(3-18-16)
By Doris Fuller
It was a year ago today (Mar. 14, 2016) my daughter Natalie ended her six-year battle with severe mental illness by stepping in front of a train in Baltimore.
I could tell you all the pain and guilt and sheer hunger for her presence have been at least as bad as you might imagine. I could say I’ve decided “closure” is the dumbest word in the English language. I could describe how scary and humbling it is to feel like your brain has gone into a fog bank that will never clear.
People often ask me how I have kept going. I say it just happens. You put one foot in front of the other. A day passes, a week, a month. And now a year. It’s not easy.
Sometimes people ask how I’m able to talk to audiences about mental illness when she died of it. Answering that is easy. I say I’m one of the lucky ones because I’m an advocate. I can channel my sorrow into change for all the other Natalies.
After I wrote about her death in the Washington Post, I heard from so many people who aren’t lucky like me. Young adults with mental illness fighting for their lives. Families shunned by neighbors and friends because they had a son or daughter or spouse who was sick. Suicide survivors who had lost not one child but two, or whose loved one took someone else’s life, too. A world of hurt.