“Killing yourself slowly is still killing yourself. Wanting to die is not the same as wanting to come home. Recovery is hard work. Not wanting to die is hard work.”
― Blythe Baird
Not a single flaw of my outfit can show today. My blazer sits perfectly, my blouse is tucked, spandex are on, and my confidence is high. I. can. handle. this. I board the train that is Toronto bound to host the event I have been working on since the beginning of my contract in January. I keep telling myself, “My confidence cannot sway, I must remain calm for everyone else.”
My boss, co-worker, and I grab the complimentary cookies and coffee we are supplying for the event. ” Sorry we just dumped the coffee, a lot of people today have been canceling their events and we thought you might’ve as well due to the coronavirus.” My boss and I exchanged worrying glances as we both thought about the attendance of our event falling from 100 to 0. I kept verbally reassuring her that it would all be fine and we would still have some people show. Despite thinking otherwise.
Approximately 30 people attended the event which amazed all of us, but with this a new problem arisen in the midst of the event. All schools in Ontario have been canceled for the next 3 weeks, everyone in the room turned their attention to their phones making plans for their kids. The room gave a impending doom feeling, a feeling I only felt once before.
I have been out late one night for a party and slept in until 1 PM the next day. I woke up and looked at my phone. 12 Missed Calls From Dad. 20 Missed Calls From Christa. My heart sunk. I told my boyfriend I had to go something was wrong and quickly called my sister.
“Christa, why did you call me so many times?”
” It’s Mom. Come to the hospital. Quickly please.”
The call ended. The sense of impending doom filled the air around me. I tried to find ways to comfort myself, through the fact my mom had failed suicide attempts in the past. She just needs her stomach pumped, she just needs oxygen, she will be alright.
I pull up in my loud Ford Fusion. My sister is sitting outside the emergency doors with a stone cold look and skin so white it could reflect the son. She saw me get out and new exactly what she needed to say.
She explained to me that my mom went to the basement to get stuff to give me at the farmers market. A hour passed and my sister did not hear her so she went down stairs. Upon getting to the basement door she realized it was blocked so she began to call for my mom. My little sister had to cut the rope. My mom’s glasses shattered. My sister blamed herself for her dying. All I could do was cry.
I should have cut her down not my sister. I should not of moved to my dad’s. I could not let go of the guilt I had about my mom dying.
Not My Mother's Daughter 
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