Dear Mom

Trigger warning: Mental health, suicide

I still have the letters my friends and I wrote each other in class in primary school, but I threw out your suicide note. This means whenever I want to, which is surprisingly often, I can relive every time Maggy and I were angry at Linda, and when Linda and I were angry at Maggy, as well as my massive crush on Jason for a full week because of the way he said my name, like he really meant it, you know? I will never know why Maggy and Linda were angry with me, because I wasn’t privy to those letters. And I’m not sure what ended my crush on Jason because I didn’t note it in my letters or diary — I guess he must have said my name like he didn’t really mean it. And I’ll also never know why you decided to end it all. 

When my phone rang this morning, I ignored it. I never answered my phone; the people who mattered knew this and texted me instead. But it kept ringing. Instead of blocking the number as usual, something made me swipe up. The unexpected sound of my estranged half-sister’s voice startled me. Dad fell again, but it was serious this time. Things looked grim, and I should come as soon as possible. “If you cared at all,” she added.  

I’m ashamed to admit this, but when I found you that day, Mom, the overwhelming emotion I felt wasn’t sadness but annoyance. You didn’t make a big mess, I’ve got to give you that. You just swallowed a bunch of pills, after all. At first I thought you were just sleeping. When I finally realised you were dead, I was annoyed because of the inevitable extra admin, the spotlight it would put on our family, and because I had an important geography test to study for. You knew I resented anything disrupting my routine. I also felt annoyed because I had gone into your room to tell you something important, and now I’ll never be able to.  

I discovered your note a few days after the funeral. I must have overlooked it in the initial shock. But honestly? I’m pretty sure I do know why you ended it all. I didn’t need a letter for that. It’s not what suicide letters are for though, is it? They’re for saying sorry, it’s not your fault, the good old ‘it’s me, not you’ crap. Has it ever been true? I think the letter expressed something to that effect, but I can’t recall. I didn’t throw it out on purpose, I promise. 

I was angry you left us. But honestly, I felt your absence most acutely in the lack of your gloom, which used to infiltrate the house, soaking all joy from life. The truth is, after your death I actually started to feel better, but as soon as I realised it, guilt overwhelmed me. I aced the test, by the way. 

Dad made me go to therapy, even though he didn’t make himself go. The therapist, a very old lady named Ruth, had good intentions, I’m sure, but she didn’t help me at all. I knew what she wanted me to say to satisfy Dad I was healed. So, I just said all the right things. 

I’m angry you didn’t get the help you needed. I resent Dad for not doing more to help you, and for possibly even making it worse. And I’m angry at myself, wondering if I could have done something — anything — to make you want to live just one more day. 

And honestly, I felt upset at the time because you took away my opportunity to end it all. Mother and daughter both committing suicide? No, that would have been too much. So, thanks Mom, you took the easy way out and I was stuck here. Turns out I’m suicidal too. 

And now, after the phone call, I’m annoyed again, having to drop everything to visit my father. Why should I, when he never took care of me a day in his life? He wasn’t there for me when you died. He was hurting too, I know (or was he?), but I needed someone. I needed him. He remarried in less than a year, you know, and had another child. It felt as though he erased the whole life us three had together. He even threw out your pictures. And it made me wonder if the rumours were true. That they were together when you were still alive. Did it push you over the edge? I really hope it wasn’t the reason; you deserved so much better than him. 

I decided to try therapy again a few years ago at the incessant urging of my well-meaning girlfriend. Yes, Mom, I’m gay — surprise! I’m sorry I never got to tell you. I’ll never know if you’d have reacted like I hoped or feared, like Dad did — with disgust and disappointment. 

It took a while, but I finally found someone I clicked with (I mean a therapist, not my girlfriend; we’re not together anymore), and I can honestly say I’m finally getting better. I don’t think about killing myself as often anymore. It was her suggestion I write you this letter, and you know what, I think it was a good idea. I feel better already. 

Mom, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you more, I’m sorry you didn’t have a fulfilling life and the necessary support for your mental health. We didn’t even talk about mental health back then, didn’t have the words or the courage. I’m also selfishly sorry for myself that there’s so much I will never be able to share with you. 

My therapist says I’m suffering from childhood trauma. I guess that’s obvious because of your suicide, but she says it goes even deeper. She says everyone has some kind of trauma. But she also says there’s nothing that can be done about it now, and you probably did the best you could. I think she’s right — it’s time I stopped blaming you and healed myself. 

Do you remember when we used to drink tea on Sunday nights at 9pm? You always made it in my favourite cup — I swear it made it taste different; just right. It was such a simple ritual, but it’s the small things that linger the longest. I think it meant so much to me because I could see you seeing the hurt in me, at having to go to school the next day, facing my bullies again. And I saw the hurt in you, knowing you couldn’t really help me, and because of other things, too. But you did help me, just by being there, every Sunday at 9pm, even when you were miserable. 

I have to go now. Dad is in ICU, and though I haven’t seen him in a long time and I’m not sure he or Stacey (his daughter) really want me there, I don’t care. I’m going for me. 

P.S. — That day I wanted to tell you I found your old paintings in the attic, and was in awe of your talent. I wanted to ask, why did you stop?