Never Kill Yourself.

my family, especially my parents, love to scream at me, “I’m the third parent.”

maybe in a way I am. for the last five, almost six years, I was thrust into a role I never wanted. when I was supposed to be merely their sister, I had to become something of a parent to my siblings.

I changed nappies, I wiped away their tears, I gave them comforting hugs when something happened, I’m the one who cheers them on from the sidelines, I made sure they were awake and had eaten breakfast, I got them to school, I make sure they’ve eaten and get to bed, and have done their homework. It was me, who went to the parent-teacher conferences, me who went in when they had problems at school to sort them out and talk to teachers. It was me who sat with the oldest of my younger siblings, talking her through 6th form and her choices and results day, and now universities. It’s still me who does all of this.

so yeah, am I a third parent in the family? you could probably say that. but it was never something I chose, never something I wanted. It was just a role I had to fill, to keep some semblance of normal, and keep my crumbling home life together.

“I don't believe in God, but I believe that you're my saviour” might be one of the most devastating lyrics of a song if you understand it, that I relate to. LIKE I COULD GO ON ABOUT THIS FOR DAYS.

I’ve known death since the minute I was born, and though the fact is somewhat dark; I think of death as an old friend. He provides a comfort to those I have loved so dearly that living could no longer give them. I choose to think of death as a positive thing, rather than something to be feared. It is inevitable, and one day I will meet him too.

I’ve said it before but the biggest tragedy of 911 is that Buck and Shannon never got to have any BobbyMichael-esque shenanigans and drive Eddie crazy with their friendship

Back in london prepping for Sunday 💙💙

I leave a part of me everywhere I go. I think most people do, unconsciously. A part of themselves gets left behind and proves to people for decades to come, that they lived. they were there once just like them. existing in the same spaces as them, hundreds of years apart.

I leave a part of me in South Africa every time I part. A country that means so much to me, that my mother grew up in and left behind for a better life. A country I rarely get the chance to go back to, and so cherish every moment with my loved ones when I do. I cry every time I leave, it’s like a part of me is ripped away and left in the country for me to pick back up when I return. every return back is bittersweet. I hold a lot of anger towards my dad for keeping me and my siblings away for so long. I was a child, I deserved to know and see that part of myself too.

I left a part of me in Ecuador a year ago. A country that grew to provide me an escape from the turbulence in my life that surrounded me at the time. It gave me a place to discover myself, to see the world and meet new people, to get away from it all and think. It gave me time to heal most of all. It was a sanctuary. one I didn’t know I need at that point in my life. one I miss every day.

I’ve been to countless countries in my lifetime, every place gives me something I never knew I needed till I got there. every place provides me with a new experience and outlook on life. and while I doubt I’m alone in this feeling, I feel as if words will never be able to convey how much it means to me.

I’m lucky enough to have travelled far, seen different cultures and met people from different walks of life. they will stick with me forever.

grief is an old friend, worming its way into my heart and wrapping its tendrils around my ribcage. sometimes it is a comfort, to know I loved someone so dearly that the remnants of it still lingers.

sometimes it threatens to swallow me whole and weigh me down, it makes me want to scream to a higher power that it’s not fair, that they deserved more time. the answer never comes, and the silence that follows leaves me empty and hollow.

I fear this feeling might never leave, and I will be forever burdened by grief.

I’ve been to more funerals than weddings.

For a long time all I could think about was, “please dear god, don’t let me have to bury anyone else. I can’t handle it.”

but I did, somehow. for the eighteen years I’ve spent alive, I’ve buried loved one after loved one with no reprise wondering when would I ever catch a break. The answer is.. well never.

I’ve always dreaded funerals, I’ve never been good at saying goodbye. It’s too permanent, too real, and some part of my brain cannot comprehend that I won’t see this person again.

It doesn’t feel real, I wonder if it ever will.

I try to think of funerals now as a way of celebrating someone’s life, rather than losing them to whatever comes next. It provides little solace for the hole they leave behind, but a small comfort nonetheless.

I look forward to the day I can think about them and not have my breath hitch, the panic setting in, and think of them fondly without breaking down. maybe that future will never come for me.

knowing that every big milestone of my life is tainted by grief for everyone around me, and guilt on my end about the fact that there should’ve been two of us going through it together. I feel guilty for surviving, even though it’s not my fault, and it was a matter of circumstances. It’s weird knowing I’m grieving a half of me, a person I never got to meet and grow up with.

realising I’m going to be utterly alone in a city and have to make new friends and get to know more people. knowing that I have very few friends who reach out first, and eventually they will forget me as they move on with their lives, but I’ll be burdened forever for remembering every detail about them.

totally ideal things to think about to fuel a crisis at 2am