Grieving Life

It's been six years since my mother took her life. Her death still saddens me but this year I'm reflecting more about her life. 

Unfortunately, I'm not celebrating it. I'm grieving her life. 

My sister gave me a whole bunch of family photos at my graduation and I was sifting through them the other night. Watching my mother's smile go through a cycle where it would dim and brighten and dim again was something that I wasn't prepared for. 

I saw her weak frame and tired eyes force a smile at an occasion where she should have been filled with joy. I saw her eyes bright as she cuddled one of her grandkids. Over and over again, a cycle of a woman filled with life and emptied.  

To watch this as a child was easy. I was oblivious, except in the worst of times. But the every day struggles? Oblivious. 

To reflect on this as an adult is heartbreaking. Because I question the what ifs. What if I talked to my mother more? What if we made sure she was consistently on medication? What if there wasn't such a stigma against mental illness in my mother's generation? It's sometimes a dangerous place to go, because I can't change anything about my mother's life or prevent her death. 

Depression doesn't just kill you once. It decides that it will take the life out of every day. You isolate yourself from the people you love. Depression kills you with its lies that no one understands and that no one loves you. It sucks the joy from the things that you love. It zaps your energy, making you believe life will always be trudging through sludge to just survive. 

But if you're still here, there is still time and there is still hope. 

Your life does not have to be grieved while your are still living. 

And right now, the struggle may not feel much like living but right now, it's all you have. 

You are not alone. 

You are not a burden. 

You are not worthless. 

You are loved. 

You are brave. 

You are alive. 

You have breath in your lungs and even though the weight in your chest makes it suffocating, you are still breathing. 

You have blood in your veins and even if that blood is trickling over your wrists to feel something, you are still here. 

You have a heart in your chest and even if it feels empty, you are still loved. 

You have a voice and even if it is quiet and it shakes, you can ask for help and demand for a better ending. 

You have a brain and even if its chemistry tricks you into believing lies, you can begin to fill it with truth. 

You have hands and even if they feel too weak, someone can come along and hold them as you walk through this together. 

There can be a lot of reasons as to why my mother isn't here anymore. But there are plenty more reasons why I still am. 

I'm still here because two women decided to say "me too" when I expected judgment. 

I'm still here because a man refused to let me believe that I didn't have value. 

I'm still here because friends refused to let me shut myself off. 

I'm still here because a church decided to love a scared grieving teenager. 

I'm still here because a counselor made me repeat the phrase "you have to feel to heal" until I understood. 

I'm still here because a doctor saw that  my physical health and mental health were connected. 

I'm still here because I refuse for my mother's story to end without hope. 

I'm still here because God is in the business of redemption. 

I'm still here because there is still time to be surprised and to build a better ending.

Life doesn't have to be grieved. Life doesn't have to be getting up every day hoping you get another breath but also wishing you didn't. This life is difficult and a struggle but it's worth waking up for a possibility of a better tomorrow, even if you have wished for a better tomorrow a thousand times. 

If you are struggling, please say something. If you see someone struggling, say something. 

Mental illness begins to lose when we start a conversation. 

Life isn't meant to be grieved, it's meant to be lived. Let's work to live together