I was just preparing my breakfast with the radio on and heard a fun poll asking if its okay to light a candle in some church for some pilot who used his airplane to suicide and killed 149 people along with him. One girl called and said, lighting a candle for the killer of these victims was disgusting, since he was responsible for all of those deaths.
This made me think about my mother and how she passed. And with being reminded of how she ended her life, I had my mind running all wild about everything which had happened in advance of her death. So I thought maybe I should write about it, even tho I said I wouldn’t want to write about death anymore. But as I see, death is a part of our living and there we go:
When I tell people my mother ended her life comitting suicide, I always get this compassionate expression on their faces and have them telling me they feel sorry for me. In that situation I tell them it’s fine because I am honestly all fine with her death. It may seem cold to say I don’t miss that woman and I do not even regret her passing, but I want to be understood in this case.
My mother was very very sick on her mind and this for a long long time. Her condition was a burden for not just herself – I would say not even for herself consciously – but it was for us kids. We were there trapped with her, since she was this adult responsible for us. This adult who was supposed to protect and teach us. The adult we were supposed to love and trust and depend ourselves on. With a mother suffering from undiagnosed schizzophrenia you grow up in a twisted, dark, invisible super version of Alice’s wonderland and because you are a child exposed to this environment, you grow up believing this is how it’s supposed to be.
You got your mother projecting things from her head, into your every day environment and you grow into it. This is irreversible.
When I was born, my mother rejected me emotionally because I was born the female gender. This was not her fault, because she was sick. But because of her inability to accept and love me, I’ve grown up refused the most standard of all emotions a child should experience. I haven’t been and I remained unloved. I was teached unworthyness and did only function with obedience. If we wanted to say it the harsh way: I was raised to be the perfect slave. There was no space for me to demand and I would not even have this idea pop into my head to demand a shit for myself, because in my world this option was nonexistent.
My brother on the other side, was risen above everything. He was loved without condition and overly protected, even praised. Eversince and forever. He was granted freedom I have never known of.
If you want it, I was always trying to accomplish and do something to gain my mother’s love, while he would just run free without any boundaries and he could do mistake after mistake without ever being seen mistaken.
We were both harmed incredibly.
I’ve grown up to be this saint-like victim, incapable of harming others. All helpless and always aiming to please. And he was this rebell-child, never obeying rules because they wouldn’t count for him. Getting into first fights in kindergarden with a mother cheering for her “man”, doing drugs in school with yet again having his mother defend him because “boys” would have to make experiences within the progress of becoming a “man” and in the end of his story, even be trapped in this gangsta scene, running around with his gun and collection of all sorts of weapons – without her questioning a thing. She would just love him.
We were both of us fighting our battles with our mother, helpless and misunderstood, because of her inability to see this world as the real thing. All we had was us, holding on to each other and protecting each other. My brother never meant to do me any harm. He suffered with me all of these years, jumping in the fireline to save me from her attacks and I was there to guide him the best way possible, but her disease was stronger than us. It was there, floating, infiltrating even our brains. And while my believe in God saved me, my brother was sinking with her.
I remember we had some conversations during these last days before everything ended in ruins, discussing our mother and her disease. We shared the depths of our hearts, all of the unspoken truths. We found each other in our seperated stories and we both had agreed: This woman was so far from reality, so incredibly damaged – life was not for her. We loved her both desperately but we had to rationally agree, the day she’d die would be a relief for her and also for us.
I had been married and divorced after seven years at this time and he had been living at the farthest city from her within our country for five years, but again we were there in her house united with her demons. It was so obvious we would never get away from her influence. She would never let us live free. Again I was her maid and her emotional garbage, taking care of her everything while in the night hours she wouldn’t stop complaining about how useless I was. And he would pay her 300 Euro almost daily from the prey he got from his raiding activities, without her even asking where it came from. I even remember her going all wild on me, complaining and shit-talking about my useless existence, while stitching his holster for his gun so he could wear it on his back.
He had not yet reached the peak of his malicious madness, when he suggested he would have to cut her throat at night and it would be a proper lesson for me to see how her body would dissolve in battery acid in the upstairs bathtub. Just sayin’. (That’s a true quote here)
So, looking back and living this incredible new life away from all of it, working and cooking and having actual fun with my son – all of these things which I had considered impossible – I am really all fine with her suicide. And I am not cold or harsh to have this opinion about it being the best which could have happened to her and us. It’s just a fact, some diseases are not to be cured and then death is a relief.
In the case of that pilot, I would say: Light him a candle, because also he was a victim of a disease and he needed help he did not recieve.