“I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this…”
In November 2023, I lost my mum to suicide. 7 months to this day. I have so much I want to say about it, so much I want to express and share, but it all feels overwhelming so I’m starting off by saying it happened. Where I go from there is anyone’s guess. I’m just writing and seeing where it takes me – call it Mourning Pages.
The Bad Beginning
In the beginning, it was just an unexpected death.
I remember being told like it was yesterday, though at the time I wasn’t too sure what I was being told.
“It’s your mum. She’s gone” my dad said.
I thought she’d just left him, but no.
My mum. Had died. Unexpectedly. Even saying it now it feels ludicrous. Unthinkable.
Everything felt very surreal (and it still does sometimes). The morning after my mum was found we watched Jungle Book and that is probably one of my favourite post-mum memories, despite the deep sadness attached to it. It was a share favourite of hers and my older brother and the way we moved from crying at the kitchen table to watching it without a discussion felt deeply poetic. The story, songs and message felt fitting in a way that I wouldn’t have considered if someone asked me if we should watch Jungle Book and they still ring throughout my head. I probably have my older brother to thank for putting that on (among many other things).
Another thing that has seemed poetic or deliberate since the start was my older brother’s presence itself. He lives in Singapore, but had been visiting. Not only did he get to see my mum before she died, but he also was there for my Dad while me and my younger brother focused on university. Me and my younger brother are fairly useless with practical matters at the best of times, so his input was invaluable and presence meant that it wasn’t all on my Dad to support us and we three siblings could all support each other.
Layers of Loss
I feel like I’ve been run over by a combine harvester and left empty and disturbed like the ground
Losing a parent is never easy, but I think there is also something unique to losing your mum. She is often the primary caregiver and likely brought you into this world. I think there is also something about being a daughter and losing your mother. For me at least, she was the only other woman in my immediate family. That’s not to say it is worse for me than my brothers, just that it is different.
Adding to that is the complicated and often difficult relationship I had with my mum, particularly over the last decade. While my brothers were trying to focus on the happy times and memories, I was thinking about our strained relationship and how now it can never be anything more than that. I was thinking about the last interactions I had with her, the last words I said to her, and how I’ll never be able to change them.
You never think it’ll happen to you, but it might happen to you
A Difficult Relationship
I moved out at 17 and for a while I had very little contact with my mum, but it didn’t stop me wanting a relationship with her; I just wanted it to be better. I was so persistent in my efforts to try and get my parents to understand how things in my childhood affected me, ultimately hoping that understanding the past would help change the present. Sometimes I got somewhere, sometimes I didn’t, sometimes things went forwards and then backwards in the same conversation. I didn’t want to give up or settle for what was available; the idea of having to felt painful in itself, like I wasn’t worth it.
I did try to let it go at times but letting go didn’t automatically come with a good relationship. One of the worst things about my relationship I had with my mum and how it ended was that so much of the damage I’d done to it as I got older was because of my own fear of her dying before we sorted things out. I didn’t want things to be like this forever. This fear came with pressure to fix things and the more of that pressure I put on the relationship the more broken things got. The pressure only made things worse, but it didn’t stop me feeling it. I was still trying to reach the same goal, but I was doing it from a way worse position. It feels almost ironic now that the very thing I feared happened anyway; she died before our relationship improved and far sooner than I ever feared.
When my mum died, I very much didn’t want to rose tint her. I don’t want to rose tint me either. I was a complete and utter cunt to my mum on many occasions, especially towards the end, and her passing meant that was all I’d ever be. We had some good times too, of course, but they were infrequent happy accidents rather than standard practice. My mum’s death didn’t just mean we could never have a good relationship or that she could never be a better mother; it meant I could never be a better daughter. I could never repair the damage I’d done either.
The Free Churro episode of Bojack Horseman sums this up quite nicely:
Suddenly, you realize you’ll never have the good relationship you wanted, and as long as they were alive, even though you’d never admit it, part of you, the stupidest goddamn part of you, was still holding on to that chance.
People tell me my mum loved me, that a mother always would and all the rest of it. They say it’s what mothers do. In a typical scenario I might be inclined to believe them, but in the complex circumstances surrounding my mother, our relationship and her death, I can’t be sure. Maybe she did, but I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. I wrote her a letter by hand and put it in her casket. One line summed up my guilt pretty well: Thank you for being my mum. I’m so sorry for being me.
My mum dying didn’t suddenly take away all the hurt or suddenly make her a saint, but it certainly put things in perspective – as did looking back. When I think about the happier times in my childhood and all the things my mum did for me throughout her life, even when things were bad in general or bad between us, I feel foolish that I spent so long focusing on the bad times and the things she didn’t do. Now that she’s dead, the last decade feels wasteful. I never really got what I needed and if I’d spent more time appreciating what I had back then, I probably wouldn’t have felt so much guilt when she died.
I felt incredibly guilty, and this was all before I knew. My therapist encouraged me to focus on my grief, that regardless of my relationship with her I was still a child who lost her mother. I still had a right to grieve, regardless of guilt. Whenever I got wrapped up in my guilt, she gently steered me back to my grief. I had all the hope of becoming a better person, improving my relationships and being more mindful, but none of it could come to fruition if I didn’t attend to the seed it would sprout from: my grief.
I did actually get what I needed in the end, I just didn’t realise she granted me it until long after she died.
Fun At The Funeral
Her funeral was over 3 weeks after she died and those 3 weeks felt like a lifetime in themselves. Planning the funeral wasn’t easy. The only thing we knew my mum wanted was a cremation. We often disagreed on things and I think that’s pretty normal. Emotions were high and atmospheres were tense. We did our best, but for so much planning the funeral felt wildly underwhelming. I tried to be there for myself, make it mean something for myself, but the most meaningful moments were strangely ones of laughter.
When we started off in the car following the hearse all I could hear in my head was my mum singing ‘If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands’ (something she’d once done in a taxi on holiday after a long flight/wait/some situation that mean none of us were happy).
When we got to the crematorium, we were greeted by pampas grass and laughed at the memory of my mum spontaneous (the way she did everything) burning our own bushes down one day (even the one right by the house!).
It felt forbidden to be laughing and the atmosphere as we exited the car started tipping me the other way. Despite seeing my mum’s body less than an hour before, walking behind her closed casket is one of the only times I cried the during the whole event. It made it feel so real. It wasn’t just a family thing anymore. Since I am the only girl in my family without my mum (and I am under 5 foot), I was the only one not carrying the casket and if it wasn’t for the fact my brother’s girlfriend had flown in from Singapore I would have been following that casket and crying all on my own. It was only her reassuring presence that gave me the will to pull myself together.
My Tribute To My Mum
Trying to write a tribute for my mum is one of the hardest things I’ve done – both because it’s emotional and because trying to pick 3-4 minutes of her life to highlight feels like an impossible task.
My Tribute To My Mum
My mum was many things to many people: from a no-nonsense consultant to a nothing-but-nonsense mother.
On a scale of 1 to fun hundred she was absolutely hilarious. From the voices she’d use to read to me as a kid to the quick-witted way she’d take the piss – she’d have you in stitches even though you weren’t her patient.
Some of my fondest memories of her are from the simplest things, like when she and Aj started secretly clipping food clips to mine and Am’s clothes when we visited. I can’t count how many times I randomly found a clip on my clothes when I got home. In the past couple weeks, I’ve also been paying homage to her ‘children’s home’ way of serving mash by standing on a chair with a spoonful of potato and letting it drop – though my attempts have ended up missing my plate much more than hers did.
My mum was so much more than funny – she was hard working, unbelievably intelligent and fiercely tenacious. On the outside my mum often looked polished and professional, but she wasn’t scared of getting her hands dirty and there was no stopping her once she set her mind to something. From building Bedouin tents, to gardening, to painting my flat, you name it, she’d do it. And she’d probably do a better job than you could.
It might hurt to admit that beyond the magic moments my mum was suffering, but I also think it’s important to remember. My mum showed her love through suffering – right through to the end – and if there’s any comfort to be found in losing her it’s knowing that she’s not in pain anymore – we are. And I am so grateful to have had a mother so loving that losing her hurts so much.
University? I need universe-pity!
I had just started my 3rd year at university, which is a lot to deal with in any circumstances. I had planned for things to go wrong, but my mum dying was not one of them. I knew I could defer, but I also knew I am not good at returning to things I say I’ll do later. I could get extenuation on assignments, but I knew that it would only pile onto my workload for next term at best or delay my graduation (which to me would just make it feel like all the work was for nothing, even if that’s not the reality).
I need to drown in it for a bit. I need the grief to plug my ears like the ocean and keep me to itself. I need the pressure of being down under with nothing to distract me from the pain as it washes over me. I need to choke on my tears and inhale my snot. I need my lungs to scream as they are flooded with grief.
If I didn’t let myself drown in it, the breathers wouldn’t feel like a blessing.
And if I don’t let the current take me now, I will only choke among the waves later.
I tried to carry on and it did seem to pay off. I got 85% on an essay I submitted two weeks after my mum died (despite abandoning it prematurely to work on my tribute). I let myself drown in the grief when I needed to, but I also did my best to be strategic and come up for air when I needed it. I knew I needed to grieve, but I also knew I wanted to do well.
I’m sure I could do many things to make myself feel better if I really tried, but why should I feel better? The worst has happened!? It feels totally reasonable to feel like shit… and to want to feel like shit.
I was lucky in that I’d been proactive with my dissertation and I already had ethical approval and had started data collection well before it happened. Shit hit the fan, but I’d proactively packed a poncho and came out clean. A lot of people might leave the room in the same situation and maybe I would too if I wasn’t protected by the poncho. If I hadn’t been proactive, it would have felt like a losing battle and like there was no point fighting. But I had been proactive, so I saw reason to fight. I stood a fair chance of winning. I definitely got some hits.

My mum died and all I got was this lousy T-shirt
I thought of these T-shirts before I knew my mum took her own life. It just felt very on brand for her and the kind of thing she’d say. I questioned whether it was still right to get them (let alone give them as Christmas gifts) when I found out the truth about her death, but I concluded she’d still think they were funny. I wasn’t sure how they’d go down. My dad admitted he didn’t like it months after and I’ve never seen my brothers wear theirs, but I have had some positive feedback too. I had a lecturer look a bit stunned when he realised what it said. He was apologetic for drawing attention to it in an irrelevant email, but said he was thinking to get some in preparation for his kids, which I think is lovely. He also assured me they were all adults in case I thought he meant toddlers! I was lovely to have someone acknowledge my grief and not be shy about it but also appreciate the dark humour, which was intrinsic to my mum’s character.
University was less of a conscious distraction and more of a persistent pressure or dominating demand. As much as I wanted and knew I needed to focus on my grief, I also knew I would never be able to really sit with it if deadlines were looming on the horizon like a train in the distance. At best, I’d sit in it and not be able to get up even when they were about to hit me. It seemed obvious to me that the only way I could really deal with my feelings was not to defer or delay and push the trains further back but to get them to their destination and take them off the tracks. Only with a clear horizon could I really focus on what’s in front of me. It was not the most reasonable or even plausible strategy, but it is what felt right in the moment.
My mum was very big on education and she would not want to be the reason I didn’t get a first, nor did I want her to be. I knew from conversations with my therapist that it was okay to not get a first given my circumstances, even if I was more than capable of one. I was a little more lax at the beginning but once the component marks kept pleasantly surprising me I ditched the acceptability of a 2:1 without a thought. It wasn’t so much I wanted to make my mum proud (she has two other children far smarter than me), but I didn’t want her to be an excuse for poor performance. I didn’t want an opportunity to resent her. And I didn’t want to hear her voice in my head going ‘what happened to the other xyz%?’
As I got into the flow I felt a little guilty pushing my grief aside and somewhat getting back to life, but it was nothing compared to how I was about to feel. My mum always said ‘Morning at leisure’ to describe whether there was a need to wake up at a certain time. Now it was just mourning at leisure (which is fittingly the first thing I texted my brothers the day we found out).
The Morbid Middle
The guilt I felt then was different to the guilt I feel now.
A month after my mum’s death my dad revealed she took her own life and he had known since a week after she died. She left a note which was only found when my dad went to the police station to access her tech to get hold of her contacts to invite to the funeral.
Suddenly, it’s suicide.
The revelation and the betrayal that hid it turned my world upside-down all over again. There were signs and suggestions it might be, but when I had written them off and come to a different conclusion, my dad hadn’t stopped me – despite knowing my need for the truth regardless of how much it hurt (which was evident from my pursuit of information that got me to my wrong conclusion).
Bereaved & Betrayed
I cannot quite explain the feelings of betrayal that came with that revelation – not on my mum’s part, but on my dad’s. To let us say goodbye to her not knowing while he knew is something I’m not sure I will ever forgive. I understand the urge to protect us, but my siblings and I are all adults. I can understand the shock he must have been in as the person who found it inside her laptop, but he had no right to keep it from us for so long. I am sure not saying anything initially came from a good place, but it ended in damage.
When my mum died, I was the last of my siblings to know and this was hours later. Even my dad’s sibling knew before I did, and my mum didn’t even get on with my dad’s family. I’d had a whole phone conversation with my dad after uni and he didn’t even tell me then. I even asked about my mum and he told me she was okay, knowing he was driving to me to tell me she was dead. I told my Dad then how disappointed and angry I was at how things had been handled. I tried to be understanding, but it made me anxious about things being kept from me in other situations and I told him that. My dad said he understood multiple times while knowing he was keeping the truth about my mum’s death from me.
After the funeral, normality had started to make a return to my everyday routines. This revelation set me back immensely. There was so many thoughts and feelings that came with the news. I think if we had all found out a month later it would still be horrible, but that would be all there ways. Losing a parent and then being betrayed by your other is not an ideal combination and to add to that my Dad did not handle the outrage at his actions well. In fact, he handled it badly and without empathy or respect. My initial reaction was then focused on him, which only added to the guilt I was feeling over the whole thing. I sometimes wonder how long he would have left it had the police not sent the scan of my mum’s note through that week. Only my siblings and I were named in the note, so how did he justify keeping the truth from us so long (even if he couldn’t remember exactly what it said without the scan)? How could he let us say goodbye to our mother without knowing the truth and live with the fact he did? Only naming her children either reflected my parents’ values of kids coming before spouse or the fact my parents were separating, so I know, if he had questioned his actions, he would have known they were not what she’d want – even if he couldn’t remember what the note said. I was angry at him and I was angry for her.
This distraction meant it took me a while to actually process what I’d been told. When I finally did, guilt surrounded me. I felt lonely and full of questions. I was angry too but not at my mum. With this knowledge it also became clear that my mum likely died the evening before she was found and her death certified – a fact I endeavour to honour (regardless of how bad it might feel to know she was undiscovered for so long or what it said on her coffin).
Suicide Loss
When I found out my mum took her own life (and finally took a break from blaming myself) I threw myself into resources and books. I started attending a grief group for those who have lost someone to suicide. Some of these things were helpful and some of them were not so helpful.
Reading about other people’s experiences were really helpful and I even found a book on suicide loss specifically aimed at autistics. The problem I had, time and time again, was that the circumstances surrounding my mother’s suicide were not often touched on. Everyone grievance is unique, but the stories and resources I came across often had common threads running between them. It wasn’t so much that they were irrelevant, but they were not as close to my experience or as helpful as I’d hoped. Stories centred around mental health problems, but mental health problems did not drive my mum’s decisions. Pain did.
Debilitating Disability
I wish I could say that I was the only pain in my mum’s arse, but I wasn’t. My mum suffered with chronic neuropathic pain after a spinal fusion surgery went wrong in 2011. Sometimes the pain would shoot down her legs or leave them fizzing. Words really can’t do it justice. She had had several unsuccessful surgeries trying to address the original slipped disc leading up to it. The last one had been supposed to give her stability but it might as well have kicked her legs out from under her. A piece of titanium was negligently left inside her and caused nerve damage. It was only removed when my mum insisted on scans but by the time they were done so was the damage. My mum was later compensated in court, but compensation can’t repair or regrow nerves. Compensation can’t dull the pain. Compensation can’t give her her life back in any sense of the phrase.
Before the operation forced her to medically retire, my mum was a consultant paediatrician with a respiratory specialism. Her work was everything to her and she was everything to her patients. As the ignorant, self-centred and insecurely attached teenager I was back then, I didn’t get why that was all that mattered. Her grief over the loss of her vocation just felt like another form of rejection. Now as an adult I understand it more, but I never got to tell her that. I don’t think it was even just about the job, a life-changing injury like that comes with a threat of ennui.
Despite her disability and pain, my mum didn’t want to limit what she could do. She would get up early, skip her pain medication and spend a day cooking, getting help for any big pans, and then spend the next 3 days bedbound in pain recovering from it with no regrets. My mum always loved gardening too, but one time she lost half a finger and it made me, and likely others in my family, a bit more hesitant. She’d often do things in secret or enlist help with projects even before the surgery.
Just two weeks before she died she was complaining about wanting to trim the hedges. I knew this was something she wanted to do and should be able to choose to do, but it was harder to accept with my mum. It’s hard not to worry when someone you love is doing things that might end in more pain and it’s hard to know where to draw the line on what is safe.
My mum taught me a lot about disability and lived experience and in time I started to seek the information by myself and for myself. It was one of the things we had in common even if in completely different ways. She was a great advocate for me and others, and in many ways I feel like I let her down.
When I look back I wish I’d just told her to trim the fucking hedge, but in the moment on an everyday non-peri-mortem basis it’s not that easy. Not with your own family. It feels similar to the way doctors can’t treat their family because the nature of the relationship can compromise their judgement. I wonder where the line is. I wonder if I crossed it. I wonder whether if she had felt able to have a fulfilling life doing her projects, things would be different. But it’s not that simple.
Drink, Drugs and Decisions
There were many other factors at play. Too many to discuss them all here. Drugs, for example.
My mum liked to drink rather than take her medication. The opioids kept her zonked out and meant she could have no life. Diazepam wasn’t much better. Both took longer to leave her system. It worked quicker too.
Sometimes the drinking got out of hand. There were some falls, mostly towards the end. Sometimes she drank and took her medication. Sometimes she had things under control. Sometimes she didn’t drink at all. I didn’t even know she was drinking again until a couple of months before her death. She had fallen a few times then and we lived in fear of her falling down the stairs.
It wasn’t a perfect solution, but in the context of the alternatives such as being zonked out on opioids and the potential addiction due to long-term use I understand why she chose it. I always understood, but that understanding has only increased since her passing.
She had already lost so much, she didn’t want to lose what she had left. Drinking meant she wasn’t just alive, but she could have a life. After hearing how constantly out of it my friend was on dihydrocodeine after ACL surgery, I realised how much more present and active in mine and my brothers’ lives our mum got to be because she drank.
It was certainly not without its problems and own potential for abuse, but it served a purpose. She was a doctor and knew the risks of all the options when she first made the choice, though I do acknowledge it may not have been such a conscious decision as time went on.
About 6 weeks before she died she swore on my life she hadn’t had a drink and then retrieved a breathalyser which told a different story. As dismal as it was, I have fond memories of that day. I took the last proper photo taken of her; she was mischievously laughing and looked like she might spit out the water she was drinking. She was happy and swinging her legs as she ate. She told me the breathalyser must be broken and complained when I drank some of her vodka to test it. I still have no idea if she knew the breathalyser would rat her out and why she might have suggested it if she did, but bluffing is something my mum did very well in card games so it doesn’t seem like a stretch. Even in some of her worst moments, she was full of mischief and making me laugh.
As the drinking became more prominent, our concern as a family did too. We tried to have conversations, including from a place of understanding, but understanding won’t cushion her head if she falls. She was already a little unstable at the best of times due to her spine. In the end, there was a lot of pressure for her to reduce her drinking.
The Earth-Shattering End
Not many people my age know what it’s like to lose a parent. Not many people my age know what it’s like to lose someone to suicide. Far fewer have experienced an interaction of the two.
People tell me they can’t imagine what I’m going through and they’re right.
You really can’t imagine, and I hope you never know.
The Price of Pain
Ultimately, my mother took her own life to escape the pain. Pain she might have escaped using alcohol if she had felt able to freely. Pain she was in because of one surgeon’s mistake. She said in her note she didn’t blame anyone, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the breakdown in the family dynamic and disapproval of her drinking played a part in the pain. The handwriting and spelling in her note suggests she was intoxicated while writing, but the contents itself suggests she was of sound enough mind to be in control.
All of the emotions
It sounds strange to say there is some relief in the knowledge it was a suicide, but I say that in contrast to the lack of control or knowledge of her passing that haunted me about an accidental death. There is also some relief in knowing she is not in pain anymore – we are. My mum often showed her love through suffering and now it is our turn. That’s what they say grief ultimately is after all – love. It feels weird that in the midst of such heartbreak, I almost feel proud that she put herself first and escaped the pain she was in without much thought for us. I am not a mother, but I can only imagine that takes a lot of strength.
Beyond that, there is a lot of guilt. Guilt that she felt the need to. Guilt that she did it alone. Guilt that she probably felt unsupported and like no one understood. Guilt that she felt that trapped. Guilt that she wasn’t found until the next day. Guilt that she was found by my younger sibling. Guilt about not giving her more incentive to stay. Guilt about giving her incentive to escape. Guilt about things I’ve said. Guilt about not always understanding what she said. Guilt that I didn’t protect her dignity from those she wouldn’t want to see her so vulnerable. Guilt that it wasn’t me lying lifeless on my bedroom floor.
There is anger. Anger at myself for not being a better daughter. Anger at her surgeon for fucking up and leaving her in pain. Anger at the lack of aftercare and support she got. Anger at the state of healthcare in general. Anger that so few people understand the pain she was in let alone could help her. Anger at big pharma for not developing more drug options that would effectively relieve neuropathic pain and allow users to have a life too. Anger that simple alcohol could do what years of research and drug development failed to. Anger that quality of life isn’t a bigger consideration. Anger that it could get to this state. Anger at people who say dumb/insensitive/careless things to those who are grieving. Anger at the lack of complete and concrete answers to the questions that haunt me.
Then there’s the sadness, following me around and casting shadows everywhere like I’ve got a blue light behind me. Unsurprisingly, I’m sad that my mum has died. I’m sad that she chose to leave us, even if I understand why. Sad for her. Sad for her life. Sad for the both of us for the experiences we’ll never share. Sad she won’t ever get to see me graduate, or turn 30, or any other milestone. Sad for my younger brother, whose mum will miss more milestones than mine. Sad for my older brother, whose home visits to the UK will probably always be triggering. Sad for my dad who lost his love and life partner. Sad for my family and hers too. Sad for her sisters, her siblings, her nephews and nieces. Sad that no one new can meet her now. Sad for all the things I’ll never get to say. Sad for all the things I didn’t ask her and the hugs I didn’t take. Sad for the people like her that will meet the same fate. Sad that this is forever – permanent, punishing, always.
“It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.”
Hurt, Hurdles, Help and Healing
To say this time has been challenging would be like saying Mount Everest is quite big, but since I haven’t thought of a better word so that is the one I’ll use for now.
Beyond the challenges inherent to losing your mum unexpectedly in your 20s and the challenges of grieving complicated or strained relationships, there are the challenges that come with suicide.
Questions
There are the questions, some of which you’d have with any death but many of which are intrinsic to suicide. There are those that all suicide loss survivors have to an extent: Was there something I could have done differently to prevent this? What signs did I miss?
Then there are unanswered questions specific to the context. Ultimately, I know my mum had previous attempts, the biggest predictor of suicide, but while she says it was the pain and that she didn’t blame anyone, I will always wonder if things would be different had she felt more supported. Years ago, in the midst of my own depression and naivety I asked my Mum how she lived with it (because I couldn’t) and she said for us (her kids), so I will often wonder whether she stopped living with it because we weren’t supportive enough or worth it anymore or whether now we were all adults she just felt we didn’t need her as much anymore and she didn’t need to be in this pain.
Something I read early on said that when someone completes suicide everyone has a piece of the picture, but that doesn’t mean they’ll share it with you.
Guilt
Guilt often comes with grief, but it is joint at the hip to suicide loss. A lot of people and places will tell you that it’s not your fault, that the person made the own choices and that you are not responsible. I know my mum made her own decisions, but I don’t believe I shouldn’t feel guilty.
I felt guilt before I knew my mum took her own life. It wasn’t that I thought it was all my fault, but a culmination of factors that lead her there. For example, if it was a case of too much to drink then yes she poured herself to drink but it is naive and reductionist to think factors other than pain (e.g. family dysfunction) didn’t contribute to her alcohol abuse. I believed it so much that I re-read An Inspector Calls. You can only imagine how this feeling was amplified when I learnt she died by suicide.
An Inspector Calls centres around the idea of collective responsibility and only solidifies my stance. The societal idea that it’s no one’s fault when someone takes their own life doesn’t sit well with me. That’s not to say I think we should blame the last person they argued with, but the idea that no one contributes to the mental state that potentiates suicide only serves as a false comfort. Guilt is not a bad emotion and feeling it will only prompt you to make better choices.
Still, guilt can be damaging. When I sit in my guilt for too long I start feeling ready to follow in her footsteps. In those times I try and remind myself that the best apology is changed behaviour. It sounds trivial and doesn’t make it any easier. When my brain doesn’t accept it I remind myself the best punishment for letting my mum down is having to live with it and that indulging it unproductively is only making it about me.
I think there is a way to honour your guilt and contributions without attributing ultimate fault or blame for the final actions of a loved one. I don’t want to take my mum’s final decision and bid for control away from her, to claim it was because of me or someone else would feel wrong and like a misattribution of power/control. But I can acknowledge my part in her ending up at the final fork in the road. I can acknowledge my part in not trimming the branches on the path of continued life which might have made it seem gloomy or inaccessible to anyone. I can also acknowledge that my mum would have struggled with the uphill slope and uneven terrain of that path without a railing for support. Ultimately, I could have made life more of an appealing path. It doesn’t mean she would have taken it, but I think a lot of survivors guilt comes from those small branches (or obstacles) on the path of life we might have let grow far too long, not realising our loved one needed some extra support or not believing them when they said they did or providing it when we could guess they did.
I cannot bring my mum back. There is no devil with whom I can trade my life for hers. All I can do is be more mindful of how my actions affect others, how they might play out in their potentially delicate mental state and how interactions with those I’m closest to might cumulate. To discard my guilt completely would feel disrespectful and dismissive. I prefer to acknowledge it while also acknowledging that I (and other interpersonal relationships in general), were unlikely to be the only factor in my mum’s decision. The only thing I can do about those other factors is try and be more aware of them and educate myself about suicide prevention, risk factors and warning signs.
Some of the guilt comes the signs I missed or didn’t connect to my mum’s suicide risk. I only learnt of my mum’s previous attempts shortly before her last, but I knew of them. I don’t think I took that knowledge as relevant to her current risk as I should have. It was relevant, of course, but when I learnt of them they didn’t lead me to think my mum was at risk because the key attempt that was discussed was some time ago. That was a mistake I will have to live with for the rest of my life.
Shame & Stigma
The stigma attached to suicide is ever-present and you will find it in the most unexpected places. There is a lot of shame too that helps perpetuate the stigma. When I learnt my mum took her own life, I was very sure I did not want to hide it – though it almost felt like I had been since I found out so much later and that made me feel a sense of shame. I am not ashamed my mother died by suicide; I am ashamed that I couldn’t prevent it and likely contributed to it. I would be ashamed if I were to hide it; it wouldn’t feel like I’m doing her justice. There are few occasions I won’t qualify how my mum died and all of them are based on avoiding the suspected unpleasant, hurtful or ignorant response of the other party when I don’t have the spoons for it or don’t think it will change anything.
Rejection
There is part of me that feels rejected by my mum, though it existed long before her suicide. It’s not just because she chose to leave me, but because she left without saying goodbye and without saying she loved us, even in her note. Some people don’t even get a note so I do feel some need to be grateful, but I have little evidence to suggest my Mum loved me before she died. I just have to try and trust she did.
Reflection
We all look back over our last interactions with someone when they die, but when someone takes their life the reflection is a little different. Yes, there’s the looking for signs, but there’s also a sense of putting the timeline in context. I’ve been trying to create a timeline of the last 6 months of my Mum’s life and it’s been difficult. At times, I would consider my obsession to track everything psychologically unhealthy, but I also know it’s what I need to do to process things. Sometimes it bears fruit; I realised a couple of weeks ago that an interaction I had with my Mum before she died where she was crying and apologising for things in the past was days after her penultimate attempt. Out of context all I saw was the crying intoxicated woman suddenly bringing up a conversation we had years ago, but in the context of the timeline I can see it for what it probably was: her trying to let me know she is sorry. Whether she was sorry for the attempt she just made and channeling it elsewhere or wanted to apologise for the past before she was successful I don’t know, but I suspect the latter or a combination of the two. Either way, that is the evidence I cling onto that shows she loved me and that is the memory I hope to cling on to when I’m faced with an emotionally charged situation that makes no sense to me. It hurts knowing I didn’t realise my mum was trying to give me what I always wanted until after she died. It only adds to the guilt I feel. I hope in future I will be more patient and curious, but I also know hindsight plays a big role and I wasn’t to know more than I did back then.
Regrets
I think like reflection, regrets are inherent to grief. However, like reflection, I think it’s a little different when it comes to suicide. There are many things I regret doing or not doing now my mum is dead, but there are particular regrets that become amplified in the wake of suicide. You might regret not calling your mum more often when she dies, but that regret is so much deeper knowing she took her own life. It runs alongside “Is there something I could have done?” questions and “What if” hypotheticals. The regrets are relentless. A bit like death itself.
Resources
Grief alone is isolating, but suicide loss itself is another thing entirely. Every grievance is so unique and the circumstances add several layers of complexities.
It is worth remembering that no matter how many leaflets or stories you read, no matter how clued up on suicide prevention you get or how many of the signs and risk factors you learn to recognise, none of it will do the work for you and nothing will bring your loved one back. Healing grief isn’t like healing a stab wound in your stomach, it’s more like healing the stab wound and learning to live without the kidney that went along with it (without drowning in toxins). You will never grow a new kidney and you will never be all you were before. Your composition is different, but in time you might get used to it.
There is no light at the end of the tunnel. All you can do is adjust to the darkness and keep moving forward.
Time might help you adjust, but at the end of the day you’re still just stumbling round in the dark.
There are lots of great resources for those bereaved by suicide and they deserve a post for themselves, but one of the biggest ways these resources and general suicide discourse have let me down are focusing on mental illness or poor mental health as the cause of suicides.
I understand why mental health is centred in conversations about suicides, but it is reductionist and isolating. People can be driven to take their own lives for all manner of reasons. Sometimes they are just broke or just having a tough handful of moments. It is a shame because suicide resources themselves often acknowledge factors that contribute to suicide that are nothing to do with mental health yet it is often to focus of conversations surrounding the topic. I am sure I am not the only one feelings excluded and let down in this area.
When I started looking for cases of suicide like my mum’s, the closest I found were in academic papers. I was glad to see chronic pain related suicides represented somewhere. They were informative somewhat validating, but they were also cold and clinical and left me feeling isolated in a different way. It felt ludicrous that there is a book on suicide loss from an autistic perspective, but there isn’t much more than a few papers about suicide as a result of physical pain. The closest I ever really got in reading other people’s experiences were stories involving alcohol abuse or where a parent was sick. Maybe I should have been looking at family resources for Dignitas, but the two experiences do not equate. It is lonely when people do not understand what you’re going through and all the resources and conversation is directly at a slightly different version.
It’s like trying to use instructions for a different brand of washing machine – I am left feeling frustrated and wanting to give up because I don’t have all the buttons in the diagram but I also have some that aren’t in there so what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to navigate this? The most comforting thing would just be the story of someone else with the washing machine I have, you know? Or at least the same brand even if it’s not the same model. I’m sure knowing how they dealt with their load would be more useful than reading instructions that weren’t made for me. Even if they haven’t managed to start the cycle yet, there is comfort to be found just in knowing someone else has the same machine (and the papers would suggest that people do!)
Maybe writing this will connect me to them, but in the meantime I’m still feeling isolated from other people who know the burden that comes with putting on laundry – other suicide loss survivors.
Most recently this feeling was amplified by a survivor’s quote shared by the Instagram page of a suicide grief group I attend. While I can understand why the survivor thinks the way they did, I cannot understand a suicide grief group sharing such things without realising the effects on others in its audience.

I totally agree with the first bit, but the quote could have been shortened; the charity could have put collective compassion first and encouraged survivors to express themselves without invaliding the experience of others, but hey. I feel like I’m nit picking a bit and I’m sure the quote wasn’t intended that way, but it felt entirely dismissive. I, as someone grieving from a suicide loss, felt entirely forgotten.
Even in a place surrounded by people who share similar losses, I feel completely alone. Mental illness did not drive my mum’s choices, pain did.
I’m not sure if I will go back to the group. I feel the same sense of isolation when I’m there too. Everyone is talking about mental health and I am sitting trying to figure out how to explain such a complex situation and do it justice. I often don’t and so I say nothing. It’s hard to know what to say and when to interject so instead I started writing. I didn’t just want to journal and keep it to myself; I wanted to share it too.
Write now! I need to, right?
It’s taken me a while to get here, but it’s taken me a while to get anywhere (or even accept there’s a need to and that my mum is dead). Grief is not a process you can rush and whenever I feel myself trying to rush it I just remind myself: mourning at leisure.
Just like in the beginning, I needed to honour my grief instead of focusing on my guilt. Right now, I need to acknowledge my guilt and work with my grief if I want to grow into a better version of myself. Sometimes it almost feels insulting to try and make my pain personally or psychologically productive, but to let it leave me unchanged would feel like spitting on my mum’s grave (if she had one). Similarly, to ignore the suicide factor and all the nuance that lead her to it would feel like a disservice to my mum, myself and many others. There are so many things that it would be more comfortable to ignore or omit, but none of that is going to bring her back and often all it does is isolate me.
“I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this…”
Reading the stories of other people going through the same/similar thing is one of the things that helped me most up until now. I think telling my own story is what is going to help me most next. Writing about things has also been how I process stuff. It was my first conscious (and helpful) coping mechanism, but somewhere along the way I started to overthink it. Maybe someone in need will find it like I found the stories I’ve read. Maybe not. At least if I write it’s not stuck in my head. It also gives anyone who wants to know an idea of what it’s been like and how I’m doing, including my mum who is subscribed via email. She might not be checking the other end but it still feels like I’m telling her some of the things I wish I could say and that’s what matters.
Sometimes it feels like she’s telling me things too.
This is just a much-needed (if lengthy) start to a very important conversation.
“The sad truth is that the truth is sad, and that what you want does not matter. A series of unfortunate events can happen to anyone, no matter what they want.”