Dear Neve

Lost for words. That’s how it feels. I haven’t written to you since September, not that I haven’t thought about it, I just haven’t had the words. Today is New Year’s Eve, the second without you here, the second without your laughter and excitement. Christmas holds its own demons for the grieving. When you’re missing such an important part of your own family, to be force fed happy families and even happier times, it makes that already gaping hole in your chest feel like its been filled with an arctic blast of epic proportions. Saying that, this year wasn’t as bad as last. Ive learned that taking each day as it comes is the key, not planning anything, expecting less. Christmas is all about planning the most amazing time with your family and friends but our family is no longer complete without you so, sod the planning, we’ll just take a smattering of happiness from time to time. We got through it, there were tears, lots of beautiful, precious memories and surprisingly, some smiles a...

I don’t remember the day of your celebration of life as a sad day. It was a day of remembrance and love, such overwhelming love. I worried about every little detail, hoping I wasn’t letting you down. I knew you should have a horse drawn carriage but then couldn’t decide on the horses. The grief fog made it nearly impossible to make a decision and in the end the funeral director had to advise me to choose black horses and they were just beautiful. Black horses, a white carriage and a white coffin in which you lay hidden away like the sleeping beauty you were. As we followed the carriage from our home, your home, I cried. I remember shivering but it wasn’t cold. We walked solemnly behind your carriage up the road which we’d lived on for most of your short life. A road that saw you in a pram with your nan lovingly pushing you up and down. A road we walked up and down every day for nursery, then school. A road that took us on our adventures with Zac, come rain or shine. I could a...

“Time is free, but it's priceless. You can't own it, but you can use it. You can't keep it, but you can spend it, but once you've lost it you can never get it back” Our time ran out and we remain broken hearted as we always will. A year has passed and it feels like it passed so quickly, almost in the blink of an eye yet at the same time I feel like I’m walking up the longest hill with my feet dredging through the thickest of mud, making my journey long and arduous. You were our whole damn sky Neve and the day you left our sky shattered and the shards pierced our hearts. We’ve just spent the anniversary of your death in Anglesey. I woke early on August 4th and walked with Zac past the point in the garden where we buried the little jar of your ashes last year, to the top of the cottage garden to watch the sunrise. It was peaceful and tranquil. I noticed rabbits scurrying quickly away and a field full of cows who were less surprised, just curious of the strange ...

So, just like that a year has gone. 12 months, 365 days, 8760 hours, all spent wondering what went wrong, why it happened. What causes an intelligent, beautiful young woman with hopes and dreams for her future to suddenly decide to throw in the towel. I have my theories but thats for another time because your story will be told Neve. I will make sure of it. If it stops this tragedy happening to another family then your story might just help and your death will not have been in vain. As I entered your room on that hot summers afternoon I expected to find you in bed asleep with your headphones on. You’d not been sleeping all that well and I naively thought your mood swings were being contributed to by that lack of sleep. Did you see the sheer terror on my face Neve, did you see me struggling to help you? Did you hear my screams, did you see your brothers face with its look of horror and disbelief. Did you see and feel your dad and I giving you CPR for what felt like hours before the ...

Have you ever wondered what hurts the most, saying something and wishing you had not, or saying nothing and wishing you had? In answer to that, both hurt equally Neve. As your anniversary hurtles towards us at the speed of light I still think of our many conversations and of course the ones we didn’t have. The past few weeks have been so hard, working in school the old displays have to be mercilessly ripped down in anticipation of fresh new displays for the autumn term and taking down those displays that I put up only last year served to remind me of the year that had past, a year of heartbreak and change beyond recognition. I remember putting up certain displays as if it were yesterday, the relief I felt at the end of term, happy another school year had ended and I was looking forward to the holidays, time spent with those I loved. We’d just lost your uncle John but with his death came a sense of relief because the active, witty, intelligent man that we knew and loved was no longer...

It’s coming up to twelve months since we sat and watched your uncle John wither and age before our very eyes as the cancer took hold. At first it took his voice, a voice I miss so much, because he always had a wise word or a sarcastic comment, you loved that about him too, he was always interested in what you were doing at college. Often he’d joke about your choice in clothing because for some strange reason clothing had to have holes, so your jeans with holes in the knees that cost me a fortune were a subject of great entertainment to him. Then, on the 12th of July the cancer having spread, wreaking havoc on his body, it stole his last breath. You came and witnessed how heartbroken we all were Neve, overwhelmingly sad at losing such a well loved family member to the most hideous of diseases. I’ve thought back to those days so much. Had you already made your plan to leave? I go over every hour meticulously looking at each moment in time wondering what I’d missed, the memori...

There are between five and seven stages of grief, depending on which book or blog you read or which google search attracts your attention. Yance Ford wrote “Grief is a very complicated monster, there’s no real exorcism of it. It has a different form every day” I've found that to be so true Neve, when you decided to leave you left the door open and in entered a monstrous entity called grief. What I’ve found is that grief is as individual as the person experiencing it. Let me tell you about my five stages since you left. Denial. I never knew a person could be in shock for such a long time, I remember when the shock lifted a little and the tendrils of overwhelming sadness seeped into my brain, making me cry uncontrollably for hours on end. The aftermath of trying to make sense of a nonsensical situation.  How can you cope with and process something that you truly do not understand? Prior to your death, I didn’t really know anyone who had died by suicide, 10 months before you wen...

We all make wishes. Every human being on earth will have made a wish at some point in their lives. Sadly, wishes become a way of expressing our want for something but not necessarily our need. Things like I wish I had a new car when the car you’re driving still drives perfectly. I wish I had a bigger house when the house you already have is big enough and adequate for your needs, you get the idea. No, the best wishes are the ones from the heart, the ones that express our heartfelt desires. I’ve been thinking a lot about your multitude of wishes Neve and my biggest regret is that you couldn’t have all your wishes come true. You’d often say you wished you had your own pony, I wish that too, would it have made you stay? You would say you wished you lived in Wales, I remember one holiday when you were about fifteen driving around looking for a cottage you’d found on Rightmove and were insisting on seeing, you thought if we saw it we’d be packing up and moving to Anglesey straight away...

As each day passes it gets harder and harder to remember your laughter. I remember your face with ease as I can see it in the hundreds of photographs I have of you, but your voice and laugh, well, thats harder. I have videos but somehow seeing you move and dance and laugh and talk, so alive, makes your absence hurt so much more and some days the sting of those tears that the videos inevitably bring are far too razor sharp to bear.  You were so funny Neve, I miss that. You were so sarcastic but never in a cruel or hurtful way, just quick witted. A sarcastic comment would be followed with that infectious laugh of yours.  You had a real knack of being able to mimic accents too, from your take on who lives in a house like this in the voice of Keith Lemon to I want to blow up the world in the voice of Gru. We miss you doing Zac’s voice too, sadly, he has been left incapable of speech since you left. I remember our road trips with you in charge of the music, singing ...

I remember with such clarity the day I took the pregnancy test and found out I was pregnant with you. I was scared, excited and apprehensive and yet I felt like the luckiest woman on earth. I made sure I read every pregnancy book and magazine I could get my hands on and just like every first time mum, I worried about every little ache or twinge I felt. I marked off each trimester, counting down the days until I met you, I loved you. I loved you from the very moment I knew you were there. You were two weeks late and as I went into labour in the early hours of a Tuesday morning in May 2000, your dad and I were so excited to finally meet you, two days later we were still waiting! You arrived on a rainy Thursday morning by emergency Caesarian section and we used to tell you that you came through the sunroof which always made you laugh.  The days leading up to your birth were so frightening, I’d lay listening to your heartbeat on the monitor, unconcerned about my own heartbeat bec...

Shame is one of the emotions thats surfaces from time to time. I’m not ashamed of what you did Neve, far from it, you held on for as long as you could, trying your hardest to help us grieve for another much loved family member that we lost just before you. No, I could never be ashamed of you, you are the bravest person I know. Depression is a killer and the deep, dark depression that manifests itself to create suicidal ideation must have been so very frightening and painful for you and it breaks my heart when I think of how you spent your final moments on earth battling those demons and feeling so alone. No I’m ashamed of myself. I’m ashamed that I thought as a family we were untouchable to such tragedy. I’m ashamed that I never even considered suicide to be an option. Ashamed of my naivety. But you see, you were sensible and kind, thoughtful and good so why would I? I remember you coming home from college and telling me how a girl in the year below had died by suicide, you were s...

A bus passed me the other day and I glanced up to the top deck at the front where I’d often see you sat with your friends. A young girl with blonde hair was sat at the front, she wore round sunglasses and was staring intently at her phone. For a split second I thought it was you and my heart missed a beat. I realised at that moment that I will look for you forever, even though I know you’re no longer here. This I know because what’s left of you are just ashes, placed in a rather ugly green poly urn by the crematorium staff. You said in your note “I don’t want to hurt anyone” but how could you not Neve? That sentence makes me so angry. I don’t want to hurt anyone seems flippant and uncaring, but I suppose because I can’t hear your voice saying it or see your face as you speak the words I have the power of making it sound as loving or as uncaring as I like. That’s part of the tragedy isn’t it? Your irrational, impulsive act means you’re no longer here to defend yourself. You can’t tel...

There’s a name for a fear of time, chronophobia. Since we lost you its not that I fear time, its more of a loathing of time passing. I loathe that each minute takes me another 60 seconds away from the last time I saw you alive. Every Saturday I find myself rewinding back to the Saturday we lost you. It’s like when you can’t find something in your bag so you take each item out and place it carefully on the table searching for the lost thing. The same happens to my memory, its cluttered and I’m forever searching for the reason why. So I find myself regularly thinking about each hour of that day, from when I woke you up to walk Zac with me and you refused saying you were still tired, to making you the bacon and egg sandwich for your breakfast when we got back from helping your aunty with some trellis. Your annoyance at your Grandads phone call, each thing plays like a broken record from that busy, normal Saturday and I keep on searching like someone deranged for the lost thing that wil...

They say with hindsight comes 20:20 vision. When you told me you were feeling a bit anxious I didn’t know that less than 48 hours later you’d be gone. Instead of doing the normal mum thing of reassuring you and telling you everything would be ok, the thing I always did, the thing that had always been the right thing to do. Instead of that, I should have asked you the true extent of your anxiety, I should have asked if you’d thought about suicide. I would have told you how loved you were and how if you left us every day would be a living nightmare. But I didn’t do any of those things because I didn’t know the true extent of your pain, I didn’t know you’d made your plan to leave us and I didn’t know the true extent of suicide grief. A grief so horrible that even the most ingenious minds amongst us could never imagine how truly terrifying it is. When you lose a loved one to suicide its like an emotional A-bomb has been detonated and the fallout of emotions are just exhausting. They ra...

Looking back on our lives before the horror of that hot Saturday afternoon in August last year is almost like watching a well loved film. I see the characters, I sense the love they all have for each other. I hear the arguments and the laughter. I see the smiles, the tears, the mundane, the pride and the joy of being part of such a loving family. It’s all there and my memory allows me to rewind and keep watching my favourite parts over and over again. When you left, the film came to an abrupt end. It was as if you, the scriptwriter, decided enough was enough, lets end it here. We entered our new lives very different people to those I remember. Of course we look the same and talk the same but our lives have been forever altered by that one tragic act and our memories are so important now as they link us to that old life, the one where you were in it and had the starring role. Since you left I’ve found comfort in looking at photos of our time together. All the christmases we share...

I don’t think there is a collective noun phrase for a group of firsts but if you think about it firsts happen all the time. First birthdays, first job, first love, first home, the list goes on. When we have our first child and you see that first smile, the first time they make a noise that sounds like dada or mama, the first time they crawl or walk, perhaps collectively they should be called a devotion of firsts or an adoration of firsts. I remember clearly the first time you lifted your leg up and found your feet, you were obsessed with your foot and I remember phoning your nan and excitedly telling her you’d found your feet as if no baby in the history of the planet had ever found their feet! That’s what parents do though, we celebrate every smile, every word, every moment. Yes, I think adoration is a particularly good word for these kind of firsts. An adoration of firsts. So what should we call a group of firsts that happen when we've lost someone of great importan...

There are no happy endings. Endings are by far the saddest part of being human. With endings comes grief. Although grief is not a bad thing, grief is love and it helps us heal. If you allow yourself time to grieve properly you can emerge from the grief fog a better person than before with more empathy and understanding for your fellow humans. However, suicide grief is relentless with its infinite what ifs and if only’s Neve. It’s like a thick, heavy, cloying perfume that descended and stuck to our very being as soon as we knew you’d gone. Initially it was like it had anaesthetic properties and made us numb allowing us to deal with all the things your death threw at us. After a while the shock anaesthesia of the grief perfume wore off and we were left broken, overwhelmingly sad shells of our former selves. The mum who on many occasions had to pull the car over because your silly jokes had me crying with laughter now pulls over just because the uncontrollable tears won’t stop. It ...

I’ve often wished I could see you and tell you all about the day that you decided to leave and all the days since. I’ve wanted to put how I’m feeling into words for so long but grief has the weirdest affect on your brain. One day you’re full of words and thoughts and feelings and the next day its like a thick fog descends and you just function, applauding yourself for just getting out of bed.  Time waits for no one, time is precious, time flies, time heals all wounds. It’s a popular thing, time. When we are young we wish our time away and when we get older or ill we always wish there was more time. I often wonder what you thought the day you decided to leave, did you think you’d had all the time you needed? The day you left, time stood still. The seconds turned into minutes, which turned into hours which turned into days, weeks and months. Nothing strange there, yet even though we felt the shift of time and how basically ‘life goes on’ it didn’t for us, it froze on tha...