15.1.15

Today is the anniversary of my mother's death. This is something I've been meaning to blog about for a while now. Although I don't think I'm ready to delve into the deepest depths of my being, I would like to share a few things with anybody who cares to read this.

My mother committed suicide when I was 15, just a couple of weeks away from my 16th birthday. She had been battling severe depression for about three years. A year before her death, my sister and I were brought up to speed with the extent of mum's history of depression.

We had known what she had been dealing with, but we didn't know that she had tried to kill herself before we were even born. Old injuries that she had previously blamed on sport were actually caused by this suicide attempt. I don't know the full story of this time, but I was lead to believe that falling pregnant with me helped her recover. Mum was advised by medical professionals that she wasn't in the right state of mind to have a child at that time. 

Again, I wasn't there, so I don't know what actually transpired, but I've been told that mum decided that she was going to have me, and that was that. She found an inner strength and determination to push through her mental health issues by becoming my mother. Whether or not it's true, I like to think that it is. It's a nice thought. Imagine helping someone out of depression before you were even born. I hope I was a good baby.

Anyway, my sister came along a couple of years after that and our little family enjoyed a wonderful life until I was almost a teenager; the year I turned 13 and started high school. We were living in Albany and had just moved from our GEHA home to a house my mum and dad had bought. To do so they had to sell our place in Morley, which is where I started my life's journey. For one reason or another, this is one of the factors that sent mum back into depression. She rang my grandparents in Perth (my dad's parents) and said she was unable to look after my sister and I, and they lived with us for most of that year.

From that point until the day she took her life, mum had quite a few ups and downs. At her lowest, she would attempt suicide and struggle to find a sense of self-worth. At her best, she was able to enjoy the love and affection we gave her and was even able to have fun on some occasions. 

When she died, I was hit with an amazing cocktail of emotions. Relief, in that she was not in pain anymore. Guilt, because I thought I could have done more to save her. Anger; why did she leave us all behind? Sorrow swam in and out of it all too. Being a teenager, I struggled to deal with her death. In my determination to not let her death affect me, I stunted my own emotional growth.

I didn't want to be the kind of person that blamed their circumstances on the death of a parent. I didn't want it to be an excuse for not achieving something or behaving a certain way. For want of a better word, I just wanted to be a "normal" teenager. My dad offered to get me some counselling, but I stubbornly refused. I won't go into the bumpy road I went through, and how my actions affected those closest to me. Let's just say that I'm much better now, on a emotional level. I got an extraordinary amount of support from my wife Rhona, who steered me through many a teary night.

Throughout the grieving process there were many lines of wisdom and advice given to my dad, my sister and I. One thing that I held on to was mum's suicide was an act of love, in that she probably thought we would be better off without her. Such a sad notion, but knowing how low she had felt at times, I could certainly believe it. The biggest one, of course, was that time would heal us. We would never really get over mum's death, but we would get better at dealing with it over time. Bizarrely enough, there is some truth in that. There are times when I find myself wishing she was still with us, particularly those big family moments like birthdays and weddings and what-have-you. Other times, I think that while she's gone, she's happy and she just might be watching over me, maybe. I'm not a religious person, but I like the idea of her spirit being around me and my family. Although she never got the chance to meet her grandchildren, the fact that she can be around them in some way is a comfort. 

My mother's death was life-changing in a lot of ways. If I pull on that thread, I can see all the choices that have been made since and how they've resulted in where I am now. I'm happy with where I am now. I love living in Perth with my wonderful wife and our gorgeous children. But I still find myself wishing she was here. Twenty three years later, the wounds are still there, but they seem a little easier to carry.

In a freakish coincidence, my daughter found this photo of me and my family yesterday. We were looking through the board games in her bedroom and it just flew out at her. I can't remember how it even got there. I think I am probably about four or five, which would make my sister two or three. We could even be younger. This was taken in the lounge room of my Nanna and Grandpa's house in Como, which is now covered in new townhouses. At my feet is Fred Bear (imaginative name, I know) who I still have. He was given to me when I was born. I forget what my sister's bear was called now. I like looking at mum in this photo. She looks happy.

I think my dad would be around the age I am now, possibly a little younger. I have my own little family now. There may even be a photo like this of the four of us in either my parents' or Rhona's parents' house. The cycle repeats itself, and somehow, mum lives on in us.