I started seeing a counselor in February when I saw B in her car again and realized where this was headed and how powerless I was to stop it. That counselor was like a love struck junior cheerleader who did little but encourage me to talk and cheer me on. Her utter uselessness was recognized by my son, Ben, when he came to a session with me after Faerin passed. I fired her in June.
My 23 year old independent, talented and beautiful daughter was the goddess to me. From the moment she was born with the female bits instead of the other ones, every movement, every breath, every bellow of frustration seems to come from the center of perfect femininity. My darling Faerin.
Idiot. It’s a term of endearment, really. Fae was very proud of her status as a professional idiot, it meant the world to her, and to me. Going back to B after the incident in January made her an idiot too. Thinking for even one fleeting second about ending her beautiful life makes her an idiot as well.
But losing her made me an idiot. A mindless, empty, lost idiot without enough sense to even watch TV. My promotion was sudden and unexpected but thankfully only parts of it appear to have been permanent.
You may or may not know that when a human hears of another human’s death, a very common response it to ask, “What happened?” I asked the police officer in my living room, after I caught my breath.
I didn’t break down, I didn’t gasp or shriek or faint or any of those things. I knew. I’d known she was a t risk, I just thought I’d have more time to help free her. I knew and I swallowed hard and I put my hands over my mouth and I asked, “What happened?” They didn’t know. They knew she was dead, they knew she died in Grand Ledge, they had a form for me to fill out giving the Grand Ledge police permission to search the car. That was it. Everything beyond that was a mystery.
I like muffins. I like selecting the recipes, adding ingredients, observing the alchemy that turns flour and fruit into cakes. They’re fun.
I’m kind of over them though. I know that my GoFundMe still sells the idea that I will spread muffins around the globe but I no longer see a lot of muffins in my future. I have made many muffins, gone to two ren fests over several days and learned many things. Mostly that people don’t really want muffins from a dead girl. No clue why…
My future looks more like a campaign to prevent suicide or promote the right to death with dignity than a bake sale. I need more time and ideas, but there is a powerful shift in the direction this energy is heading in. Less muffiny, for sure.
I want to engage teens at risk for suicide with the idea that their family and friends would have done anything to avoid the pain of survivorship. Maybe a video library of stories from surviving parents, family and friends? Something, someday…
Painting. I’ve been focused (to one degree or another) on painting for about a year and a half now.
Faerin and I were going to provide all the labor ourselves, but we only completed the front of the house before winter set in and we had planned to restart the project in June. By June I knew I needed professional help. I hired a co-worker’s family to complete the ladder work and they did a good job. But, as my neighbor pointed out today, they didn’t do as good a job as Faerin and I did.
For us, painting was a statement, an action, a meditation on the future and our place in it. Every stroke meant something.
The first thing I put in my journal after Faerin died.
When they come
To tell you she’s gone
They don’t take no for an answer
They come into your house
They don’t use euphemisms
They don’t sit down
They watch you fall apart and apologize for destroying your world
They wait and wait and wait for the next wave of useless, impotent faces to arrive
When they come
They can’t answer your questions
They have no information
They’re only doing their job
They didn’t know her
They never saw her dance
Never heard her laugh
Never held her while she slept
Never stroked her hair
Or heard her tell them
I love you
I knew her – once
Every inch, every moment
Every favorite thing
I knew her music, her food, her stories
Where did it go wrong?
Knowing her is heaven when she’s here and hell when she’s gone
You can’t miss what you didn’t know
If you never saw her dance, you can’t miss the beauty
I miss her beauty
I miss her laugh
I miss her jokes
I miss her music
I miss her style
I miss her voice
I miss her
I miss her
God, I miss her
This blog has been here a while now, looking for a reason to exist. I think I’ll use it for my new life.
What if I am the wise peacock? I am reasonably wise and I am on a journey to share my inner beauty with the world, what if that counts? I imagine it will if I decide that it will. I can set my intention for it.
If nothing else, this will make a good spot to process my journey from asexual, isolated, single mother of 3 (or 4, depending on the year) to goddess. I will coax the goddess from within my life and give her the respect and space to fully express herself.
I can and I will.
In the meantime, there’s lots to share and add and grow here. So let’s get to it!
It’s hard for me to read my previous post here. I really want to delete it, forget it before anyone sees how naive I was, how immature.
On May 19, 2015 my 23 year old daughter, Faerin Sinéad Cassidy, died. While her abusive boyfriend was on the scene and the only witness, the police are likely to chalk it up to suicide and let him go and destroy some other family.
It’s not the substance of my earlier rant that embarrasses me, it’s the lack of depth. While I considered the rights of the suicidal person, I neglected to consider the impact on family and friends who are caught by surprise when a loved one makes the decision to kill themselves in secret.
They don’t end their pain, they merely pass it on to us.
And it sucks. It sucks a lot.
But I’m surviving. With the help of my family and friends I am thriving. My daughter’s death shocked me back to life and I’m going to live it.