Jen and I were exactly the same age and she died between our birthdays. I’d just turned 31 and she was 30. I still find the fact that time stopped for her difficult, I think I’m more aware because as pages turn and time passes for me, but it stands still for her. I feel like I’ve left her behind, and that’s still devastating.
For a long time after, I thought Jen’s death was inevitable, a result of incurable illness (bipolar disorder.) I have realised that deaths are preventable and governments choose not to address the root causes. Knowing this doesn’t help with my grief or the pain. But it galvanises me to think about what I can do and where my energy needs to go in the future.
I thought I would be healed with time. I am not. The shape of my grief changes, the strength of it waxes and wanes. Some days it’s simply a small pang that she’s no longer here and her potential remains unfulfilled and other days the enormity hits me like a train: an initial impact and then being pulled along in the vacuum behind.
Suicide is a word other people struggle to hear but one that I’m not afraid to say anymore. I look people directly in the eye and gift them the word. Because if we are unable to talk about it how can we ever remove the stigma enough to prevent it? It took me at least two years to get here.
My default is to be funny, make punchlines, people please and make things ok for other people. I am learning to accept my sadness and not make it funny. To retreat into it and to allow it to percolate for a short while is better than pretending it’s not there and laughing through.
About Isabelle Farah
Isabelle Farah is a British-Lebanese actor, comedian, and writer. Her cousin, Jen, died by suicide in January 2017. Isabelle has written a live show, Ellipsis, about grief and performing through it, which was commended for the Screenshot award for writer/performers in 2020.
You can follow Isabelle on Twitter and Instagram
You can book tickets for her show, here
www.isabellefarah.com
