alwayssaysalways-blog

[alwayssaysalways-blog]

A Pretty Crier by me

I wrote this as I broke down at 1am, crying about the loss of my sister by suicide and losing my grandmother 3 weeks later. I silently screamed, hating my life and who I am, not knowing what I did to deserve this. Throughout my life, I’ve lost ten people, but the last two have hurt me more than I could ever imagine. I’ve been to more funerals than most do in one lifetime, all within a few years of each other. Each time, I’ve been able to overcome my grief within a few months. This time seems different. This time is different. I’ll never be the same. 

The day I found out that my oldest sister died, I was working and couldn’t answer the dozens of phone calls coming through from my family: my grandparents, my aunt, my step-dad, my sister, even my mother’s boyfriend. Everyone except my mother, who I don’t have close relationship with, but I thought she may have been in an accident. I got a voicemail from my aunt, who was clearly crying, to call as soon as possible. At the end of my shift, I decided to call my grandpa back to hear whatever news was yet to come. When he answered, he asked what I was doing and I cheerfully responded that I was just finishing up some work tasks. He told me to sit down, but I continued to work diligently. 

~ Lexi died last night. ~ 

I sat down. No, I collapsed. My legs buckled beneath me, as if my world fell apart on top of me.

The words echoed in my head, my mind spinning with what could have happened. An accident maybe? She was never really a good driver and she had moved to Indiana about a year before. In late November, I’m sure the roads are slicked with ice, so maybe a devastating accident? Maybe she was murdered by some spiteful human being? Lexi was always so kind to strangers, a bit shy yet outgoing. That didn’t seem plausible. 

- What happened? - 

~ Lexi killed herself ~

Another shockwave ran through my body, the world around me spinning out of control. My vision blurred, but I felt no tears. My sister had suffered from depression and chronic grieving since we lost our dad twelve years ago to a clotting disorder. In fact, twelve years ago to that exact day. She must have grieved so much, imagining 12 years without our father, as he missed her graduation, becoming a firefighter, and getting married. She must have grieved so much, and I never called. It barely crossed my mind that it was the anniversary of his death, my day so long and busy at work, I didn’t think to call her and remind her that I’m here and I’m grieving too. I didn’t think to call. Why didn’t I call?

- How? -

I needed to know. I know myself and I couldn’t not know. I needed to know what she did. Did she drug herself to numb the pain and accidentally overdosed? Did she jump off a building or bridge? Did she purposely crash her car? Did she cut herself too deep? My other sister (Annee) and I have known that Lexi tend to cut herself, but superficially and always healing. We could see them when we went to the beach, and as we’re all medically inclined, we recommend moisturizer and sunscreen to protect her skin. Although she’d probably break the skin again anyways. Maybe this time, she went too far?

~ She hung herself ~

It felt a building fell on top of me. I couldn’t breathe. She hung herself. The words echo again and again. She hung herself. That means it wasn’t an accidental overdose or accidently pushing a blade too deep. She hung herself. She made the time to set up a rope. She used her energy to put it around her neck. She made the decision to let go, let herself go limp, possibly struggling and suffocating? All alone, she let go of everything, consciously. She hung herself. She let go of everything. Her little sisters, her husband, her family, her dog, her life. She hung herself. To escape, to feel free of the ongoing, suffocating grief from our father’s death, to finally breathe? The irony of the thought brought me out of my spiraling thoughts enough to hear my grandpa ask ~ How are you doing? ~ 

~ I’m okay. I’m okay. ~ The words barely escaping the lump in my throat. The rest of the conversation is hazy, and I hung up to finish my work and leave as soon as I could. I realized not a single tear has fallen and it felt disrespectful not to cry. My sister killed herself and I can’t bring myself to cry? Even once I got into my car, I couldn’t cry. I silently screamed as questions and memories flooded my mind, but no tears in my eyes? As soon as I got home, I cried and cried. I haven’t stopped crying since. 

In the weeks that passed, I scribbled on endless pages 

it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real

Sometimes, I still feel like it’s not real because how could it be real? The three sisters against the world, always and forever. I had always been an “always say always” girl rather than a “never say never” type of person. My always is broken now, my always is gone, my always is never coming back.

I’m not the same girl I was before. I don’t think I ever will be. I’m a sad sad girl with a sad sad life. Everyone knows, but no one sees the sad girl. I’ve dealt with grief so much in my life that I’ve become too good at hiding it. Too good at hiding my pain, my sorrow, my hopelessness, my need to escape, my silent screams. Behind closed doors, I look at my reflection and see her, especially her eyes. Do you know how hard it is to see her every time I look in the mirror? She’s here but she’s not and she never will be again. Instead, I’m stuck with me, my reflection, and my pain. Behind closed doors, I continue to silently scream and cry endlessly, questioning everything about myself, my life, my future. 

I realized that I’m prettier when I cry. I think because it’s truly and entirely me. I can’t smile without forcing it, as if the muscles in my cheeks must grind and creak into an unnatural, unachievable state. I’m a pretty crier, but no one sees because no one sees the sad girl. No one has to see the pretty crier.