Dear Mama

Today, I wrote the most personal essay of my life. It’s a letter to my mom, who died on October 17, 1996. Reflecting on her suicide inspired me to write to her:

Dear Mama,

I’ve been so busy this week that October 17th passed almost like a normal day. Almost.

The 17th usually hits me hard. Grief, anger, blame, guilt. Then, a desire to get “through” it.

This year, I made it to the 22nd before I woke up crying.

But this time I wasn’t crying for me. I was crying for you.

Trauma freezes people in time.

Part of me will always be that eight-year-old in 1996 who just found out his mom committed suicide.

For years, I was angry at you. How could you do this to yourself? To us?

But now I’m 35, just one year younger than you were when you died.

Now, I just want to talk to you.

I have so many questions. Do you regret what you did? How could we have helped you? What’s the best way to remember you? I don’t want to remember you this way.

A recurring pain of losing a parent early is that you grieve again with every happy moment they miss.

I miss the life you didn’t live. All the birthdays, every big moment in our lives, the ups and downs, even the pictures on the walls, are all missing you.

I wish I could get a few more days with you to get to know you better.

Would we be friends now, like me and Dad?

I’ve always looked up to you. You were one of the smartest people in the world.

I wish I could learn from you. The good and the bad.

What drove you? What was your greatest ambition in life? What made you the happiest?

How did it fall apart so quickly? Was it just one bad episode, or would you have struggled with it for life?

I feel like I have all the good and bad of you and dad in me, and it’s my job to pick the best of both.

But more than anything, I want you to know that everything turned out okay.

Looking back, I can see the weight of the world on your shoulders. An immigrant with two young kids struggling to succeed in a new career and a new world, with our family in India needing help too.

Don’t worry, mama. It’s all great now, actually. Just wish you were here.

You would be so proud to see the man Samir has become. Your little four year old boy just got married.

And I wish I could see the smile on your face when you hold my kids Kai and Ajay; your grandkids.

Kai is a big boy now. Dad says he’s just like me at that age.

At that age. Loaded words in my mind.

When you died, I tried to grow up right away. I thought I had to be tough, take care of our family.

But I would never expect Kai to bear that burden. I would just hold him, love him, care for him.

In my love for my kids, I found more love for my grieving eight-year-old self.

And when I freed myself from this pain, all I wanted was the same for you.

I don’t know how you took care of us and kept fighting your own battles, all without showing it.

Now I wish I could be there for you as my adult self, to care for you when you needed it.

I hope you found the peace you were searching for your whole life.

Know that I will always love you and carry you with me.

And I always wish you were still here.

Love,
Your son,
Neil

Note:

I wrote this letter in one big stream of consciousness, with tears streaming down my face the whole time.

There’s no “right” way to talk about issues like suicide, but I hope sharing my story will encourage others to explore their own relationship with trauma.

Too many of us suffer quietly in pain. We’re so much stronger together.