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mysisterclaire · 7 years

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Claire’s everlasting bucket of kindness.

Apologies in advance for not sticking to either past or present tense, my brain is fried. I’m not entirely sure I can read it & edit it again...

I try hard not to dwell on what I am missing out on, not having Claire around. What her interactions would be as Judy has gotten older & the relationship she would have had with Ada (For the record, she would have snorted gleefully at Ada’s cheekiness, egging it on & making my eyes roll - they would have got up to terrible fun together.) It’s a pointless heart wrenching exercise.

And whilst I find it easy to write about Claire’s bravado & gusto. Her sunshine energy, some silly funny story, what I struggle to write about is her innate kindness & softness. Because this is where I feel her loss the most. This is what kills me about her not being here. And to give time contemplating that, I tend to have to hold my breath to stop myself from hyperventilating.

I need to write this particular blogpost. It is important I post it. I need everyone & Claire to know how much I needed her too, and how I wish I had said it when she was here.

The place I want to go to is hers. I want to sit in her light green living room, take my shoes off, sit on my feet on her couch & be surrounded by the scent of green fig (’Smell it Sarah, SMELL IT, It’s green fig, its frigging green friggidy fig it smells amazing. I fucking love it. Look I’ve got the candle, the pot pourri, the sticks. Do you love it?’ Shaking each item with excitement & then forcefully sticking that shit so far into my face I can taste it.). I want her to ask me what brand of wanky tea do I want today. (She had a load of tea samples especially for wanky old me in her cupboard). I want her to make me Heinz Mushroom soup and fat sliced white bread or the egg mayo she had prepared in advance because she knew I was coming. She understatedly made a fuss of me. She always made my sandwiches. From when we were in secondary school, even when we both worked out in the big wide world. And I would always eat them at first break or by 10am because I couldn’t wait. She had put the love into them and a multitude of gooood ingredients. They were proper amazing full sandwiches not just a wafer thin slice of ham stuffed between two slices of dry bread because I couldn’t be bothered. I want to sit all cosy in her living room or loiter in the doorway of her kitchen & chitter chatter or tell her my current issues & for her to look at me with her huge empathic brown eyes, as she felt what I was going through & knowing that if she couldn’t make it better she could make me laugh just by saying something ridiculous or belching (she could sing ’Its all about the money, its all about the dum dum diddy dum dum’ in one burp). Hers would be the one place I could go to to make everything better. It is kind of where I need to go. But she isn’t there anymore.

I miss having her place to go, where I could fully be relaxed & myself, not care about offending, but perhaps even purposefully doing so. Just going somewhere to irritate someone. You can get away with that when it is your sister. And I miss being able to give that to Claire too. I miss her frequent pop ins, with the 10 minutes it took her to park her car & her silly faces at the window met with my silly faces walking to answer the door to her. The ability to talk about absolute boring weird shit or just sit in comfortable silence watching a film, legs entwined on the sofa, slapping her hand out of the sweets. I miss retelling a story & adding ‘and then I called BULLSHIT on everything they said & left’ and her face lighting up, asking ‘NO! Really?!?’ & me responding ‘No, but I wanted to.’ and we’d laugh and laugh and laugh. And then, in practisced synchronicity, we’d add a funny line from Todd in Neighbours from when we were 11/12 that made us laugh hysterically - ‘Cos thats the kind of guy I am’ & dramatically turn on our heels. She just had to look at me & we’d laugh.

I miss the unedited unfiltered texts & messages. I miss the ‘tling tling tling’ of her sending me direct messages on facebook - her not writing paragraphs, she’d irritatingly press send after every fricking line - oh god it was annoying - especially at 6am when she was out walking Banjo & I was snuggled & rejoicing that Judy was sleeping in. But I miss it. I have wanted to tell her about Judy’s disappearing, reappearing outtie belly button - I’m not entirely sure why were so obsessed with belly buttons... but they always made us giggle, especially as Claire’s was so cavernous. I wanted to text her after giving birth to Ada ‘Ive done my first poo & haven’t frank & beans’ed my stitches - hooray!’. I mean - you can’t put that on Facebook (and there you were thinking I didn’t have a filter - I really really do!!) & you definitely shouldn’t tell your husband - but I did, because I didn’t have Claire - sorry Jamie! Songs, film quotes & impressions, shared memories just aren’t the same with out her. Its just another blow, huge emptyness washes over me. It’s shit.

I am a little socially awkward & don’t really know what to say at parties etc - I always relied on Claire to balance that out. Always. I felt confident knowing she was there & I could call her over as soon as I started internally panicking with the conversation She was always so bubbly with something funny to say. I didn’t realise how much I relied on that. At her funeral talking to her friends & getting a bit tongue tied I was scanning the room for Claire. The amount of times I almost said ‘Claire will be here soon’ & had to stop myself whilst smuggling a gut kick was laughable. Perhaps with every single person I spoke to. I didn’t wise up to the permanence of it. Even when the subject was her loss.

I miss the confidence of having someone who always has your back. Who will not give a shit & contraversially or not - go up to the person who had been subtley been making my life hell & have it out with them because I couldn’t do it. Even if its at my wedding party, under the radar, with a smile on her face - attack like for bloody like. POW! She was amazing. You can pretty much guarantee if anyone has a bad word to say about Claire, its because she’s had it out with them & they know they deserved it & they didn’t like it. Its a good feeling having someone who will stick up for you when you are down. Who will not let you take shit. Its actually great feeling & Claire was brilliant. She was Scrappy Doo.

It’s also the small things, like me being so concerned with sunscreen & sun hats for Judy, I forgot my own & that’s particularly stupid, being ginger & all. Claire turns up with a Factor 50 for me that won’t make me feel like I’m wearing a jumper as she has heard me complain about this all my life. She sees I’m constantly in a quandry about the baby’s dummy falling on the floor & whether I need to steralise it, so she gets a clip for it & now it won’t fall- I never even knew those existed. Every time she visits she brings me my favourite sweets & every couple of months she comes with a pink pen & the newest photos of Judy printed to put in her Baby Book. I get frustrated by the constant questions like who was the best sportsperson of 2012 but simultaneously there is so much love & thought & effort being put in. I feel ungrateful, I was ungrateful & took everything for granted. She had paid attention to every little passing comment & one especially where I had said the smell a particular handwash/handcream reminds me of my nan & I can’t stop sniffing my hands, it makes me feel nice. Months later that is what I unwrap as a birthday present. I gushed with tears at the time & again, now, recalling it. Practically, emotionally, spiritually, she was there for me. It was impossible to be incompetent with Claire catching the balls I regularly dropped.

Coming up to Judy’s birthday I’m reminded of my time in hospital being induced. Claire had turned up with bags of stuff for Jamie & I. Her brilliant sandwiches in her own home made soda bread. My favourite sweets, lucozade for energy, chocolate of every description, an ipod with a playlist she had put together especially for me giving birth. ‘Listen to this one Sarah, it has a lot of energy for pushing’ handing me an ear phone, everything had turned to zigzags & I strain ‘fuck off’ mid contraction. I quickly apologise after. She had put in some pretty crap womens weeklies which were there to remind me that no matter how shit I feel during childbirth at least I’m not in a sexual relationship with the family dog. (I mean what the hell with these magazines? hahahaha). Making Jamie & I a weeks worth of food to put into the oven once we are home with the baby. Fantastic stews, pasta bakes, breads. She was right there all the time with support & fun.

Our wedding party night. She got Jamie & I a nights stay in a posh hotel. My mum & aunt looked after Judy. Claire had made us a picnic for the hotel. Again, home made sandwiches with homemade bread, crisps, champagne, wine, chocolate, coke for our hangovers. She was always treating us, always looking after us. Always there to make everything 100% better.

As part of my hen do celebrations, where it is becoming maybe customary to provide a photo & memories of time spent (or misspent in youth!) with the hen or indeedy some marriage advice, Claire had decided instead, to ask people for poo stories for me!!! Ask some of you for poo stories, some of you she didn’t know too well & asked anyway with no filter or hesitation. Imagine getting an email out of the blue from your mates sister asking for an embarrassing personal poo story!!! She asked family too, including my 85 year old nan in Ireland! ‘Nan, Sarah LOVES poo stories, c’mon you MUST have one’ All the stories collated & put with photos of my friends & family & presented to me at the most amazing Hen do ever! I could barely read it for tears, tears of laughter but also tears of recognising how much work had gone into this & how much Claire knew how much I’d love this! It was amazing! I had won the lottery with this gift.

I’ve described my tantrums in a previous post where dealing with the frustrations of Claire’s illness was the cause of some of them. There was one caused by work exhaustion. It was 2010 I was senior designer to a new music festival. The pressure was crazy, other members of the team had broken down already, left entirely, the hours were crazy, the sheer amount of work for months in advance of the event was horrendous (16 hour days 7 days a week in those last weeks) but it was also perhaps one of my greatest achievements. I am surprised I held it together - well I did until we were physically in the throes of the festival having fun. I couldn’t find Jamie & that was it, the straw that broke the camels back - the panic that induced was enough to send me over the edge. There I was in my red rain coat and wellies, wobbling forwards & backwards whilst simultaneously gathering pitch to a scream. I threw myself on the floor just outside of the crowd of the main stage (!!) & was pounding & kicking the ground. My brother picked me up, I was a sobbing mess. Claire, who ran to look for Jamie came running over & said she had found him, she was giggling & beckoning to me with her finger. I follow her with those loud hiccupy gasps & she leads me to this, humungous black guy - nothing like Jamie! He opens his arms & smiles this huge smile & tells me ‘I am your Jamie, come, give me a hug’. My sobs turn to uncontrolled laughter - It was a great hug - I can’t imagine the amount of snot I put on this guy! Finally, a very happy smily oblivious Jamie came bounding over & everything was grand. And this, just another funny mad story about how great Claire was. Below is the photo of the gang trying to cheer me up & me all soppy.

The hole she has left is indescribably immense. We were spoiled by having such a giving selfless person in our lives & I was lucky to have been so close for her 31 years. I have to tell myself that her love was so huge & generous that the effect will touch me forever more. And our relationship is something that I can only encourage my own two girls to have with each other.

#claire #sibling suicide

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mysisterclaire · 7 years

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Dreams

I very much doubt my experience of dreaming is any different to anyone else's. Sometimes some gibberish my mind has turned into something else. My house but not my house, my friend but not my friend but it totally made sense at the time. And then I've also had experience with night terrors for as long as I can remember, where I have woken thrashing & shouting. Where I have dreamt that I have woken up & it looks real & then proceeded to dream something catastrophic beyond my control.

I've also had dreams which have helped me come to terms with things...

My Nan passed away from complications to cancer in January 2006 after a 4 month battle. Watching her deteriorate was heart breaking. I was very much in denial.

When she did pass away the only memories I had were those of her being ill. Despite that being such a short period of my 24 years with her, I struggled to remember the happy times. I was stuck. Until, one night, I dreamt I was waiting at a bus stop in Mill Hill, outside the Cancer Research charity shop. I saw in the window, a coffin, propped up as if on show. Inside, my Nan, as I saw her in the chapel of rest. My heart suddenly felt really heavy,a big knot formed in my throat, tears stung my eyes. I looked down to the pavement. A lady ushered to me with enthusiasm. 'Come on' she said eagerly, & guided me by my shoulders into the shop.

We put my nan’s coffin onto one of those upright wheelie things & ran with it up the road. I know this is super strange imagery - the lady was taking charge & I didn't want my nan on view in that shop window for all to see, so I went with it. We ran all the way to the top of the Broadway towards the A41. Only the road wasn't there. Instead, there was a meadow with a stream & a picturesque bridge. We put the coffin into the water & the lady took my hand as we watched it drift calmly along the water & under the bridge out of sight. It felt nice to set her free.

I woke up, felt instantly at ease & then scrambled to find some old photos. The lady in my dream was a young woman, and in fact was my Nan before I was born. It really did feel like she had come to help me process my memories, to let go of the bad ones & make way for the good ones, of how I wanted to remember her.

I have had equally profound dreams about Claire.

In the months after Claire’s passing I dreamt I was in my childhood bedroom that I shared with Claire. My bed by the window, hers by the door, in the alcoves, either side of the would be fireplace. In my dream I could feel Claire's spirit in the room & knew I had to leave my physical body in order to speak to her. So I lay on my bed & I guess left my body through some kind of astral projection. I was then stood with Claire whilst our bodies (quite separate from us) lay on our beds. It was quite an eerie sight...

I suddenly realized the enormity of having this opportunity of being able to talk to her, quickly trying to think of what family members would have wanted to have asked her if they had the opportunity. My brain was in so much of a panic nothing was coming to mind.

She went over & looked at her body. She looked forlorn, with tears in her eyes. A huge sense of confusion. Not knowing how it had come to this. I ask her did she know what she was doing & with her chin trembling she shook her head, looking back down at herself. I touch her arm in a bid to console her. In a change of tact, I asked her whether she was at her funeral & saw who was there. Again she shook her head. And in a matter of fact tone I told her I wasn't going to tell her how many people turned up & proceeded to fold my arms, expecting, wanting to tease her playfully, only in a way a sibling could!! (The church was packed out). It didn't work, it didn’t induce a want to know or an opportunity for jest, the mood was decidedly & understandably sombre. I decided I had better be a bit more grown up, & stop squandering this opportunity with my immaturity. I asked her whether or not she is with us now. She said she flits. She has no control over time or place, she can be here or there & she has spent time with all of us. I can't quite remember other details but the tone of this whole meeting was tender & gentle.

All of a sudden she ran towards my body & tried to climb in. Shit! I thought, she's going to take my body & I’ll be the one stuck here! I pulled her off & woke up in a sweat.

Another dream I had was a while later. I was at a party & my mum comes rushing towards me, she says 'Claire's here & she has a message for me. I'm worried I won't remember when I wake up. Can you come & listen so you can tell me?' Then she leads me through the party. We squeeze through the chattering crowd like they are the fur coats in The Lion The Witch & The Wardobe, into silence at the bottom of Claire's garden on her pub bench. It's that magic twilight time when things are simultaneously hazy & super real. The sun is going down, golden light twinkling through the trees, the sky is a peachy pink. Her garden lantern fairy lights glow in all their bright colours, it really is so beautiful. Claire is sat on the table, her feet, with her tanned cowboy boots, are on the seat, she is smoking... She has long blonde wavy hair, a knee length ditsy dress, she looks rested, at peace. Sure of herself. Absolutely beautiful. She has gold glitter smeared all over her face like she did at my hen party. It's probably down her pants now too, as it had got EVERYWHERE that night & didn't shift for days. I do smile, wondering if there is a place wherever she is where maybe she gets to choose a version of herself that she would then look like forever (like in that episode of Galaxy High) & I love what she has chosen. (This, I decide, when I wake, is what my nan has done too). Or whether this is my image of her, a magical formula made of all my memories. (That’s me doing Claire’s hair below)

I am here only for the message which Is for mum, so I refrain from my daydream gazing, from speaking or asking questions, I solely concentrate on listening & remembering. I sit up straight. I’ve got this.

We are all able to communicate frankly without emotion, which is very odd. But very pragmatic. I like it. We understand each other totally, it’s like we can see into each other's souls, there will be no misinterpretations here. She assures mum that she is doing better now. She is able to work on being happy. We have no need to worry. She loves us all, & no matter what we did, it wouldn't have changed how she felt about herself & wouldn't have stopped her. She tried for as long as she could have. That we need to stop giving ourselves such a hard time. That life as we know it is a blip & where she was now was eternity & we will see that soon enough. We will all be reunited soon enough.

When awake, I obviously pass on the message as best I could to my mum. Frankly, without the emotion. Except it's quite hard in this consciousness to do that & I’m stumbling over words, not able to get the message quite right. I think it takes three seperate attempts.

In the midst of grief I convince myself that I have a telephone line to Claire. Fuck you death! Our love & connection goes beyond the physical human boundaries. I feel quite smug & superior about this in my head. I can call on Claire when I sleep & travel to other dimensions & be close to her. I feel so safe. Nothing will part us. Nothing. Without a doubt, being in this bubble of make-believe makes grieving easier.

My mum tells her friend about my dreams & her friend says that it reminds her of a book... When repeating it back to me I instantly know the book she is talking about & am able to finish the sentence with the name of it - Audrey Niffenegger Her Fearful Symmetry. I've read it. Slowly my shoulders melt into a hunch. Oh...

Heart broken that it probably isn't Claire after all, it's my subconscious flitting around my memory store, cherry picking facets of fiction & fairytale & weaving it into a buffer to protect me from my own reality. Ah yes, I've also read The Fury & some other weird 1970s witch book on Astral Projection that I found on a train. My teenage obsession with the supernatural is peppering my reality with magic. Plus I'm Catholic & so my interpretations are firm on the ideology of Heaven.

I reason with myself, eventually, that actually that version of things is nice too. That on a subconscious level, my brain is looking after me. I'm comforting myself. Perhaps with utter delusions, but I will take anything I can get to get through this mess & be thankful for it. That my brain was also trying to make things easier for my family too. Whilst my words couldn’t console them, a message from Claire could.

I do, sometimes though, allow myself to believe that these dreams are visits from Claire & that's ok too. In the end it doesn't really matter what version of things I choose to believe in.

More recently, I've had cruel dreams where Claire comes back & tells me she has been hiding behind my chest of drawers for 2 years. Like I’m that messy & disorganised I just didnt notice her there. The first time I had this dream I quizzed her on who it was we buried. Who was in the chapel of rest? And get worried about some full scale police inquiry, my anxiety ends up taking up most of my time with her. In later versions of this dream I decide not to ask questions & ruin it, just accept the bullshit reasoning & have a few moments of fun, I know it’s not real though. It totally fucks me up when I wake, but simultaneously I get to remember how her hands feel, what she smells like & the close up imperfections on her skin. The melodic way in which she spoke. And again she feels so close & that no time has passed.

Note: I have omitted a large part of the dream message for my mum, there were many more specific details. And this is to be socially responsible. I can relay it to others who have gone through this - just ask. Whilst I can take this horrific incident & apply a magical view on it, I know it's simply not the truth. Not in this life anyway. It doesn't magic away the cold stark reality of suicide, the type of grieving it leaves & the fact I no longer have my sister. So if anyone is feeling suicidal I'm certainly not going to make it sound like a good shiny thing to do. What I have to tell myself after this life altering trauma is nothing more than a silly fairy story to get me out of bed in the mornings. To apply a bit of hope in the form of magical thinking when I cannot see the point in this shitty existence (and that's me at my worst).

#Suicide #survivor of suicide #sibling suicide #claire #dreams

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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Grief of a Suicide

Each morning, I get hit by the facts before I even open my eyes. I can get too scared to open them as it might be like the opening of a damn. I compose myself. Reason with myself until its safe. Each task throughout the day, even getting the three of us dressed, can be overwhelming & requires a deep breath & a gathering of courage as if I’m about to jump from the top diving board into some unknown depths. How long will I have to hold my breath before the panic subsides?

Grief physically hurts. I want to hug & console myself but my arms are too heavy to lift. My shoulders curl inwards. My skeleton taking the entire strain as I slump & melt from my own bones. Knees lock to keep me standing.

My internal dialogue is a mess. A computer screen with too many windows & applications open. The task manager creaking to breaking point with unseen processes threatening to throw things to a halt. On top of the computer; paperwork, to do lists, phones ringing, emails bleeping, meetings. Information overload. Panic, stress, my eyes rushing past it all like I’m looking from the window of a fast train. My chest thumping hard like I’m sat in a boy racer car, music blaring with the base vibrating through me.

My sister. My best friend. Gone.

Shock. Confusion. Anger. Betrayal. Sadness. Grief. Loss. Relief. Disbelief. Denial. Defeat. Guilt. Responsibility. Overwhelming sadness.

Pick 1 of the above. Pick 5. There is no order or limit to when or where they will smack me in the face. There is no control. And the people I love are also going through this we can’t really talk about it. The open honest communications we had before are now stifled & careful. We are all strong for each other. I hug to console them, they hug to console me. No one gets the benefit of the hug. Grief is a lonely trek.

One side of my brain is shouting & panic & chaos. The other, a constant stream of thoughts coaxing me down. Trying to rationalise the irrational.

Weeks on I was still obsessively reading everything I could on depression & anxiety & more than once I hit, what I thought, a real breakthrough. Triumphant, I go to call Claire & tell her the new plan, that we can beat this. I pick up & unlock my phone before the realisation trickles in, anger flashes through me & I throw my phone across the room. It’s like running into a patio door & reeling back, stunned, hurt. It’s too late. I can’t reach her. She is on the other side of the glass.

I block the bad thoughts. She left us… She abandoned us… No, I will not take this. I will not entertain it. I will not take it personally. If love could have saved Claire, she would be here. She couldn’t keep going for us. Perhaps the strength of our love & hers is why we were lucky to have her for so long. Perhaps our love combined saved her the last time & she got to meet Judy. I am a thousand times thankful & grateful for that. I am heartbroken for losing a sister. I am grateful for having had the best sister for as long as I did. Turn it into positive.

What if, what if, what if? What if I went round on that Tuesday? She might have then done it Wednesday. What if I cancelled my holiday & tried my upmost to keep her afloat before it got bad? We had been here before, I couldn’t stop her falling, just be there next to her whilst she saved herself. What if, as soon as I saw the signs I could have got in there quicker with a full blown exciting plan of distraction? A business venture for us both? A holiday to look forward to? A holiday didn’t stop her before. This is all silly, even if I had stopped this breakdown there would have been another. We need to go back further… Like the film ‘The Butterfly Effect’. But how much further? Before her first breakdown? Made sure she never felt the pressures of grammar school? Instill a different way of thinking from an early age? There is no point in time where I can safely pin back to, to change the path of events. There was no specific trauma that ‘affected’ her. This whole 'what if’ exercise is a waste of time because the outcome never changes. I mean, what if she was successful at 22 at 26? Still, I need to fix the punctures in my brain.

Anger: she did this with her own hands. It was a decision. Was it a conscious decision? How conscious a decision? Bring forward the memories from before: she was really really ill, she didn’t understand our grief. She didn’t understand the weight of her actions. She was intelligent & empathetic, how could she not see this from our point of view? Because her pain was too great. The suicidal thoughts, an answer to end to her pain & suffering. The unrealised side effect was the ending of her life.

Having to just accept that I will never know. That it’s OK not to know. Understand that I will never understand. This big mountain of an unknown stole my sister.

Sadness & fear for Claire, knowing how petrified she was in those moments of feeling suicidal. Scared into a frenzy of what she might be capable of, scared to death of her own thoughts. How I wish I could have been there to calm her, reassure her, hold her, to say something stupid & make her chuckle through her tears. Those last few moments of her life in solitude. The pain she must have been in rips through me.

I reason, if we were there this time, there would have been a next time, and maybe a next time. It felt eventually inevitable that one day she would be successful. This doesn’t buffer the pain or the shock.

Relief: for Claire. No more suffering. No more hurt. No more heart ache. If I consider her illness as if it were cancer, imagining those like Angelina Jolie who bravely cut out parts of their body to rid themselves of disease. Seen death close up & fought it head on. Warriors, not survivors. Claire’s internal, invisible struggle was lobotomy upon lobotomy of the mind, spirit & soul. She too, a warrior. She fought as hard as she could but the disease was too great this time. And if she had survived, what would be left of Claire as we knew her? Could her fun loving carefree spirit survive yet another blow? Would she be void of herself?

Relief for myself: that inevitable news can’t happen again. She can’t die again. My heart can’t break again. The dread of seeing the signs & Claire slip back into severe anxiety & depression. Like someone sitting on my chest. The sheer dread & fear of going through this long process all over again & not knowing just how much damage she would cause to herself, whether she’d come out alive. This can’t happen again.

My biggest fear has been met.

The conversations & arguments taking place inside my head. Shouting over one another. It’s so noisy in there. But if the thoughts stop the tears start, so I continue to fight.

The memories that dance through my head at night. I love them. I hate them. To feel joy & heartbreak simultaneously. To guffaw & sob at the same time makes my body convulse as I try to keep it silent & not wake the house. 3am is the only time I really get the luxury of doing this.

Sitting at the dinner table I am sat at the exact height so that perspective conspires the kitchen door handle with the window of the front door. My peripheral vision plays tricks. It looks like someone is at the door & in that split second before I shift my eyes to focus, its Claire. It’s Claire at the door, on her tiptoes, peeking in, cupping her hands to shield her vision, making a funny face. I jolt with excitement. Every time. And then I slump & swallow back the tears. It’s the door handle & perspective. It plays tricks on me, repeatedly, every day at dinner. And I allow it. I invite it. I could & should sit somewhere else but I want to remember how I felt whenever I did see Claire at the door. Excitement.

I torment myself.

I look out into the garden & see her under the tree with me before my wedding party. I see her looking out at the sky, smoking, catching my eye & giving a sly mischievous smile.

I see her singing to Judy just two days before she passes. The last time I saw Claire, with mum & Ann in the garden, the rest of the gathering inside. She put on the bravest of faces for the sake of her god daughters birthday. We all knew she was trying so hard. She is singing 'I’m singing in the rain’ to a happy Judy in her arms. She is doing so well & suddenly the panic reaches her face, tears fill her eyes & she looks over, her chin trembling. I know immediately what is going on. Tears come to my eyes too & my face threatens to distort. I nod & she nods too, swallowing back the tears like fighting a jack back into the box. She doesn’t want to lose it. She cannot get the line out. She cannot sing 'I’m happy again’. We get through it without a fuss. Because with fuss could come the tears. I squeeze her arm. She kept it together. My brave sister.

I need to leave this house, this garden else I’ll constantly torment myself.

Driving into the M&S car park. It doesn’t matter if it’s night or day. Stormy or sunny. My memory takes over the present like a veil. I hear laughing & singing & I’m transported back to the morning of Claire’s wedding. Driving early to get a huge fry in the local cafe. Excitement & trepidation for the day ahead. She is radiant, present & enjoying every drip of time. Love emanating from her face. She loves her breakfast (of course she bloody does), she loves the chair she is sitting on. The sun is shining for her, the birds singing for her, the cars whizz by to blow her hair in a breeze. This is all I have left of my sister. Projections of memories onto real life places. Stealing away my present. I need to leave this town or I’ll never move on.

I put on my leggings. My mum bought a pack of two. One for Claire to be buried in & the other pair for me. Fairness until the very end. These leggings miss their counterpart which are in the dark.

I’ve just laughed at Judy singing. I’ve surprised myself. I look in the garden & catch a bird peeking in. I see myself through those birdies eyes laughing & playing with Judy. Those eyes will betray me to Claire in another realm. It is too soon to smile & laugh. Guilt tramples it’s way in.

I put on some socks. I hear some music. I go to the garden centre. The last time I wore these, heard this, went here, I had a sister. And now I don’t. It doesn’t matter what it is, that’s the date line. Before & after. No other dates exist. Everything has a before or after. And before I do anything the dateline has to be matter of factly worked out.

All of this internal whilst carrying out mundane tasks like tying Judy’s shoes & pretending to know what it is she is cheerfully jibbering about.

I want to run from responsibility but realize the place I want to run to is exactly the place that I am at, with the tediums of a simple life with the family that I love. So all the adrenaline is just sitting there fighting with the lactic acid in every joint. I clench & unclench my fist & tense & release my toes. Otherwise I haven’t moved. I can’t move.

Everybody I love has a huge responsibility now to live. No more dying. No more loss. But frivolously I question my own self worth. I question the point of it all. Our new tribe is called survivors of suicide & they will know what I mean by this.

I want to forget & laugh & be silly, be who I was before. I want to remember & grieve, acknowledge that I have changed. Every thought, feeling, emotion, physical compulsion violently contradicting itself. I need quiet. I need noise. I need solace. I need babies climbing over my face as I try to sleep.

This whole blog post on repeat for as long as I can remember…

I spend most of my days in a daydream & I don’t know how to escape them. I don’t know if I want to escape them… Not yet.

#claire #suicide #sibling suicide #grief #grief of suicide

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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I bet you can't kick that leaf!

A few people have asked if I intend to continue writing my blog as they enjoy reading it. This is really nice to hear & also I’m happy that my writing forges a safe bridge for people to bring Claire up in conversation & for it to be a positive one.

The truth is, I haven’t stopped writing. I have approximately 45 different blogs unfinished. The difficulty I am finding is grasping the crux of what I’m trying to say, my thoughts about everything are intangible, illegible. They are a holy mess. I wake at about 3am each night & in the dark & the quiet I process these thoughts. I can only liken it to being sat in a dense dark forest of knotted Christmas tree lights trying to gently tease them out. And when I do, I write it in a post.

There is still more I would like to say. I’m getting there. And hope to post more soon.

In the mean time, here is a funny memory that broke my silent crying & cause me to loudly gaffaw in the middle of the night… I was frightened of waking the girls but more so of the unattractive noise that escaped me & hoped Jamie hadn’t heard. Then I tittered to myself like I was in the presence of Claire & she was tittering too. It made me feel actually insane but nice too….

Claire & I were walking back to my Nan’s house after being on the Broadway one sunny spring Saturday. We walked past one of the many trees that lined the road of Woodland Way & this particular tree had a leaf that was hanging low enough to be right in front of our faces…

I said to Claire ‘I bet you can’t kick that leaf!’ Claire put 100% effort into everything… She said 'I bet I can’ & then squat a bit, put out her arms like chicken wings to balance herself, focused on this leaf with the eye of the tiger & proceeded to hurl her leg so far up into the air, the force of it took out her other leg.

With a huge HALOOMP both legs in the air she came crashing down on her back.

She lay winded, there on the pavement.

I’m embarrassed to admit that my first reaction wasn’t one of concern, it was to laugh. Laugh hard. Oh god it was so funny.

I stop myself though, I’m trying to read Claire’s mood. I fear that If she is angry & I laugh then she will hit me. She will. She will fricking hit me. I’m feigning concern & helping Claire up whilst trying to hold in my snorts. Having to reclaim one of my hands to physically push my laughter back into my face, she stumbles back down to the ground.

This fact making it all the more funny. I can’t hold it in & just snort & laugh & point & laugh until I too fall over. Im crying with laughter & simultaneously I’m so frightened of her hitting me (because it is all my fault) that it is making me all the more hysterical & I hold my hands in front of my head in defense. This all happens without a reaction from Claire, it definitely means she is still deciding whether or not to be angry. I start to lower my guard. Thankfully & surprisingly, she too, decides that this is funny, a huge smile breaks into belly laughs too.

We help each other up like two drunkard grannies & in the 100 meter walk to my Nan’s we laugh breathlessly, push each other & kick each other up the bum.

#claire

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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Tuesday 29th April 2014

It was a gorgeously sunny crisp Tuesday. I had just put Judy down for a nap after her lunch, she wasn’t yet sleeping, she was was all cosy in her duvet, singing to herself. I had slumped into the couch with a cup of tea, I was shattered after a weekend of birthdays & weddings, weddings & birthdays. Forced staid celebrations. I can’t enjoy myself when the sister I love is in pain, it hurts. But we go along with the jolly anyway, Claire included. Judy will only turn two once.

Sat on the couch, rubbing the bump. I’m glad the weekend is over.

My phone rings. It's my mum calling from her work. She says that Claire isn’t answering her phone. It is switched off. Ann is on her way to Claire’s house now.

Just to warn me.

She says it again. Just to warn me.

I go cold. I acknowledge what she says. I know what she is saying. In a split second a million thoughts rush through my head. Like a virus of pop-ups on a computer. Too many to comprehend...

When was the last time I spoke to Claire. Yesterday. What state was she in? Anxious, but not frighteningly so. Where is Kieran? Fitting a front door in St Albans. Where is brother Kieran? On a film set in Yorkshire. This has happened before. It was fine. *Normalisation of the situation* Why didn’t I visit straight after playgroup? Because we made plans to see each other tomorrow to get our hair cut. She was fine on her own yesterday. She was fine on her own last week. She is fine. We have to trust her at this stage each & every time. She is fine. Self-reassurance fighting fear, calm fighting panic.

Worrying is futile.

None of this is spoken in the few seconds of silence. Instead, I change the subject. I start prattling on about the fun Judy had at playgroup that morning. Basically filling the conversation with noise. Distraction. In hindsight, this is for my benefit. My mum needs the line free.

I try Claire’s mobile for myself. It goes straight to answer phone. Reason & rationality in my head tells me that we have been through this before. That we are over the worst of Claire’s breakdown. This was the quiet depression stage. I’m telling myself this as I flick through my addresses. I have her house number here somewhere. I distract myself with trivia, such as noting that I had never called her on her house phone before. I dial her number. No answer. I dial it again. My fingers may have got it wrong. Again, no answer. She could be taking her dog Banjo for a walk. It is nice outside, I decide, as I stand looking into my own garden. And slowly I retreat, as I begin to allow myself to register what could be happening here…

I’m in autopilot. There is no one in the driving seat. I feel so disconnected as my feet carry me to the kitchen & my hands get me some cake. The cake Claire had made for Judy’s birthday, a silly way to feel close to her. A silly cheerlead. Please Claire. Please be ok. I return & look in the direction of the TV.

Powerless.

I can feel myself retract into my head. Like I’m looking at the Telly from a closed window far away. The sound is muffled too. I’m pushing out any thoughts, like a child when they stick their fingers in their ears, shut their eyes & sing lalalalalalalalala until it was over. But I am calm & still on the outside. Everything is slow. Everything is hyper real. I turn my phone over so I can’t see the time. So that it would take two conscious moves to see the time, rather than my hand unconsciously & nervously pressing to see the time every few seconds invoking panic. There is no need to panic. I keep telling myself. Concentrate on my breathing. Stuff my face with more cake. Chew purposefully & methodically but I can’t taste.

It’s getting close to an hour.

It doesn’t take an hour to get to Claire’s house.

It could take an hour to get to Claire’s I guess… if there is traffic…

No news is good news.

But they would have called me by now, they wouldn’t want me worrying.

Oh.

Slowly.

Realization trickles in .

My heart plunges like it does on one of those fairground rides where you are dropped from a huge height. I feel sick as my heart quickens with panic.

Keep it under control. Push out the thought.

No news is good news.

If it was bad news I wouldn’t be told over the phone. My mum wouldn’t want me to be on my own. She would tell Jamie & he would come home.

30minutes drive for Ann. 30minutes drive for Jamie.

That equals an hour.

As these thoughts collect & register, I start rocking involuntarily & almost, as a reflex, start very consciously to chant in my head… It’s not true until it happens.

It’s not true until I hear the key in the door.

I stuff more cake into my face.

It’s not true until it happens.

It’s not true until I hear the key in the door.

It’s not true until it happens.

It’s not true until I hear the key in the door.

I hear the key in the door.

#sibling suicide #suicide #claire

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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Ada Claire

8.05am on 3rd September 2014, Ada Claire was born. The baby who gave us hope.

Grieving whilst being pregnant is hard. I could write a lot about it but it all seems very self pitying. Only, Ive got to give myself a break. It isn’t self pity. Its grief. It’s warranted.

I was on autopilot, being a mum doing mum things. Having to muzzle the grieving until after Judy goes to bed, or just until Jamie’s car pulls up after work. Thankfully her happiness is genuinely infectious. Swallow it and keep going. Clap your hands & say yeah. Making sure I ate 3 meals a day for the baby growing inside me. It’s what kept me going. Despite being mostly operational, the crux of the matter was that I was defeated. Physically, emotionally, unequivocally. You can tell by my posture. You can tell by the way I now walk. How was I going to get the strength to push out a baby? Part of me just wanted to lay there, not participating, whilst they cut it out. I didn’t care about the pain. What hold could that have over me, I had already faced my biggest fear. Another part of me wanted to seize this. Use the opportunity to roar, be empowered, for it to be a cathartic beautiful moment. Welcome this baby who has given us all hope. The spring to our winter. So I am unable to make a birth plan. These two scenarios & everything in between is more than possible. Like any other day whilst grieving you have to take it as it comes… I'm not sure why I picture a joyous hairstyled lady in some tongue & groove ex-serviceman's setting, randomly pulling out a ticket from a tombola. Over zealously reading aloud the emotion I will be feeling today. The absurdity of it. I just have to go to the front to claim my prize & accept the level of concentration. Some days it will be a cellophaned bowed hamper full of emotions.

Grief is a rollercoaster & the only control I have is clamping my tongue to the top of my mouth to try & stop it from gushing out. Some days I’m not even sure if I have what it takes to simply breathe out without the wail of a banshee. So I just hold my breath until the chaos passes.

Some days masking the grief is like concealing chewing gum from a teacher. My mouth watering & I purposefully & slowly turn over the gum without moving my face. Other days it's like trying to smuggle a flock of angry seagulls through airport security in a pillowcase. Every inch of my body stressed & taut to keep it under control. Remain poker faced.

The crappest thing about crying is feeling the muscles of my face pull & distort exactly like Claire’s did when she cried. Our genetic sisterly facial similarities. My peach stone chin quivering as I try & stop myself, just like hers did. And then I can only see her face, her pain & suddenly mine feels illegitimate & encompassed by hers. It torments me...

At 5am on the 3rd September, I am shown to a midwife led delivery room at Barnet Hospital after waking with my first contraction at 3am.

An eccentric woman in her 50s introduced herself as my midwife. She was confident, wearing a bright flowery nurse jacket. Short peroxide hair, bright colourful glasses. She had this. I was calmed by her positivity & go-get-them attitude. She potted around, turned the lights down low, ran the water to fill the birthing pool, sprinkled the room with battery powered candles & went on the hunt for her (?!) favourite CD. She came back in, invited me into the bath if I wanted. I was on the gas & air & laughed to myself… Clearly becoming a little delirious. This level of pampering was beyond me. I’m quite utilitarian. I don’t paint my nails. I don’t use handcream. Some days I don’t even brush my hair (It will frizz). I’m having a baby. I don’t care for any of this shit. Let’s just get this baby out. Another contraction. I get into the birthing pool. It definitely takes the edge off. In between contractions in those few hours of labour I look around the room. It’s huge. Brand new. Decorated like a 4 or 5* contemporary hotel. Apart from a bank of plug sockets with the gas & air & emergency button you wouldn’t think we were in a medical establishment. The flickering lights, the shitty magic fm type of music, the midwives. I honestly haven’t known this type of intimate care since Claire rubbing my feet & painting my nails. The midwife now reminds me of some of Claire’s eccentric & lovely friends. And the care they are giving now feels like a favour. Surely this kind of care isn’t given to everybody? I feel very very lucky indeed. This gas & air is good. The contractions get stronger & I’m pulling on the gas more & more. Jamie is holding my shoulders from outside the pool & saying all the right things. I have one hand on the gas & air & the other holding me up in the water. I overtake on the gas & hallucinate. Peach skin pink & orange colour scenes with hazes of burgundy, typical of science photos of the womb. My hallucination is multi sensory. I see my nan’s shiny smooth puffy soft hands & her nails. I can feel them, I can smell her. She passed away in 2006 & yet she feels so close. Contraction over & I’m back in the room. I start laughing in the safety between contractions as I remember Judy’s birth. I hallucinated on the gas & air then too… I was in my car at the traffic lights by Asda in Colindale. Opposite the disused 1930s warehouse. I’m chanting to myself ‘I’m almost home but I’m not home, I’m almost home but I’m not home’. The midwife shouts at me, ‘Sarah! Get off the gas & air’ & I return to the wires & stirrups. It’s all a nonsense. The midwives swap as shifts end. The next lady is gentle but firm. I have even more confidence in this one. Again I feel so lucky. Again this lady & her student reminds me of some of Claire’s friends. And their care towards me feels a bit more special because of their friendship with her. It’s a really strange feeling. Because I know that’s not true. It’s silly but comforting. Another contraction & I’m back on the gas & air. These are now way beyond my pain threshold. I breathe hard on the gas & I look up. Behind Jamie I see Claire. She has a huge excited smile on her face. Jamie’s cheerleading voice drowns out & Claire gestures to the room, the candles, the music & says ‘You don’t have to thank me, just name her after me’ & I grin. This is so fucking Claire. Why always the big gesture? Why can’t I just say thank you? I love how she just expects it. Laughing, I reply ‘fack off’. I have no idea if I said that out loud or if it is confined to my hallucination. (Sorry Jamie, if I did say it out loud!) I didn’t even know we were having a girl. After this I need to push. The baby is coming. I can’t do it. I’m overwhelmed. I’m surrounded by pain. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Judy’s birth was so medical I haven’t experienced this before. I’m sobbing. I’m not brave, I’m not strong. I’m broken. Jamie & the midwife are trying to convince me otherwise. Talking me through it. Guiding me with their words. My body is urging me to push whilst I openly weep. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I just want to be back with Claire. I don’t know what kicks in - but I start listening to Jamie & the midwife. I stop with the self pity & I push. I do as I’m told. The head is almost out. Just the chin needs to come. I look at Jamie & blame him for the babies chin! It makes us both snort with laughter through our tears in the madness.

It’s done. The baby is here. The relief as I look down into the water with the underwater lights at our beautiful baby. It’s magical, my heart aches with joy. I have never seen such a magical sight. Light encased in tiny bubbles like glitter. Ripples of light dancing on the floor of the pool. Eyes wide, arms open, yet to take her first breath. I pick her out & hold her close. she grips onto me & Jamie does too. We stay like that for a teeny while but I have sustained some injuries. Jamie is left to look after the baby whilst I lay on the bed for stitches. (TMI). Again I’m on the gas & air. As advised I steadily inhale deeply & let myself drift out of the room. I’ve got a tray of orange squash (!?) & I’m walking towards a white ornate cast iron garden table with two chairs on the edge of a patio. Claire is sat on one of the chairs. It overlooks fields on a gorgeously clear bright sunny day. I know this place. It’s the golf course where Claire & her husband had their wedding reception, where the view of fields went on forever. Claire takes her drink as I sit down. I feel at peace, nothing pressing on my mind. Feeling a light breeze on my face I pause to appreciate the view & the sunshine. I scooch forward in my chair & reach for my drink...

There is a tug on my stitches.

I open my eyes & the two midwives are still busy. Talking about cats & knitting. Jamie is cootchy cooing over the baby. I try to go back. But it doesn’t work… Tears silently run down my face. We didn’t get a chance to talk. A short while later, Jamie comes over with a dressed contented baby & a huge smile. I haven’t said a word about my drug induced hallucinations & he says. ‘I think we should name her after Claire’. So we do.

Only now writing this do I realise the significance of orange squash.

Memories of sunny weekends spent in my grandparents garden. Silver looking trays & teapots & milk jugs of orange squash. The safety of childhood innocence before any of this illness.

#claire #grief #pregnancy #suicide #survivor of suicide

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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The frenetic energy in this piece really is hard to watch. It's too close to home.

#anxiety and depression #video #depression #anxiety

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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I poured everything I had into you, and you were still empty.

mrssandycheeks (via wnq-writers)

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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Fuck Yeah Claire!

I am going to start this post the way I finished my last one...

Anxiety & depression stole Claire's hopes & dreams, ambitions & identity, almost (& eventually) her life each & every time. She had to start from scratch, carve new goals. A reason for living. Assess what she had after the wreckage.

After the trough of depression, the rapid peak of urgent socializing she petered out.

And each time she picked herself up, dusted herself down & not only got on with it, She came back into life with full force & enthusiasm. After her 2004 breakdown she got a job with the make up brand Clinique as we had chatted about. She declined their offer to work as a "chugger" (charity mugger) or to put it nicely; collecting money for the London Air Ambulance, who later saved her life with minutes to spare. How is that for fate? She had raised more than enough money to pay for it! She had great fun doing this & met some of her closest life time friends. (HAI!)

She went back to teaching, met more brilliant friends (hi!)! She got her NQT, it took another breakdown but she did it. SHE DID IT!

When she couldn't teach she got a job administrating in Barnet College with prospects of examining trainee teachers. Again met super best friends (hi!).

Claire was open & honest about her illness in interviews. She got every single job she applied for (!!), apart from one but she couldn't be bothered in the interview - she already knew she got the job at Ruby Blu, without yet being offered the position. (I couldn't believe her arrogance, but she had the skills to back it up & to be honest I was in awe of her confidence & wished I could be so ballsy). (Hi to all of you too!)

In all of these places she shone. She was enthusiastic, competent, on the ball. Made close friendships with her colleagues & line managers. Always first to be considered for promotion.

She kept all of these friends close. Nights out, BBQs, dinners. Hand delivering her baked goodies. She really was a great & generous friend.

She met her boyfriend then husband & told him about her illness early on. It could have been a deal breaker but it wasn't.

On a human level she softened, she was kinder, more compassionate, less judgemental. Speaking to her friends now I hear how she really listened to their problems & empowered them with her words. Made them believe in themselves. She knew first hand how it felt to be rock bottom. Her inclusion was deep & heart felt. And when the seriousness was dealt with she would make you laugh & smile like no one else could. Most likely in the way of mis hearing your words... Lady Mondegreen style. She could repeat your sentence straight off, with the same tone & whimsy, same number of syllables & rhyming at the end so it sounded exactly the same as the sentence you said but it would be saying something mischievous & rude. It was an amazing talent. I can't think of a precise example but I think everyone could fully understand by me describing her leaning in, head down, eyes up as if peering over the top of glasses & saying quietly in mock seriousness... 'did he just say willy?' About whoever, the bus driver, the priest, the teacher... You couldn't help but burst into laughter. And she would giggle with her deep dirty giggle!

She noticed when you were down & made it better. Sending cheerful mail. A chocolate pizza. A funny selfie.

She took to enjoying baking us all gifts. Peanut butter cookies, soda bread etc. I don't know how she managed to cook so many batches in her tiny kitchen. Receiving her cellophane wrapped goodies really did make you feel special. She baked them especially for you.

Her lack of inhibitions & ability to laugh at herself. To openly squat when she farted. To throw her head back & laugh. To be the first on the dance floor throwing some fucking lethal moves. The super serious look on her face as she got down & dirty made it all the more funny. You couldn't help but want to join in. Be the one she was dancing around. She was unashamedly authentic in a way not many of us are brave enough to be & invited us all to be too. There was no judgement there. We could relax, be our true self. What choice did we have but to join her in her freedom?

Claire must have been far more knowledgeable & intelligent than the rest of us. I guess being close to the edge really balances priorities. She had no desires to see the far corners of the world, she wasn't interested in a branded handbag or shoes, she read the books she wanted to read, sang the songs she wanted to sing. Her friends & family were what was important to her & she was happy & content with her lot. She did everything in life that she wanted to do. Get her NQT, fall head over heels in love & have a fabulous wedding & home make. Maybe that is too simple for today's society. But at the end it's who we love that it boils down to & I believe she succeeded far more than most.

It’s not easy to wish away Claire’s demons, because without them her angels wouldn’t have been so strong. It complicated. But I am super glad & lucky to have had a sister like her & to experience both sides. It meant we were never short of telling each other how much we loved each other & how much we meant to each other & for that I will always be thankful.

To be ‘hadoukened’ into oblivion time & time again & to come back fighting, singing & dancing with that much love & authentic enthusiasm is a fucking inspiration.

#claire #sibling suicide #Suicide

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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Dearest Sister Sarah

Dearest Sister Sarah,

When I was at university and recieved post from you it used to brighten my day. In sending you this little card I’m hoping that I can do the same for you.

As a sister and a friend I have always looked up to you. To me you are a strong, kind, funny, beautiful person. As well as being a talented ARTIST!!! (*I’m an artist). *private joke

As a headstrong, honest and outspoken person it is hard to see you feeling downtrodden. You need to go back to basics and remember what it is that makes you tick! And what makes you happy. You used to tell me it was a cup of tea and a kitkat! Is that still the case? ‘Cos multipacks of Kitkats are on offer in Tesco right now.

Like I said the other evening, you must be doing something right - look at Judy. She is a real credit to both you and Jamie. Such a happy darling child.

I really enjoyed catching up on Monday - we definitely should do it more often.

As for your cynicism - lets shelf that for now and save it for when we are old biddies with our blue/pink/purple rinses! Yeah!

Love you lots poo face

Toodle-pip

Sister Claire

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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These are the most insightful pieces I have read on depression & suicidal thoughts.

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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mysisterclaire · 8 years

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I Threw A Melon

After the approximate four formidable months of being paralysed by Anxiety & Depression, Claire catapulted herself back. Like an arrow, she had been pulled back as far as she could go by her illness & was now flying forward.

It’s only now with hindsight that I see that this was a stage that was just as consuming as the last. Just as relevant. Hindsight is a bitch.

This was the stage where I would snap & lose my shit. Where my patience, understanding & tolerance fell short.

I’m really sad about that now. I wish I understood this stage at the time & was more patient. Understanding would have given me the capacity, I think. But how much more patient & tolerant could anyone be after all those months of forgetting yourself almost entirely to look after someone else? How much more was there to give? My mum & Claire’s husband never lost it. I’ve read somewhere that helping someone with depression is like hooking yourself up to them for a blood transfusion, whilst they are openly bleeding out. I haven’t heard a more accurate analogy. Should it have been a level of permanence? Constantly making excuses for her behavioural issues? Just constantly taking it. Does their anguish weigh more than yours? And what is the tipping point? Where do you draw the line? I just knew the moment she started to see through the fog I dropped off duty & caught my breath. Started living my own life again. Because like Claire, I too, had been in hibernation.

Claire’s 2004 breakdown had crept into the beginning of 2005 & on the evening of the 27th January everyone who had cared for Claire during her breakdown turned up to try & make her birthday as jolly an occasion as it could be. There weren’t many people, parents, grandparents & some aunties I think. We had cake. Claire had been upstairs all evening & hadn’t even popped her head out to say hello.

We called her down to do the candles & she came out wearing a nice dress & some make up for the first time in months. She looked lovely. But she couldn’t stop because she was going out. She ran down the stairs & straight out the door. I don’t think she even acknowledged anyone who had turned up for her before she was out in a flash.

We all looked at each other. Baffled. Everyone was too ‘aware’ to say ‘well that was a bit rude’. It was what we were all thinking though. And to a point I get it. She must have had cabin fever beyond belief. She must have been tired of our concerned patronising faces & constant questioning of her welfare. She needed to get the fuck out of there. But could she have at least blown out her candles for us?!? To say thanks guys. Thumbs up. Thanks for being there y'know!

The more I thought about it the more it grated on me. As far as I was concerned she was fine now. Clearly. Had she no concept of what she put us through? And now to just disregard us so quickly?

At the end of another breakdown. I was finally able to invite friends over to stay. I had had to cancel time & time again with Claire being the way she was those few months prior. This particular night Claire was going out & would be staying at her boyfriends. My friends could stay in her room & she made it all nice for them. It was all planned. I was super excited. And after a fun packed day of theatre shows, catch ups cocktails & dinner we were all happily shattered & got to home to bed.

I don’t know how long after, I woke up to crashes & shouts & laughs. I jump out of bed & investigate, squinty eyed in my pyjamas.

Claire has invited what may well have been the entire pub back to the house for a party. Oi oi!

Our house has always been the party house, except when Claire was down. Myself & my brother knew it was a no go zone. But this week was different. No one was meant to be there. We had arranged this. I had friends asleep upstairs who would have a long drive home in the morning. This wasn’t meant to happen!

I am soaring with rage. Smiling through gritted teeth at everyone there having a good time, I politely ask them to keep it down as there are people asleep without seeming like a party pooper. Yep, of course Sarah! They didn’t know what was going on. I glare at Claire & ask why she has done this. She turns her back & sets the volume louder with her own fucking laughs & exclamations. I go back to bed- a sheet of glass away from the frolicks in the garden & am lividly swearing at a sleepy Jamie. Resentment building on resentment. Months! I have stopped my life for months to get you here & you can’t give me one night. All my plans cancelled for you. The pain & heartache you caused & this is how you repay me. (It’s not personal of course, but I decide that it is). Listen to you out there having all the fun of the ball & it is at my expense. I am livid. Pinning months of pent up frustration to her. My rage is so disproportionate to her crime & my own issues with Claire’s attempts on her life hadn’t even been processed. I had to forget them at the time. Stash them out of my consciousness in order to continue the crisis care for Claire. So what better time to process them right now in this fit of rage?

All the stress in my back is about to purge. I can feel it percolating.

My anger raging through the night means I don’t get any sleep. My mum has been woken up by the noise & then comes down to clean up & offers Claire her bed whilst she sleeps on the couch. Like its my fault that poor Claire can’t sleep anywhere.

I’m not sure how I manage to contain the rage from the night before to make niceties along with breakfast for my friends. Them being polite enough to not complain about the raucous the night before. But yes they had heard the commotions.

I smiled & waved goodbye from the door like some kind of monster Stepford wife. But the centimetre rate at which I’m shutting the door is directly proportional to the smile falling from my face. I can feel the control diminish from my fingers.

Here we go!

I storm to the back door. Claire is sat at the garden table with her back to me at such an angle I can see just the slight of her face. She is chatting away & giggling. No fucking remorse.

I start. Standing from the lofty heights of the kitchen step I ask Claire why she is so fucking selfish. Why she brought the entire pub back to the house when she knew, SHE KNEW, I had my friends staying. Why? Why would she do that? And then to kick mum out of her own bed - who the fuck does she think she is?

I can see the neighbours in their garden looking at me. I don’t give a shit. At least THEY are acknowledging me. Well, just staring at me. My voice echoing the back gardens as church bells might on this fine Sunday morning…

Claire though? She hasn’t looked at me. Her haughty fucking posture pissing me off even more. Just carries on smoking calmly, as if admiring the view from the fucking QE2!

Are you not going to answer me? Acknowledge me? LOOK AT ME *insert a short scream*

I go back into the kitchen and find a melon. A ripe yellow/green gala melon. I come back to the door.

Mum are you going to let her get away with that? You fucking enable her! We all fucking enable her! I can’t even say anything! I’m going to kill myself! Give me some fucking attention. But I can’t even say that because I know how much it hurts to have that fucking threat hung over you like the emotional blackmail that it is!! I’m going to throw this melon!

My mum says if I throw the melon then I am cleaning it up.

No, you can clean it up. You can do something for me for a change. It’s my turn to shit on everyone! Rah!!!

I throw the fucking melon. It smashes all over the patio & up the shed. There is a slight pause. The eye of the storm where I realise I shouldn't say things in a rage. I can't take those words back & although I mean every single bit of it in the heat of the moment that isn't how I feel the rest of the time. I had no resentment for caring for Claire. There was no question. I was there because I wanted to be. I was there because I knew she would be there for me if the tables were turned. But right now I'm the one in the mist of rage...

Claire still admiring the view from the QE2. She doesn’t give a shit.

I go into meltdown… As if you thought I had already reached it. My meltdowns have the drama & the pitch similar to that of a child’s tantrum. I start throwing myself around & screaming. Like Bruno turning into a mouse in the film depiction of Roald Dahl's The Witches. Convulsing with rage & unable to control it. I throw myself on the bed or on the floor, whatever’s convenient & start punching & kicking it. The whole episode lasts no longer than a minute. Probably because I’m really unfit & it’s quite physical!

I have exorcised my demons. It’s out.

And then I collapse sobbing into my pillow making those heave noises involuntarily.

This is the first time (& only time) Jamie has witnessed this. He is there wide eyed & understandably doesn’t know what the hell to do.

My mum comes in. I tell her through my sobs & heaves I just want her to stroke my hair & tell me that everything is ok. I need a co-codemol & a cuddle. My head hurts. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Defeatedly & aimlessly I wander through the house, asking for hugs & reassurance from my brother, his new girlfriend (who is understandably very frightened of me), everyone. Apologising profusely. I’m not usually like this. I promise.

By mid afternoon everything is ok. Forgiven. Except now at any stage where I raise my voice or express annoyance, hands are held up ‘uh oh, Sarah is going to throw a melon’. I can laugh about it.

I have lost my temper about 9 times like this throughout my life. I think only the first was unsubstantiated… I wanted to go to the Easter Bonnet Parade my mum & dad said we weren’t going to… I had put a lot of effort into my bonnet. Take off three (utterly amazing ones) for continued betrayals from my ex boyfriend. Totally warranted. Maybe 4 were after Claire’s breakdowns. (One written in the blog A Trilogy of Events). Unlike the Easter Bonnet tantrum these were fuelled by months of pressure. Feeling the weight & utter responsibility of my words & actions & the impact of them. Possibly the difference, or perceived difference between saving Claire’s life or compounding her suicidal thoughts. Gobbling up negativity like a hungry hippo & instead dispelling realistic, believable, achievable, positives. Supressing my own grief of what my sister had done. It’s not an excuse for my behaviour. I clearly had no outlet. And I can’t feel guilty because I my feelings & emotions were authentic at the time. Perhaps if I had the understanding I would have had the capacity… But would it have come out some other time? One of my tantrums was because of work… And Claire was on hand to make everything right & turned the event into something extremely funny. I might write that one out. She really did save the day. And possibly my job.

So anyway, this post seems to be about me & my childlike tantrums rather than Claire. And here is why hindsight is a bitch. Claire had caused almost half of my breakdowns with her seemingly selfish reckless behaviour once she was out of the fog.

I say reckless, it was reckless for Claire. There was nothing sordid or illegal. Just thoughtless. Claire with the volume turned up. She was on the up & wasn’t thinking about anyone else. She wasn’t a selfish person. She had to dive right back into life for survival. Full throttle.

She had closed her eyes & ears to the shit swarming in her head & around her, held her breath & was swimming up stream to rescue herself. We had to let her be. Let her fly the cosy nest we built. Yes she might fall… But we needed to stand back. She still needed support without judgement, without question, without me throwing a tantrum trying to anchor her behaviour. She had to ignore me that morning in the garden just as much as I needed to get it out. Anger like that isn’t healthy, but it is human. Families work that shit out.

Her 2011 breakdown, going on into the new year… Part of her reckless behaviour involved buying 8 pairs of shoes in one day. I commented on it, whilst putting ‘compulsive buying after anxiety & depression’ into Google. This behaviour wasn’t normal. Claire assured me they were in the sale in Primark… She hadn’t spent a lot. But still, 8 pairs?!?

Anxiety & depression took away Claire’s ambitions, identity, dreams, career, almost her life… She had to start from scratch after every single time. Carve out new goals. A reason for living. Work out who she was now after the wreckage. Assessing the situation, she wanted fun, her friends. To live it up. It’s as simple as that. To have a good time. And in response to her shoes… Well we have all thought we could be a new & better version of ourselves by having a new wardrobe.

And this time she had the courage to tell me politely that she was an adult, capable of making her own decisions & mistakes. If she wanted to buy 8 or 10 or 15 pairs of shoes that was her choice, not mine.

She was right of course. I didn’t want to be the person who had to correct her. To chastise her. That’s not the relationship I wanted to have with my sister. I wanted to have fun with her. I respected her comment & did as she asked…

#claire #Suicide #sibling suicide

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