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July 2020 | REDONLINE.CO.UKIn February 2000, six
weeks after I had left
my childhood home
in Melbourne, Australia,
to live in London, my
mother died by suicide.
She had attempted
suicide a number of
times over the previous
10 years and I had spent
much of my teenage years mentally preparing
for that phone call. Yet somehow, after all
those years, I had become so accustomed
to the ebbs and flows of her illness that the
reality of her life ending felt sudden and
unfathomable. I was just beginning my adult
life and hers had ended.
After a couple of weeks back at home with my
brothers and my dad, I put everything in storage
and returned to my new life in London. Back to
a brand-new job and flatmates, none of whom
had known me for more than a few weeks. I was
beginning afresh. I was surrounded by people
who didn’t know my mother, or about her illness,
or the fact I had been her carer for many years.
I missed her a lot. And yet there was something
else that was hard to admit to anybody. The
sadness was tinged with relief. The phone call
I had been waiting for had come and now I was
no longer holding my breath. With my dad living
in LA since my parents’ divorce when I was 13
and my eldest brother also in the US, it was an
easy decision to stay in London and start a career
I was really excited about.
I rarely told anyone how she died. It was easily
avoided since no one knew her and most people
wouldn’t dream of asking. The few times I volunteered
the information I was reminded of why it wasn’t a good
idea. Anguish and discomfort flashed across faces.
Some were so shocked or upset that I found myself
comforting them.
Though my mother had been very unwell
for great chunks of my teenage years, she was
also incredibly self-aware. We would spend
hours chatting about all the things that had
led to her breakdown. She became a great
friend and mentor to the many other people
she spent extended periods in hospital with.
Through her I learned so much about those
who experience the most intense kinds of
mental suffering. Though we were surrounded
by a world that still ignored and spoke in
hushed tones about depression and suicide,
I inhabited one in which it was spoken about
freely, openly and without blame.
But after my mother died I was too tired
with grief to educate others. It was easier to
stay silent, knowing that if I told people how
she died they would likely think she was a
terrible mother. And nothing was further from
the truth. I remained quiet and allowed people
to assume she had died of something more
socially acceptable. Many years earlier, I
remember my mother howling over how alone
she felt and that she wished she had cancer
instead of depression. Then at least more
people would understand.
I missed her dearly when I had exciting news
I wanted to share, but it was a manageable,
melancholic kind of longing. I had barely been
an adult when she died, so I struggled to
imagine how it would be to have a mother to turn to
with adult worries and excitement. But it was nothing
compared to the acute pain of when things went wrong
and I needed her. A fresh grief that felt as prominent as
it did the day she died. That afternoon in September
when I was living in New York, the city smouldering
and cloaked in a thick black layer, with many
thousands presumed dead. The moment my son was
born early, not breathing and had to be resuscitated.
And 18 months later when his development slowed
to almost a standstill and I had the creeping feelingLosing her
mother by
suicide came
with immense
sadness and
some small relief
for Penny
Wincer. Here, she
celebrates their
unbreakable
bond with love
and gratitudePenny
with her
mother and
brothers,
Ash and
Pip, in
1985.