He was, of course the last person you would ever expect to commit such an act. The mellow one, the guy that everyone loved to bits. They always say that, have you noticed? The well-wishers say, “I would never had believed it,” or “Never in a million years.” Does anyone ever expect it from a human being? I don’t think so. There is, I think, deep inside us, a survival gene.

No, I think it goes deeper to a part known only to the victim. But who is really the victim? The person leaving life behind or the ones left behind to pick up the pieces? A little of both perhaps.

I had dealt with death before three close friends died in road accidents, a stroke and cancer in the family but nothing, nothing had prepared me for this. He was stronger than all those he left behind. There was no note, no explanation, one day he was there, the next, gone.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, on this earth prepares you for the shock of suicide, or the anger, or the guilt that comes from feeling angry.

We are ill equipped to say the right words. The first few days seemed to me to be made up of incomplete sentences and not quite meeting the eyes of my friends and family. There is a numbness that sets in.  At first I was terrified to be alone. Scared that if I gave into the grief, I would never get back again. “Why?” I repeated over and over, why would he do this, what could I have done to prevent it? Had I ever known him at all? Why didn’t he talk to me?”

We’d known each other for 17 long years. When he hung himself he had ended what seemed on the surface such a perfect life. He had a good career, friends and family that cared about him, a little daughter who who adored, at only 36 years old he was enjoying what life had to offer. Why then? What was so bad that made him decide that the alternative to life was for him a better option? How the hell did he have the balls to do that?

They told me I was strong. That I would be okay, that I would get through it. I didn’t feel strong. I felt frightened, lonely and hopeless. It was amazing I could even get up in the mornings. I put on a front and looked after everyone else, it felt like a dream, it wasn’t real, tomorrow he’d waltz in my door like nothing had changed. But it had, forever.

I knew I could deal with my grief in short sharp spurts for the rest of my life. Or face it head on and hope I came out alive. I cried, I curled up in a ball and cried until I felt like I had no tears left. It takes courage to let go, to give yourself over to hysterics. There’s more there buried deep down and it’ll come in time. The hurt and sadness lessen with time. It’s true, the stages you go through. Disbelief, anger, and finally acceptance of this nightmare, which has become your life. Some days are okay and for a while you forget about the horror of it all, some days it stops me dead in my tracks and a tear escapes, a shuddering sigh, a memory and sadness.

I wrote to him. I sat for hours writing him a letter, telling him how I felt, asking questions, hurling abuse and anger and then breaking down and telling how much I missed him.

It’s two years since I last saw him, he spent the morning with me hanging out on my couch while we swapped music and movies and heard his laugh and all the little things that made him special to me. Two weeks away from the day we lost him. It still hurts, I still cry. I miss him dearly.

We are the survivors left behind. We lost a pack member who will always be missed. We all have a hole in our hearts that will never be filled.

I hate November. It’s hard. It’s even harder when I hear this song … but it has a special place in my heart these days because it reminds me of you and makes me smile if only for a little while.

If you are thinking of suicide please read this

Right now I’m kinda preoccupied and not in the mood for anyone else’s shit. So if all you want to do is whinge at me or moan about crap piss off, I’m being self absorbed for a few days. Fuck it. No pity parties here just the need to write.