How many days did you consider leaving life before the day you swallowed the pills? Did you edge away from it gradually making your way toward the abyss so slowly you couldn’t distinguish its depth its darkness from the rest of the path? Did you take three baby steps forward then one giant step back, your life one long game of Mother, May I? When the day came I was at kindergarten pulling rumpled dresses from a costume box coloring inside the lines You were home with two cats a pink satin chair Tylenol and a bottle of Thunderbird How many pills did you swallow at one go? Was it a by-the-handful endeavor? Or more of a one-by-one-lay-them-out-in-a-neat-row-on-the-bedside-table sort of thing? Did you take them slowly, rhythmically each pill clicking past your teeth like prayer beads on a string? Did you inhale after every swallow? Did you exhale at all? And at what point did your breath stop altogether? When did your head fall back on the pillow into oblivion arriving in that sweet, dark place we all crave at one time or another? But for most of us something just one small thing or someone just one precious one pulls us back reigns us in holds us close And we take one giant step back into life together Mother, may I? Yes, you may But not you You took one giant step forward into death alone And I’m still here living Wondering why I wasn’t your one precious one
You're right about sticking together--your mom has been in my thoughts so much lately for a number of reasons, especially the recen tdeath by suicide of my next door neighbor, which has affected me deeply, and I am finding that no one in my little circle of friends and family wants to talk about her what happened to her.You are very courageous to put your thoughts out in the open, and to make an effort to re-imagine what that day might have been like for her. Keep in mind the life you are living now and how you are surrounded by family and friends who love you and value you for the wonderful woman you have become.
Thank you, Aunt Julia. Yes, I am deeply grateful for the deep relationships and fulfilling life I have built. Sadly, as we both know, suicide is one of the most difficult topics for many people to discuss. After years of running from talking about my mother's, I have learned honest conversations with my own precious ones (and writing) are the best antidotes for this particular kind of grief.
Caitlin, I see you. I hear you. I feel your grief as you search for the unknowable and try to make peace with the unacceptable. I stand bedside you, a fellow traveler on the path of healing from parental suicide and the resulting feelings of not being worth it for them to stay. Thank you for your beautiful voice, thank you for your courage. I send you love🩷
Lisa, I often think of you walking alongside me when I write about my mom's suicide. Thank you for being there during the early stages of this journey, and for sharing your story and your courage with me. Sending love right back to you.
Caitlin, this has left me speechless. It’s beautiful, heartbreaking, powerful, tragic, layered and causes one to think that life is simple and complex, not fair and beyond our control. You know I adore you and your writing. Thank you for sharing such a poignant piece of yourself. Vulnerability opens up doors that may not erase the grief and scars but sometimes a cool breeze brushes by to remind us we are not alone and there are those put into our life to help and support. Love you, dear friend.
I send you love. I see you. I found myself enlarging the photos to look in your mother’s eyes. Why do we think we can ever see the depth of pain in someone else I will never know. Maybe it’s that all of us think we can change other’s feeling but we never can. A beautiful poem full of hope and healing and questions never answered. 💙
Ann, your honesty and wisdom buoy me. Thank you for your thoughtful response, for seeing me, and for sending love. The 'questions never answered' are less haunting with people like you in my circle.
You're right about sticking together--your mom has been in my thoughts so much lately for a number of reasons, especially the recen tdeath by suicide of my next door neighbor, which has affected me deeply, and I am finding that no one in my little circle of friends and family wants to talk about her what happened to her.You are very courageous to put your thoughts out in the open, and to make an effort to re-imagine what that day might have been like for her. Keep in mind the life you are living now and how you are surrounded by family and friends who love you and value you for the wonderful woman you have become.
Thank you, Aunt Julia. Yes, I am deeply grateful for the deep relationships and fulfilling life I have built. Sadly, as we both know, suicide is one of the most difficult topics for many people to discuss. After years of running from talking about my mother's, I have learned honest conversations with my own precious ones (and writing) are the best antidotes for this particular kind of grief.
I can’t stop thinking about this since I read it a couple of days ago. The grief and pain are palpable. I feel it in my gut. Love you.
The grief and pain ebb and flow. It’s healing to let them flow through my pen. I appreciate you and your gut for being there for me. Love you too.
Caitlin, I see you. I hear you. I feel your grief as you search for the unknowable and try to make peace with the unacceptable. I stand bedside you, a fellow traveler on the path of healing from parental suicide and the resulting feelings of not being worth it for them to stay. Thank you for your beautiful voice, thank you for your courage. I send you love🩷
Lisa, I often think of you walking alongside me when I write about my mom's suicide. Thank you for being there during the early stages of this journey, and for sharing your story and your courage with me. Sending love right back to you.
Caitlin, this has left me speechless. It’s beautiful, heartbreaking, powerful, tragic, layered and causes one to think that life is simple and complex, not fair and beyond our control. You know I adore you and your writing. Thank you for sharing such a poignant piece of yourself. Vulnerability opens up doors that may not erase the grief and scars but sometimes a cool breeze brushes by to remind us we are not alone and there are those put into our life to help and support. Love you, dear friend.
Doreen, thank you for your friendship and for your kind words. The 'cool breeze' metaphor is perfect. Love you, too.
I send you love. I see you. I found myself enlarging the photos to look in your mother’s eyes. Why do we think we can ever see the depth of pain in someone else I will never know. Maybe it’s that all of us think we can change other’s feeling but we never can. A beautiful poem full of hope and healing and questions never answered. 💙
Ann, your honesty and wisdom buoy me. Thank you for your thoughtful response, for seeing me, and for sending love. The 'questions never answered' are less haunting with people like you in my circle.
I want to give that kindergartener a big hug. I’ll pass it along to the adult you. 💓
Thanks, Rose, on behalf of both kindergarten-me and now-me.
There are always the questions. Your poem brings them to our hearts. Hugs.
Thank you. I feel your hugs.
This poem is breath-taking. I love you.
Thank you--for the comment and the love. Right back at you!