You

For the first time in months, I just looked at photos of you. I’ve actively avoided for so long that I have no idea when I last did. And it felt just like I thought it would: bittersweet, but more sweet than bitter. 
I still think you are gorgeous.  And all the things I loved about you physically are still the same. Your lovely eyes, subtle masculinity, sexy body, great arse. You are just perfect, and I’m glad that for such a short time you were able to trust and enjoy my opinion of you, even if you didn’t believe it yourself. I can see your self confidence growing in some of the photos, and I love the fact that you took so many just for me. I hadn’t forgotten how you look, but it feels more concrete now that I have.
And the violence of your death, and the fact that it was self inflicted hit me for the millionth time. Such a huge loss, such a waste. As I’m in a much better place, initially I feel anger towards depression and how it took you from us. Then the thought process kicks in and the clouds gather. Your blood on my hands. I may as well have pushed you onto the railway line.
I let a tear fall and blink back further ones. I’ve got to be strong. It is OK to grieve. But you took your life because depression told you that you were worthless and should die. Many people blame me, including me. But at the end of the day, your mind was infected, and that infection took you.
Maybe one day I’ll be able make peace with myself.
Nothing’s changed. I still love you. Oh, I still love you, SM x

One Year

This is an anniversary we shouldn’t have to mark.

Shouldn’t have to mourn.

Shouldn’t have ro relive. 

The world is worse off without you. So many people broken by their loss. I am a shadow of my former self; how I am still here I barely know. One whole year of keeping on keeping on.

And that’s just me. The harlot, homewrecker, slag, slut,  whatever. Never mind that I was your confidante, kept you alive for so long, talked you down when you were at the edge before. 
I never met your children, but I fell in love with them anyway. I miss them and I worry for them. How they will cope without their loving father. I’ll never know, and I’ve come to terms with that, but I still worry.
A piece of everyone who loves you died with you. That broke me, and even now it is far too painful to consider. I did this. I ruined so many lives and I am truly sorry. But like so many things, no one will know. And I doubt wants to know. I shoulder the blame and I deserve the ill feeling. I have considered every possible way I could’ve stopped this outcome countless times, and I wish with every fibre of my being that I could change it. Not for me, but for your many, many loved ones. 

My only consolation is that you are released from the prison of your head. That you no longer hate yourself, no longer worry uncontrollably, and no longer have to pretend that all is wonderful. 

One year at peace,  that’s what we should be celebrating. But life isn’t the same without you, and we are only just starting to work out how the hell we do it.

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.

PS I Love You

Oh, SM, I’m in tears. Tears of happiness, love,  sadness and overwhelming loss.

I’ve just found the note you left in my work notebook. Must have been last June, before I went on maternity leave but when we were together. A huge shock, this message beyond the grave, but a bittersweet one.

I’m so glad I didn’t find it at work! It’s now safely stored with your letter, a stone I picked up and kept as a talisman, and the bottle of water you left behind after your last night here, on Earth. I’ll treasure it forever.

Just Checking In

Hey, SM. Been talking about you at lunch. I know you hate that, but it’s tough now. Get over it ūüėČ

Anyway, it felt good to talk about us: how we’d meet at lunch, play footsie under the table in meetings or meet briefly in the car park when you needed reassurance or support. It lead to talking about your last weekend though, and whilst it was good to be able to speak about it without breaking down, now I’m on a low and can’t stop thinking about you. All the what ifs: what if I’d said something else, done something else, saved you somehow. It’s pointless, it’s not going to change anything, but I can’t help it.

I’ve learnt in CBT to allow myself these feelings, acknowledge them, feel them and not think less of myself for doing so. But I still don’t like it.

So I thought I’d just say hi, that I love you and miss you, and I hope you’re at peace.

#yours, SM x

Back To The Grind

So here I am, first day back at work. In true style, my return was forgotten and I have nothing to do. You’d laugh and shake your head at this typical sort of shit.

It’s so weird though. Yes, a different office, but it feels so empty without you. No one else seems to feel it and everyone is either unaware or tactful enough not to mention you. But when I came in last week (that visit also forgotten about) I kept making notes of stuff to discuss with you. Stuff like who made the decision to allow the Head of Client Relations and Sales Director to share an office, wonky graphics on the wall, that sort of thing.

I used to love my job. Not just the hours flirting with you, but I genuinely loved my role. Now I feel that everyone has moved on, left me behind, and don’t really care. I’m not sure if that’s my mental state feeding me crap, all the scandal that has gone down, or the actual truth. My plan was to get back into the daily grind, sort out the financial side of things at home, and then find something new. Completely move on. But I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t want this life any more, that’s what it comes down to.

I know this is ‘just’ depression talking, that I am more than capable of my job, and much more.  But life just feels ‘meh’  now, grey, dull, disinteresting. If I can’t be in Utopia yet, I’d rather be hidden in the corner of McDonald’s, reading my kindle and eating a hash brown.

It was the anniversary of losing Tali yesterday.  The start of my truly, indescribably, awful year. I’d give anything to rewind, make different choices. Save you. Save me. Save everyone who felt the pain of losing you. I’m so, so sorry.

Alaska: My Turning Point?

I was reading an article about fictional characters that have aided people with depression, and Alaska resonated with me. ¬†This morning, whilst guiltily enjoying a McDonald’s breakfast, I downloaded¬†Looking For Alaska by John Green to my Kindle. ¬†This afternoon, I finished it, having had difficulty putting it down to go about my day in between.

The story is so very different from ours, yet I could draw so many parallels and felt that the characters were empathising with me, rather than the other way around. ¬†What they went through, their thought processes; it all helped me start to sort through the past couple of month’s events in my head, and take a step or two towards coming to terms with your decision.

No one is ever going to know, exactly, what was going through your head. ¬†Whether you had been planning it for weeks, as I suspect, or whether at some point in your last 24 hours, you decided that it was the only thing you could possibly do. ¬†Without a drop of arrogance, I am fairly sure that I have the most accurate understanding, all down to the secrets and thoughts you entrusted me with over the last year of your life, and the conversations we had in the last 48 hours. ¬†I am honoured to be that person. ¬†But I need to remember that not knowing every detail doesn’t stop me from loving you, and caring. ¬†Its is OK to not know. ¬†I just wish I could have done more to help you understand that your thinking was entirely unnatural, incorrect and not the right thing to do. ¬†I still compose messages and conversations that I feel could have helped. ¬†It is totally pointless and it makes me feel terrible that I didn’t think of them at the time. ¬†I am now in a strong enough state that I try and stop myself when my mind hits that track, and the guilt at doing so doesn’t tear me apart as once it did.

I think that you purposely confessed to your wife in order to tip you over the edge, hit DEFCON 1 and be able to step out in front of the train. ¬†You knew what her reaction would be; knew it would redefine what rock bottom actually is for you. ¬†And so I must stop the small pangs of anger at the response she gave, as predicted, that helped you along the path. ¬†After all, as you once said, “she has done no wrong”. ¬†I am the other woman. ¬†I still blame myself, but I must start to believe that ultimately, the only person who caused you to kill yourself is you, and whilst that wasn’t an OK thing to do, it happened, and it just ‘is’. ¬†I already kind of knew that I need to believe this before, but now I KNOW it. ¬†I dare say it will take me a long time to get there, but I know I must do that.

I still have suicidal feelings. ¬†Not the urge to do it, I hasten to add. ¬†More the feeling that it is probably the way I will die, at some point in the future, whether that be in 10, 20, 50 years time. ¬†But I think I can live with these feelings for now, and channel them slightly differently. ¬†Rather than having the need or desire to kill myself, I am at peace with the inevitability that is: one day, I will die. ¬†I accept that it will happen, and it doesn’t scare me. ¬†I hope that this will be the way out of the labyrinth for me: that by accepting and coming to terms with what is every living being’s ultimate fear, I am no longer suffering. ¬†I have escaped the labyrinth not by coming to its end, but dissolving the the walls that make up the passages around me. ¬†Removed it, rather than being released by it. ¬†I hope that taking ownership like this will help me start to take control of my depression, take back my life, and live again.

If only I could turn back the clock to help you take control of your labyrinth. ¬†But maybe the train was the only way you could have done it. ¬†I’ll add this to the list of questions I have to ask you when I see you in utopia once again. ¬†By the way, I hope you’re looking after the place, ready for when we are reunited.

Therapy

I worked some stuff out in therapy this week. I think a lot of where I am, anxieties etc, boil down to the fact that I mourn you like a partner. Which is what you were to me, affair and all. But being the Other Woman, I am not allowed to mourn you as such. I wanted to choose your funeral music. I wanted the final piece to be the Star Wars theme. I wanted to be up there at the front, openly grieving along with your family and friends. For fuck’s sake, I wanted to fucking go to your funeral! But instead I am shut off from the world, desperately trying to hold it all together, trying to mourn but not feeling that I am allowed to, wanting the world to understand but not wanting to upset anyone.

I told you I wouldn‚Äôt be able to go, or grieve properly. You brushed it off. Another ‚ÄúI told you so‚ÄĚ, SM.