I’m really sad, and I decided to post about it in the pit because, no offence, I really don’t want a bunch of hugs.
My sister died ten years ago today, quite possibly right around this time. She hung herself. She wasn’t found for two days, so her official date of death is the 24th of January, 1995. Realistically, this gives me a three-day festival of horror, which I sometimes build up to for weeks. The last time I, or anyone in the family had seen her was Christmas, so it often starts then.
In order to be able to accept the support she needed from her friends, she needed them to promise confidentiality - not to tell us (her family) what was going on. They were very good friends to her, they gave her more support than any person could every hope for, and they did what she needed to feel safe.
I thanked them at the time for helping her so much, and I wish I was still in touch with them so that I could thank them again. She couldn’t take what she needed from us, as much as I wish I had been able to give it to her. I’m glad someone was there for her.
But I’m sitting here, and I’ve been crying on and off for most of the week, and I can’t stop crying now, and I would give anything, anything, to be able to help her, even though it is ten years too late. I think about how much pain she was in (I’ve posted before about my depression - and I’m pretty familiar with the worst of the worst) and I’m just devastated. She was militantly against alcohol, due to the problems she saw it causing in our family in many generations. Before she died she even bought and drank alcohol to see if that would help stop how much it hurt. It didn’t.
When I think that she even tried alcohol, that her pain was so much that she would be that desperate, I feel like I have a knife in my chest.
Ten years later, and I haven’t been able to wrap myself around this. This is the fault line in my life. Everything is either ‘before’ or ‘after’. And after sucks. Before had problems, but after bites big donkey balls. As an only child.
So, you may be wondering, why am I telling you? Well, here’s the thing. I have to tell someone, and I moved to this city I don’t really like about four months ago, and I don’t really have any friends here. In the city, where I used to live, I had a bunch of friends, and I would have been able to hang out with someone, and maybe talk about it or maybe not. My husband wouldn’t have remembered, but he probably would have picked up on the crying and figured it out. But, since I don’t live with him anymore, the only clue he’s going to get is this thread. And that’s not really good enough.
I’m not at all good about asking for help when I need it. I was supposed to be perfect, after all. Didn’t they tell us that at some point? I’m sure I remember that lesson, I just can’t remember who taught it. I can barely accept help if it’s offered, and then only sometimes. That’s why I’m typing on a message board instead of calling a friend. But I just can’t bear to inflict myself like this on someone deliberately, unless I’m paying then for the privilege. (Not to worry, I’m doing therapy, etc). So no reaching out, except fairly anonymously. And you had to click on the link.