The Thirteenth Year
On the anniversary of my mother's suicide.
13 years ago, my mother died by suicide.
I say “died by” because “committed” implies a crime.
She did not commit a crime, but she also did not make a choice, or see her life as one with choices.
I’ve written here often about asking myself what I want, and how revolutionary and life-changing that question can be.
I am not sure that my mother ever got to ask herself that question in the way I have asked myself that question.
13 years ago today, my ideas about who I was and what the world was all disintegrated within moments of finding out she had shot herself.
I will never recover from her suicide, nor would I want to recover.
What would I recover? Everything before her death was transformed by the way she died.
After she died, I learned to accept chaos. I realized: we know nothing.
Nothing about why we are here in this world, and nothing about the invisible realms that surround us. I learned to hold that not knowing and let it be, rather than ascribing to rigid narratives.
Many different elements catalyzed my mothers death, but one of the most significant was her need to be perceived in a specific way by others.
We all have ways of hiding who we really are. The places where we feel the most shame can rule us. But the need to force other people’s perceptions can easily expand into a monster that dictates our lives to the extreme. In many ways our need to control how others see us can rob us of our free will. If there is no strong sense of acceptance internally, we rely on others to do the work for us.
We give ourselves to others in the hopes that we can both relinquish responsibility for our own lives and escape the work of looking honestly at ourselves.
There are, of course, many positive manifestations of giving oneself to another, or others. Allowing vulnerability. Allowing oneself to be fully seen. But that involves very little to no manipulation. That’s a different way of being altogether.
When I ask myself who I have become after my mother’s death, the answer comes right away.
There is no become.
No endpoint to be reached.
Becoming, for me, means accepting myself no matter what. Unconditionally. This process involves brutal honesty, constant change, and compassion.
I don’t have to like myself all the time.
But I must be honest about who I am, and who I want to be, and the space in between the two.
Developing a compassionate and honest acceptance within myself allows me to see reality and move beyond my own narratives about who others are, and who I need to be for others.
I was 29 when my mom shot herself.
It’s taken over a decade for me to accept the reality of her death and the destructiveness of our relationship. That she was abusive, and charismatic, and deserving of love, as we all are.
I will never pretend to understand everything, or anything, really. I can only choose to be here on this earth, in my life, and to be honest about my experience. If anything, her death taught me that we all have agency- and we can choose to give our agency to others, or to make our own decisions with full awareness and responsibility.
So, on this day, an involuntary anniversary, I honor my mother by doing what she couldn’t do. Letting you see me, and seeing myself.
It’s not that I don’t care what you think.
I do.
It’s that I am who I am with the knowledge that you may or may not enjoy me, or like me. But when you do enjoy me, and love me, you will be enjoying and loving a whole person, and we will be there together.
You can read more about my relationship with my mother here.
Anastasia, you have amazing courage to share such deep experiences. I admire you for it, while sympathizing with you for your loss and grief.
My father died suddendly one night, standing in front of me, when I was 10. He was an athlete and opera singer, so it was entirely unexpected as he was only 52. It turned out that he had an undiagnosed heart defect.
I bring this up in this context because, even though he is long gone, I carry him with me in good memories always. He was my first violin teachers, took me to many great concerts, took me on wonderful hikes. I had three older siblings, but it seemed that my father always had time for me. I am the only one to whom he taught music.
Everything I do is flavored by fond memories tinged with grief at his loss. I became a pretty good musician, though probably not as good as if he continued as my teacheer. I have spent my life hiking and mountain climbing in places he would have loved. I carry his Dutchness with me, especially when I live in Indonesia.
I have, in many respects, pushed aside my grief at losing him, and my mother took wonderful care of us. I suspect, though, that you are not able to push the grief aside so readily. Your loss was far more complicated and fraught than mine.
I'm happy to discuss this further at any time you might find it helpful.
Cheers
Apparently, it's my morning for tears and self evaluation. 🙃 just had conversation w my 28yo daughter about my children giving me the same space to be that I gave them as they grew up. Freedom to express without negative repercussions.. as long as it wasn't targeted and hurtful to a particular being. Yell scream cry curse... it was all OK In The Physical Family Home. You learn how to express feelings and understand them and yourself. For me, it was all about breaking negative cycles I grew up with and did Not want to perpetuate.
In turn, as I tried to model adult behaviors, they put me on a pedestal which I never wanted. As adults, they kept me there. As I age, I'm learning more about myself and trying to accept my self without fitting into someone else's mold. I'm me. Like me or not that's OK. I'm learning how to like me completely without stifling or suppressing who I am. I grew up that way. I've been struggling to counter that all my life. It's an ongoing process. I'll never be perfect. That means fitting into someone else's idea of what I should be. I just want to be me. Express me. Live and Love me.