In this minuscule span of time we call a life, we spent much of it scrambling for reason, purpose, a way to be remembered, and clinging to these breaths, these moments, with desperation to make them last.
The past becomes a series of scattered flashbacks hard to let go of. Sometimes, we delve further into the past, into lifetimes far before our own, to seek answers, to solve mysteries, to maybe validate the notion that life isn’t waste of time. Maybe there won’t be a day when someone says our name for the final time before that, too, becomes dust in the wind, thoughtless particles passing through the world unseen.
As someone who has been suicidal multiple times in my life, starting from when I was a teenager, I exist in a weird place when it comes to mortality.
I never planned on living to 34-years-old. Trauma wrecked me. It seemed like no matter how many times I pieced some semblance of myself back together, it was never authentic, never enough. If I was never going to feel whole, if I only ever felt like a shell of a human, that I would never catch up with the world, then what was the point?
Life is short. It could have been so much shorter. Since surviving those demons, I want to do everything. Travel. Write my books. Feel the rush of freedom, the liberation that comes after stepping out from the darkest catacombs after many years stuck trying to find a way out. Maybe I spent my childhood broken and yearning to die, but there has to be more, right?
Life is long. Sometimes it’s too long. The world, society’s politics, the way humans treat one another, how expensive it is to merely live a life I never asked to be born in, is all exhausting. If all we do is spend these years slaving away for bosses and corporations who would replace us in a mere day if we never returned, and many of us never truly get to follow our wildest dreams, then what’s the point?
In my search for a balance between restless whims and existential dread, I began exploring my family history and the generational trauma that followed long lines of children who became broken adults. I don’t consider myself to be overly attached to the concept of family. Maybe growing up witnessing and experiencing domestic violence and abuse robbed me of knowing what family is like, so I detached.
Yet my great-grandfather’s death has always fascinated me. Frederick died under mysterious, even suspicious, circumstances. I’ve written extensively about it already on this blog in my “Family Murder Mystery” series, and will be adding more.
I began delving into research for the next installment of the series, and a few days ago, Ancestry.ca showed me this upon logging in.
(Screenshot via Ancestry.ca)
June 8, 2023, is the 100-year anniversary of Frederick Bull’s bizarre death. From the day he went missing to the day his body was discovered, many things don’t make sense. Was it a tragic accident, as was the official ruling? Or did he commit suicide, as his wife claimed? Or did something more sinister lurk in the shadows of their marriage?
One thing is for sure: Frederick’s tragic death, and what happened after, ensured that a full century later, after the silence once bound by trauma broke with the liberation of time’s passing, someone still talked about it. In some ways, writing about it immortalizes it. It may not be as high profile as Jack the Ripper terrorizing Whitechapel only a few decades prior, but like every cold case, it still matters.
It matters to me.
And why? I never met the man. I’ve only conversed online with my family members over in England. My grandmother never talked about him. In fact, I didn’t know about the family mystery until after she died in 1999. She took her secrets with her to the grave. I never knew her siblings, either, who also maintained a silence about Frederick’s death until their own passing. They remembered him from when he was alive, but didn’t discuss his death.
That positive remembrance, their memories of a loved father, should be enough to let him rest. So, why isn’t it to me?
(Image by Willfried Wende from Pixabay)
Trauma never truly lets us rest. I could blame that, or my lifelong obsession with solving mysteries. Reading and writing were always my escapes from a tumultuous childhood, and I devoured true crime documentaries and books long before I should have been allowed to. The two go hand-in-hand.
I think it started with intrigue, the want to solve a mystery, yet it became so much more. The journey through Frederick’s life and death has taught and shown me how generational trauma passes down. It explains why Grandma never liked discussing her family. That, paired with Grandpa leaving an overly-religious family after being blackballed over his first marriage (this one may need to be a post on its own), explains why they both came to Canada shortly after World War II. They fled across an ocean to escape the ghosts of their pasts, only to find there are some things we can never outrun. Addiction carried on in my uncles. My mother wound up in an abusive relationship for a decade.
This was an era where mental illness and recovery from trauma wasn’t much of a thing. You just swallowed it and carried on until you either chose to process things, or it killed you in one way or another. Addiction. Suicide. Emotional unavailability. The unbearable weight of chronic stress and mental issues and the way it manifests into physical ailments. It crushed some of those who came before me and seeped into my mother’s kids, too.
My brother chose a life of crime and to push people away, to remain angry, to take it out on the only family he has. I stood for years on the brink of addiction and suicide and toxic behaviours of my own. I also took it out on my family at times. My brother and I don’t even speak now. The aftermaths of trauma and the way we chose to deal with it, the people we chose to become, drove a wedge between us.
The reaching roots of trauma can be poisonous. Some people keep swallowing that until one decides to dig up the roots to plant a new garden. It’s like the roots became so toxic, they poisoned themselves. Shriveled up in the dirt, finally needing to die out, exhausted, leaving only silence and remnants in their wake.
(Image by u_3heuehh9 from Pixabay)
Perhaps I still speak Frederick’s name so that the roots finally die for good, leaving no emotional charge attached but only lessons. It isn’t only his story. It is the story of a whole family who came after him and Theresa. Perhaps a sign that life isn’t a waste of time if we live with love for those around us, accountability for our own actions, passion for what we do, and leave a legacy of dignity and respect despite preceding adversities. Not everyone’s name will be on someone’s tongue in a century - we can only dream to be so lucky - but the way in which we remain on someone’s tongue, even for a short time, matters more.
Frederick’s death a century ago began a long string of family trauma. Immersed in the noxious roots deep beneath the dark earth, I keep digging at them until the answers sit exposed to the sunlight.
But whether or not I ever solve the mystery behind his death, I gained an understanding of how and why trauma got passed down, and how whispered tales in one decade can become a string of lies exposed in another. It became a massive part of my own healing process to better understand my relationship with mortality, and life after being suicidal. I came to understand who he was, and why investigating his death means so much to me. It made me understand myself.
And maybe that is what, someday, has to be enough.
