A year ago today I woke up to find one of our children was dead. This
morning when I woke up, Elspeth was still dead.
She's still dead every
morning, so you'd think I'd be used to it by now, but I don't think you can
ever get used to it.
My second thought each morning is 'are the other children alive?' and I have to go and check. I dread having to actually go into someone's bedroom to see if they're alive. I hope that if I haven't heard them already, they'll be snoring so loudly that I can hear them through the door, or they'll answer audibly when I shout. I check on the little boys in the night whenever I wake, and I'm pleased if I've seen them in the early hours because I know there's less chance anything happened.
Losing a family member to suicide robs you of so much more than that child. It takes your sleep, your daydreams, your confidence, your trust in things you knew to be true. It takes your understanding of what is normal and moves it to another level. A parent crying is normal, a child screaming because someone has left him alone in the bathroom is normal, counselling is normal, feeling a failure is normal, and having no confidence in anything is normal.