****
In the waiting room, I pulled out my phone, looking to my Facebook news feed for entertainment. And my heart drops.
Today, a man who I never actually knew, but who played a huge part in my childhood, filling it with warmth, humour, happiness, and all of them general good feels, ended his own life. And I don't pretend that I'll be shedding tears for him because while he seemed to be a lovely man, and I greatly admired his work, the fact is that I didn't know him. But still I am sad. I am sad for him. I am sad for his sadness. I am sad that this was the only way he saw out of it. I am sad for his friends - the people who actually did know him. And I am sad for his family, because I know how horrible it is to be in their position; to deal with what is left behind.
****
Nine years and I am reluctant to write this, still. Every year I edge closer, but the words never quite make it out. But you know what, I feel as though it needs to be said. As I get older; as I grow up; as I finally, after twenty-five years, begin to truly become comfortable with who I am, I have finally started to stop worrying so much about what everyone else thinks. Not just say I should stop worrying, but actually start to stop worrying. Not care about subjects that are taboo, or stress that people will talk about me and pity me or look down on me or my family. I don't care if people think I'm annoying or socially awkward or that I over-share. The best intentions are all I can offer, and if people have issues with that, well, that's their problem, not mine.
I can say, and believe whole-heartedly now, that suicide is not a dirty word.
Almost nine years ago, just over two weeks past my sixteenth birthday and with the School Certificate just around the corner, I sat in my lounge room eating my dinner alone, watching 8 Mile - a quick break from the chaos that had been surrounding my life at the time. The house was quiet compared to what it used to be - my brother and one of my sisters had moved out the year or two before, and of the other two sisters, one did night shifts and the other was busy preparing for her wedding and so always had an excuse to be out. What this meant was that I was the only one at home most of the time. The only one listening to them. To the yelling. To their screaming. To their unhappiness. I don't blame my siblings for not wanting to be there. If I had had a choice, I probably wouldn't have been there either. By that point it didn't feel like a home any more; at least not one you wanted to come back to.
My mum was a beautiful woman - much more so than she thought herself to be. Anyone who met her would agree that her smile was one of the biggest, brightest and shiniest - she was an eye-smiler, the very best kind of smiler. She had a loud, roaring laugh that was adorable and contagious. She was overbearing at times, and she nagged and worried too much about her kids, but everything she ever did was always with the best intentions. She didn't have a selfish bone in her body. Her entire existence was for others - always willing to go above and beyond for anyone who ever needed her help. She was a giver.
But mum, she had her demons. She held onto things from lifetimes ago and they would come pouring out again every time they had an argument. She had this sadness, this sadness that you could see just beyond that twinkle in her eyes - if only you stopped long enough to look beneath that smile. It was always sort of there, but it was only towards the end she became worse at hiding it. The hiding, it takes energy - by then, much more than she had to give.
The days leading up had been particularly brutal. Dad hadn't been sleeping at home. She was tired and worn down and no longer wearing her smile-mask. She wasn't eating. She wasn't talking much. She spent most of her time in her bedroom, alone. I wasn't much of a cook back then, so the only thing I could offer her was a bowl of instant noodles that I had lovingly prepared. She refused to eat and so I took the bowl back downstairs to eat in the lounge room. She joined me half an hour or so later - she came down, and without saying anything, laid down on the couch to watch the movie with me. FYI 8 Mile is an awkward as fuck movie to watch with your mum - but I didn't care, at least she was out of her room. The movie ended, and I turned off the TV. She looked up at me, and said the words that still ring in my head now.
"So that's it? It's over?"
Yes Mum, it's finished. And I walk her up the stairs.
****
A quick phone call to say goodnight to my then-boyfriend, and I return to her room to inform her that I will be keeping her company that night. She protests; I insist. We cuddle, and I am reminded of when she used to sing me to sleep when I was a small child. She holds me for a while, before asking me to hug her, and then turns around as if to invite me to be the big spoon. She's never asked me to do this before, and it feels foreign and weird to me. Time carries on. There's an odd, sickly sweet smell in the air that I can't place, but I don't question it.
We hear the front door close, and she wonders aloud which one of my sisters is home. I check, it's the eldest. She smiles and continues her rest. I nod off.
****
THUD! CRASH!
My eyes jolt open and I scurry out of bed. She's lying there on the floor, next to the DVD rack she'd just pulled down, the glow of the night lamp just bright enough that I can make out the film of saliva across the side of her face. My sister comes into the room to investigate the noise. Something's not right, but her eyes just open. I wipe off the saliva, she moves - and heaves herself back into bed. My sister and I convince ourselves that she's just half asleep - we even share a slight almost-giggle - it's been a draining few days, so she must be tired and out of it. My sister leaves, and though my gut tugs at me, the naive 16-year-old wants to believe that there is nothing wrong. I climb back into bed. I could just be imagining it, but that sickly-sweet smell seems to have gotten stronger. I hug her again, touch her face, hold her as she did me once. The love I have for her is immeasurable, and it hurts me to see her like this.
****
I run downstairs, get her water. I get towels, I start to try and clean up, but it just keeps coming. She won't stop throwing up and she won't drink the water. She won't open her eyes. I don't know what to do! Why won't it stop?! Why won't she talk to me?!
Mum, please! Please open your eyes! Please drink the water! Please stop throwing up! You're scaring me.
The front door shuts. Vien! She's home. She'll know what to do!
My sister walks in the room and I immediately say 'I think Mum's sick'. Her face changes. She grabs her phone; dials 000.
How long has she been like this?
I recount the night.
Hello? Yes. I need an ambulance, I think my Mum's taken something.
****
The Ambulance arrives and the Ambulance Officers amble in. I stand in the background not knowing what to do, in my own world of silence. She's soiled the bed. They carry her down to the floor; she's still unresponsive. They cut open her clothes and break out the defib. They try a few times but it's not working. I feel sick. I hate myself for being so naive; for not calling sooner. A second set of medics arrive and they have no luck either. I walk back out to my room and clutch my head in my hands, rocking back and forth. They have to take her to hospital now. I'm coming with. I feel sick. Someone calls dad. He's on his way too.
We get there. Dad's there. The Doctor comes out to speak to us. I feel sick. And angry. And numb. Mostly numb.
I'm sorry, there was nothing we could do.
Life, it was never the same again.
****
When people ask me what happened to her, I used to answer that she was sick. I told them it was her heart...which I suppose is not a complete lie.
Just under nine years ago, my mother did the one selfish thing that she ever did during her whole existence- she took her own life. As a sixteen-year-old girl, I watched it all, and did nothing. And I spent a long time being really angry with myself. For such a smart girl, how could I have been so naive? There were a lot of rough days and nights; there was a lot of beating myself up. The sadness that she carried transferred in part to me, and it took me a very long time to break free of it. I still carry a part of it now. But I don't blame her. I don't blame anyone.
All of the things we never got to say to her, all of the regrets we have - well, we're just gonna have to deal with that ourselves now. We all have those regrets, but I know Dad, he feels it the most. He tells us all of the time. But things are always different in retrospect.
Regardless, we can never go back. Things can never go back. She will never be back. She did what she needed to do, for her. And I'm sorry that that was the only way she could see out of her sadness, but I hope that she found her happiness again, somewhere up there.
She left a letter that I never got to read. I think I wish that I had gotten to see it, but perhaps it was for the best that I didn't.
I miss her. It's been nine years since my Mum committed suicide and still, every day, I miss her.
But I know (or at least I hope) she's happier now.
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