Dear Neve

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...