'My estranged sister died alone in her apartment. It's a complicated grief.'

There are many forms grief can take. I’ve heard it said that grief is your ticket to show how deeply you have loved someone. But what does that ticket look like when you've lost a sister who was cruel to you? It’s a complicated-looking ticket.

Grief feels like a wringing out of your entire being - body, mind and spirit. Every day is a new form of survival. For my survival I subconsciously chose, I would argue, the only socially acceptable form ‘making it through’ grief there is.

Watch: What is Complicated Grief? Story continues after video.

My older sister died six years ago. She died at her home. She was left there for a week (or as much to the coroner's estimations because of her decomposed body) before a neighbour found her in her crappy apartment complex in Brisbane. A week: seven days.

Seven days.

Seven days of dissolving from the world, to have the world very ruthlessly keep moving forward.

I could label my form of grief in the 'complicated' category. As a deep empath, I have a high base level of helping and being available for people around me. In my grief, I took that base level and then turned it up beyond the realms of where the dilemma should ever go. I took on being of service to others to a full-time job where I was the CEO.

I treated being helpful to others as a way to hold my grip firmly onto my place in society. This was my way of putting the depths of the fears I felt into something that made me feel good about myself, for a moment in time. I was trying my damndest to make myself noticed by those around me, both friends, acquaintances (and strangers whose story I had heard, because my ‘helping’ knew no bounds).

At the time, I attended a mega-church and there was a never ending supply of people who were troubled and needed help. Hot dang *claps hands together* let's get to work. Home-cooked meals delivered, cards, presents, I was a hurricane of non-stop goodness.

This seems to be the only form of wading through grief self sabotage that is socially acceptable. No one around me flagged me as needing intervention. I wasn't getting drunk every night; I wasn't escaping with drugs; I wasn't taking a mothering break; I wasn't bedbound; I wasn't, I wasn't, I wasn't.

I had a six-month-old and a two-year-old at the time and I was fine. I was managing So. Well. No one seemed to have to have a deep concern for me.

The truth was, I was doing everything I could to make sure my sister's fate was never my own, because to me how, she was left by herself in her deadness for a week was much more unbearable to me than the fact that she was actually dead. Six years down the track and I still feel that same way, maybe even more acutely.

I don't talk about it much, but if I ever talk about that specific fact I am yet to say it with words without my throat closing up and crying. It's like my body knows the words are making their way out from the depths of me to the vast outside and it must show a reaction to honour the pain. It still affects me to the deepest parts of myself.

I didn't know at the time why I had this insatiable urge to be helpful to everyone. Looking back, I don't think I had the time to even stop and wonder, and if I did, I don't think I could have stopped this behaviour if I had tried. I would release my emotions in private - but publicly. I can't count the times I would walk around our local zoo with tears just quietly streaming down my face while I exclaimed to my toddler 'yes, I see that monkey too, isn't it beautiful?' I would let out the tears while driving with The Wiggles blasting on route to whatever thing was on the agenda in between the good deeds.

Image: Supplied. 

So I cook and deliver meals, I write cards, I message, I check in. I started a freaking charity. The kind that is equivalent to a full-time job. The kind that comes with (after hard work) news stories, awards, interviews. I give of myself hoping what happened to my sister will never be my fate.

I give.

I give.  

I give. Until there is nothing left.

You can only feel what you will acknowledge. What was below these busy deeds is the quiet whisper of my child self:

Do I matter?

Does the space I take up matter?

Am I special enough just as I am to be missed, longed for, loved?

Each thing I did from a cooked meal, to a ‘just thinking of you’ present, to a news interview is a bite sized affirmation to the quiet of my soul that I matter. That I'm seen and that I'm good. Because good people don't go unnoticed, do they? In these six years I’ve had enough affirmations of my goodness to fill my lifetime. 

But I never got full.

Listen to No Filter where the hosts talk about little griefs and how to process them. Story continues below.

It took a series of events years later for me to really stop and process this. I am now slowly, inch by inch, a new person, but also the same person.

As someone with empathy radiating out of them, I love to do things to help and connect with others, I always will. The difference is now, after a lot of therapy, I don't do it to the point of abandoning myself.

I strive to never self abandon again.

If you find yourself needing to talk to someone after reading this story, please call Lifeline on 13 11 14.

If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, please reach out to SANE Australia on 1800 187 263. 

Feature Image: Getty.

Looking forward to a brighter future? Complete this survey now and go in the running to win one of six $100 gift vouchers!