If You Die, I Die Too. The Promise I Made My Daughter Just Before She Died.

“If you die, I die too,” I said to my beautiful daughter, Soraya, the first time I visited her in the youth mental health unit.

I hug her. I tell her how much I need her. I make that promise.

She had just been admitted the night before after I found out she was suicidal. At just 14 years old, she had bravely, heartbreakingly, rang the Kids Helpline and told them that she planned to kill herself that night and gave them my details to ring me.

My husband took her to the ED, and she was admitted.

She doesn’t say much. She accepts my hugs and is quiet and withdrawn. The opposite of my baby girl that I thought I knew so well. I know the Soraya that is loud, bubbly and full of life.

But quiet and withdrawn is so much better than what we are left with three weeks later when she dies by suicide in our home.

The pain, the trauma is deep. Our oldest child, our gorgeous ginger ninja, the love of my life died while I worked in the next room. 

I didn’t understand mental illness, the depth of her despair and how bad life can feel. At least, not until that happened.

Over the coming minutes, hours, weeks and months, I understand so much more that I ever wish I had to. It’s cruel that it came too late to make a difference.

I think back to those words so many times in the coming weeks and months. 

If you die, I die too. 

I lied. I didn’t mean to lie. I want so much for those words to be true. I want to join my baby girl no matter where she is. Whether it’s good, bad or absolutely nowhere. 

But I know my younger sons need me. 

My dad died when I was 17. As much as I try, I can’t fool myself into thinking that they’ll cope without me. That it’ll be ok if I die. Because I know, in my heart, it won’t. I know how great that pain is. I can’t do that to my living kids.

I’m told repeatedly by other grieving parents how our dead kids want us to live a good life. Maybe that helps them, but there is no comfort in those words for me.

Soraya wanted to be with me all the time when she was alive. She would sit next to me while I worked or refuse to leave my room at night, even at 14. Why would she want to be without me now?

But it seems like the one thing you can’t say in parent loss groups. 

I think my daughter would still want me with her.

But the reality is that I can’t justify leaving my boys in case I end up with my girl. It’s a horrific thing to weigh up, but my insides are a big, black abyss of loss. I hurt, I scream, I cry every moment in my soul. I wake up wishing I wasn’t here and struggle to cope through every day.

I realise I did keep my promise to my daughter. Just not in the way I thought I meant it when I said it.

If you die, I die too. 

I might still be alive, but I’m not living. I took my last breath the same moment Soraya did. I just did not realise it at the time.