I read in a book once about the difference between a traumatic event and a terrible one. I’ve spent the last couple of hours trying to find the exact words, but to no avail. I thought it was in this book about a chaplain whose job it is to notify people of the death of… Read More
The 15th April, 2010 was a day not much different to today. The autumn sun had slipped lower in the sky, making the day cool enough for a jacket. As I was putting my mascara on in the bathroom, ahead of a normal day at work, the telephone rang. The man on the other end of… Read More
He is walking up the road in front of me, wearing the heavy boots he never took off, black jeans and a backpack slung over his shoulder. In his hand is a silver gift bag, like the ones they give away in expensive shops. When he gets to the top of the hill, he turns… Read More
When my husband took his own life, he took part of mine with him. I was angry at him for a long time. In one moment he completely transformed the way I saw the world. I could no longer think clearly, believe in a benevolent Universe, or trust in my ability to understand people. He shattered… Read More
When I read about other people’s grief, I am ashamed. I cannot legitimately take my place among those who mourn the loss of someone they loved, someone who they miss every day and who they long to see again for just a few moments. My husband is dead, and the manner of his death was unnatural… Read More
If one person dies globally from completing suicide every 40 seconds, and almost 80% of those people are men, there are many, many wives, girlfriends and partners left behind. This post is for those who are still here and have to live with the grief and trauma of knowing someone who chose to end their life.
They say we should ‘start a conversation’ about depression but sometimes it’s impossible to find the words. At *Not Waving Drowning* all you need to do is raise your hand and others will give you their time, their love and their support without you having to explain anything.
Once upon a time there was a beautiful, kind and sensitive princess named Robyn. She spent her days visiting the kingdom’s hospital, where sad men and women came to rest when life became too overwhelming. She sat by their bedsides, held their hands, and told them stories she created from her imagination.
There is a voice that whispers to me in the middle of the night, telling me my boyfriend is going to die. While he snores, while his breath is thick and heavy, I am reassured that he lives. It’s when he is quiet that I worry. I reach out to touch his back to make sure his chest is rising and falling, I watch the bedspread to make sure there is movement.
All around us there is unfathomable sadness. It tugs at our edges of our coats, as though we were caught against a barbed wire fence. It’s hard to ignore all the pain in the world.
This morning I woke to the news that I was dead. But unless I had somehow become Susie Salmon in Lovely Bones, narrating the story of my death from the afterlife, it wasn’t me. It was someone else who shared my name.
“How the actual fuck did you even stay alive?” was the comment she made after reading about the death of my husband.
It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to you, but today it is twenty years since we were married, so you’re on my mind.
The last four years, since you’ve been gone, have passed by so quickly, and there’s so much you’ve missed. Why, just yesterday, Rik Mayall passed away. I cried for the loss of his smile in this world, and because you would never know. Perhaps you do know. Maybe he’s with you somewhere, chuckling to himself about all the fuss he’s caused.
