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
Sometimes, the sheer volume of how much I love you overwhelms me. It’s not so much about bursting, but more like I can’t contain it.
I miss you.
Every day, SM. That’s how often I miss you.
I hope you’re at peace. I love you.
I’ve struggled this month. It all kicked off between us a year ago: the realisation conversation, the first kiss, the tidal wave of emotions pouring out, the amazing first time we had sex, and then today, the first time you told me you loved me and I said it back. So when your best friend added me to Facebook and then deleted me, I’ve come crashing down.
Bloody social media. I know you hated it. But the reason it hurt so much, threw me into this trough of murky black gloom, is because the first thought I had was that you were still alive and he wanted to tell me.
I just can’t cope with that glimmer of hope, even though I know it’s impossible. I still hang on to it, just in case, and when it turns out to be me being a div, this happens.
There’s a short list of things I want to do now:
- Drink myself into oblivion
- Lock myself away from the world and cry until my face is swollen and I fall asleep with exhaustion .
That’s in order of preference.
However for now, I’m going to do the right thing and try and meditate myself out of this. Once the kids are in bed later, I’ll partway complete number 2, maybe 3 as well, then tomorrow I’ll dissolve myself into work and hope that getting out of my head in all these various methods will do the trick.
I love you, SM.
The only time I’ve ever wanted to kill myself more than now was the first time the thought entered my head.
I’ve had such a bad day. Reading about the memorial to you at work hit me so, so hard. Then this whole thing with my sister has just pushed me down the slope. I’m so lonely. And then coming home to a letter asking me to prove im alone was the last straw. I need you so much. I just want to be with you.
My son is the only thing keeping me alive. The thought of him waking up alone in the house tomorrow sickens me, so I can’t do it. But I want to. Right now, I just want to be in your arms. Saying nothing, doing nothing. Held tight, your love tangible in the air.
I know you had demons you couldn’t carrying on fighting. I wish you were here and could help me fight mine.
I love you forever, SM x
“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.
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.
Hey, SM. Been talking about you at lunch. I know you hate that, but it’s tough now. Get over it 😉
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