talk to her. To her voicemail. Because just hearing her say “Leave me a message and I’ll call ya back, thanks!” was enough.

Ive been through some real downs lately. So many times where I would have sold my soul for her advice – especially here lately in the past few months. Just to hear her say “Do what makes you happy” or “fuck that bullshit.” Just to be able to talk to her, to see her face as she listened. Her frowns when someone made me sad or her smile when I said something funny.

When I was alone, Id beg for a sign. Please, just help me. Mom, what should I do? Please. Please please please. Id fall to my knees and cry, begging.

Pleading. Bargaining.

I suppose her answers came in their own ways.

“Where my pain ends – yours begins”

“Do what makes you happy.”

These photos were taken by Rickie Blevins as a part of a photography project we started a while back on suicide called "All That Remains" - the focus is showing who and what is left behind after someone hurts themselves for the last time. These have never been shared until now because I just couldnt bear it. All I have left are her clothes, which Im wearing in these pictures,  and her ashes. For her, thats all that remains for us to see, feel, and touch. All I have left to hug is a wooden box. September is Suicide Prevention Month. If you or someone you know are having suicidal idealizations, please talk to someone. Even if its a suicide hotline. Please. Because you might leave behind someone like me.

TRIGGER WARNING: Yes. That is her blood.

Yes. Those are my real tears. These photos arent pretty. Theyre not the modeling photos or selfies of me you normally see. This is full on ugly crying grief - just to warn. Everyone who participated was given a quiet, dark space to just "feel". To let it all out. And this is what happened to me:

I’ll never be ok. I will always have the sight of her laying there, mouth open and staring at the ceiling burned into my eyes. I will always have a 9mm round shaped hole in my heart and her blood on my hands.

She is locked in my heart in a steel box.

I have to keep her there to manage the pain. Sometimes the box shakes and I have to quiet my soul. Sometimes the box thumps and I hear her voice in my throat. But I carry her with me – her strengths and her weaknesses- and they strengthen and weaken me. I am all of her that is left in this world – and I will burn twice as bright for us both because I carry her with me always.

She is the steel in my spine, the glow in my heart, the wind in my breath, and the foot in my ass.

I miss my mom.

So there it is.