Sometimes I get bogged down in the drama of being a suicide widow. Telling that story makes me different, it proves how tough I am, it splits my life into ‘before’ and ‘after’.
But that’s not my story. I was not the central character, I just played the supporting role. Something was done, and I’ve felt like it was done to me. But it was just an event, and my reaction to that event is something that I am in charge of.
So this is my story of the ‘after’. Soon I’ll make another film (it’s percolating in my imagination) but in the meantime, here are the words.
It’s as if the world stopped breathing in that one moment. I fell into the black void of an ending but at the same time I stood on the precipice of beginning.
It’s as if I could choose to cloak myself in the darkness of mourning or unfurl the wings on my back and fly into the expansiveness of the Universe.
I chose to start afresh, begin anew, pour my tears into the reservoir of summer showers. The ‘after’ exists without time. There is only now.
And now, it’s as if life is the most precious gift I have. It’s as if time rushes too quickly so every moment must be invested and not squandered.
It’s as if our differences only enhance the similarities we share. It’s as if I can think about love, but know more by just feeling.
It’s as if the smooth warmth of your body against mine in the darkness and the sound of your breathing is the perfect expression of bliss.
It’s as if the possibilities are limitless. It’s as if I don’t have to choose, I can do it all. It’s as if being perfect no longer matters, only learning as I go.
It’s as if the colours are brighter, the sounds are more melodic, the smells are more pungent and the touch of your skin, the bark of a tree, the smooth coolness of white bed linen send jolts of energy through my senses.
It’s as if I was asleep and now I am awake. It’s as if I was closed and now I am open. It’s as if this is the place I have been searching for my whole life. It’s as if I’ve come home.