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Grief Awareness, Sibling Suicide Loss and Researcher Positionality

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This week has been #GriefAwarenessWeek. The timing, whilst undoubtedly an aid to some/many, for me is somewhat awkward - despite my continuing wish to be open about grief (particularly that following a suicide loss) as an experience, I personally don’t particularly want to be ‘Grief Aware’ this week. I am all too cognizant that I will again be grief-clouded next week, given its Friday conclusion marks 12 years since my brother Martin’s death. Good things have been happening in my academic life recently, not least the passing of my second PhD two weeks ago. Yet the pride, relief, dare I say happiness that I feel is tinged with degrees of both sadness and guilt; none of the achievements would have occurred without my brother’s passing. Suicide-loss grief has been, and will probably remain, central to my research, approach activity and career now, and that can be difficult to internally reconcile/contend with at times. I silently convey ‘thank yous’ to Martin, but in all honesty that can
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Thawing A Writing Freeze

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I have been struggling to write. Re-phrase that - I have been experiencing a total freeze as far as writing is concerned. It amazes me that I’ve even been able to put together this initial admission, given that for the past few weeks - this is now the third - I have been unable to see thoughts from my mind in shape-form on paper or screen.  It sounds ridiculous, (definitely to me personally), to state ‘I can’t write’ as though that word grouping constitutes a factual statement. Not uttered dramatically, emotionally to illustrate ‘just stress’ or something, but rather physically meant. It’s like, ‘c’mon, just do it.’ But I’ve tried and I CAN’T. This is not like me. True, I find writing ‘important things’ hard - academic writing has always been equated with pain for me - but not messages to connect with others or my own daily experience-reflections/thoughts, where blockages have now also been experienced. (I’ve just about managed a few social media posts, but things as everyday as te
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Location: Newcastle upon Tyne, UK
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Ten Years of Sibling Suicide Loss

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"I am, at this ten-year mark, now beginning to recognise each of these little grief stories as actually together forming a bigger narrative that is ultimately about learning to unite my life with my brother before and my life with my brother after" Marking the anniversary of a death, I think, is never about a single day of pain - knowing the day is coming, anticipating it, can be as difficult as the day itself. This being the tenth time I’ve experienced the approach of Martin’s death-versary, you’d think I’d know by now what to emotionally expect. I do now *kinda* already anticipate that late-September up to the 15th December will be ‘just hard’, the tone of life identifying very much with words from Huxley’s poem ‘ Anniversaries ’… ‘And there were sudden gusts that blew Our dreaming banners into storm; We wore the uncertain crumbling form Of a brown swirl of windy leaves, A phantom shape that stirs and heaves Shuddering from earth, to fall again With a dry whisper of withe
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Location: Newcastle upon Tyne, UK
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The Ninth-Year Reflection 15 th December 2020 -  At 9 years since Martin died, I do find myself making memories out of the experience of living after his physical departure. I am no longer confined, restricted to the still arduous task of trying to locate past moments (fond or otherwise) from the times we were physically in the same world - I have raked and raked over the history at this point, and whilst there are still some blockages, inaccessible stories, (something that is certainly a painful, frustrating truth to reckon with), I now can welcome the fact that he sometimes pops-up in new life-moment recordings (albeit in a differently-toned form). I may no longer be able to make or share new memories with my brother, but he can still appear in ‘present moments of significance’ nonetheless, like the one I wrote below (about my daughter, then aged 4 years, drawing a picture of us all for the 6th anniversary of Martin's death). And these new moments in themselves, firstly, are imp
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What would he have made of this?

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It perhaps says something about the ‘bigness’ of suicide loss that it takes a Pandemic to block it out of mind. Up until last Friday, I’d not thought about my brother for a good few weeks – that is, I’d not had the daily flash-through-the mind reminder of his used-to-exist status or the how-he-died detail I’ve come to expect. Ordinarily, I’d view this as progress, as a sign of relief-at-last and acceptance being achieved. But when I look at the wider circumstances impacting life at present, I’m not sure I can claim this as being the reality – it’s just that a head only has so much space to accommodate massive life-changing events, and right now, in its process of prioritising what needs to be addressed or thought about first, my brother’s death has, however surprisingly, been demoted. I felt, honestly, a bit guilty about this, a bit confused, having grown used to having Martin ‘still there’ in some manner. I've been living in a 'new normal' long before that was someth
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Music, Martin and Me

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In 1995, BBC2 broadcast the 10th Anniversary Concert of ​‘Les Miserables​‘ at the Albert Hall. I had just turned 14. After hearing the opening lines of Lea Salonga ’s turn as Eponine, I raced to my bedroom, returning to our living room at Concorde speed with my double-cassette-decked stereo, stabbing my microphone into the machine before pressing its latticed head to the small grid of a speaker box on our television. I statue-d there, waiting to catch Salonga’s next scene, slamming on the record button as her rendition of ​‘On My Own​‘ began. Her voice and that song in that moment hit my very core. I replayed and karaoke-d along to that cassette moment so much the tape eventually mangled. From my mid-teens singing started to be ‘my thing’. Outside of school and other fixed commitments, if I wasn’t listening to music, I was singing it. I sought out vocal lessons (the clarinet was unceremoniously usurped by voice); I sang in school choirs, concerts, stage productions and competition
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Traumatised, am I really? Thoughts on EMDR Therapy after Suicide Loss

Between June and September this year (2019), I had 10 sessions of EMDR. I have written previously on why I opted to try EMDR specifically (to address the persisting vividness of my brother’s death by suicide) - what follows here is a little of what I learned from the actual experience of having this still-relatively-niche form of therapy. Firstly , it’s quite something to have someone look directly into your eyes and say without a shred of exaggeration, “you’re traumatised”. Not gonna lie, it made me uncomfortable. My face, I believe, revealed no real reaction to the therapist’s comment, but in my mind I pictured another me, head tilted, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, sarcastically responding “Am I, though?” Middle class, white woman, good home, family, job etc. etc. “Am I really ?” My first feeling was fraudulence, a lacking of justification to ‘own PTSD’ - I’m no veteran recovering from horrific conflict zone experiences or victim rebuilding after living through natural disaste
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