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Plastic bags
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I'm visiting my mother today. It's not that far away, just about half an hour. I realise half way there that I've forgotten my keys to my mother's house. I never do that, I'm not a forgetful person. She was working til six today and Jens was going to go to the tracks to photograph winning horses. It's just a normal thursday.
We go by her office, deciding we'll wait for her and give her a lift home. I haven't been there in ages. I love her office, the feeling that thousands of people are able to go there and get help is a comforting feeling. I know that she's the heart to a lot of people.
We catch her just as she's ending a session. She checks her phone and is surprised to see 15 missed calls and even more text messages. The first message was from her sister in law. "Crisis, call me".
The next ten minutes are aching in my brain. Old bruises appears, scars are ripped open. My brother's little sister killed herself today. She swallowed a whole bottle of pills, pulled a plastic bag over her head and hid in the closet. My grandfather found her just a couple of hours ago.
She had been ill for a while now. Went in for shock therapy treatment last year. 11 shocks. A little medicine afterwards. No therapy.
No one contacted my mother, no one told her she was ill again. My aunt refused therapy, she refused to talk about it. She didn't need it, she needed to work again. Everything was fine, she was fine.
She wasn't fine and my relatives aren't fine.
Sunday is the fourth anniversary of my father's death, my aunt leaves a husband and two children in her teens behind.
I don't know why I am writing this here, perhaps I am numb.
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