Grief

I'd somehow bypassed the grief and pain that seemed to engulf my family, leaving me both confused and relieved at the same time. Sure, I'd grieved for a few days, the kind that soaked my pillow and made me gasp for air, but then one day I felt nothing at all.

The one thing no one ever tells you is how personal grief is. Coming from a black-and-white world, I found myself searching for the right way to do it as Mom's funeral approached. I was afraid of being judged—not only for her suicide, but for my unemotional state. The truth was, the religion made it hard to grieve, as the church services were always so impersonal. No matter who died, the same outline was used, with the leaders of the church copying and pasting a few personal details into the funeral talk, while using the rest of the sermon to attract new members. What I didn't know however, was that Mom's service was about to break all the religious societal rules, thanks to my sister.

"She's my mom, and I have a right to stand up and talk about her. I don't want the way she died to take away from the woman she was!" These were the words my sister spoke just before the funeral service. She was told by one the leaders of the church that this wasn't allowed, but she wasn't about to take no for answer, as he scurried off and made a call to the head office.

"Okay, they'll make an exception," he said, not looking too pleased. "I'll call you up when it's your turn to speak."

The funeral talk had been a complete blur, but then my sister got up and walked towards the podium, clutching her notes tightly in her hand. Based on everyone's reaction, I'm pretty sure there'd never been a eulogy given withing our religion, never mind one given by a woman. Her voice was shaky and her breathing shallow, as she gazed at the large photo of our mother on the easel. "I look at my hands and I see my mother, and I look at my sister's beautiful face and I see my mother." Suddenly, Mom began dancing off the pages of her eulogy, and I could clearly remember her voice, her touch, her smell, and most importantly her love. My heart suddenly ached for her, as tears began to roll down my face. But with the ache came pain, a terrible kind that filled me with utter turmoil. Maybe I wasn't ready to feel after all, and so I summoned the numbness to return in order to protect me.

For the next nine months, the numbness stayed, in spite of grief counseling, books on suicide, time off work, and even a vacation. But one day, while working at an insurance call center, I found myself dealing with an especially hostile customer, and it had unearthed something deep within me. "Stop being a f$king b#ch!" she screamed over and over. My hands shook, I felt sick to my stomach, and I couldn't seem to get those words out of my head, as they played over and over like a broken record. Then the next day, I got another hostile client who yelled, "What are you stupid? Do you know just how stupid you are, Ellie?"

I was now spiralling out of control, as I put my phone on "do not disturb" and ran to the washroom, throwing up everything I had. I couldn't stop fixating on the insults, as they began melding together in my mind. "You're a f$king b#ch and stupid!" To which I heard myself respond, "You're right, I am, as I killed my mother."

For the next few months, I was haunted by those words, along with symptoms I could no longer control. I couldn't sleep or eat. My hands shook all the time, and I failed to control my thoughts that seemed to be getting darker the more tired I got. Now, as I sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic on my way to work, I was faced with the same consistent thought, I wanted to die.

"Shhh, it's okay," my doctor said, holding me and rubbing my back like a mother would, as I sobbed on her shoulder. "I suspect everything you're experiencing is stemming from the traumatic loss of your Mom. It's not unusual for these things to show up much later."

If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that the kindest people come into our lives when we need them most, and she was one of them. "I promise you'll start feeling better soon, just be patient" she said, handing me prescriptions for sleep, depression and anxiety, followed by a note for my employer, granting me six weeks of leave. I was the type that resisted taking an Advil for a headache, and now I had enough medication to fill an entire row of my medicine cabinet.

"Be patient" were the words that echoed in my mind whenever I felt like giving up. Instead of downing all the bottles of medication like my mother had, I let the prescribed amounts slide down my throat instead. And just like the doctor promised, within a month, a medicated numbness had settled in—a feeling I was all too familiar with. Only this time, I welcomed it like an old friend, as the emotional turmoil subsided, and a glimmer of hope eventually appeared. I was going to live, no wait, I wanted to live, and there was nothing in the world that felt better than that.