Today is Christmas.
It’s been a year and I have come to understand why suicide carries the stigma it does. People like me sweep it under the rug and don’t dare to say it aloud because it is easier.
After it happened, I cried and then never talked about it.
I tried to figure out what it meant and what it was.
-It was hearing my mother scream. This is something that doesn’t belong in real life, only movies. Hearing a person scream in utter terror and agony is impossible to describe and impossible to forget. Pain becomes tangible. It echoes. This sound is one I will hear forever.
-It was dialing 911, trying to articulate what I saw and having no words, only broken phrases and shallow breaths. “Killed herself,” I said. “Dead, I think she’s…”
-It was seeing and not believing. My mom, me, and a body we couldn't look at.
-It was a frail survivor. A person I spent the last 365 days treating like a corpse.
-It was an upheaval, a new house in February. A home I didn’t get to say goodbye to.
-It was hearing the strongest person I know cry in the shower.
-It was screaming profanities and shaking so badly I don’t know how I stayed standing.
-It is the inability to forgive.
So it is these screams, these painful moments and the tears that followed that I have carried in my pockets along with a holiday that’s scratched beyond recognition. They make it a little harder to smile and they made me a lot less pleasant to be around.
Reality: Sometimes people try to kill themselves. Sometimes they actually do. Either way, there are always people left behind, broken because they weren’t enough to live for.
It’s Christmas. It’s been a year. And that’s all I know for sure.
