An insight into the thoughts of a wife and mother following her husbands suicide. I wrote this in 2011.
NOTE – If you are suffering from suicidal thoughts yourself especially if you have plans go to A and E immediately. You can be helped.
Other help –
Samaritans in the UK
Hours: Available 24 hours.
Call 116 123
Suicide and Crisis Lifeline USA
Call 988
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I’ve decided I’m going to write this letter as though you could still read it, if only you hadn’t killed yourself. An odd decision to make I know, but in my books it’s not nearly as odd as committing suicide. And yet it must have made perfect sense to you. If only you could somehow come back and explain it to me and the kids. It can never make any sense to us. You have deprived us of the answers we deserve along with so many other things.
It’s almost like an avalanche is doing its best to bury me alive; pressing down on me, crushing me relentlessly. There must be literally thousands of questions buzzing through my head. Like a shower of snowflakes they’re all different. I always have to have the answers. You’ve always known that that’s the way I am. So what kind of parting gift was this? A snowstorm or a shit storm whichever you prefer and not a single answer in sight! Is that what you wanted?
All these questions piling one on top of the other – each one leaving me colder than the one before. There is no one to share them with, to stop me from sinking down and disappearing forever beneath their weight. I can push them aside when I’m feeling strong enough, but when night time comes along or a day that feels wrong from the start, what am I supposed to do then?
Today is one of those days. What makes one day harder than another? Another question with no satisfying answer.
What about our children? Surely the way you were feeling could never be more important than their happiness? They need you. I am not enough.
I feel cold. Cold at the thought of what lies ahead for us. Cold at the thought that you were so determined. Cold at the thought that you wanted this for us. Colder than ice when I remember how I found you.
Colder still that the police kept me captive in my own home, isolated from loved ones who might wipe away my tears, so they could interrogate a broken woman. As if it was my doing.
That I was forced to become a lonely icicle. So very cold. And not a single blanket. Just the most jagged pain in my chest.
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