My love for Sydney

A happy Sydney moment - our engagement party in 2012.

Today, I'm writing to you from Sydney, Australia, where I'm in town visiting my in-laws for an early Christmas celebration.  I'm one of those lucky widows who has wonderful, supportive parents-in-law. Our already healthy relationship only grew stronger after Dan died, as we found comfort, strength and support in each other.

Sydney has always held a special place in my heart.  I was born here and even though we moved to Queensland when I was only five-years-old, I've always loved visiting family and holidaying in this beautiful city.  When I met and fell in love with Dan, who had moved to Brisbane for work, I was very excited that I would have an excuse to spend so much more time here and was welcomed into his Sydney life by family and friends alike.

I have some beautiful memories of being here in Sydney with Dan, including cruising around the harbor on a ferry for his 33rd birthday; our engagement party in a beautiful old pub; Christmas Day and New Year's Eve in 2012.  He loved this city, it was part of him. I know it was a difficult sacrifice for him to settle down in Brisbane but I'm just lucky he loved me more and, in his words, his home was now in me.

Like most of Australia, I was going about my day on Monday morning when I heard the news bulletins about the gunman who had taken 17 hostages in a popular cafe in the middle of the city.  My first reaction was to run through mental check list of all our family in Sydney and work out if any might have been in the area that morning.  I had spoken to Dan's parents the night before and quickly worked out that they should have all been safe.

I then sat glued to my computer for the whole day and late in to the evening, flicking between the live stream of commentary from different news outlets as I tried to understand what was going on and how such a terrifying situation could have occurred.

When I finally switched off and went to bed, I laid quietly in the dark, with tears running down my face, while I thought about those families who wouldn't sleep that night, as they waited with heavy hearts for news of their loved ones inside the cafe.  My heart broke as I wondered what news I'd wake up to in the morning.  I felt so very scared, not only for those hostages but for our country.  How would this change us?

I know that many parts of the world live with this kind of fear constantly.  Terrorists and extremists kill innocent people every day. I am lucky to live in Australia where these feelings of fear are so alien and strange but this thought didn't make me feel any more ok - it only made me sadder.

I couldn't stop wishing Dan were here.  To hold me and make me feel safe. To talk to about what was going on and what this would mean for a city we both loved. Dan was the most open-minded and tolerant person I'd ever met. Not only did he not care about people's colour, culture or religious beliefs - he didn't even notice they were 'different' to his own. He was the personification of love and acceptance of fellow man - with the kindest of hearts and purest of intentions.  He was everything right with the world and everything I wanted for our future.

I tried to think of what he might say about this siege in Sydney and I knew his heart would be aching with pain and confusion too.  We would have probably clung to each other and cried together when we woke on Tuesday morning to hear that two innocent lives had been taken over night.

One thing that would have most definitely been different if Dan were here is that I wouldn't have been able to understand or relate to the grief of the families of the two victims who wouldn't be home for Christmas.  Because I wouldn't have been through my own traumatic life-altering loss.  I would have felt deep sorrow for them in a 'Oh gosh, I can't imagine what they must be going through right now' kind of way.  But, I wouldn't have really been able to empathise with any meaningful emotion.

Instead, I was able to very easily put myself in their shoes and recount some of the first-moment grief they would be feeling.  That numbness and physical sickening. The thoughts of how unfair it was that their wife or son were the ones to be killed.  How random that this murderer had walked into the same cafe where their loved one happened to be working or enjoying a morning coffee.  How quickly their lives had been torn apart without any chance to say goodbye. The strange, almost trivial things that pop in to your mind in those first moments of shock - 'what will we do with her Christmas presents'?  Or 'but he has an appointment with the doctor/hair-dresser/accountant next Tuesday that he's supposed to go to'?

As their hearts tore open, I held these families in my own battered heart and thought about the long painful road of grief that lay before them. And as my plane touched down in Sydney on Thursday night I hid my own silent tears behind my sunglasses.

When I walked out of the terminal to meet Dan's parents, I clung to them when they embraced me, taking in the feeling of their arms around me. I had been looking forward to that hug, that connection with another heart that shares your pain and beats with the same ache for the person you're missing.

I hope that the families of the two Sydney siege victims at least find some comfort in the arms of those who share their pain. Because there are hundreds of thousands of arms reaching out to them from all around the country today.

Facing My Second Christmas Holiday Without Him

A friend called me yesterday to talk about plans for New Years Eve.  She had previously mentioned the idea of renting a house at the beach and getting a few people together for a fun night in.  While I had been quite keen to join them when we first spoke about it, I found myself feeling more and more reluctant as the conversation went on.

For a start, the house will have three bedrooms, all of which she had allocated to the three couples.  When I asked about my sleeping arrangements she suggested I bring along a blow up mattress and crash on the lounge-room floor.

Now, I'm not a princess.  Sleeping on the floor doesn't bother me and I've done it plenty of times before.  But this time I found myself feeling really upset at the idea.  As soon as we hung up the phone I burst in to tears and it hit me that I would be facing my second 'new year' alone and without Dan.  

I wasn't hurt by my friend or her plans, but I realised I was upset about the idea of not having a bedroom because it would mean that I wouldn't have access to a private 'safe place' if the grief roller-coaster took a steep dip during the event. 

I tried looking in to hiring my own hotel room nearby, so I could retreat if and when I needed - but everything was either booked out or had a minimum 4-night stay that would be way out of my budget.  

I thought about driving up to the beach in the afternoon and not drinking, so I could drive myself home when I wanted instead of staying for the night.  But I don't want to do that either.  

In fact, within about five minutes of hanging up the phone I felt myself going in to self-preservation mode.  I was flat out ready to hide from not only New Years Eve (I have invitations from other groups of friends that I could take up) but all holiday-related social events over the coming weeks.  

Instead, I decided, I would stay home alone and go to bed early that night, hide under the blankets with the cat and let 2015 crawl in unannounced.  And there it was again.  Dan was dead and I was on my own. 

It's so easy to miss him.  Even when the grief isn't the biggest thing in my life and I'm in some kind of place of peace about his death, the 'missing him' is there.  The happiest of moments can crystallise his absence and remind me of what he's missing.  What I'm missing. The smallest or most obvious thing can set me off at the most unexpected times.  

I can be sailing along in calm seas, feeling ok, planning my Christmas holiday... then suddenly realise that at midnight on New Years Eve I will have to stand there awkwardly while everyone else around me turns to embrace and kiss their partners. It was a classic light bulb moment.  I mean, Dan isn't going to be here for the holidays - how had I not thought of this already!?  

Then came the realisation of everything else he would miss out on this Christmas.  When I make the trip to Sydney to see his family next weekend, his absence will be incredible.  I can't wake up in his arms on Christmas morning and make him wear a silly matching Christmas-themed accessory with me. I won't be able to find the perfect present to make his eyes light up and bring on that gorgeous, excited grin that used to flip my stomach. 

He is gone and it sucks.  So today has been a teary day while I cry for the fact that my husband is dead and won't be home for Christmas.  When I'm ready and the sadness has been vented enough, I will get back up, brush myself up, and take another step forward into this widowed life without him. 

500 Days of Missing You

As of today, my husband has been dead for 500 days. That just sounds so utterly ridiculous to me.  500 days.  It might as well be an eternity.  During those first few weeks, each day felt like a marathon.  It was the greatest challenge to make it through every. single. day.  

I'd lay in bed at night with a heart heavy and a broken spirit, exhausted from feeling every second of time that had passed without him here. The days were long and sad. And now there's been 500 of them.

Here, in my 17th month of missing him, the days are definitely easier. There is still great pain and sadness at his loss but - I guess like an athlete who's body becomes conditioned to their sport - I move through them easier.

I have been thinking a lot this week about the passing of time and how it's softened the edges of the agony I feel at being separated from him.  Since his death, I have grown in ways that I can't even identify and measure.  The weeks and months have a tendency to blur and it's easy to believe that I have not changed or healed at all.  Until something prompts me to look back at a certain point in time - then comes the lightbulb moment. 

For example, my feelings towards Christmas are very different to last year.  I am actually looking forward to this holiday period.  I have been enjoying searching for gifts for my family and friends, I bought a tree and have find myself humming along to Christmas carols.

This afternoon, I'm having seven close friends over for drinks, we're doing a secret santa gift exchange, I've made them all gift baskets of fudge and rocky road and have even put together a music playlist for the party!  

I was speaking to Dan's parents during the week about this strange sense of excitement I've been feeling and was so happy to hear his mum say that she's been looking forward to Christmas too.  

We all wish Dan was here, it won't be the same without him and my mind still wanders regularly to how wonderful things would be if he hadn't of died and we were making these plans together.   I'll probably still cry myself to sleep on Christmas eve with Mariah Carey's 'All I Want For Christmas Is You' on repeat.

But while last year, Christmas was something to endure - a challenge to overcome that I would have gladly ignored if possible - this year there is joy in my heart and gratitude for the family and friends who fill my life with love.

Taking The Rings Off

I passed another milestone this week, something I've been approaching and thinking about for a few months but have only now felt ready for - I took my wedding rings off.  

Well, to be more accurate, I moved them from my ring finger.  I had my wedding band re-sized and it now sits on my middle finger alongside Dan's wedding ring and a small eternity band that I bought myself to complete the set. While my engagement ring, which is much too beautiful to be put back in a box, is now on my right hand.  

  

For a really long time after Dan died I couldn't imagine ever being ready to take my rings off. He died six weeks after our wedding and to say I felt monumentally ripped off that I didn't get more time as his wife before becoming his widow is an understatement.  

I was still basking in my newly-wedded glow - stifling giggles when I said the words 'my husband' out loud; getting used to my new name and title of Mrs Collins; and catching myself staring dreamily at my wedding ring finger .  Then, way too quickly, he was gone and there's probably never been a more appropriate time to use the phrase 'the honeymoon was over'.  

When he died, the peple in our lives scrambled to try and make sense of how depression had taken this wonderful man so suddenly and without warning. I was petrified that they would look to me as somehow failing him or not being enough to keep him here. 

Thankfully, my fears were mostly unfounded but my rings were my security blanket - I clung them as symbolic and physical recognition that he loved me and he had wanted the whole world to know that. 

In moments of doubt when I would battle the feelings of abandonment and rejection, I'd clench my fist around my rings and let them reassure me that our marriage was real, our love was real and that even through the darkness of his depression he had opened his heart and given it to me. That had really happened.

After attending Camp Widow in July, I started thinking about what it would mean to take my rings off.  Both what it would mean to me, and what it might mean to others.  If truth be told, I have felt ready for a while now but it was the fear of others judging me or making assumptions that has held me back.  

I didn't want people to think that I had finished grieving Dan or had put our marriage behind me or that I was moving them to make way for someone else and was 'on the prowl' for a new partner. Because all of these assumption are obviously (to me anyway!) absurd and incorrect.  

I just really started to like the idea of moving my ring to be closer to Dan's. And the more I thought about it, the more right it felt.  It became more meaningful, to me, to wear them together as a sign of our union and an acknowledgment that he is still close to me and part of my story.  

To me, this became more symbolic than wearing my wedding and engagement rings on my wedding finger. Because (and these are my feelings only, they won't be everyone's truth) while Dan will always be my husband, our marriage is, very sadly, over in the traditional sense. I'll always love him and moving my rings hasn't changed that relationship at all, I just feel like it's more 'right' for me to change the way I wear them.  

So I took them off and waited for some sadness or sense of regret or panic ... and nothing came.  I think the fact that I didn't rush it has helped.  But all I felt was peace.  I like the way our rings look together, I think they are beautiful and I wear them with pride.  When people comment on them, or my engagement ring, I will relish the opportunity to explain their meaning and talk about Dan.  

I'd love to hear your own experiences on how you've moved through this milestone and what become right for you. 

Living With The Hole

Source

A young widow in my on-line support group, who lost her husband to depression very recently, said something this week that really got me thinking.  She had one of those moments that happen in the early days where you kind of forget your partner has gone - she picked up her phone to text him about something and then it hit her hard, she could never contact him and tell him her news again.  

I had forgotten that feeling.  After 16 months without Dan, I've pretty much adjusted to being on my own again.  Sans-partner.  Table for one.  Lone wolf.  I don't like it - God no, it's bloody awful and lonely and it freaking sucks.  I miss him like my left arm, but I don't forget that he's gone anymore.  

That realisation that I've adjusted in this new life still takes me by surprise.  When Dan first died, the hole he left was so vast, I couldn't imagine how I would go on living and navigate my way around it.  But now I see, looking back, that I have.  I've slowly, step-by-step, started to rebuild my life around the hole. 

It is still there but I don't fall in as often anymore. I've gotten used to it. Then I've felt terrible for getting 'used to it' and confused by what that meant.  It's a long and difficult path but I have been walking it. I still don't really know how.  

Every time I've taken a step forward it's come with the complications of guilt and confusion along with constant self-analysis and judgement.  How can I be moving forward into a life where he's not here beside me?  So. Many. Things to feel bad about.  So much information and emotion to process and comprehend.  No wonder I'm exhausted all the time, with so much going on in my head.

I raised this with my grief counsellor and we spoke about the importance of trying not to assess my progress or determine my status in this process.  While it's wonderful to realise that I've made some kind of progress or grown in this after-life, I still get nervous when I'm having a good day, or disheartened when I have a bad day - because of my inherent need to 'assess' what it all means.  

Am I going backwards?  Have I turned some kind of corner?  Is this a milestone?  Ugh - so much pressure!  I am working really hard at letting go of the expectations I put on myself.  

She pointed out that people have good days and bad days - even when they're not carrying the extra complication of bereavement.  Before Dan died, I wouldn't sit and think 'But WHY am I happy today?  What does that mean!?  Will I ever feel sad or angry again or is that behind me now?!'.  

So I am trying not to question.  Not to assess.  And gee, it feels nice to stop worrying and just 'be'.  

Wish You Were Here, Uncle Dan

My usually quiet, peaceful and tidy sanctuary of a home has been turned in to a messy playground for two boisterous little boys this weekend... and I'ver never been happier to have my orderly life turned up-side-down.

You see, Dan's sister is visiting from interstate with her husband and two young boys, aged two and four, and it's just been lovely to have his family so close.

All of Dan's family and most of his friends are based in Sydney, where he grew up and lived until moving to Brisbane for work, a year or so before we met.  Being more than 1000 kilometres away it would be easy to feel quite isolated in my mourning of him.

However, I'm one of the very lucky widowed people who have been embraced and supported by my  in-laws.  Over the past (almost) 16 months since his death I've had regular phone calls (at least twice-weekly), more than half-a-dozen visits and have been made to feel like I'm a firm and permanent part of their family.

The boys were aged 18 months and three years when Dan died.  The oldest one remembers him well and the youngest recognises him from photos and understands he was an important person.  There have been a few challenging moments with questions about death and heaven and, as is the way of children, these are usually blunt and come at unexpected moments.

To be honest, I love talking about Dan so this doesn't upset me, instead I like it when they bring him up.  I'm grateful that they know he was important and will grow up aware that they were very loved by him.

We answer the questions as best we can, but it's a fine line between satisfying their curiosity and not giving them information that will scare or confuse them further, given their young age and limited understanding of how the world works.

It's making me think about how difficult it will be when the time comes where the questions will develop, as they grow, into queries about how and why he died.  Ultimately it will be their mum and dad's decision on when Dan's suicide is explained and knowing what wonderful parents they are, I know they will handle this will tact and honesty.  My heart breaks knowing how painful this will be, both for my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, but also for my nephews.

Dan adored these boys so much that he would get tears in his eyes when he spoke about them.  When we visited Sydney, he was bursting with excitement to see them.  His phone screen-saver was a photo of his nephews, because he missed them so much; and he couldn't wait to be the best uncle possible as they grew up - playing sports with them and giving them advice about girls.  

Seeing what good uncle he was helped me fall in love with him (not that it was difficult) and I couldn't wait for him to become a father to our own children.  I look at his nephews, one of whom inherited the same beautiful chubby cheeks and mischievous, sparkly eyes as his uncle and my heart breaks that I will never meet our children.  I'm sad that these boy won't know their uncle and we won't get to give them cousins to play with as they grow up.

I wish he'd gotten the chance to be a dad.  I wish he'd been able to live the life he deserved.  I wish he had of been here with us over the past couple of days as we visited the zoo and played at the beach, to help me spoil our nephews and give their weary parents a bit of a break.

There are so many ways to miss him.  Today, I miss Uncle Dan and my tears are for myself, for him and for our beautiful nephews who will miss out on so much by him not being here.

On that note, it's time to pull myself together because I can hear little feet running through the house and sweet, little voices calling out 'Untie Becca, it's time to go to the markets!'

What People Think

A family friend recently asked my sister how I was doing, and then seemed surprised when she replied that I'm still very sad a lot of the time and cry often. It got me thinking, if I don't regularly remind the world that I'm missing Dan and still grieving him, will they assume I've 'finished' or was past that 'phase'?

In the months after his death I spoke about my grief without inhibition and posted about it regularly on social media.  When I was having a particularly bad day, I used Facebook to express myself and purge the painful thoughts from my head.  It was a release and also helped me feel connected to my community and receive support when I couldn't bring myself to actually call someone or go out into the world in person.

If I was having a good day, I would post a happy or positive thought but still connect it to Dan - either because I wished he was there to share it with me; or to acknowledge that even in the good times he was still very much a part of me; or because the particular thing I was grateful for was due to him coming in to my life and giving me blessings that were going to stay with me forever.

I think it gave people insight into how complicated the bereavement process is and some of the particular challenges I was facing, which in turn, helped them to work out how to best support me.

However some time in the past few months the grief posts became less frequent. They haven't stopped altogether, I still share the highs and lows and talk about Dan constantly, but I probably don't broadcast the lows as often.

Maybe this is because I'm getting better at coping with the pain and processing it internally rather than feeling that need to shout it out to the world every time a wave hits?

Maybe I'm becoming more private with my grief, more aware of how people may interpret it, more self-conscious about being so raw and vulnerable.

Maybe there are less lows now?  That one is more difficult to identify.  I honestly find it hard to define when the tough times build and ease because when I'm deep in the loss, I forget there has ever been anything else other than the total mental and physical agony of missing my husband.

Whatever it may be, I don't like the thought that by containing my grief or limiting my public declarations of sadness, I'm giving people the notion that I am 'moving forward' and not grieving as much anymore.

I would love to get to the point where it no longer has a dominating presence but I still don't fully understand what that means or looks like.  I think sometimes I can feel so worried about people's expectations (or my own expectations) that I don't want to raise them to the point where I can fail to meet them.

But at the same time, it doesn't feel right to keep announcing that I'm missing Dan, just to keep other's informed of my state of mind, like some kind of public service announcement.  When people tell me that they have learnt a lot from how much I share and appreciate my openness, that's a nice thought.  It means my experience is helping others and it's good to think there's some kind of positive to this.

However, it's not my job to educate and I have to be careful not to take on that responsibility.  So I chose to let go of that sense of obligation and my fear of being judged and just be.  If I want to talk about how I'm feeling, I will.  If I want to keep that private, I will.

This is a long road as I integrate Dan's death into the new life I'm rebuilding for myself.  I have enough to worry about, so I'm working on not adding 'what other people think of my grieving process' to that list.

Giving Counselling Another Go

 

Source

This week I tried counselling again. I am a strong advocate of therapy - not just giving it a go but, if it doesn't feel right, trying another psychologist and another until you’ve found the right fit.  I’ve had mixed success in the past but recently I decided to practice what I preach and try again.

I’m so glad I did.  One year, three months and six days after my husband’s unexpected suicide, I finally feel like someone might be able to help me find the tools I need to process the trauma of that experience.

To explain how many attempts it took me to find this fit, this was my FIFTH go with a new counsellor.  My first took place the very day after Dan died, when my best friend arranged a visit to a psychologist she found through her work’s employee assistance program.  This woman just stared at me in shock as I told her what had happened the day before.  When I finally asked her if she had any advice on how I might survive this nightmare, she feebly explained the stages of grief (failing to mention they are NOT linear!) and said I would probably feel better in a year. Wrong. I didn’t go back to see her.

In the following months I tried two others.  One of whom was fresh out of university and tried different exercises with me like ‘cognitive behavioural therapy’, which is a great tool, but way too early for me when I was still so deeply in shock and trying to make it through one day at a time. I battled on with her making me feel like I was failing her as a test case until I met counsellor number three, who ran a suicide bereavement program through a wonderful charity here in Australia called Lifeline. 

This experience was life changing and helped me to understand Dan’s illness and death in a way that brought a real sense of acceptance.  For the first time I felt like Dan’s suicide wasn’t about me or due to anything I did or didn’t do.  I also understood that it wasn’t necessarily because of anything Dan did or didn’t do - he was sick, he had a disease and he died.

I would have loved to keep meeting with this counsellor after the completion of the program but due to budget restrictions she wasn’t able to offer ongoing sessions.  However she referred me to psychologist number four, who I started seeing earlier this year. 

These sessions were good, I was able to get a lot of thoughts off my chest and it was a great outlet to vent, however I wasn’t sure if I was ‘improving’ in any way.  I always walked out feeling a bit lighter, but the same thoughts would eventually creep in.  Until one day when she asked if I was sure I wanted another appointment, because she thought I was doing so well that maybe I didn’t need counselling any more.  Well that threw me!  Was I ‘cured’?  Was I boring her or wasting her time, sitting here moaning about how I missed Dan? I mean, I knew I was functioning well, I go to work, spend time with friends, go on holidays, etc, but I’m still deeply grieving and have regular moments of being confused and overwhelmed.  So I figured maybe I didn’t need counselling any more and stopped going.

Until two months ago, a new doctor that I’d found closer to my work suggested I give it another go.  I knew I still had a lot of work to do.  I cry often, I have days where I don’t want to participate in the world and the emptiness is deep.  I have flash backs and haunting questions and reoccurring doubts and guilt but, after that last experience, I wasn’t sure if I needed more counselling or if I just needed more time. 

So that brings me back to this week.  After a particularly tough few days I thought I’d give it another shot.  I called the office on Monday and they happened to have an available appointment Thursday afternoon.  I went in and re-told the horrible story about the day he died, the months leading up to it, our love story and what my life has been like since.  As much as it was painful to re-live the finer details of his death, there was a release again, as I sat and sobbed in this stranger’s comfortable chair. 

When I finally stopped talking, I looked at her through my tear-stained eyes and said, ‘Is this normal?  Is there something wrong with me?’.  Her reply was just what I needed to hear.  While confirming that there was nothing ‘wrong’ about where I am at the moment, she explained that my brain has definitely been affected by the shock of what I’ve been through.  She said after such a significant trauma, my understanding of how the world works would have been shattered - causing me to lose trust in logic and ‘right and wrong’.  The good news was that there is work we can do to help calm my racing mind, rebuild that trust and help me long-term.   

My relief was overwhelming.  First of all, to have someone say something other than ‘you’re so strong, you’re doing so well’ and actually acknowledge that there’s a reason I still don’t feel ok was so validating.  Secondly, to hear that there is actually help – that there are things I can actively do to process the pain in my heart and the mess in my head, rather than JUST sitting and waiting (which still plays a significant part in the healing process) was also wonderful.

I’m glad I gave it another shot and tried again to find the ‘right’ counsellor for my particular, unique little bundle of grief.  Maybe this will be the long-term counsellor relationship I’m looking for.  Or maybe again I’ll find out that it’s not quite the best fit.  If it doesn’t work out, I am going to come back and read this post and remind myself again that it’s worth it to keep looking.  

A Dangerous Indulgence

Waiting to board the plane for our first holiday together in May 2012. Dan was so excited, like a big kid. He made every day so fun.  I really miss that. 

I’ve been really missing my husband this week.  I miss him every week, of course, but this week his absence has been palpable.  I’m not sure why, maybe it’s because I’ve been spending a bit of time helping a friend who has a new born baby, which is a sensitive issue for me. Maybe it’s because yesterday marked the 15-month anniversary. Maybe it’s just the grief rollercoaster swinging me through a new bend or dip.  Whatever it is, it sucks.

I’ve been waking up in the morning and finding myself just laying there, staring at his pillow and resting my arm on his side of the bed, knowing I’d be hugging him if he were still there. 

I’ve been feeling that urge to call or text him throughout the day with the tid bits of information about what I’m up to that would be mundane to most other people in my life but fascinating to him.  I’ve been clenching my fist as I walk through the city to work, wishing he was beside me and I could tighten my grip around the comfort of his hand in mine.

At night our house has felt quieter than usual.  The emptiness has been bigger. When I look at the photos of him scattered all around our home, I’m less able to smile at the beautiful memories we shared and instead have found my thoughts wandering towards his depression.  Imagining what dark whispers might have been lurking in the corners of his mind, tormenting him. 

I’ve been day dreaming about what life would be like if he were still here.  This is always dangerous territory for me; it’s an indulgence that I don’t often dare allow myself. To start with it’s such a sweet sensation. When I let go and imagine the life we could be living, it fills me with warmth and love.  We had a very fun, kind and playful relationship. Dan would make even the most mundane and boring chores a delight. 

When I think about how dramatically different my life would be if he were still here (and his depression had magically never existed), how I’d be spending these lonely nights, the adventures we’d be getting up to on our weekends, the face of the child we could be raising, with Dan’s bright blue eyes and round cheeks - well it’s so wonderful that it’s almost unbearable.  Because when I come crashing back down to reality and this dream is replaced with the severity of my new life.  It’s nothing less than torture.

I’m overwhelmed with how unfair this world is.  Everything around me seems so bleak and inadequate.  Trying to look for positives or find things to be grateful for is just impossible – all I want is Dan. 

I want the life we should be living together and I want my innocence back and I don’t understand a world where this could be taken from me. I don’t understand why such horrible things can happen to good people.  I miss him.  And I’m so sick of these words because they just feel so inadequate to explain how deeply I ache for him.

I understand my grief well enough now, that when this low sets in, I instinctively go in to self-preservation mode.  I pull back, tread lightly, and reach out to my support network when I can.  I remind myself that I'm stronger than I know.  This agony will lift again. I know Dan would be so proud of me for surviving without him.  I just wish I didn't have to.  I wish he was still here.  I wish I didn't know this pain - I wish no one did.  Death sucks. 

When Friends Aren't in Your Corner

Someone asked me recently besides missing him, what is the hardest part about Dan's death.  There are so many ways I could have responded to this and, realistically, the answer probably changes depending on the kind of day I'm having.  

It's hard not having that person in your corner, your partner, that first one you'd always call to share happy news or to save you when you needed help.

It's hard accepting that our future together was taken from us. The children I will never hold.  That first wedding anniversary.  Growing old and sharing the life I thought we'd have.  

But if I have to identify the most difficult, it would probably be the way that he died.  Suicide. Dealing with the stigma and judgement around the fact that he took his life makes an impossible challenge just that bit worse. 

Recently, a seven-year friendship with a friend ended because of that stigma.  

Most people in my life understand that depression isn't a personality flaw or weakness - mental illness doesn't discriminate any more than cancer or heart disease. The happiest, most confident, loving, rational and stable person can lose their life to depression, nothing proved this to us more than Dan's death. 

Through counselling and research I have been able to accept that Dan's suicide wasn't his 'choice'. He loved life and adored me and would never have wanted this pain for those of us whom he cared about so much. He lost his life to a disease, I don't question that anymore*. 

It took a while to get to that place of peace.  Hell, when he died, I questioned which way was up.  I questioned if the sun would rise and of course I questioned how he could have done this.  I couldn't begin to understand how, six weeks after our wedding, my darling reached such a state of despair that he could take his life. 

So when I heard that in the weeks following his death, this friend was asking someone close to me very pointed questions around whether he could have been having an affair, or even if he may have been gay (?!), I tried to be open minded about the process of understanding that she was going through.  

It was hard, I wanted to tear her apart for questioning his character and casting dispersion on our relationship. But I chose to give her the benefit of the doubt and have faith that she was only trying to come to terms with such a terrible tragedy and would also find her way to the answer that suicide doesn't have to mean there's anything wrong in a marriage.

When I saw her at social functions or dinner parties, I focused on her kind words of comfort and support and tried not be put off by all the personal questions she would ask (about whether I was dating again, or thinking of trying IVF to have a child on my own). It was difficult, I couldn't be as open with her as I would have been before.  I didn't trust her.  But I couldn't confront her about her comments and clear the air without exposing that the person she'd spoken to had passed it on to me.  

Then, in July, around the time of his one year anniversary, I heard she was still doing it.  This time, asking the same close friend if we may have been having problems in the bedroom.  

And that was it.  The line was well and truly crossed.  I mean, SERIOUSLY!  The guy's been dead for a year now, just let him rest in peace. Enough was enough. This friend obviously couldn't let go of her need to find some kind of scandalous personal problem to rationalise his death. In a year she still hadn't learnt that suicide can happen to even the happiest people with everything to live for.  

Ever since the day he died I have spoken about Dan's death openly, choosing to raise awareness about suicide rather than buy into the notion that it's something to be ashamed about. And I can't have people in my life who can't accept that he died because he was sick - not because of a fault in his personality or our relationship. 



* In the interest of 100% honestly, I have to clarify that of course I still have the occasional slide back to day one where my brain goes right back in to shock and I forget everything I've learnt about suicide.  In these moments I don't understand how I got here and why on earth this happened to us.  I can't believe he's gone, let alone how. But thankfully these moments are fleeting and, I believe, are more about the grief roller coaster and my process of healing rather than any doubts about Dan's frame of mind that day.  

Not Standing Still

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Last night I reached another ‘first’ in my widow journey.  I met some new people without doing that thing where you somehow find a way to announce that you’re widowed. 

It was a dinner party at a Greek restaurant with a close friend, her fiancé and three other couples (so yes, I was the only ‘single’).  That’s six strangers, who hadn’t been filled in on my ‘back story’, and I got through the night without crumbling. 

This is a big step for me.  For a start, I don’t really enjoy meeting new people.  I’m not anti-social or rude, I’m just very introverted and I struggle to let new people in.  Most of my friends and family don’t even know this about me because I’m so friendly and relaxed with those I know and feel comfortable with. 

I work in communications and public relations, so professionally, I often have to be confident and assertive in speaking to people I don’t know, to build a rapport and put them at ease. And I do this well.  But given a choice, I’d spend my free time either devoting my attention to the people I love or curled up at home, alone with a book. 

Once Dan died I became even less likely to put myself in a situation where I’d be pushed out of my comfort zone.  Because, lets face it, getting through the day is hard enough without extra challenges like having to make small talk with friends, let alone strangers. 

However lately I’ve been making an effort not to close myself off to new experiences or meeting new people.  I’m not ready to think about dating yet, but it is something I hope is in my future.  I’m 34, I miss being a wife and also want to be a mum one day.  The chances of this happening for me will be pretty slim if I refuse to leave my inner circle.  But, baby steps… I figure that by starting out making new friends, my confidence will grow.

So not only did I survive (and enjoy) dinner, I also didn’t have that weird need to blurt out that my husband died.  Does anyone else do this?  It’s like by letting people know I’m widowed, it will somehow give relevance to whatever conversation we’re having.  I tell people at the bank when I’m depositing a cheque, I tell the beautician who is waxing my eye brows, and recently, I told my new dentist, as if knowing Dan had died was necessary for her to able to assess my oral hygiene.

Maybe I am so used to being on the brink of tears at any given moment, that I need to advise people in case of any pending breakdown.  Maybe it’s because, for the past 14-and-a-half months, Dan’s death has been such an integral part of my life, it has touched every aspect of who I am and what I do. It still does.  But somehow last night, as I chatted to these lovely people about my day and my job and the other usual dinner conversation topics, I didn’t want it to be the most important thing. 

I did notice a couple of glances at my wedding rings and wonder if anyone was thinking: where is this lady’s husband tonight and why is she talking about ‘me’ and never ‘us’. However where I’d usually always weave it into conversation, last night I didn’t. 

As I drove home from dinner my mind was with Dan, thinking about how nice it would have been to have him by my side.  Wondering if he would have enjoyed the food and found these new people as charming as I did.  As I rested my head on my pillow I let my thoughts wander to memories of him holding me every night, wishing his arms were wrapped around me still.  The ache for him is constant but I acknowledged that I’d taken another step forward.  Another step without him, which hurts and I hate, but I wasn’t standing still.