Katrina - Lived Experience
Our lives orbited around her cycles—her highs, her mellows, her lows. It
was all I ever knew. So when another low came, I assumed we’d ride it
out like we always did. But this one was different. This one was final.
I had lived through my mummy’s pain for 2 decades.
Her years of alcoholism.
Her brave sobriety.
Her reliance on medication.
Her rebellion against medication.
Her stuckness.
Her rages.
Her silence.
Her withdrawals.
Her hospitalisations.
Her many suicide attempts.
Her deep, deep pain and sadness.
But it wasn’t all pain. I also lived through her love—deep, fierce, unconditional love. To me, my mummy was better than all the mummies in the world—even through all my resentments.
She never turned her back on me. No matter what. She always awaited me with open arms. Her eyes were pure love, and her words were always kind, always uplifting.
I could never fully understand her growing up though. But now I do. Now I see her, in full colour. I see the truth, the pain, the beauty, the love. I feel it all. I always did.
A mother and child are two blossoms on a single branch. Her experiences became mine. She thought she was protecting me from her pain, but I felt it—maybe even more than she did.
Suicide adds another layer to grief.
For me, it shattered trust. Her funeral ended and suddenly, I was alone again in a four bedroom house with only my dog. Abandoned.
That kind of devastation left a lasting fear of intimacy, a deep distrust in the world. It carved out long periods of isolation—because I learned early that sadness meant you got locked away. That big feelings weren’t safe.
In August, it’ll be a decade since she’s been gone. It feels like yesterday, and a lifetime ago. I’m still untangling the mess, I always will be. But I’m finally in my body. I’m healing my heart. I’ve learned it’s safe to feel and I’m rebuilding a life of my own on solid ground. I’m experiencing moments of peace, empowerment and connection. And I’m now in the process of helping others to do the same.
Grief isn’t linear. Especially with suicide loss. It weaves itself into everything. But if you’re grieving someone who struggled with their mental health—if you’ve felt that mix of love, pain, guilt, regret, confusion, and abandonment. I see you. You’re not alone. We are walking this together, hand in hand.
There is life after loss. And even amidst the heartbreak, healing is Possible.
I persevere for my mummy. I believe, in some way, that in finding my own path to happiness, a part of hers is reclaimed too. I hope you can feel that in some way. Or that you can find a new narrative—one that serves you both.
Our stories are what make us human. They create connection. I hope I get to hear yours. And I hope mine, in some small way, helps you too.
