Two years ago

Warning: This post is about Charlie’s suicide and may be triggering for some. For me, it’s a story I have yet to share with anyone but my therapist. I carry its terrible weight on my shoulders and for my own sanity, I need to put it into writing.

Two years ago tomorrow, my daughter walked away from me for the last time.

She had been unable to pull herself out of bed for the two previous days. That December morning, she seemed to be trying. Our past experience taught me that Charlie needed school. She was an innately social and loving person who needed to be around others. Plus, it was Wednesday, the day when the LGBTQ group at school got together at lunch and she always seemed happier on those days. So I encouraged her to try to get to school, at least for one day that week.

Charlie got up out of bed but didn’t shower. She got dressed and headed downstairs. It was a chilly day, as one would expect on December 1st in Canada, so as we stood by the door, I asked her if she would like a coat. I was thinking of giving her the gorgeous pink furry Ugg coat that I bought her as an early Christmas present. When she irritably snapped back “no” with a voice that suggested I was an idiot for even suggesting such a thing, I apologized, “I didn’t mean to make you mad”, to which she responded “I’m not mad at you”. Those were her last words. No I love you. No banter. We drove to school in silence. Sometimes, I knew that silence was the only way to respect Charlie’s mental health. When she needed space, I gave it to her. But I will regret giving her space that day for the rest of my days.

The image of Charlie walking away toward the school doors is seared in my mind like a hot brand on my heart.

A couple of hours after dropping her off, I was at work in Toronto when the school notified me that Charlie had been absent from class. Charlie had never in her whole life skipped a class so I knew immediately that there was something terribly wrong. At 12:30 pm James saw a Discord message from Charlie that told us what she planned to do. Five minutes later, at approximately 12:35 pm, Charlie jumped in front of a train.

Charlie was gone in every way it was possible to be gone. There were no good byes. No body to identify. No choosing of outfits for Charlie to wear to the next realm. A blanket to wrap her in but no body to wrap. Charlie was gone and so was our family as we knew it.

That coat I was to give Charlie for Christmas is still in its box, along with all the other gifts I bought her, sotting in our front hall. So too still in storage are the pink Christmas gift bags I was so excited to wrap her gifts in and the pink furry blanket I bought for her. It was to be our first “pink Christmas” and I was so very excited to celebrate it.

Here we are, two years later, living in the purgatory she assigned us to. James is physically ill with the stress. I am sleeping a lot and struggling to keep my head above water.  Carl is stoic. He keeps his pain to himself most of the time.

There is happiness on occasion now; bursts of excitement about what is to come; yet everything is coloured by the grief we carry and will continue to carry every day of our lives. It is our ball and chain.

Today I mourn not just for Charlie but for who we used to be. I mourn, too, for the future we’ll never see. And I mourn for all the parents and families who, like us, have lost a child, sibling, cousin, grandchild, or friend. May we all find peace someday just as I hope that Charlie has found the peace she couldn't in this world.