Loneliness

How lucky am I to have found that letter.

It was tucked away in a small box of my mom’s things in my grandparents’ closet. Neatly folded, quietly waiting. I found it 24 years after she died by suicide. It was the last entry in a journal I had somehow overlooked, written the month she passed in 1994.

For most of my life, I tried to understand my mom through other people’s memories. I pieced her together through stories, trying to make sense of how much she loved me…and still asking the question that never really left: why?

Because the truth is…I don’t have many memories of my own.

She died when I was just 2 and a half years old. It was 1994, before smartphones, before cameras were always within reach. Every year, I find myself cycling through the same four pictures I have of the two of us. Just four. That’s all I have. Four small snapshots to hold onto, to study, to try and feel close to her in some way.

So much of who she was has lived in imagination, in stories, in pieces.

The day I found the letter would have been her 47th birthday. The next day was International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day.

That doesn’t feel like a coincidence to me.

In the letter, she wrote: “I just hope it’s at a time when you’re able to understand me and most of all forgive me.”

For a long time, I wasn’t ready.

Grief is complicated like that. It doesn’t move in a straight line. It lingers, it resurfaces, it changes shape over time. I carried confusion, anger, sadness—and a kind of emptiness that comes from missing someone you never really got the chance to know.

I also carried my own struggles. Depression. Periods of suicidal ideation. And in 2014, I had a suicide attempt.

At the time, I didn’t understand the weight of what I had been carrying since childhood. I later learned through research from Johns Hopkins that children who lose a parent to suicide are up to three times more likely to die by suicide themselves.

That statistic stopped me.

Because suddenly, my story had context.

But it didn’t have to be my ending.

Finding support through the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention helped me in ways I didn’t even have words for at first. It connected me with people who understood this kind of loss without explanation. It helped me make sense of feelings I had buried for years. It reminded me that I wasn’t alone. That healing, even after something like this, is possible.

Somewhere along that path, I found my way to her.

Or maybe… I finally found my way to understanding her.

When I read the letter, something shifted. I didn’t just see what I had lost—I saw what she had been carrying. I saw her loneliness. I saw her pain. And I saw how deeply she loved me, even in the middle of it all.

For the first time, I felt like I understood.

Mom, after 32 years, I forgive you.

Not because it didn’t hurt. Not because it didn’t change everything. But because I can finally see you more clearly now. And in that understanding, I found a kind of peace I didn’t think was possible.

I love you. I always have. I always will.

I’ll leave you, the reader, with this:

They say you die twice. Once when you stop breathing, and the second, a bit later on, when somebody mentions your name for the last time.

I will never stop saying your name, Mom.

I will never stop sharing your story.

#SuicidePrevention #survivorofsuicideloss #AFSP #MentalHealth #Veteran #Grief #Suicide #MothersDay

Silence has never been unfamiliar to me. I’ve always been someone who sits in quiet spaces with comfortability. Personally, I don’t like if there’s constant noise or distraction because it feels too overwhelming. So, silence is where I stay. It’s where I feel the most like myself.

Silence as comfort and early solitude

For the most part, I grew up alone. I’m an only child, so I learned early on to entertain myself—playing solo games, writing stories, reading fun mystery novels.

I remember going to the toy store with my mom and being brought little projects for me to do. I remember getting science kits, fun fill-out books like “about me” or Mad Libs, and board games like Operation that you could play alone.

Of course, there were moments I felt lonely. But I grew comfortable and used to being solo that it didn’t affect me the way it may have others.

I think it’s because I choose silence over noise because of my anxieties and fears. I noticed that I didn’t need constant background sound or distraction. It was easy to sit in silence in peace. I was okay with it.

To me, silence has always been my form of rest.

I just always craved time alone. Time to be by myself because I could just be freely authentic without any outside unwanted judgment. When I’m doing things that I genuinely love to do—my hobbies, my interests—I rarely ever feel alone.Silence, identity, and relationships

I’ve been fortunate enough to always have friends by my side. They became my social lifeline and a place of feeling acceptance. They saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself at the time.

I’ve always been hard on myself, so the fact that I actually had friends often boggled my mind.

I’ve always considered myself to be too quiet, too shy to make friends. But people naturally gravitated towards my quiet nature. They saw me as reliable, kind, and perhaps even fun.

I’m so grateful to have had a social life from an early age because that’s what made me feel less lonesome.

When silence becomes heavy

But sometimes, being alone in the silence too much creates an overwhelming discomfort.

My thoughts get so loud that emotions surface and my anxiety goes haywire. I’ll start overthinking everything in my life. I start doubting myself and shrink in the process.

That’s why I don’t need outside noise—I have enough of it going on in my mind.

Emotions rise when things get louder.

Lately, I’ve been feeling isolated. I haven’t really left my house much and I’ve been disassociating—being there but not fully being there.

Whenever I do leave my house, I feel so much anxiety that it’s nearly hard to breathe.

There have been moments where I’ve felt overwhelmed in ways I didn’t immediately understand until later—when everything quieted down and I was left sitting with it.

When I do go out, my emotions are high. If something or someone irritates me or triggers me in some way, my emotions come out all at once. I think it’s because I have so many buried feelings that they all come to a head at that point.

Internal processing and emotional buildup

I sit with things for a long time instead of expressing them. My thought process is quiet and internal.

I had a recent experience where I held things in too long that I couldn’t hold them in any longer. I made the decision to face the situation head on and be upfront and honest with my feelings. Needless to say, they were shut down.

This made my rejection sensitivity intensify to limits I had never reached before. I became angry, frustrated, and quite frankly hurt.

That’s why I feel more comfort in silence because I’ve learned vulnerability can often be detrimental.

But over time, I realized that I shouldn’t live my life in fear of opening up and that I should let things out before the tension builds.Reflection on silence

I’m starting to understand that silence hits differently for me. It holds comfort and clarity but can also hold heaviness and disconnection.

But if you were to ask me if I prefer silence or noise, I’m always going to choose silence.

I’m an introvert and I love to be alone. It’s my space for recharging my social battery, engaging in things I love, and sorting through my thoughts on my own time, no pressure.

And through the heaviness that comes along with it, I can manage it more easily when I’m in my own space quietly.

What does silence feel like for you—comfort, heaviness, or a mix of both?

“Silence is a source of great strength.”— Lao Tzu

#MentalHealth #Anxiety #ADHD #ADHDInGirls #Autism #AutismSpectrumDisorder #AutismSpectrum #Depression #Neurodiversity #MightyTogether