Eleven Years Ago my Mother Shot Herself

And it's taken me eleven years to stop believing her suicide is my fault

Content warning for everything. including child sexual abuse.

This morning I woke up at 5am and did my morning pages. I’ve started The Artist’s Way for the second time, and doing The Artist’s Way involves writing three pages each morning. The pages can be about anything. This morning I wrote about the florescent blue sky and sound outside my kitchen window. On cloudy days the sky is always this Cerulean blue, and the water reflects the color onto the bay surrounding, and the trees and the sky and the water and the rooftops all converse with each other only in this color, for a small amount of time, before the sunlight parts the Cerulean and dilutes it, revealing a multitude of other colors.

Through my kitchen window I can hear the oceanic waves of the freeway, muted by the small swath of green space between it and my apartment, and from the green space bird cries broadcast themselves through the air and mingle with train cries and car horn cries and the hum of my small refrigerator.

T…