364

*mental health, suicide

364 days. That’s how long it’s been. Yet I can still feel the adrenaline pumping through me—metal bending and breaking in the ways it wasn’t made to do so—the blood on my tongue. Everything turned upside down, literally and figuratively. The horror. The fade into black like a movie transitioning into the credits. And there are a lot of credits. The first time she cried. Long nights spent singing lullabies. Cooing and preening. Then nothingness. No one talks about what happens after. The guilt of survival is worse than dying, and how the emptiness lingers. How you wish things were different. The choices that I could have made. What if I was better at controlling my anger? What if I hadn’t yelled at her that night? What if my baby was still alive? I ask myself all these questions, and it drives me insane because I know it’s useless to think.

People tell me everything happens for a reason, but I don’t believe that. My whole world came crashing down for nothing. The empty nursery I sit in. The cold blanket in my hand. The one I had stayed up countless nights hand-stitching. All her toys were still scattered across the floor like they were 364 days ago. Everything is covered in thick coats of dust from long being untouched. With time everyone moved on, but me. Every time I walked past her boarded-up room, I felt the air leave my lungs. I could still hear her say “Mama, play… now!” in her cute baby babble. Every time I looked up I saw a glimpse of her standing there in her little gingham dress looking at me with that childish adoration in her eyes like I could do no wrong. Every little thing reminded me of her. Sometimes it felt like she was still with me.

Especially in my dreams, where the accident never happened. We continued living, there was no truck and no pain. I watched her grow up. She went to art school and became a successful artist. The finger paintings she had made in her childhood were put up in a gallery for everyone to see. She fell in love and her wedding was in the Bahamas. She even had the maturity to invite her father. I watched my grandchildren being born. I held and loved them just like I did with her. I retired early to the countryside where she would bring the family over during the summer. We would all go swimming in the stream and eat fresh watermelon sitting on the back porch. I would die peacefully on a day when the sun shone and the birds sang, surrounded by my loved ones. But the dreams never lasted, always turning into nightmares. Every time I took my dying breath I was brought back to reality. The accident. Her father and I fought that day because I had decided to go through with the divorce. I angrily picked her up and stormed out the door. She was terrified, but I ignored it. Instead, I drove away from the house, not sure where I was going but just trying to get away. That was my first mistake. The whole time she cried in the backseat, it was grating to my ears. In my blind rage, I wished she was never born. That was my second mistake. The third was the light. It was supposed to be yellow, but suddenly it wasn’t.

Horns blared. Glass shattered. I was screaming as my car flipped and barrel-rolled into a ditch. It all went hazy. I was confused and disoriented. It took me much too long to realize what I had done and by then it was too late. Her body was already lifeless, killed on impact. I cried for her. She never responded. After that it was a blur; sirens everywhere, pain worse than I’d ever felt, laying in the hospital bed aware of what I had done, but unable to move or speak for days on end. I was sent to intensive therapy after I was deemed fit enough to leave the hospital. It didn’t help. Her funeral was torture. Breathing was torture. Moving back into a house full of so many memories wasn't easy. Every decision became a regret, shooing her away from the room when I was on a conference call, not reading her that bedtime story because it was too late, and telling her I was too busy with my work to play with her. All of the missed opportunities to spend time with her and taking her for granted. She died not knowing how much I loved her. How am I supposed to recover from that? I constantly got calls from my friends and family asking me if I was alright. The truth was that I wasn’t and I would never be alright again. It was too much to bare and it consumed me. I became a recluse. I turned away everyone who showed up at my door thinking I didn’t deserve the pity. 

It has been 364 days and I still feel the grief as fresh as ever. There were moments were I thought I could move on. I could sell this house and go start a new life. I thought I could forgive myself for what I did. But then I imagined her still trapped in this house, scared and confused. She begged me not to leave her alone and I had no choice but to oblige. Sometimes it felt like I was going crazy. I talked to myself and pretended she could hear. I told her how much I loved her and how much I regretted it. Sometimes though, it felt like she could hear; that she was somehow still with me. I started believing it and then it was true. I finally dared to go into her room for the first time since that day. Now as I lie on the floor of her room clutching her blanket, I can feel her calling to me. Tomorrow is the 365th day. It’s the day I know I’ve been waiting for now. The day when she comes to take me. I get to see her again. I’m going to read her all the stories I never got to. I’m going to hold her and tell her I didn’t mean it. I’m going to love her like I never got to.