When I was two years old, my father went into the woods with the intention of never coming back. For over 20 years, my parents chose silence in response to his suicide attempt. Still, I found myself drawn to the place where the incident happened, and on its anniversary, a wave of grief washed over me. When my parents finally decided to tell me, it all started to make sense. This project started out as an investigation into the traces of a well-kept family secret. While I was revisiting my parents’ trauma – through the places, objects and memories I could not call my own – I found it inside myself. My body always knew. This is no longer a story about a suicide attempt. It’s about the impossibility of secrets, and about what we’re sharing when we hide. This is about pain inflicted out of love, about the complexity of silence, and the inexplicable sadness of a boy. Mum, Dad, this is your trauma – that you kept wrapped up in countless colourful blankets, unknowingly handed over to me in a loving embrace. I will carry it with care.
