Still Here

“If you asked me how many times I think of you, I’d say once, cos once you were in my head you never came out”

I found this quote totally by chance today; I wasn’t even looking for it. It blew me away and I had to read it about 7 times. But it’s so true. It’s been 4 months since you couldn’t take any more; 4 months since you left. And not a moment goes by when I don’t think of you.

Everything reminds me of you.
I want to tell you stuff about my day.
Share jokes, news, office gossip and banter.
Show you things I think you’ll find interesting.
Tell you things about me that we hadn’t gotten round to discussing.
Share every second of my life with you, and yours with me.

I’m discharged from therapy now. I feel stronger, more like myself again. But the loss of you hits me still a couple of times a week at least. That raw remembrance that you aren’t here anymore. That you actually did it. It still hurts; the edges are slightly dulled with time, but it it still fucking hurts.

And as much as I know that I need to live, for my children, family and friends, overall, I still want to be with you.

I don’t know if that will ever change.


What Should Have Been: Higher Education

I’m worn out after a full on day at work, but I’m excited, as always, to come home to you. I’m hit with the delicious smell of garlic as I open the door, and I dump my stuff in the hall, kick my shoes off and go straight to the kitchen, where I find a glass of Malbec waiting for me, and you in front of the hob.

I slide my arms around your waist and hug you from behind as you stir fry up something amazing. You turn and put an arm around me, lean down and kiss me, all whilst still stir frying. It’s been a whole day,  I’ve missed you.

We exchange pleasantries about our days, then you instruct me to have some wine and get ready for dinner. I disappear off and come back in your underwear and t shirt, ignoring your feigned disapproval, as I know you love me wearing your clothes.

Dinner is delicious as always and I remind myself again how lucky I am to have such a wonderful man to cook so well and happily listen to my offloading about the various characters at work as we eat. Once done, we retire to the lounge and you shyly hand me your essay to proof read. I cosy up on the sofa with my feet on your lap and read through. You put the TV on and get to work on my feet, rubbing out the aches of the day.

You’re not really watching the TV as you’re too nervous about me reading your work, feeling inferior because I did my degree at the usual age, rather than travelling like you did and later feeling like you had underachieved. Your essay is good; just the odd typo and I suggest swapping the order of some sections.  I leave it for you to have another look at tomorrow.

You’ll never understand how much pleasure I get seeing you grow and feel like you’re making something of yourself. I know you feel like you need to repay me for supporting us while you study for your degree, but you do every day when I see your self esteem blossom. You regularly promise to use the fruits of your studies to make us rich, but that’s not what I want. I want us to be happy, and if that means we eat beans on toast for the rest of our lives, so be it.