I’m So Fucking Sorry Albertina

You know…
I just need to say this first.
You are not an inconvenience.
My door is always open — I don’t care if it’s 2pm or 2am.
If you’re hurting, if you’re sitting in silence and the weight feels too heavy, you can knock, you can call, you can message me.
I would rather lose sleep than lose someone I love.

We tell ourselves that reaching out makes us a burden. It doesn’t. It never does. You matter too much. And if you need to hear it again: you are not an inconvenience.

Yesterday… Saturday 27 September… that day will stay with me forever.
Late that afternoon my sister sent me a message that made my heart stop.
My first cousin Paul’s daughter — Albertina — had been found hanging in the garage. She’d been there for about 30 minutes before someone found her. They rushed her to Townsville Hospital. Right now she’s in ICU, fighting for her life.

I’m still trying to process those words as I speak them.
Albertina is so young. She should be laughing with her friends, making plans for the future — not lying in a hospital bed connected to machines.

My cousin Scott — Paul’s brother, Albertina’s uncle — lives with me and Ryan. And our home suddenly feels different. Quieter. Heavier.
I keep looking at him and thinking: what on earth do I say to someone whose niece is in ICU after trying to take her life?

When I finally spoke, all I could manage was:

“People who kill themselves… they just want to end their suffering.”

And even as I said it, I wondered if it was the right thing.
I used to believe suicide was selfish.
I used to believe there was always another option.
But after walking through my own mental health battles, I’ve known moments when death felt like an escape from pain.

Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to see someone you love go through it. And it doesn’t give me the perfect words to comfort Scott or any of our family.

The truth is, there are no perfect words.
Grief and shock aren’t tidy.
They’re not a single moment; they’re a thousand moments.
It’s silence in the kitchen.
It’s Scott sitting on the back patio furniture staring into nothing.
It’s me trying to make tea while wondering what to say.

And what I’m learning — what I’m trying to do — is just show up.
Sit in the silence with someone.

Say:

“I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t have the right words, but I’m here with you.”

I can’t take Scott’s pain away.
I can’t heal Albertina.
But I can hold space for him.
I can hope with him.
I can let him talk — or not talk — without forcing anything.

Writing… speaking… sharing this isn’t easy. But I wanted to, because I know how many families have been touched by suicide. If you’ve been there, you’ll understand the shock and the helplessness.

And if you’re someone who’s hurting right now, feeling like there’s no way out, please know this:

You are not a burden. You are not alone. There is help and hope, even when you can’t see it.

Call Lifeline on 13 11 14, 13YARN on 13 92 76 (for Aboriginal & Torres Strait Islander support), or Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636. These lines are open 24/7. There is always someone who will listen.

The hardest part for my family right now is the guilt.
The what ifs.

What if I had checked in more?
What if I had sent that random “thinking of you” text?
What if I had noticed the signs that now, in hindsight, feel so obvious but at the time were hidden under everyday life?

We’re all so busy, caught up in our own storms, that we forget how much just one phone call can mean.
And then suddenly, we’re left wondering if our silence cost us the chance to make a difference.

Albertina’s fight for life has reminded me how fragile life is, and how deep our pain can go unseen.
I don’t have answers.
I just have love for my family, and the courage to sit in the hard spaces with them.
Sometimes, maybe that’s enough.

I’m so fucking sorry, Albertina.