The guilt could kill me if I let it.

The first overwhelming crush of guilt came for me when I was 18.

I’d left home forever, traveling 2,000 miles away to attend college in northern California.

Before I left, I took each of my youngest siblings out for dinner, just one-on-one, and we talked about how I’d stay in touch and how much I loved them. When I was 18, David was 10, Margaret was 8, and Rachel was 5. I’d tried to protect them as much as I could as a kid myself trying to survive our situation, and leaving for college felt like I was abandoning them to the wolves.

I’d get my college degree. I’d get a job. I’d make some money. I’d get a house.

I’d rescue them. I’d save them. I’d provide for them.

The last meaningful conversation I had with Margaret was on February 1, 2018. She’d been on my mind, as I’d heard things about her new relationship. I knew she was working so hard to just get somewhere, to build a life for herself.

I texted her, “Hey I wanted to tell you that I think you’re so beautiful, incredibly strong, and one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I know. I think sometimes you sell yourself short because you feel bad, or you don’t get the results you’re hoping for when you’re trying so damn hard. Please know that I’m here for you always. I’m here to give you advice if you need it, to just listen if you need it and to come drive hours or fly to you to help you if you need it. I love you so much and you deserve only the best, because you’re a damn catch. You’ve survived so much. If you keep trying and keep going, there will be good things too, even in the pain and the hard stuff. I’m here if you need me. I love you.”

She responded, “Thank you, that does mean a lot. I love you too <3 I know I’m bad at communicating with the family right now (yourself included) and it’s not because of anything any of you did. I just needed time to get my ducks in a row, I’m sure you understand. But I will try and get better with responded to messages and whatnot”.

I wanted to give her some hope. I wanted to let her know she wasn’t alone. Because hope was what kept me going in the grief of leaving her and the rest of my siblings behind years ago.

Grief is mourning a change. Whether a physical death or the end of a relationship or walking away when someone needs you because it’s what you need. I had no resources for what I was going through at the time, and while I tried counseling at college, I was simply told that I was fine. I felt like I had a mental illness, but the therapist there said she didn’t see any issues. I was fine. But I didn’t know how to explain what I had left behind, the weight of responsibility I felt. I prayed so much that they would be protected while the panic hit me, again and again.

And thousands of miles away, my siblings’ lives were just about to get so much worse.

And my life — well. I was moving forward on the promises that a college degree would get me a job. I’d build a career easily. I’d make money soon. But I graduated during the recession, in 2009. And all the promises were gone. I struggled to build a career, to get somewhere, and by the time Margaret died, I was living in a rented room for $200 a month in New Jersey. I’d decided to switch careers, to become a dog trainer. Most dog trainers start off making nothing, but I’d gotten a paid internship, where I was making $10 an hour, contracted, which meant that I needed to pull out my own taxes. But I held onto the promises that I could still build something, still get somewhere, still help my family soon. I could rebuild the broken writing career I’d left behind in Colorado after my divorce. I could move forward as a dog trainer. I was so close. I just had to pay my dues and, finally, I would make it.

After I sent her that long message, she disappeared. I was getting worried. The last time I spoke to her was through text.

On March 20, 2018, at 6:36 pm, I asked, “You ok?”

She responded, “Yeah I’m fine, how are you?”

I said, “Good”.

I didn’t push. I didn’t try further. I simply wanted to check in on her, and make sure she was okay. I didn’t want to pry. I’d learn later on that her boyfriend kept destroying her phones, removing her way of communication. I’d learn a lot more about him that horrified me, things she never mentioned.

The very last text I sent her on March 25, 2018, at 6:22 pm, said, “Mom would like you to call her. She’s worried about you. Also has your mail”.

She never responded.

Eleven days later, she was dead.

The guilt threatened to suffocate me.

I should have tried harder. I should have called her. I should have known. I felt something ominous the night before she died.

I should have known.

I knew she was struggling.

I should have known.

The what if’s and I should have’s stacked up, and the guilt could kill me if I let it.

This time, however, I had some tools. Nothing was easier this time. It wasn’t easier than the time I left home. It wasn’t easier than when I’d survived my abusive marriage and left Colorado. Nothing was easier. The grief was so much greater. But I’d finally learned how to process. I could set up boundaries for myself. I could reject something that wasn’t right or something that I wasn’t ready to hear.

I processed on my own terms. It was all uglier and darker than anything I had experienced before, and there were times I wasn’t sure I’d make it. But I started letting myself sleep when I needed to sleep. I asked to go home from work if I started having a panic attack. I allowed others to say what they felt they should, and then I sorted through the bits they left behind, to take the comfort if they meant comfort, and to push back on their discomfort if they didn’t know what to say.

The guilt lingers, still, just behind it all.

I still feel sometimes that I should have known.

That I could have saved her.

Emblem of Our House is an on-going series about the death of my sister Margaret in 2018, published every Monday here and on Instagram @EmblemofOurHouse.