Ten

Ten.

I'm just gonna let that sink in.

Yep, still waiting; the thought still trickling down into the fissures of my brain.

The silence is deafening while it happens.

It's something that takes a while to process, and still, doesn't quite compute.

Ten years since she finally let the weight of the world bring her down. Ten years since she let all of those things that she couldn't let go of consume her. Ten years since the bad days outshone the good and she let the darkness take her, and swallow her whole. Ten years since she thought that that was the only way out.

 *****

I told myself last year that I had said all that I needed to say. I had convinced myself that I had let go; I had been vindicated by the fact that it was finally all out in the open. That I had nothing left to hide from the world. That all those years ago, I had witnessed my mum - one of the most important people in the world to me - take her own life, because she was in such a pit of sorrow, depression, and despair that she thought that she could never dig herself out. That I was there and didn't stop her. That I was there, and couldn't stop her. And that for a really, really long time, I blamed myself for that.

Ten years.

Ten bloody years.

People have come and people have gone. New life's been made, and old life's been lost.  I've fallen in and out and into love again. I've closed so many chapters of my life, and started so many new ones.

And still, every August, this is the chapter I revisit.

Because no matter how long ago it was, no matter how much I think I've grown, no matter how much I try to convince myself that I've let it go and that it's okay, the fact remains that it's not.

I still have those moments where I just randomly break down. I cry, sometimes uncontrollably. Sometimes it's triggered by something that reminds me of you and sometimes it comes just completely out of the blue. And I get angry at myself for not being able to let it go.

But wait - that's a trait I got from you.

And that scares me a lot. Because beside what eventually consumed you - you were always such a happy, positive person. That smile - that laugh - anyone who knew you would remember. You shone your light onto so many people's lives. But then I guess, you left none for your own. You held onto so many things; too many things beneath the surface. Things that you tried to let go of, but just couldn't shake. And instead you hid them with all of that sunshine, until you gave all of your sunshine away and then you were just left with all. of. those. things. The things that you clung to; the things that eventually led you to the end - the only things you took with you when it happened. Well - those things -  and a part of me.

It scares me, because I am, for the most part of it, a very positive person. I get asked, all the time, why it is that I'm so happy, and my reply is usually that I am always like this. I tell people that I don't have much to be unhappy about, and for the most part this is true. I have an incredible, supportive family, the most amazing network of friends, a partner who, while frustratingly oblivious sometimes, loves me more than I think even he thought he could, a roof over my head, and a job that I love, that I get to go to every day and make a real difference to peoples' lives. And yet still, beneath it all, bubbles my struggle to let go of the past; to let go of all of those things that have come and gone that I had no control over, and can't be changed no matter how much I think about them.

I don't want to be like this. But I am. And I'm scared. Scared that that was your fatal flaw. Scared that I am like you. And god, you were an amazing woman, and if you had asked me in the years gone by, I would have considered myself honoured to be like you.

But now - now I can see how hard it must've been to be like you. To live your life for other people's happiness - what a toll it must've taken. What a toll it did take. And so, here I am, battling to change who I inherently am, for the good. And I struggle with it all of the time, but I'm determined, to do with my life what you couldn't. To have more good days than bad. To accept the things that have gone; to not dwell on them or allow them to shape my future. And there will be days when I revert back to old habits and dig up memories that unstitch old wounds but I will not allow them to consume me, however hard it will be. And there will be times where I may seem like I'm losing the battle, because let's face it, sometimes life just gets you down. But I will bounce back. I will not let those things control me.

And you know what, I'm scared of a lot of things. I'm scared of people judging me. I'm scared of stepping on toes. I'm scared of people not liking me. I'm scared of not being good enough. I'm scared of opening up to people. I'm scared of failing. I'm scared of putting my heart on the line. I'm scared of getting hurt. But I'm not scared enough to not say that I need help when I do. I'm not scared anymore, of telling people when things are not okay; when I am not okay. I'm scared mum, but I'm not scared enough to not fight.

I turn twenty-six in three hours. Ten years older than when I last saw your face. And no matter how much I think I'm over it, the fact is that sometimes I'm not. And I guess - I guess that's okay. Because sometimes, it's okay to not be okay. It's okay to miss you. It's okay to have a cry about it. I guess, some things I'm always going to hold onto, whether I want to or not. As long as I don't let it take over my life, I know I'll be alright.

I don't feel like being a fashion blogger today.

This morning I came home from my run, showered, changed. I took photos of my clothes and planned to update my fashion blog because I'd be complacent of late. I didn't have time to finish the post then and there; I had an appointment to get to.

****

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.

****

1am and my eyes jolt open again. She's throwing up. She's throwing up and I can't stop her. And she won't respond to me. She's throwing up and I don't think she's awake. And I don't know what to do. I'm only 16. I'm still a kid! Water, she needs water.

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.

blergh.

'How are you?'

'...I'm a bit blergh to be honest!'

'Blergh?'

'Yeah. I can't explain it in words really. Just blergh.'

***

Tomorrow I sit an interview for my first big-girl job. It's in front of a panel of three Chief Radiation Therapists. On one hand I'm quite confident because I know I'm good at what I do (or, rather, what I will be doing next year). On the other, I have only just started studying and I know I have the tendency to let nerves get the better of me. I stumble through my words, I shake, I sweat profusely. I have a history of not exactly making the best first impressions. Like I've said before, if I were me, I'd think I was weird.  

I've been giving myself these little mental pep-talks in between testing myself with possible interview questions. I've been telling that little part of my brain that doubts that I can do it to shut up. That whatever happens, I'll handle it. I'm a smart, proficient, articulate young lady, who is perfect for the job. I just need to be confident in me, instead of being so scared of failing.

I've been reading a book called 'Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway' (albeit very slowly; reading has never really been my forte). I must admit that I was a little apprehensive at first about going down the self-help book road because of that whole stigma that comes with it. Telling people that you're reading that type of book usually results in laughs and subtle judgement, and sometimes not so subtle digs. But then I just thought, who the hell cares. I'm gonna do it anyway.

Anyway the point is, the book tells you that no matter what, you're still going to feel scared. Everyone does. The only way you're going to get over your fear is to push yourself to do the things that make you scared - and then realise, that they perhaps weren't so scary after all. And I don't mean things like going skydiving or bungee jumping (but if you want to do that, more power to you) - more little steps out of your comfort zone. Like, for example, the thought of driving to unfamiliar places used to make me extremely anxious. I used to get really flustered and freak out about it. Because of it I would never venture out of my local area to eat, or do other things unless someone else was driving. Recently though, I've pushed myself to step out of that comfort zone, and I've never looked back. I find myself going on little adventures all around Sydney, just for funsies. I love it (paying for petrol, not so much lol).

I'm also trying to limit my use of  the phrases 'I can't' and 'hopefully' and consciously replacing them with something along the lines of 'I know I'll handle it.' It's an adjustment, but so far it's moving me in the right direction I think.

The other day I told a friend about how I've always got the paranoids that people won't like me, or that they'll think I'm weird, or that I'm gonna offend people accidentally. I told her about how I quite often over-analyse every interaction I ever have with, well, anybody. I go over it again, and again in my head.

She put things into perspective for me, by telling me something that I rationally already knew. She said that it's human nature to want to be liked, and of course, no one ever wants to be disliked.  But not everyone is going to like you. As long as you go in with the best intentions, then that's all you can do. If you didn't mean to offend them and they get offended, then that's their problem, not yours. Don't stress over it; just accept it.

I'm still having these off days though. Where everything just gets a bit too much. And I'm tired. And I miss you. At least, the idea of you. And I stress that maybe I've made some horrible mistake with my life and that I won't be able to recover. But then I stop and breathe and think it through. Of course I'm always going to care. I'm always going to wonder, what if? What if things had been different? Part of me is always going to wish you were here to share these big milestones with me. Part of me is always going to miss you.

But there's no use in dwelling over things that can't be changed. You can't start the next chapter of your life, if you keep rereading the last one. So I'm trying to push myself, to look forward. Concentrate on what's to come, and not what's already been.

And on that note, I have an interview to prepare for.

Release.

I've been meaning to start this for a while, because sometimes the thoughts swimming around my head go beyond shoes and sequins.

Sometimes I have these feelings, and these things that I want to say - but I don't know where or how to begin. And I'm scared. Scared because I've tried so hard to show the world how happy I am. How strong I am. How well I'm coping with, well, life in general.

I tell people that I can't help that I'm amazing. I project confidence. I strive to be the best at everything I do. It annoys me when I'm not, but even then, I smile and push my way through.

I cover my walls (both in real life, and in cyber-life) with quotes, and sayings that I trick myself into believing will be my new mantras. I tell myself to 'take time to find me' and not to worry, 'be happy' and that 'things will be okay in the end, and if they're not, then it's not the end.' I hope that if I repeat them long enough, they'll stick.

I shop lots. For things that I don't need, and quite often, don't really want.

I eat lots. Not because I'm hungry, just because.

I train lots. I like the way the tired makes me feel. 

I bake lots. This started fairly recently and I don't know why.

When people ask me how I am, I always tell them something along the lines of 'Yeah...good!' or 'Yeah...I'm doing well!' or 'I really can't complain!'

And that's the thing. I don't feel like I should complain, because honestly, I know my life really isn't bad. I have a supportive family and amazing friends. I've got no bills to pay, I'm in good health and I've got barely any responsibilities. I've got a roof over my head and a warm bed to sleep in. I have excess of anything I could ever need. And yet I still find myself wanting.

I have often told friends that if I weren't me, then I'd think that I was weird. Sometimes I'm socially awkward and my sentences don't come out right. I have these brain farts and say strange things or lag between responses. I slur words and have to start over again.

I over analyse every conversation I've ever had with anyone. I go over scenarios again and again in my head. This is the worst when I'm speaking to people that I don't know that well, and who don't know me that well. I fear their judgement. I've got the paranoids about offending people and I'm constantly scared that people don't or won't like me. I tell myself that I don't give a fuck what other people think about me and rationally, I know I really shouldn't. But the fact is I do, probably definitely too much.

I HATE the thought of people thinking that I'm weak. I hate pity. I hate the idea of not being able to handle things. To handle myself. So I push through. And I just keep pushing.

But sometimes, the pushing gets so friggin' tiring.

Positivity gets hard to hold on to and all I want to do sometimes is spaz out and cry. I hesitated to write that last sentence just then, because I hate the thought of people thinking about me crying. The visual might make them pity me or perceive me as weak, and gosh, I'd hate that. I've spent so long trying to prove otherwise, and here I am, undoing all my hard work.

But I'm exhausted. And anxious. Full of this unexplainable anxiety that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. And I don't know what to do, but to write about it, in hope that it'll release me, and I it.

***

A few nights ago, I had a dream about you. In the dream, we were happy. The way we once were. I was leaning on you and the sun was shining on your face as I stared up at it. You smiled at me and I saw that shininess in your eyes that I had once loved so much.

I woke up from that dream smiling. And then as I realised that it was just that - a dream- my heart ached for what had been lost.

And then I found some photos of us while cleaning my room. The snaps of moments frozen in time brought back all of these old memories - happy, shiny memories.

But things hadn't been that way for a while. And I know things can never be like that again. Still, it makes me both happy and sad to think about it.

Nostalgia's a funny thing.