They say that everything takes time. Trauma takes time. You just need time. It wasn’t something that I could’ve believed then, though. Hell, I still don’t. Some things there just isn’t enough time for.

In the Aftermath, friends who’d suffered trauma said I just needed time and I didn’t believe them. And I want to ask them, when is enough time enough? How does the soul repair itself when it’s been through hell? And not just a one off moment of trauma but a lifetime of heavy, soul weary, trauma? When does the breath of ones being finally free itself from the binds of hell?

No one has an answer. Those well meaning friends don’t have an answer. The psychiatrist I was sent to could only tell me to read books but the answer I wanted, the answer I still seek, cannot be found any text – it never heals.

We enter into this world with a soul, one we believe is all shiny and new, freshly polished. Depending on what religion you follow, however, that soul is as old as time or new as the days sunrise.
What baggage has each soul carried with it from previous lives? What do we do to ourselves? What do we continue to put ourselves through? No soul is untarnished and with each passing day, with every little bruise, our souls become stained. With love? Trauma? Pain? Is it weary? Is it hopeful for a new life? A new day?

I have been thinking of you a lot lately. I don’t know if it’s because this is 5 years, if this is date and day, or if I just feel your strong presence because our world is in turmoil and I seek something comfortable that I know. But I feel you and think of you daily. Repeatedly. And then, when I’m alone in a room and doing something, I see something moving out of the corner of my eye and I look and there’s nothing there. Is it you? Someone else I’ve picked up? I spent a childhood with dead people. I had dreams of people before they died. Am I a conduit? If only that were the case. I’d speak with my grandparents again.

I don’t understand your pain but I understand my own. The anger. The absolute rage that I have because I was molested and people would deny that truth. For their own protection? Self preservation? I don’t know. I only know that I see you, your face. I see your pain, your death. I see your rage turned inward and onto yourself.

You beautiful girl. How I wish I could ease your pain.

You are with me every day. We are bound together. The girl who lived and the girl who died.

I sometimes wonder if I don’t purposely hold on to you, your death, the gore. Like a security blanket, it’s something I can cling to for safety. A bit of an oxy moron to those who’ve never suffered but it’s a safe pain. Something you know and understand.

I worry that I’m keeping you with me on purpose. And then for five minutes I’ll forget about you. And for five minutes I’m free. I can breathe. I don’t feel a weight tugging at me, a niggling reminder of my own impending death, my own expiry date. I am a helium balloon and you are a weight. We are counterbalanced.

I used to worry that talking about you and what happened, that people would see it as attention seeking. I would go out of my way to not talk about what happened, to not even mention it. Again, how terrible that I worried more about the comfort and opinions of others instead of myself.

First Nations believe that as long as someone tells the story, nothing is ever dead. And so I will tell my story. Maybe I won’t shout it from the rooftops (an unlikely pun) but a quiet whisper from my heart instead.


Let’s Talk

Edited to include a picture taken of me, a week after the suicide. I’d ot slept more than 28 hours the whole week. 
I don’t support the Bell Let’s Talk day because Bell doesn’t give two stuffs about the mental health of their employees. So they can shove this day up their rears. They’re hypocritical jerk muffins who are only in this for the PR. 

Having said that, I do think everyone should take the opportunity to discuss mental health, be it a personal story of their own, or a story about someone they know/love. 

I have had my own struggle with mental health. The causes have been varied but the one everyone knows because I’ve been somewhat vocal about it is – I witnessed a suicide. 
The woman who took her life was 30, beautiful, a successful lawyer at one of the best law firms in the country (basing this on how often their lawyers are nominated as top lawyer of something or other). She grew up in an affluent family, travelled, went to the best schools. On the surface she had everything going for her. Beneath the surface, however, she was living a personal hell that she probably kept secret from everyone she knew. 

Like many women, myself included, she was molested as a child. For many, there is a disconnect and you brush it under the carpet and hope you get over it. You know what’s happened and just hope to slough it off like dead skin, but you have not acknowledged it. The pain exists in a sort of limbo. It slowly poisons you and you make subconscious decisions based on that poison, without even realizing it. 

When you do wake up, when you do fully and consciously face the abuse you suffered, it makes or breaks you mentally. You either become stronger or the pain wears you down. 

Sadly, the young, intelligent, beautiful woman could no longer cope. And so she attempted to take her life. Unsuccessful, she checked herself out of the hospital, came to her workplace on the 27th floor, got to the roof through an access window, and jumped. 

Her pain ended with her life, yes, but that only started the pain for other people. Her family. Her friends. Her coworkers, one of whom ended up taking three years off work because of her own breakdown. And then me. The unfortunate witness to her death. 

In the movies it is portrayed as a slow moving and beautiful fall. The wind whipping her hair. Her fingers floating on the wind as you would out the window of a moving car. Perhaps a tear falling down her cheek. Some flighty dramatization of what we wish suicide by jumping looked like.  
The movies are bullshit. Death is ugly and suicide is painful, for everyone. 

For the briefest of seconds there is silence, then the most deafening noise, and then the quietest silence again as your brain, soul, eyes, and ears try to put together all that you have just witnessed and heard:
A body hitting the earth. 
That someone chose to place themselves there is beyond comprehension and yet, you saw it happen. You know what you’ve just seen is true yet your mind is lagging, unable to compute. 

Death by suicide is ugly. It is gut wrenching but not vomit inducing. There is an immediate pain inside you, location unknown, that exists, still to this day. That pain would be PTSD. 
In total I took five and a half days off work, what amounted to two weeks. I forced myself back to work because I was afraid of what people would say about me. I was afraid that people would think I was scamming or milking the time off. 
I was dying inside, trying to piece together the broken pieces of my soul. But I worried about them and what they would say about me. How insulting. That I spent even an iota of time on their opinions instead of my own health is insulting. But indicative of where we are as a people when it comes to illness, time off, mental health, and trauma. 

We take for granted how fragile our minds are. In one split second I went from a confident, take no shit person to someone who was afraid of the dark and tall buildings. 

The anniversary of her death is this Saturday. We have come full circle and on the 5th anniversary, the date of her death coincides with the day of the week on which she died. This is not lost on me. At the minute of her death I will be where I was then. I will try not to think of the pain I suffered, an impossibility, clearly, but I will try to think of her family instead. Because while I witnessed it as a bystander, some poor shmuck in the wrong place and time, they must live with the guilt they place on themselves – of not seeking treatment, not helping her, not calling her enough. They live with self induced torment. 

We tell ourselves and our friends, I’m here for you. I love you. Whenever you need me, just call. The fact is, though, we get busy and those who suffer with mental health issues, they suffer alone because they don’t want to burden anyone. 

We need to be a better society and take better care of our people. An illness of the heart is just as worthy of medical attention as an illness of the mind. People still look at mental health as either a joke or something to be feared. A man or woman living with schizophrenia cannot divulge their mental illness to a potential employer, are in fact terrified of them finding out, for fear of not being hired. Meanwhile, a heart patient thinks little of it. 

We need to talk. We need to normalize. Accept. Understand. We need to open our damn hearts and love. 

Don’t isolate someone who is suffering because you don’t know what to say, think it’s an awkward conversation, or it would make you uncomfortable. The best thing that you can do is shake their hand or hug them and offer them support with a mere few words. Because for their entire lives they have felt alone and isolation will only make that worse. 


When you witness a suicide, you’re changed forever. You’re altered. It’s almost as if your DNA has been changed because things are no longer the same. The way you think, the way you feel, the way you approach life. The things people say. What once meant nothing to you now has more meaning than breath itself. Because sometimes you are left breathless by the tiniest of happenstances. 

I navigate around tall buildings and size them up. Where is the roof? Where would a body land should someone decide to kill themselves? I approach my own and plod forward, pushing myself to walk where she died. At times I am sleep deprived, still afraid of silence, still waking up to non-existent people standing over my bed. I still feel her around me, no longer a pest but a guide. It is not actually her that I feel but the shadow of her, burned into my soul. She is with me, always. 

Tonight, so close to her anniversary, a contractor needed access to the very roof she used to end her pain. I asked one of her (former) coworkers where the roof access was and advised there’d be contractors accessing the roof. 

I don’t know if they’re as hyper aware of people being on the roof since she died but I know I would be were I them. 

But then the contractor jokingly said to the coworker that when they were done they’d jump off the side of the building. 

Something changes inside you when someone you know kills themselves. You are forever altered. And the look on her coworkers face was evidence of that. He is forever altered. I bit my tongue and didn’t tell the contractor off because how was he to know? How could he? You don’t know what another person has seen or felt and we cannot traipse around the world, for all our given years, on egg shells. Life is meant to be lived, enjoyed, loved. A simple comment that has such intense meaning for us but none to him. It shouldn’t be held against him. 
And yet, it affected me still. More than I wish it could. And so I cried, losing my appetite as my tears fell into my pasta, I cried because I so wish his comment and her death could wash over and away from me. There is no 12 step program to death and grief. There’s no timetable of expectancy when it comes to loss and suicide. It just exists within you. Your DNA. Your fibers. It’s as much a part of you as your freckles and scars. 

Tonight, after I took that first step in overcoming my fear of heights, I sat down for my lunch break and cried. When I could breathe again, when I let it wash over me, I checked my email. There was a message from a complete stranger who had read my writing – not even the good writing that has been hidden from view – saying that my writing was a gift. How could you have picked today, of all days, to contact me?, when I chose today, of all days, to take that step out there?

I am forever altered, yes, but on this day my heart is full. 

The battle is ever constant.

2. celebrate or acknowledge an anniversary.

Origin: late, middle English. From old French observer. From Latin observare‘to watch’.
1. a deeply distressing or disturbing experience.

Origin: late 18th cent. From Greek, literally ‘wound’.

1. the act of killing oneself intentionally.

Origin: mid 17th cent.: from modern Latin suicida‘act of suicide,’suicidium‘person who commits suicide,’ from Latin sui ‘of oneself’ + caedere‘kill’.

*give (someone) greater knowledge and understanding about a subject or situation;
*give (someone) spiritual knowledge or insight
*archaic shed light on (an object)

Origin: Middle English (in the sense ‘make luminous’; formerly also as inlighten): in early use from Old English inlihtan‘to shine’

1. the method of human communication, either spoken or written, consisting of the use of words in a structured and conventional way

Origin: Middle English: from Old French langage, based on the Latin lingua‘tongue’.

Words can never explain or define our lives, our pain, our traumas, or our historical stories and the meanings behind them. We use words because we cannot yet convey to another person what it is we feel, how deep our love is, how deep our well of pain goes, or how, in the face of fear or danger, we found real bravery. We are as yet unable to pass on feeling from one person to another in the same way that we can easily pass on a word, a phrase, or a book. In this way, we can only use small symbols, letters, words, to pass on what it is we’re going through, what it is we live through, what it is we want to tell someone, how it is we want them to feel.

Some choose not to pass those words on at all.

We can never find the meaning or the origin of our feelings in the smattering of a few letters pressed together. We can never find the cause or the reason in those defined terms. It is, at best, a lame attempt to convey or understand. We will never find in them understanding or true knowledge – those we must find within ourselves. We will never know the why behind the words and their causes, what impact they’ve had on the writer and the reader.
We can and often do seek solace in those words, however. As writers and as readers.

I think of you, the words you chose not to share, suffering instead in an absence of words, in your silence; the words pressing forth from my own soul, in a chemical reaction to your silence and action, written words – an attempt at understanding my own pain and the torment I go through; the words shared with me from loved ones, mine and yours. In turn, I choose to share my words in hopes of enlightening others. I cannot ever understand but hope I can offer understanding. For others, yes, but mostly myself.

I have forgiven you. Now I must forgive myself.


At night, when the lights go out, it is then that the shadows emerge. Reminding me I am merely temporary in a world of forever. A blink in time, my self forgotten, remembered by no one, forever carrying on without me. 

The shadows cause anxiety, panic attacks, cursing humanity for being conscious of their selves. I squeeze my eyes shut to try and silence my brain, my fears, my anxieties, and try not to picture you, choosing to start your forever so early on, but there you are, on the inside of my eyes, and I remember I cannot escape the shadows. They, you, are forever part of me. And I cry. I cry for you, me, us. I cry for you, your soul, your consciousness, wondering where you are, if you feel, think, exist beyond me. I cry for me, the pain I’ve caused, the pain I’ve suffered, the unknown to me. I cry for us and our woven tapestries. I cry and cannot help the tears to stop falling. They exist as I do – blessedly, magically, mysteriously. 

How painfully long our forever is and our here is but a second. 

And I spend these moments with you, as always, wondering where you are. I carry your pain with me and mix it with my own, painting a canvas on my broken soul with our broken hearts and our sadness, intertwined. 

Sticky Note

imageTonight I was outside with the cleaner while he was having a smoke. We’re talking about going back to the gym and working out when suddenly this blue sticky note falls from the sky. The two of us watch it fall, slowly like a leaf, and land a few feet from us. It looked like confetti from a celebratory parade. I pick it up and the cleaner steps out to look at the sky, towards the top of our building. Needless to say I darted inside and as I was doing so he asked if they had locked the access windows.

To say that I am still affected is an understatement and unnecessary. The cleaner asked if I was alright so clearly I was visibly shaken.
It has been a while since I’ve been afraid at work. And I learned tonight that it doesn’t take much to dredge up those fears. A little paper falling from the netherworld, floating effortlessly down, filling my head with visions.
How easily we fall prey to old fears. Immediately I expected someone to come falling after that paper and I was again panicking at the idea of bodies falling from the sky. Childish thoughts. In hindsight I realize that these fears are due to most recent events and that they have touched upon my subconscious. Evil fingers touching my soul, filling it with fear and anxiety. I must work once again to unclench that hand and pry my soul free.


I am damaged. Of that there is no question. I have been woven back together through sheer will to carry on, but I have not been woven back together properly. There are pieces of me in the wrong spot, out of place, shattered so completely that they are missing altogether. And I feel like I am lost. That there is a map to it all and I could escape if only I had the right page. But there isn’t and I’m still lost in this wasteland of empty space, alone with her, and an electric current that reminds me I’m alive but that that life is oh so fragile. Now more than ever I fear for that fragility. For myself, for my unanswered questions, for those left behind.

It could’ve been anyone up there. It could’ve been her, it could’ve been me. The wind rushing against her face. My face. It sometimes feels like it was me.

My thoughts, every day, are there, with her. I am there, with her and with me. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about it. And every night I am woken, still, from the sound of a body hitting pavement. So loud a sound for something so soft. Falling, weightless, like a feather. And then a door slamming in the dead of night. And it echoes. But it’s not a door and my eyes must be deceiving me. I could not have witnessed what I did and yet she’s there, and I’m here. And there’s a woman screaming outside but I’m not. How is it that I didn’t scream. How did I not lose my mind with grief and horror? I am on the phone and I’m still calm and I’m having to look at her face and now I can’t look away because I know her. I know her and I watched the last moments of her death. I watched.
And in the weeks that followed I became so immersed in her loss and pain, the pain she felt and the pain she caused me, that I was drowning and couldn’t get air. I was choking. I could feel the air, the life, the love leaving my body. I was shattered. It was then that I was woven back together, some pieces in all the wrong places, but I moved on. I pushed myself to exist, not because I wanted to but because I had people relying on me to continue. And it was horrible because there was such emptiness. My drowning had such depth that it took months to claw my way to the surface. And I lay there, unsure of how well put together I was, knowing only I had to accept it and move. Just get up and move. Move.
She was now part of me. She was the glue that put me back together and I hated it. I hated that I used her pain and our loss as the mortar for my soul, that cracked, fragile existence. She is part of me.
I live for them but she is the driving force, she is what pokes me in the back, pushing me, reminding me that it could easily have been me on that ledge. It could’ve been any of us. But it wasn’t. And it never will be.
Damaged though I may be, I will not let the shattering of my soul be for naught. She is my glue but they are my life and I live for them.