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[and3littlebirds]

You are loved.

[and3littlebirds]

Day 3 - 22 Minutes

Thursday, 21 March:

I stared into my dresser drawer and grabbed the first shirt I saw. I put on a pair of pants that were crumpled at my feet; I had worn them the day before but they never made it to the hamper. I cried as I put my shoes on; it just didn’t feel right to be getting ready to go out into the world. A world that should’ve stood still the moment you left it. I stood in the mirror and brushed my hair, unnaturally slow. Almost robotic. I pulled it into a messy ponytail. Not caring that it looked as though I hadn’t even brushed it. My face was puffy and red from crying on and off for the last 19 hours.

I began to apply concealer to my eyes in an attempt to hide the sadness that was written all over my face. As I dabbed the tiny dot of makeup around my eye I dropped the tube of concealer and began sobbing again, falling to the cold bathroom floor. Overcome with the guilt that here I was applying coverup while you were laying on a metal table somewhere waiting for an autopsy that we already knew the answer to. Cause of death: suicide. Suicide. Suicide. You killed yourself. You left yourself hanging from the fucking ceiling of your sister’s house for three of your brothers to find you. Three of the countless people that love you so incredibly much. Three of the countless people that would have done anything for you. Do you have any clue what you’ve done to them? They walked in on you hanging from the fucking ceiling. They will never forget that sight. Every time they close their eyes there you are.

I grabbed my purse and walked out of the front door. Got in the car. Started it. Put it in reverse and quickly put it back in park and screamed and cried. Yelling at you. “What the fuck!” “Why would u do this to us. To J. To B.”

22 minutes. That’s how long it took me to pull out of the driveway on Thursday. 22 minutes of screams and sobs. 22 minutes of trying to convince myself that just because I was about to drive down the street and live my day didn’t mean I didn’t care. But how could I go on with my day? How could the sun still rise? How could the birds still chirp, people smile, music play? It didn’t seem fair.

My first stop was to a children’s grief counselor. I wanted to know how to answer any additional questions from the kids because I had no answers. The counselor was a tall lady, she wore heels which made her even taller, 5’10” at least. I thought to myself how confident she must be to wear heels when she was already much taller than the average woman. She directed me to sit on the couch and as I did she handed me a stack of paperwork. She began to explain each document in great detail. After a few minutes I wanted her to shut up. I knew how to fill out paperwork. Plus, I’ve been to a shrink or four in my lifetime so the paperwork was old news to me. As we began to talk I felt uneasy, she seemed uncomfortable, as if it were her first day on the job. She had a tendency to ramble on and add fillers. None of which I was interested in listening to. I started to look around the room. It wasn’t cozy at all. If I were a child I wouldn’t feel comfortable here. A stack of games laid on the floor and a runner laid along the front of the couch I sat in. It needed vaccumed. Desperately. The laminate floors needed swept and the desk could’ve used a fresh coat of paint. “What do you to help you relax when you are stressed?” She asked. I hadn’t heard much else she had said in the preceding minutes. I wanted to chuckle. Relax? When you are the only parent in a three child household with a full time job you don’t do much relaxing, I thought. But I knew that answer would only cause her to tell me how I needed to carve out time for myself. No shit. But it’s easier said than done. Drink. Was the next answer that came to my mind. Seriously, I have a glass of wine almost nightly, but I didn’t wanna come off as needing an intervention. “Hmmmm, I paint, or read, or listen to music.” All of which were true and far more acceptable answers than drinking or denying myself alone time. “So you’re more the creative type?” She asked. “I guess so” I answered, annoyed. She went on to talk about how her husband will run eight miles at night and so she gets to watch tv in peace. She laughed as she spoke of it. I tried to muster a smile but one wouldn’t form on my mouth. Instead I stared at her straight faced and waited for her to finish talking about herself. About 10 minutes later our session was over and I was grabbing my purse and darting for the door before she could tell another story. “Don’t forget, everyone handles things different. Perhaps he just got hung up on some issues in life and couldn’t move past them. People don’t choose to die, they chose to end their problems, he wasn’t thinking rationally.” “What?” I asked. Disgusted. Those two words did something to me: Hung up. I rolled my eyes. She looked at me confused, not knowing the damage she had done. I took the paper from her hands. Walked out to my car. And cried.

I pulled up to my girlfriends office and sat in the chair next to her desk. This chair is for relaxing and laughing while drinking lattes and eating almonds or pepperonis. But today this chair was for silence. If I spoke too much I knew I’d cry. I fought back tears the entire time I was there and as I stood up to leave I turned away quickly as to avoid a hug that friends as close as her and I would naturally share in a time like this. I didn’t hug her, though I desperately wanted to. I didn’t hug her because ever since hearing the news the only people I had hugged where my kids. And I knew that if hugged someone else, someone I wasn’t responsible of raising, someone that I wouldn’t worry about traumatizing by seeing me cry, someone that I was comfortable with…I knew if I hugged her I would begin to cry and I didn’t know if I’d ever stop. So I stood up, head down, and walked toward her door.

At the law center the lady at the front desk approached me with a stern voice and angry eyes. “Sign in and have a seat, ill be right with you.” I signed my name and sat in the stiff leather captains chair, staring at the floor. The current customer wanted to talk to someone about his leadership withholding his promotion. What does that even mean? I thought. She finished with him quickly then looked at me as if I had some nerve to be there, to make her perform her job duties. I told her I had filled out a POA and needed it notorized. I hardly recognized my own voice as I spoke. I sound meek, timid, barely spoke above a whisper, monotone. I tried to put some pep in my voice as to not annoy the already annoyed clerk but try as I might, my voice remained the same. I feel like a robot. Numb. Trancelike. Her demeanor quickly changed and she was helpful but not disgustingly happy. Maybe she could tell I wasn’t okay. Maybe my bare, makeup-less eyes, messy ponytail, and quiet voice told her to ease up. I wanted to thank her for that, but instead, I watched her notarize the document and as she handed it back to me I managed a, “thanks for your help.” And walked out the building. As soon as I got in my car I checked my phone. Missed calls. No voicemails. And a few texts. I didn’t return the calls. I didn’t want to talk. To anyone.

When I returned home I was tired. Physically. Emotionally. I wanted to lay down. I stripped my jeans off and stepped out of them, leaving them in the same stop I found them earlier that morning. I threw my jacket over my chair and pulled my t-shirt over my head. I slid under the covers and my phone rang. The number I didn’t recognize but the voice was one I knew anywhere. Talking with him I felt somewhat normal again for the first time in almost two days. We talked for almost an hour. And when we got off the phone I rolled over and slept. For hours.

[and3littlebirds]

Day 2 - Reality

Wednesday, 20 March

I didn’t leave the house Wednesday. I managed a few hours of sleep and when I woke I immediately grabbed my phone off my nightstand and looked at my call history, hopeful that I’d had the craziest nightmare. My eyes scanned the recent calls and when my eyes landed on “Dad” I clicked it for details. My shoulders fell when I saw an incoming call at 0124 that very morning. It was true. It hadn’t been a nightmare. You made this our reality. In that moment, I hated you for that.

I set my phone back on the nightstand. My head back on my pillow, the covers back on my body, crying. Hoping to fall asleep again. Hoping that when I woke again I’d get a different result when looking at my call history.

[and3littlebirds]

Day 1 - I Promise

Things had been hard leading up to that night. Things had been hard in general but things felt harder in the days prior to the “news.” I was spent - emotionally, physically, mentally. I was so close to transitioning with only slight turbulence into the next chapter of my life but then you made that decision - the decision you could never take back. That decision that changed our family forever. Monday, 18 March: Not even a month ago, the little ones did their damnedest to make my birthday a success. But you can only do so much when your 13, 10, and 7. They did good. Then they did it all again the next day also - two day birthday celebration; for a 31 year old that has bad luck on her birthdays I was feeling fairly lucky.

Tuesday, 19 March: Day two of said celebration. A homemade cake. Streamers. Balloons. We laughed. Danced. Sang our song. Then I tucked my brood in and went straight to my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Thinking of all the changes on the horizon, the challenges of tomorrow, the chaos of relocating to a different country in less than a month. Everything hit me at once, that’s how evenings went lately, all at once - the role of single mom, forgotten lover, average worker, aspiring photographer, amateur painter, bookkeeper, appointment maker/keeper/forgetter/breaker, check-list haver, self on back burner. I felt the tears but rarely let them fall - the initial welling of the tears in my eyes I’ve never been able to control, but the fall? I control the fall - at least on most occasions. And that night, that second night of birthday celebrations I held it in. Took a deep breath. Then without thinking jotted down a positive reminder to myself on a torn piece of notebook paper. I propped the paper on my alarm clock with the intention of seeing it first thing the next morning. For a positive little pick-me-up. Shame on me for my optimism.

Friday, 22 March: Do you know what the first thing I look at everyday is? The screenshot of the phone call my father had to place to me at 0124 in the morning on Wednesday, 20 March, to inform me that he had “bad news”…that you hung yourself. I didn’t grasp his words. I heard them but I dared not repeat them. Instead, all I remember saying was, “what?” over and over again, louder and louder until I was screaming and sobbing hysterically. I don’t even remember anything I said after that. The next thing I do remember is crying so hard that I fell forward onto my hands as a result of a sharp stabbing pain in the left side of my abdomen. But the tears wouldn’t stop despite the physical pain I was in as a result of my pathetically hard and loud cry. When I first answered my phone that morning at 124 I was in my bed. But as I struggled to pull myself off my hands and back to my knees I realized I was in Miles’ room. On the floor. How I got there, I don’t remember. But I must’ve left my bed since Miles, my innocent seven year old, had crawled in with me earlier that night stating that he wanted to sleep with me. Between sobs I asked my dad question after question. Confused. Heartbroken. Sad. Then angry. Angry at you. Then guilt set in. “What if…” Popped in my head. That question was in all our heads at one point that night and every night since then. What if I talked to you more the night I left town, would you have let me in on your state of mind? What if I answered your call on Skype three nights prior? Were you calling for help? What if. What if. What if. I have so many emotions. Mainly sadness, sprinkled with anger. Then guilt for being angry with you. Along with confusion. I don’t understand. We would’ve helped you had you given us the chance.

I didn’t wake up to the positive note I scribbled to myself. I woke up to a nightmare. I’ve yet to forgive you for that.