During the first few months after my daughter’s suicide, I learned that people could be put into one of three categories. The first group was made up of people who were genuinely there for me, not surprisingly these were family and close friends. Showing up with a bucket of ice cream and two spoons; content to binge-watch TV with me if that was all I had the energy or attention for. But it was the random people that showed up in the most incredible ways that convinced me they must’ve been heaven sent. Read the rest of this personal story at The Globe and Mail…
The third group, though small, were made up of those who caused harm. The one person whom I could never imagine walking away did just that. She ghosted me. As the term implies, she vanished from my life. Admittedly, I hadn’t been the most attentive friend in the early months of my loss – I rarely answered the phone and was slow at responding to texts – but ghosting? Really? With limited emotional reserves, I attempted to reach out, to no avail.
Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick for The Globe and Mail