Sadder Than Sad

I wake up every single morning to the realization that my sweet 23 year old youngest daughter took her own life. I lie in bed and ponder that fact, in the place where we spent many Saturday mornings talking since she was very little. Before I get up I look at my dresser with the pic of all of us at Disney World when she was little, a pic of her and her sister when they were little, and a school picture of Kaitlyn with a frame made from Popsicle sticks that she ate the Popsicle off of. You can still see the red dye where the Popsicle was. There’s her last bottle of perfume. On the side of the bed that I get up so I can grab my glasses before I put my contact lenses in, there’s the old shelf with some of my books and a few of the ceramic angels she gave me when she was little. This is all before I make it out of bed.

As I walk around the bed, there is the pic of her when she was around 4 years old taken at daycare. A beautiful pic of her and her straight blonde hair and glasses in a pretty dress in front of the pic of a big apple. I turn to walk out of my bedroom door but before I do I pass the pic of her when she is in high school and the very last pic I see in that room is the pic of me and her that she had beautifully framed in her apartment. It’s the one we took in Washington, DC. That is the pic I run my fingers across her image daily. Then I look down and there is the box made from some type of stone that she bought for me once as she knew how I love decorative boxes.

Then I get into the hall and there is the frame with all the pics of our family in our early years and the girls are very young, Kaitlyn is a baby. It’s been there since Kaitlyn was a baby. As I pass it on the other side of the hall is the small spare room where I put so many of Kaitlyn’s things from her apartment when we brought them from it after she died. I feel her presence so much there, her scent often fills the room.

Then I go to my bathroom. It is filled with things she helped me pic out from Bed, Bath, and Beyond when I finally redecorated some of the things in there after years. She helped me pick out some towels and the pretty shower curtain that has butterflies all over it, the beautiful trash can and the toothbrush holder and soap dispenser. The beautiful “Falling Water” soap still sits on my soap holder unused. It’s the last thing she ever gave me, on the last day I ever saw her alive. I can’t use it or it will disappear like she did. Next to the sink is the washcloth holder that she had in her bathroom with nothing on it. In my tub are still remnants of the nonslip decals that are on the bottom that she had applied so expertly and precisely. When she was a teenager and in her bright pink and bright color phase, I let her decorate this bathroom herself, which was mainly used by her (we have 2). After I redecorated there are some of the pink flowers and butterflies I could not remove from the bottom of the tub. They remain. Then there’s Kaitlyn’s shaving cream for her legs I still have and have not used up yet.

I walk out of the bathroom and to the kitchen where I am immediately met by the left end of my refrigerator where I have to this day, and since the very day I put them there, some of the things Kaitlyn drew and made as a child. I still have some of her report cards there, I even have her high school transcript there. On the other side is a post card she sent me from Africa when she went in 2010. It starts, “Dear Parents.” She has never addressed us that way, always “Dear Momma and Daddy” the way she addressed her suicide note. I guess she wanted to sound a little more formal in her postcard.

I go to make my coffee and there is her mixer, her spice rack with all the spices, her nice toaster. I look out my kitchen window and there sits the red wicker sleigh on the ledge that she had put there when she was a little girl, now faded, never having been removed from that spot. I walk past the kitchen table and look at the chair where she always sat. I walk past one of my bookshelves to see another decorative box she bought me with two pictures of her in Africa on either side.

Before I make it to the couch with my coffee, I pass another bookshelf where her bronze baby shoes are, her little porcelain blonde child figurine that has the number 7 at the bottom that was given to her by one of her teachers on her 7th birthday because she loved Kaitlyn so much. They all did. She was their dream student and so very sweet. There also sits a beautifully framed picture of her when she was around 17.

I sit down in my den and look to the left of me on my fireplace mantle and there is a pic of her as a baby looking out to me and beside of it was her footprint that was framed by her grandmother Elkins.

I look to the right of me and in my living room is a room filled with all her living room furniture that inhabited her apartment complete with the large beautiful self-portrait she drew and I had framed. That picture was not in her apartment as she had left all her art work at home when she left for college.

This is what I am faced with EVERY SINGLE DAY that I get out of bed and EVERY SINGLE DAY my heart breaks off into even smaller pieces until I’m sure there will be nothing left to it one day. The intensity of the pain I experience in all of this never decreases. Ever.

Then when I go outside or leave the house, I start this same process with things that remind me of her out there.

Then at night the whole process I described for the morning starts over again only backward. I trace the image of her picture where she and I look out of that pic with happiness in our eyes. I get in bed and again the last thought I have is that my daughter killed herself and she is no longer here and I am sadder than sad and I wonder how a mother can live like this for the rest of her life. I wonder…..and I am sad. So very, very sad.

And then in the morning I awake to the realization that my sweet 23 year old youngest daughter…….


About gatito2

My name is Rhonda. I'm a registered nurse, for the last 20 years, that has not been able to work since the day I learned of my daughter's death by suicide 4-12-13. (She actually died 4-11-13 and her body was not found until the 12th) Me and my husband have been married for 32 years and he's a wonderful man. We grieve in different ways. He works, I write. This is my journey through this horrible land of losing a child..
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20 Responses to Sadder Than Sad

  1. Neal says:

    She’s with me every day, but not like that. I have a few things she gave me, but not a lifetime’s worth. I still miss her so much every day. I love Kaitlyn still.


  2. gatito2 says:

    I know you do Neal. I love her still too and always will.


  3. You describe your emotions so wonderfully, I only wish it was for some other reason, like flowers or birds or trees. This is so hauntingly beautiful, the love and the perpetual agony of your loss is something you will always carry, knowing that hurts as well. God Bless and give you strength with comfort.


  4. gatito2 says:

    Thank you so much for your kind words. I wish I was writing about something else too like the flowers or birds or trees. But to be honest, though these things are beautiful and inspiring, they pale in comparison to the beauty of my daughter inside and out and she was/is my inspiration.


  5. PuppyDoc says:

    Oh Rhonda, my heart cries for you. I’m so very sorry. You have been so strong.


  6. gatito2 says:

    Thank you, but I don’t feel strong.


  7. PuppyDoc says:

    Yes you are. It shows through your writing. You just don’t realize it.


  8. A profound loss such as this, and the way you describe it, leaves me breathless. I am so very sorry.


  9. kpatkins says:

    When I read your writings I hear all the things I kept bottled up inside me, never to discuss those thoughts and feelings that I carried through the day with others, that moment when you first open your eyes in the morning realizing that it’s still real and at times disappointed that God didn’t take me in my sleep to be with Joshua. Then you put your feet on the floor and step into your day, but I had two very young daughters who were just babies to care for when Josh died, I was at times a zombie that never left the house but with busy hands, now after all these years my daughters are all grown up and I still open my eyes in the morning and my first thoughts are of Joshua and how real and painful it still is. Someone posted that you were strong and you didn’t see that to be true, but it is true, you choose not to hide and keep your pain bottled up and because of that your writings are helping so many people, Bless you Rhonda, I wish this path of pain was not yours to have


  10. Their absence is always present. There is no escape. Everything in my life is somehow tied to my son, his imprint is everywhere. What is so terrible is that it’s all over and there will be no more new experiences or memories. Now all we can do is hang on to what we had, and yet, all of that makes us sad.


  11. gatito2 says:

    Thank you. It’s the only thing I can do….write about it. If I could only wish and make things happen….


  12. That is the way I feel about my Kysta in Feb will be 3 yrs and each day is the same as the first for me.


  13. gatito2 says:

    Thank you. I wish the pain was not yours either. I wish no one this and I wish our children did not have to suffer so much they thought this the only choice. I guess I don’t really think of my writing as my being strong as much as I think of it as being a release so I will not explode and die. I imagine I will think the same way in the mornings and when I go to bed until the day I die myself.


  14. gatito2 says:

    You are so right…..unfortunately.


  15. gatito2 says:

    I’m so sorry.


  16. gatito2 says:

    What a horrible thought…to have this feeliing forever.


  17. jmgoyder says:

    I am about to get ready to go out to lunch to celebrate my son’s 20th birthday. Your post about how your day pans out without Kaitlyn stops my breath and makes me realize how lucky I am. Oh how I wish I could help, ease your pain, make you laugh, give you back your beautiful daughter. I am crying for you, while writing this. During lunch today, I will wear my pink necklace as a reminder to me of you, Rhonda. Ming and I send you our love.


  18. Joan Madsen says:

    Feeling your heart and knowing that everything reminds you of your beloved Kaitlyn and your tragic loss. One of our moms on ForMomsOnly said she read an article about how each of us as mothers has within us the cells of our children we have carried in our wombs. That one small, yet very significant piece of knowledge has brought me comfort knowing that I still carry Douglas within me always. A small consolation, indeed, yet something to ponder and heal into.

    Heart to heart and Hand in hand we walk this path alone and yet together too. Oh, how I wish there were not a parent on the planet that had to know this tragic loss. I’m SO terribly sorry that we do…
    Joanie/Mother of Douglas


  19. gatito2 says:

    Thank you so much for doing that. Never take anything for granted. I am comforted in the fact that I never took Kaitlyn for granted in any way, I cherished her with all my heart and soul and knew how lucky I was to have her in my life. It’s just so horrible to lose that.


  20. gatito2 says:

    I wish no one had to endure this loss too Joanie. That is a comforting thought about the cells though. I run my hands across things that Kaitlyn handled often like her pocketbook and such and hope some of her skin cells rub off on me. Sounds sad I know, but I do.


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