Never Forget

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:

  1. Die
  2. Drink myself into oblivion
  3. 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.

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.

36 Today

Do you remember what we did for my birthday?

You stayed over, for the first time ever. We shared a bottle of Malbec that you had bought for the occasion. Sheepishly, you explained it was your favourite and therefore a selfish choice, but I loved the fact you were sharing something close to you.  We fell asleep together and woke up together. It was so special.

So tonight, I have a bottle of Malbec here for you and some Haribo,  that you were always eating at work. I’ll fall asleep alone and wake up alone though.

Happy birthday, SM. Always in my heart. Miss you forever xx


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’t be able to go, or grieve properly. You brushed it off. Another “I told you so”, SM.

Going Solo

The first time you decided we must end things, you emailed me explaining why. One reason you gave was because if our colleagues found out, we would be vilified and hated. We’d lose friends and life would become difficult. The very next time I saw you, you seduced me and suddenly we were back on again. This happened 3 or 4 times: you’d end it, and a maximum of 36 hours would pass before you’d find a reason to contact me and suddenly we would be back on again.

I know this was because we were drawn to each other, soul mates, more in love than it is possible to explain. I couldn’t function without you, and vice versa. But each time, I took a step closer to depression. Sometimes I got strong and told you to get out of my life this time, find a new job and let me move on. I suspect this hit you hard and I know that one time when I did it, you ended up in the psych unit, although you never confirmed it was part of the reason why.

But now you are dead, ashes in an urn somewhere, and I am here, trying to live without you. Ostracised from our work colleagues for exactly the reasons in your email. Watching them meet up and have happy times on Facebook throws so many conflicting emotions at me, and it makes me feel so low sometimes that I am strongly considering closing my account.

They are moving on, living life, and I am not. I should, but I feel I shouldn’t because I think they think I shouldn’t. I’m sure they hate me, I know at least one blames me for your death. I’m sure they wish it was me under the train. Part of me wants them to know how ill I am, that I am suicidal now and that I take the same drugs you did. But maybe that will make them think that I should be like this, “serves her right”. I’m sure they don’t think of you the same way they do me. And that’s purely because you are dead and I haven’t done it yet. But it takes two to fucking tango. You pursued me. I defined that fucking line and you pushed to cross it. I’m not saying I was pressured or non consenting, but it all came from you, and yet I am the one vilified, hated and wished dead.

There are two things I would do if I could turn back time, and one is that I would stand strong behind that line and refuse to cross it. Refuse to give you my address when you asked for it. Locked the door and not let you in when you arrived. Not given you a hug when you gave me your gorgeous sad eyes. And not looked up when you kissed my hair and said you wanted to do more. June 15th. I should have been strong and not let any of that happen.

But the fact of the matter is, SM, that it was one of the best days of my life. Or, as you described it, wonderful.