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
The pastor stared at his hands as if he were avoiding looking at me. “Are you sleeping with him?” he asked. I wondered for a moment if I should lie and tell him no. But lying was as much of a sin as fornication. Maybe it was less of a sin. I wasn’t sure anymore.… 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
Here are my wounds. Here are my scars. Body shame, shyness, anxiety, guilt, fear, hopelessness.
Will they ever be fixed? I don’t think so. Is darkness such a bad thing?
Why have I survived when there are so many others struggling with their pain? Why can’t I help them? Can I give away some of my happiness to someone else?
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.
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.
I stretch my fingers resting on his thigh, coming in contact with the hard seam of his jeans. I read once that sitting side by side rather than face to face with a man makes it easier for him to talk. My boyfriend and I have never run into the problem of not being able to talk, no matter how we are seated. I don’t think sitting side by side with Jack would have encouraged him to open up. He kept his dark thoughts to himself, right up until the end.
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.
It’s nice to have some photos from the past again. Instead of stuffing them away in an album, I’m putting them here — evidence that once I was young.
