S-A-S: Sibling After Suicide

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 ...

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 a...

"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...

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...

[Originally posted 15th December 2017] Mrs Higson was a fearsome woman to behold. At least to me. With Margaret-Thatcher hair, heels and handbag (and a personal vendetta against the word ‘nice’ because “it is a word that means absolutely nothing”), she was an English teacher and a half. I don’t remember the specifics of the task set, but when I was fourteen or so, for homework I had pilfered the characters of Pride and Prejudice to write ‘a next chapter’. I also don’t remember the specifics of the text I produced; but I do recall that after hearing the work of others in my class, during an unexpected ‘read your work aloud’ session, I panicked. I subsequently didn’t read mine out as written because, basically, it to me sounded nothing short of diabolical. Consequently, I stumbled all over my words and all I really remember is mumbling something about Mr Darcy getting run over by a horse-and-cart, and standing isolated as my classmates, leaning back in their chairs behind their individ...

The  15th December 2018 marks 7 years since my brother, Martin, died by taking his own life. 7  years is a weird space of time - short yet long, not recent enough for grief to be thought of as fresh, but not so long ago in my life to feel far in the past.  I’ve taken some time to think about what I’ve learned about being bereaved by suicide over these years. I speak for no one but myself - these are my own thoughts and experiences.  1. If a person dies, they are lost to many, to a community, but the individual experiences of the loss are so important. One person does not have to, indeed can’t, feel the effect of a person’s death in exactly the same way as others (others who have their own memories and thoughts). On the Christmas Eve after Martin’s death,  his  friends invited my Mum and Dad and I down to his favourite pub, to join in reminiscing. There were so many people there, the majority of whom I did not know very well ( some not  at...