“You can find help,” I say. It’s as if he doesn’t understand that such words feel empty to her when she’s in despair.
She first attempted suicide when she was 14, and now she’s 27 and here in my guest room proving she can keep going. My hope that the fact that she fought before doesn’t mean she’ll fight forever blinds me to reality. Tonight she tells me it’s over.
I heard my husband stop behind me at the bedroom door and immediately wondered how much he had heard. I quickly turn around, as if I’ve been caught.
He is a kind and generous person. “I have no regrets,” he told me on our first date. Words that only people in their 20s say. Just like getting married young, we’ve grown up together. If you’re lucky, the tangles will intertwine with each other.
“We’re fine,” I said quickly. “I’ll wake up soon.”
He walks through the door anyway. “Maybe I missed the party?” he says, laughing.
“Not now, baby. I’ll be up soon.”
No matter how much she was suffering, I couldn’t bear the thought of contributing to her death. Five years older than me, I’ve been there for her through it all, from her childhood night terrors to her escapes from abusive men she thought would please her. She was ill for a long time. But there is certainly hope. Indeed, with the right cocktail of drugs, the right living conditions, the right doctors, and a support system, she will be able to find a better life.
She collapsed and turned away from me, defeated. She pulls a fluffy down comforter around her neck. This is what you do when you really need sleep and want to be left alone.
I stayed there for a few minutes on the edge of the bed, hands on her hips, before standing up. I bend down and push her hair away from her face. I kiss the side of her head as if she were a little girl and say “I love you, let’s talk more tomorrow” and go upstairs to bed.
***
I didn’t know what the next day would bring, but I held on to the belief that I could save her. Somewhere deep inside, somewhere intensely emotional and completely unrealistic, I believed I could make a difference. These beliefs came from a place of denial and despair. Denial that her illness is as serious as it is and despair for help and recognition of our struggle. I did everything I could to prevent the inevitable, all the while believing that I had some power that no one else had. I was alone in that hustle and bustle of agony that many families of the mentally ill are familiar with.
My sister and I ended up fighting the disease together for another 13 years until she committed suicide at age 40. I still commemorate the anniversary of her death every year. She found dignity in herself through incredible strength in the face of much adversity. I will forever be in awe of her fight.
If you or someone you love is suffering, please Please ask for help.
