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
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
Are you okay?
I ask my boyfriend.
He frowns, knowing what the question means.
I’m not going to kill myself, he says.
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.
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.
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.
I made you into the person I wanted you to be, without taking into account you might be someone completely different.
Our breakfast was at a little cafe on Blues Point Road where we devoured our cooked meal like starving children. We smiled in secret at our recent memories, wondering again if all love stories felt as exquisitely magical as ours.