Batgirl

Jane, our artist, asked us to make some ‘talking heads’ and attach messages to them which we feel are important. I donated some plastic buoys I had sitting in the front garden, which are roughly head size and fit with the nautical theme of ‘Slipping Through the Net’.

After covering my buoy with tissue paper and painting it white, I felt that I wanted to do a very simple design and was drawn to the idea of a Lego face. I decided to paint it bright yellow and turn it into Batgirl, Batman’s sassy girlfriend who generally seems a bit wiser and less clueless than him.

Why Batgirl?, Jane asked. I had to think about that. Perhaps I wanted a Lego character because I enjoyed watching the first Lego movie with my kids when they were younger. I didn’t expect to like it, but I appreciated the unexpected message that maybe there aren’t always clear cut sides. Perhaps the person we regard as our enemy has their own reasons for doing what they do. Maybe, once we begin to understand them, it will be possible to reconcile and find common goals.

But why Batgirl in the context of an art project on suicide bereavement? I think the answer for this is that, even though my sister took her life when her illness overcame her, I don’t want to allow the day she died to overshadow the rest of her life. Nor would it be right to just remember the happier, almost carefree times before she became ill, and try to block out the rest.

When I chose Batgirl for my talking head, I was thinking of the seven and a half years during which my sister Liz battled psychosis, a life-changing illness which has a lot of misunderstanding and stigma attached to it.

I was also thinking of a quote I came across soon after Liz’s death which gave me some comfort. It is from ‘The Healing of Sorrow’ by Norman Vincent Peale and is taken from a eulogy for someone who took their own life:

Our friend died on his own battlefield. He was killed in action fighting a civil war. He fought against adversaries that were as real to him as his casket is real to us. They were powerful adversaries. They took toll of his energies and endurance. They exhausted the last vestiges of his courage and strength. At last these adversaries overwhelmed him. And it appeared that he lost the war. But did he? I see a host of victories that he has won!

For one thing — he has won our admiration — because even if he lost the war, we give him credit for his bravery on the battlefield. And we give him credit for the courage and pride and hope that he used as his weapons as long as he could. We shall remember not his death, but his daily victories gained through his kindnesses and thoughtfulness, through his love for family and friends, for animals and books and music, for all things beautiful, lovely and honorable. We shall remember the many days that he was victorious over overwhelming odds. We shall remember not the years we thought he had left, but the intensity with which he lived the years he had!

Only God knows what this child of His suffered in the silent skirmishes that took place in his soul. But our consolation is that God does know and understands!

This turns things on their head. Instead of focussing on that one final battle which was lost, think of the many battles which Liz won, day after day, struggling against the voices in her head. In the final stage of her illness, medication was no longer effective at drowning out these voices and could at best dampen them.

Liz struggled against these voices in order to be present for her kids, to meet their needs, to be there for bathtime when they were younger, to shop for food and cook them meals and play with them. I have photos of Liz painting at the kitchen table with her daughter, taking her kids to the garden centre, baking with them or playing with them in the snow.

I also have a photo of her sitting in a chair holding her daughter who was about three or four when the photo was taken. Liz looks utterly exhausted. The constant voices in her head tired her out. The medication, which at best only muffled the voices, had strong side effects which included fatigue.

My Batgirl talking head says, “Don’t judge me for that final battle I lost. Remember all the days I successfully fought my illness.” When I look at Batgirl, I remember the bravery and humility Liz showed in the face of illness and am grateful for the years she was still with us, despite the challenges she faced.

When texting my brother-in-law about the SeeMe arts project, he said, “I prefer to say that the illness took Liz’s life, not that she took her own life.”

I often think that we wouldn’t blame someone who succumed to cancer. What is different and difficult about Liz’s death from suicide is that we didn’t know her illness would end her life. And we are left with the strong feeling that it shouldn’t have ended her life. WIth the right support, I believe that Liz would have got through the difficult patch she was in and continued to live with her illness. Perhaps she would eventually have learnt to make peace with these voices. But we didn’t get the chance to see her heal.

This project is about slipping through the net. Why did our loved ones slip through? Are the holes too big, the support network too patchy? Is a different kind of net needed, one that doesn’t just rely on medication to control symptoms?

There are no easy answers to these questions. For Liz there never was going to be a pill which would magically cure her symptoms. She needed a place where she would be safe and people to listen to her and she needed time and patience. Somehow, in our target-driven economy where time and patience are in short supply, she didn’t get that safe place.

It hurts so much to miss Liz because of all the positive things she gave us, even after the illness began to cast a shadow over her life. I want to remember the many days that Liz successfully fought battles with an unseen enemy.

She was brave, like Batgirl.