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Sunday 26 April 2015

Piercing My Soul

Since Louse's death my laptop has barely left my side. It has become my constant travelling companion. Even when away from home it has been the first thing that I have packed. I have long since discovered that the only effective balm that can applied to my wounds when they are at their most raw is writing about them. Whenever my emotions overwhelm me I therefore reach for my laptop and write, either in my private diary or here on this blog. Indeed it is the very reason for the existence of the blog. Somehow the discipline and structure that writing requires of me helps both to process my thoughts and to calm me. And this evening, sitting in a hotel room in Stockport after a family wedding party, I really needed to be calmed.

No doubt the hotel reception staff thought they were doing me a favour when they upgraded me from a single room to a double. They weren't. Hotels used to signify holidays, happy times spent with Louise. But I suddenly found myself in a double room on my own, remembering all that has gone before and been lost. Worse, much worse, I briefly allowed my mind to stray into areas I normally manage to keep firmly locked, the very darkest of places; The moments Louise experienced after she kicked the stool away.

I try to be as open and honest as possible in these blog posts. Its therapeutic to confront my innermost thoughts in this way and I hope that in doing so I can somehow help others struggling unsteadily down a similar path. But here I have to exercise discretion. I can't tell you what I imagined, the scene I pictured, of Louise's final struggle. Its not fair on me to have to imagine it and its not fair on anybody reading it to share that vision.

I really have no adequate words for the impact of that vision. It pierces my soul, creates a sense of helplessness, torment and despair like no other to think of the person I love so much, with whom I had shared so much, and who I wanted to support, protect and nurture, in the dark, on her own struggling and suffering in unimaginable ways. My greatest fear of all is that in the moment she had changed her mind and no longer wanted to die, but too late to do anything to save herself. I keep on re-imagining that evening, creating scenarios in my mind where I get home from work in time to save Louise, holding her up, allowing her to breathe until help arrived. Somehow that only makes things worse, allowing me almost to believe that there was a very different and much happier outcome.

Every time that I look at a photo of Louise, laughing, smiling, loving life, I cannot help but think of the way  she was when I found her and how she got to that point. From a selfish perspective it's as if the happiest 4 1/2 years of my life have been taken away from me, expunged. The wonderful memories which I thought were mine for ever wrecked by what was to come. But far, far worse is the knowledge of what Louise herself suffered.

I'm assured that I'm dealing with all these issues well. The Clinical Psychologist to whom I had been referred, for reasons which neither of us could quite understand, after I had simply asked for some bereavement counselling, quickly told me that she had no grounds to continue to see me because I was 'coping remarkably well in the circumstances'. Maybe I am. But however strong I may appear to others, and however normally I may apparently continue to function, it doesn't make the pain go away and it won't prevent me carrying that same pain for the rest of my life.

4 comments:

  1. I found your blog through allicanceofhope.org having just very recently lost a dear friend and ex-boyfriend to suicide. I've lost many people in my life but this is the first time I've lost someone to suicide. The grief is so vastly different from anything I have experienced before. I started reading your blog from the first entry and have made it to this post so far. This post really struck me because you talk about how therapeutic it has been for you to write the blog; I think perhaps I need to start writing in a journal. My thoughts are consumed with my friend's final days and hours; I am overwhelmed with guilt that I was unaware of his pain and unable to help him. Thank you for sharing your thoughts as you navigate the long and winding road of grief. I have no doubt it is not only helping me, but countless others, as well. May we all find hope and strength that we are not alone on this difficult journey.

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    1. Hello Michelle. I am very sorry to hear of the loss of your friend. I have never experienced close loss of any kind before so have nothing to compare this with but I strongly suspect that you are right about the unique nature of grief which it brings with it. Suicide taunts us because it seems so extraordinarily needless and wasteful. It also, of course, provides so much scope for guilt. It just seems so preventable, even if sometimes this is an illusion. Thank you for your kind words about the blog. Louise would be so pleased and proud to know that I can, in some small way, help others.I would certainly encourage you to write if you feel it may be helpful. This blog and my diary have played an enormous role in getting me through the past eight months. It very much helps to process and make sense of the dozens of wild thoughts running loose in my head. I hope that it helps you too and that you manage to find some peace.

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  2. Thank you, Gary. The funeral was this past Saturday and it was extraordinarily painful. The minister was lovely and said that she had no answers and was praying for peace for everyone that attended. I found that very touching. I thought I might feel more closure after the service; however, I don't. I continue to be plagued by unanswered questions and overwhelming guilt that I couldn't help my friend more. I agree that suicide is so difficult to accept because it seems preventable-an illusion, as you pointed out. I have started a journal and plan to revisit my friend's graveside in a few weeks. I hope that in time I will be able to remember my dear friend with laughter and smiles rather than tears and heartache. Meanwhile, I find I have to just take things one day at a time. I cannot even speak my friend's name without breaking down crying. I have no doubt that Louise is very proud of how much you are helping others with their grief by sharing your journey thorough your blog. May your heart be lifted by this thought.

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    1. Hello Michelle. I'm glad that you have started to write. Not only is it therapeutic but it also provides a demonstrable measure of progress. We heal so slowly that its impossible to see it day by day or week by week - or even month by month. But writing allows us to look back and see how far we have come. And we do make that journey. I don't know whether its to absolute closure though. If it is I certainly haven't got anywhere near it yet. I'm not even sure that I know what it means. Forgetting? I could never do that and wouldn't want to anyway. Acceptance? That seems a very long way off. I can't even begin to absorb what has happened. It still doesn't feel remotely real. It will be possible, I think, to learn to manage the sadness, to grow my life around it, but it will always be there. In terms of the way in which you remember, you will probably find that it changes with time. Initially I took great comfort in photos and videos of Louise. Now I actively avoid them - they slice straight through the hesitantly healing scar tissue. But in time that will change again and you and I will both be able to hold on to and take comfort from our respective memories. Wishing you a peaceful weekend.

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