Written by Patti Welsh

Fog. That’s what I woke up to and pushed through for months.

Bubble wrap. That’s how I describe my mind, with pockets of clarity and yet such forgetfulness.

Fatigue. Being unable to sleep for fear of these memories haunting me when I yearned for rest.

Tears. Flowing at anytime. All the time. Remembering people’s names, dates and specific details became impossible to recall. Hence the tears.

This is what my life was like for many months after my daughter died. She ended her life on December 27, while talking to me on the phone. She had been working a shutdown and was exhausted. I thought she had gotten sick to her stomach, hence the silence. We raced to her home, not realizing what we were walking into. That moment will forever be etched in my mind.

For months afterward, my loved ones took care of me. People checked in on me, took me to doctors appointments, to the gym. I started seeing a therapist. Those visits were the scariest, gut wrenching visits. Important. Necessary. But gut wrenching. I now understand PTSD. I now understand the magnitude of grief. I realize the devastation of losing a child. With support and professional guidance, the fragments of my heart, body and soul were glued together again. I’ve picked myself up so I can continue walking through this life journey.

What got me through?
Love. Hope. Family. Friends. Walking along the St. Clair River everyday and thanking the spirits for their constant, ever flowing strength and energy. Walking through my fogginess helped me to remember that the sun would rise again at dawn.

Returning to work seemed impossible but so incredibly necessary. My profession breathed life back into my mind. Healthy thoughts returned. My purpose, helping others, started to take shape. The chaos in my personal life was dancing in the background, depression was lurking like the boogie man. I was NOT going to lay down and get sucked into these dark thoughts. It took every ounce of my energy to push on. For me, returning to teaching was one of the greatest gifts in my recovery. Teaching allows me to share my curiosity for learning new things. My students brought forth happiness and pure joy. Their kindness and positive energy brought forth laughter. Month by month, my spirit started to rekindle. I cocooned myself in hope and goodness. I held on tight, reminding myself that I wasn’t alone in this journey. Melissa was guiding me onwards.

My insight to grief, depression, anxiety and suicide suddenly became tools to support others. Empathy and my gift of listening to others, built connections of trust and understanding. I rarely talked about what I’d been through. It wasn’t necessary. It was as if the universe sent me other people who were muddling through their own battles. Suddenly my life had a new direction. To advocate and give mental health a voice. I wasn’t taking on other people’s pain and sorrow, I was leaning in, listening, and wrapping them with strength until they got through the storm. Isn’t that what more people should do? Not judge but listen?
People are quick to judge those who have completed suicide. Questions pour into the family and what should be a time of support, is constant curiosity and analyzing to figure out why someone young, beautiful and with a high paying job, would want to die. Society wonders why, how could they be so selfish?
Well I’ve had much time to read, dissect, and attend therapy sessions. Here’s what I know to be true;
I assure you that until you walk the walk, don’t judge. As a mother, I would never want my children (child) to suffer in constant pain. It would be selfish of me to want Melissa to stay, simply for my own needs. She is at peace. For me, sensing that peace, has brought forth comfort and healing. It’s made sense out of the most infallible situation.

Again, everyone has a different experience, so remembering that, is key.

So here I am, almost 6 years after Melissa ended her life. The fog has lifted and the bubble wrap has been packed away. Do they return? Of course! Simply being gentle on myself, giving myself permission to feel the sadness and loss, gets me through tough moments. Melissa’s birthday, death day and other holidays, are times when I sit in my stillness, allowing grief to siphon through. Like sand in my hands at the beach, the load lightens and things gets brighter.

As I reflect on this chapter of my life, I remind myself about how concerned I was about getting “stuck” in grief. I realize that this intention truly fueled my recovery. I didn’t want to live in darkness. My loved ones didn’t want that for me. It’s hard to explain, but I know in my heart and mind that Melissa willed me to be well. To live a full life. To share her story and talk openly about mental health.
So here I am. I’m ready. I’m open to what the universe has carved out for me. Let’s talk about mental health. Have a seat.

Patti Welsh is the author of Kaleidoscope of Kite Tails, and you can find it at The Book Keeper in Sarnia and on Amazon.