Rubynea
New Member
On the spur of the moment, I decided to write down the following sentence: When I was eight years old, my mother attempted to take her own life by taking pills, and I found her already unconscious. She survived the attempt because I called the police. Over the decades, I’ve occasionally told friends, my husband, and even my therapist about this incident. However, I never consciously asked myself how I felt about it. I have never put a name to those feelings. Answering this question felt very relieving to me, but I also felt something old fall away inside me—especially the feelings of guilt that, as a child, I must have had something to do with it. Allowing myself to give my feelings a place on paper and taking myself seriously in the process were very soothing. I was able to honestly tell myself that things happened, but that I don’t bear any responsibility for other people’s decisions. Since then, I’ve repeatedly felt a strong urge in my body to take a deep breath.