Its September. That means a couple of things. The end of summer is around the corner, football is back, it’s almost spooky season, it’s national suicide prevention month and it’s been 3 months since my girlfriend took her own life.
I’m sure you’ve seen the social media posts, reels and whatever else, that talk about it. They talk about how suicide prevention comes in so many forms. Saying you’re proud of someone, remembering the little things about someone, checking on the friend that is always “fine”, being kind, smiling at someone, listening to someone, telling someone they matter. All those seemingly little things, can make a huge difference.
It’s a sensitive thing, right? Suicide. Talking about it. Learning about it. Being affected by it. Society used to make it a thing to NOT talk about it, almost like it was taboo. And that’s the problem, not enough people are talking about it. Maybe it’s one of those things that people don’t really understand or talk about unless it affects them? I don’t know. What I do know, is that it does directly affect me, and I can’t stop talking about it.
When everything initially happened, I thought I would never talk about it. I didn’t think I would be able to. Everyone who found out was shocked. “She seemed so happy” “She was always laughing and smiling”. She was. But that’s the other thing. Suicidal doesn’t always look suicidal.
Someone can be successful, and suicidal.
Someone can be celebrating, and suicidal.
Someone can be full of humor, and suicidal.
Someone can be strong, and suicidal.
It has no profession, no gender, no age, no religion, no social status, no specific “look”.
I think a part of me always wants to talk about it. To talk about her. To help with the grief, to keep her memory alive, and to hopefully help someone else. The other part of me, feels uncomfortable talking about it. Worried about what other people will think; am I talking about it too much? But quite frankly, I actually don’t give a fuck.
I wouldn’t wish the last 3 months on anyone. And I bet it’s safe to assume that I won’t get past this for a long time, or ever, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone either.
I knew something was wrong that morning. I woke up with a pit in my stomach. An argument the night before, I hadn’t heard from her and it was early afternoon already. I drove home, and it couldn’t have felt like a longer drive. Calling her phone, just to hear her voicemail, over and over and over again. My brother following in his car behind me, because I already had assumed the worst and didn’t want to go home alone.
Walking through the house felt like a blur. I was on the phone with one of my best friends. I walked inside. It was quiet. Too fucking quiet. And neither my dog or cat greeted me at the door. I ran upstairs, and there she was. In our bed.
The scream that left my body, I still hear in my sleep. I hear it in the deepest, darkest parts of my head and it sounds like a scene of a horror movie. Every. Single. Time.
The way she looked, I see it every time I close my eyes. It is forever etched in my memory.
I was too late. We were all too late.
It’s natural to blame yourself, right? I do it every day. Every single day for the last 3 months I have beat myself up for not doing enough, not being enough, not getting there sooner. Not going home the night before. What else could I have done? What else could any of us have done? And the hardest, most unfortunate truth, is that there isn’t a single thing ANYONE could have done. I don’t think that’s ever something I will be able to get over.
Did she regret it? Was there any point after she made her decision that she wanted to ask for help? I wrestle with these questions every day. Did she know I would be the one to find her? Did she care? Did she know that our pets watched her die? Why was this one argument too much? Why was this the reason she chose to leave us? I could spend a lifetime asking questions.
Do the answers to any of those questions actually matter? I don’t fucking know.
I am so angry, every single day. At her. At myself. At the world. At the inadequate availability of mental health resources. I am so. fucking. angry.
The layers of this loss, make it infinitely harder than anything I’ve been through. The guilt that comes with it. The IMMENSE guilt. The guilt surrounding her death, the guilt in finding joy in life again. The guilt in taking time for myself, and choosing myself everyday. The guilt in neglecting other areas of my life, simply because I just can’t.
I see her everywhere. In the sun that shines through on a cloudy day. In the way the rain falls down the windows. In the cardinal that lands on my shed every so often. In the butterflies in the backyard.
I’m not sure how to get through this. I’m not sure if anyone would really know how to get through this. What I do know, is that no one in this world deserves to go a day without knowing you love them. Without knowing that they fucking matter. That the world is better with them in it.
What I do know, is life is too short. It’s too short to not tell the people in your life that you love them. It’s too short to not let your people know they matter. It’s too short to be anything but kind, to everyone. One day, it’s going to be too late.
I would do anything in the world to be able to tell her that. To tell her how loved she was, by so so many people. To tell her how much she mattered, the difference she made in everyone’s lives.
- call your mom : noah kahan
- elastic heart : sia
- how to save a life : the fray
- rubberband man : mumford and son
- still : noah kahan
- same stars : alex warren
- miss you more : alex warren
- the time of my life : benson boone
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