Three Years…

If you told me three years ago, I would still be in and out of grief counselling and on the highest dosage of anti-depressants I’ve ever been on during my 12 years of my depression diagnosis, I’d call you crazy.
Yet, it’s me who feels like the crazy one; I’m 24 years old, still using the toxic coping mechanisms I was using from the age of 10, my mood swings are ridiculous, the darkness and brain fog I struggle through day in day out is getting heavier and I’m really just fed up, if I’m totally honest.
But I made a promise to myself I’d always write a post on this day because I am constantly wanting to try and understand my grief, and be open about it because it’s a real thing every single person goes through. My grief over someone I didn’t know. I still feel shame, embarrassment and like a complete and utter failure to my friends & family, but there has to be some sort of validity to it if it’s making me feel quite this bad, or so my therapist says.

I’ve not had a recurring nightmare for a long time, so when I started having the same nightmare almost every night for the last 4/5 weeks, it’s sending me into this cesspit of despair. I’m not going into the ins and outs of it until I get to finally speak to my therapist after this godawful lockdown, but I can say it does involve Chris.
Most days, I can sit and if any of his songs come on, I can sing along, smile and not think too much about the ending of his life. Then there are the “doom days,” those are the days I have panic attack after panic attack, migraines galore, fits of rage and hysterical crying. I have absolutely no control over my body when these days happen. I relapse with my self harm every single one of these days occur. I feel like I regress back into being this terrified 11 year old who’s scared of the world and doesn’t want to live long enough to experience it.
Not long after Chris died, I was staying at one of my aunt’s for the night down in Glasgow and, like the majority of my family, she was heavily into music, and we’d talk about it for hours. She genuinely seemed to be worried about how I was coping with the news of his death. So when she asked, I folded like a deckchair. I bawled my eyes out because it was so relieving to have someone in my life who didn’t really see me very often, but knew me, knew what I was like and I knew she wasn’t going to go to my parents and explain what I was telling her.
At this point, I had only been to one counseling session for grief. My aunt, who understands mental health better than anyone else I know, simply said “it’s understandable why you feel like this. You lost a mentor.” And it was like this weight on my chest had been lifted off. After 5 long months of struggling to breathe at the mention of his name, there was some form of explanation.
Hearing her explain the way my parents separated, I had gone from seeing my father everyday to every other week for a couple of days and I always sought out comfort in music, so music was a constant parent for me, it was unreal to me. I have looked up to so many people in music throughout my life, and losing any of them to suicide especially, floors me because they’re the ones who have dragged me out of that place.
Not only did Chris’ suicide affect me in ways I could never have imagined, but TMZ decided to release the pictures of the scene from his hotel room, and those images still haunt me. I didn’t seek these out before anyone starts to accuse me. Someone I barely know on social media messaged me them one by one. Obviously, no body was there, but seeing his guitar sitting next to his bed, his sunglasses and medication on the table, it was just like a normal scene and then there was the bathroom…having the image of Chris’ blood up splashed up against the side of a bath and on the floor has never left me. Trying to heal from that? It’s like asking the impossible of me.
I’ve lost so many more heroes since Chris left us three years ago. A lot of them due to medical issues, and that’s a little bit easier to work through the grief of that because it’s explainable. I watch Soundgarden’s last show in Detroit an hour before he took his own life every so often, and yes, it’s hell to watch it because his eyes seem a little heavy and he doesn’t feel completely present, but his voice still soars and he still holds fans’ hands for dear life. The stage was his happy place. So to know he stepped off that stage, went into a car back to his hotel room, called his wife to say he took an extra dose of his anti-anxiety medication and then he was gone by the time his security guard to knock down his door all within that hour sends chills down my spine everytime I think about it.
The sheer amount of lives his words, his voice and his general being have saved and given purpose to fills me with so much guilt because no one could get to him in time. No one could save one of the people I admire the most in this world.
I’ve realised during this time that I’m not weak for asking for help. I may feel embarrassed and ashamed, but I shouldn’t. Trying to realise that my feelings are valid is near impossible most days, but I’m reminded by so many people they matter and that it’s OK not to be OK.
If anyone is struggling, please do not hesitate to speak to your GP or a helpline like Samaritans, because the hardest part is the initial plea for help. It’s so fucking difficult, I can’t even begin to put it into words, but once it’s done, there’s plans in place, you feel about 193857lbs lighter and it makes you worry a little less than you did the day before.
I know it’s extremely boring when I spew out my thoughts but I owed this to myself to bring myself to do this today, so if you read this, thank you.
Loud love. Always.