Starting Over

I haven't written in this for a long time. I once found it very therapeutic, but I also felt - at that time - that my objective had been achieved. I had vented my story, and it was indeed very cathartic. Writing about my situation helped me way more than the multiple courses of therapy that I had.

With that in mind, I intend to continue. This time, I have no intention of sharing my posts. I doubt very much that anyone will ever read it, but I don't need it to be seen or heard. I just need to write it and release it into the void.

The biggest update since my last post is my loss. A loss that has consumed me, broken me, devastated me.

My big sister.

For Christmas of 2021, the girls and I went back to my home town. We stayed with my Dad, aiming to celebrate Christmas with our family. I know I wrote earlier in this blog of the previous Christmas, which resulted in another kind of loss; which was at least temporary. We needed to somehow repair the heartache from the previous year.

It was amazing, seeing my family. I so needed that time, exchanging gifts, having Christmas dinner, going to a pantomime and doing all the usual Christmas traditions. My older sister - who I'll refer to as OS - was, however, in a bad way.

OS had struggled with her mental health for pretty much her entire adult life. She presented herself as confident to the point of arrogant, but it was all a cover for a very broken soul. She hated herself, which I could never understand. I grew up jealous of her; she always achieved more than me, showed more talent than me, and was (objectively) more attractive than me. But that doesn't mean we shared the same struggles. I never fully understood the demons she battled, but they were... dark.

OS had a long history of self-harm, substance abuse, impulsive (and risky) behaviours, and suicidal ideation. Her legs were cris-crossed with scars, and at some point in early adulthood, she discovered that tattoos were a more acceptable form of self-harm. Her alcohol and drug use were always problematic, and she was a very unpleasant drunk. As a result of this - and our inherent differences in personalities and values - we didn't have the best relationship. That still sits very heavily on me.

My OS negatively affected many special events over my life. I hate writing this, because it feels very uncomfortable to speak ill of the... I can't bear to write the word. But you know what word it is. She was a big personality, and add alcohol and/or drugs into the mix, and she became a very overbearing, loud and difficult personality. She showed off, and was inappropriate, and 'accidentally' shared secrets or flirted with someone's partner. I always knew though, that this was her way of seeking the validation she never found within herself. She hated our Mum. She was right to do so. While the rest of us were able to either cut contact or just tolerate our Mum, she was unable to do so. Her drunken phone calls came in phases, but always featured a blow-by-blow account of incidents long since passed. It's not that I wanted to sweep them under the carpet, it's just that I felt there was no benefit of upsetting ourselves by rehashing the past. 

She intermittently engaged with mental health and/or substance abuse support services. She would start antidepressants, but give up after only a few weeks, claiming either that they 'didn't work' or that she was all better and didn't need them. She would start another course of therapy, only to stop attending after 2 or 3 sessions. Sometimes she would admit that her dependence on substances was a dependence; other times she would claim that she just likes to enjoy herself.

OS left her husband just months before we lost her. There's no need for me to write about the situations which led to that, but there were definitely 'irreconcilable differences'. Both held some degree of fault, and both were broken over the end of their marriage. She had moved in with our Dad while she was starting her life over, and some days she seemed to be doing better than others. Earlier in 2021, she made a sincere attempt to end her life, leading to her being in an induced coma for a time. She recovered - physically at least - and even remained as an inpatient for a time. However, her time as an inpatient traumatised her in as many ways as it helped her. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, strict visitation rules were in place. She could have no visitors for the first - I think - 7 days. Beyond that, it was limited. She found this to be isolating, and the thought of returning to that scared her. If that episode had been more positive for her, she might still be alive. I believe she would have sought help, accepted inpatient care, and perhaps got the support she needed.

The last months of her life, she was the worst anyone had ever seen of her. She was dependent on alcohol just to get through the day. On the days she managed to stay sober, she functioned. She had tremors and was robotic, but she functioned. She had even started her own business, which was generally going well. My Dad has told me of a conversation they had somewhere in her last days, where he had commented positively on how well she was doing, and she seemed to be coming out of her depression. She had replied that she wasn't, she just knew how to make it look like she was. Her existence by that point was simply that; existing. She felt no joy, excitement, happiness, anticipation etc. Her emotional pain was crippling, and she had none of the 'quality of life' that we often discuss in regards to very sick people. 

On Christmas day 2021, OS asked me what would be the best way to take her own life. 

How does a person even respond to that? I had no idea what to do or say. I was a bit tipsy myself - it was Christmas after all - but it sobered me up like a bucket of ice water. I aimed for compassion with a hint of guilt. I told her we all loved her, and we didn't want to lose her. I also asked her not to add that stress onto our Dad, who had a previous stroke only a few years before. I've replayed that conversation many, many times in my head. But what possibly could have been the right response? Aggressive shaming? Humour? Say nothing, but hug? She told me she wouldn't do it over the Christmas period, but maybe in March. 

I did console myself by remembering that we did have the mental health Crisis team involved. We had a few months to get more support in place, to convince her to be voluntarily sectioned, to engage with the support services. Hindsight has showed me that nothing I could have said would have made a difference. Her decision was already made, and her plans already rolling.

On the morning of boxing day, the girls and I had to drive back home, as I had to return to work the following day. I hugged my sister, and the last words I told her were 'stay safe'. 

The following day, I went to work as usual. I was conducting home visits that day, driving round various homes, all filled with Christmas gifts and decorations, many of them offering me a mince pie, a chocolate or 4, a mulled wine (I declined the wine at least - I was working after all!). During one such visit, I felt my personal phone vibrating in my pocket. Like most people, I'm attuned to the vibration pattern that means a notification, a text, or a call. It was a call. My work phone would have rang, that's never silenced when I'm working. Being a professional, I didn't even look at the phone. I could call whoever it was while I was driving to my next visit. Within a minute, it rang again. Without knowing why, I felt the unease this time. Everyone in my life knows my work, and they know they only need to call once or send a message and I'll get back to them when I'm free. It rang again.

I wrapped up my professional tasks, thanked my patient, and returned to my car. I saw that my Dad had tried to call me twice, and one of my younger sisters another time. Even with my uneasy feeling, I was also aware that I had a lot of work on that day, so I started driving and used my car's bluetooth/handsfree system to call my Dad.

No answer. 

I called my younger sister, who did answer. I can't even repeat the words she said because... Christ, because it's still too painful to think of. The line was crackly with poor signal, so - in a panic - I begged her to stop talking until I could find a safe place to park. I remember saying 'don't say anything, just wait, hold on...'. I was trying to keep my head clear enough to safely drive without crashing, so in those few moments, I convinced myself HARD that I had misheard her. I parked the car outside a clothing store, and somehow managed to hear the news again, this time knowing it to be real.

I don't know how long I was parked there. I know initially I just cried, trying to make sense of it. Eventually I had to call my employer, to explain that I had to go home and why, and ask them to find someone to cover my workload. I think I called someone else, but to this day, I don't recall who. A friend? A colleague? After an unknown time, I forced myself to - very carefully - drive home.

Ever since that day, I find it unspeakably uncomfortable to miss a phone call from my family. Unfortunately my Dad does this a lot; he often calls with fairly unimportant news; he got new hearing aids, or he wants to discuss an upcoming family birthday. I don't want him to know that his phone calls trigger me, because then he might not call. 

I'm sure I will write more on how the loss of my OS has impacted me, but for now, this is enough. I've relived the hardest, most painful moments of it. The beauty in this blog is that I can break it down into manageable pieces. This is as much as I can manage for now. 

I will say though, that she is at peace. That's something we - as a family - had to learn. Her life was unlivable for her. Her pain was all-consuming; dark and menacing. She doesn't have that pain anymore, and the rest of us have to find a way to live with the pain of that.