True secrets

" ...true secrets are more often not the positive sentiments we post about ourselves on Facebook or see reflected in Hallmark cards, they are the complicated feelings we struggle with in the dark because they make us feel alone."

--  Frank Warren, Postsecret

Always -- The Societal Silence.

Earlier this year, I slipped on some black ice and landed on my face. I bit my lip pretty badly, resulting in a lot of blood, some scarring, and a tooth biding its time until a root canal is necessary. I was physically (and by physically, I mean visibly) hurt. But I was in decent spirits.

People rallied around me. There was an outpouring of support, love, and good intention. I laughed about my accident, got nervous about my tooth, but continued on. I was okay. And people were there.

Then, a little while ago, I was hurt much, much deeper. My Uncle Bill took his own life - my dad's little brother, following in his tragic footsteps. I learned long ago not to lock things away (a death sentence, that), but to reach out to people as often as is spiritually possible. And I did. I told friends, acquaintances, professors and colleagues. I made sure my loss was heard.

I left for the service.

I came back - and I was surrounded by joviality. My friends, my acquaintances, they asked (in good spirits) - how are you doing? And I said - not well.

Silence. Avoidance.

Those closest to me gave their support, saying they were only a phone call away. I thought - oh, good, people are there for me who care, they understand. But then, I cancelled a study session I'd arranged earlier, citing my inability to be a good host.

The response: "hey...what's happened? Are you okay? Cheer up!"

I asked for a 6 day extension on an assignment, as I'd been out of the country for 6 days. I was given 4, by the same professor who earlier had professed her unwavering support in my time of need.


Nobody seems to understand that this is exactly the problem.

There's this dreadful fear and avoidance of people who have suffered an emotional injury. When my injury was physical, people were happy, willing and effusive in their support. When my injury was an invisible one - an emotional, spiritual one - people shied away in fear, awkwardness, misunderstanding.

I'm blunt and explicit with my suffering. I have learned this skill over the six years I have been, what they call, a "suicide survivor". I know how to and am skillful at forcing people to listen to what I need to express - and I am very lucky that way.

But not everyone is.

I can't help but see the connection between the people around me who are afraid of my emotional burden, and the complete aloneness felt by my father and my Uncle Bill when they were most in need of someone to listen.

Do you want an understatement? I am fed up. This awful society is designed to silence those who most need to speak. The result is that they break - and then we are so ashamed that they have broken that we pretend it hasn't happened, and we shun those who dare to speak of it. I am so fed up.

I will not be silent. I will be as loud as I can about my grief. I will shout my hurt, not just for me, but for my Daddy, and for my Uncle Bill. And anyone who has a problem with that? Come at me. You come at me. I will bury you deep into the ground.

“My uncle has died.”

That sentence says nothing.


It doesn’t say how a man 700km away went out of his way to make a broken girl feel his presence.

It doesn’t say how that man somehow always knew when to get in touch, always knew when she was about to shatter, to give her the warmth of his love.

It doesn’t say how an uncle tried his best to fill the void of a missing father.

It doesn’t say how he instinctively understood the bond of a father-daughter shared birthday, and made sure that lonely girl’s birthday was never silent.

It doesn’t say how a family tragedy has become a family trend.

It doesn’t say how much heartbreak can ripple and resound in a family.

It doesn’t say anything about four brothers, two lost.

It doesn’t say anything about two fathers, stalwart for their families.

It doesn’t say anything about two men, tortured in silence.

It doesn’t say anything about two daughters, broken and abandoned.

It doesn’t say anything about the anger, the pain, the sorrow, the guilt, the fear, the hopelessness.

It doesn’t say anything about the warmth of his heart, the power of his love.


That sentence says nothing.

Christmas #5

I tend to crumble this time of year.

I love Christmas. I love the magic in the air, the love and presence of family and good friends. I love the sight of a Christmas tree glittering in a darkened room. I love the look on people's faces when they open the gifts I've gotten them. I love the snow, I love the music, I love the food. I love it all.

But Christmas is also the last time I saw my family.

The excitement for Christmas tends to come early. By the time mid-December rolls around, the excitement gives way to a conditioned dread. Some years I recognise it for what it is. Other years I can't understand why I have suddenly become so miserable.

This will by my 5th Christmas without them, as we approach the six-year anniversary.

I remember the first Christmas. I was so intent on having a nice holiday with my loved ones, but by the time the week itself arrived, I fell into a dark numbness. After ages of insisting that we still practice our Christmas traditions, I bailed completely. It was too soon. I could not face it. I sat quietly with my eyes shut, counting the minutes, desperate for the day to pass. I tried desperately to pretend it was any day except that day.

I remember the emptiness of the dinner table. A family halved. Three quiet survivors and a mass of food waiting for consumption. I remember the toast. I remember that I had held myself together quite well, until the toast. With my glass lifted in the air, I shattered.

They have gotten steadily better since then, and our last few Christmases have been some of the best of my life.

But the emptiness is always there. Those three empty chairs are always conspicuous. The relative quiet is a reverberating shout.

My Christmases are haunted by ghosts.

Learning How to Mourn

It has been over a year since I have had an urge to post here, which I believe says a lot about the progression of my healing process. But the following (which I came across on Buzzfeed, of all places) really resonated with me, so I had to share:

"It’s difficult enough mourning my parents’ deaths and going through adolescence and now adulthood without my mom or dad, but on top of the sadness I already feel I also have to fight against other peoples’ judgment about suicide. Justifying my need and desire to cope with this tremendous loss of life because my parents committed suicide is a task unto itself.

Most people in my life or who are familiar with my situation think they’re entitled to an opinion about my parents’ deaths because it was “their choice” to end their own lives. There’s so much shame attached to my parents’ deaths because of a lack of understanding about mental illness that sometimes it feels like I’m not allowed to be sad like people who have lost their parents to other diseases.

If my parents died of nearly any other cause within months of each other before I hit puberty, most people would see it as a complete and utter tragedy; they’d readily accept their deaths as worthy of mourning. Instead, I’m often discouraged from talking about my parents and their passing. A lot of my family members — including my maternal grandparents — pretend like neither of my parents ever existed in the first place."

From Learning How To Mourn My Parents After Their Suicides

Happiest Day

In my aunt's backyard growing up there was a monstrous tree that had stood on that spot for a good century or two. My dad scrounged up some rope and fashioned a swing that he tied on a tall, strong branch. With eager kicks and a pair of strong arms pushing you, you could soar high enough for your feet to touch the leaves. That swing provided endless amounts of joy for my brothers and me.

I remember one summer day. The breeze was streaming off the lake and we were bathed in the fresh sunlight of that golden hour before dusk. My mom, aunt and brothers had already gone indoors; my dad stayed outside to push me on the swing for a while before we joined them.

I remember flying in the pure, Canadian air. It felt as though the very heartbeat of the earth was caressing me; it felt as though every sunbeam was a personification of joy. It was intensely simple. A young girl and her father engaged in play and sharing a perfectly Piscean moment. It was innocence personified.

In the loud silence of the birds and the breeze I thought to myself:

Remember this, Tee. This is the happiest day of your life.

Even as I made the mental note, I knew how naive and silly it was to think that a brief moment as a young child would overshadow every moment of my oncoming lifetime. But I have never forgotten. My terribly young self was much wiser than I am today -- it is still the happiest day of my life.

On Hatred

I've had a special struggle this past year since 'coming out' about my brother molesting me as a child. It has been a roller coaster of disgust, hatred, and horrendously persistent self-loathing. When I finally stopped lying to myself about what he did I suddenly had to completely reevaluate my relationship with a brother who's no longer on this earth. I used to mourn a lost sibling while harbouring secret feelings of shame. Then the lies ended and I had no idea if I should mourn, or celebrate, or hate.

I chose hate, I think. I usually do - angry emotions are much easier to confront. They're useful, perhaps, in buffering you until enough time has passed that you're distanced from the event. And so, this past year has been my year of absolutely hating him.

I'm not sure why, but I opened the police report today for the first time in years. It has 1268 pages, and back in 2009 I spent months going through about 1230 of them before it finally overwhelmed me and I quit. I feel very weak today - a weakness that has been building over the past two months as I've struggled in a life and a job in which I do not recognize myself. I always come back to my dead family when I'm weak. Maybe it's the catharsis of the confrontation of emotions, or maybe it's by reminding myself of the omnipotent woman in me that overcame so much, but I find a renewal of strength in coming back to my dead family. Perhaps I thought today might be a good day to finish those last 30-40 pages.

In the report are the three pictures of my family members. The pictures that today I barely remembered but had once been all but burnt into my retinas. The pictures of their bloodied and burnt faces that were used way back when to identify the bodies. They're massive in the report; nearly ten times the size of every other page, so if you don't expect them and zoom out in anticipation, they kick you full-force in the gut. I have seen this report so many times that I know exactly when to zoom out.

So there was my brother: green eyes half open, trail of blood from his mouth, frozen in the snow. He was 23 - younger than me now. There was my object of a year and a lifetime of hatred and disgust: eyes half open, blood in his teeth, snow in his hair.

That poor boy.

Oh, that poor boy.

He must have been so scared, so drenched in fear and anxiety and pain. He had such hopes, and such talent, and such a love for life and for people. And our Daddy took that all away from him. That poor, poor boy. Whatever mistakes he made as a brother, he did not deserve that. He did not deserve what he got.

What happened has become so factual now - so perfectly scripted and mundane. God help me, but I had actually forgotten what had really happened that day. I had forgotten that people were stabbed and burnt. I had forgotten that they had spoken, and screamed, and fought. I've been so entrenched in what I have gone through that I had completely forgotten what they themselves went through. My family, my darlings.

Maybe I will never forgive, and I believe that is okay. But it is time I stopped the hate.

Not one of them deserves my hate.

-- Perhaps me least of all.