Let’s face it. Behind my sarcasm, Dior bronzer and ridiculous adventures lies a vulnerable twenty-something-year-old widow (I’m never revealing my real age to you, mwahaha). I lost my wife to suicide. It would be utterly impossible not to be hurt. I see her multiple times every single day in my thoughts.
Bereavement by suicide is traumatic. Psychologists have equated the trauma to that experienced by those held in a concentration camp. I have no means for comparison, thank the Lord, but a part of me was painfully ripped out the moment it sunk in that her heart had stopped beating and I’d never feel her warmth or movement again. I saw the woman I love so damn much dangling from the ceiling.
Last night I “felt” her warmth again. I dreamed of her. I’m not going to share the whole contents of it because, let’s face it, you’re a bunch of strangers on the Internet (for the most part) who really don’t care about the detail. But I will share this: I was so excited to see her and she me. I asked if I could see her more often but she responded that she had to go, hurriedly packed her bags full of spare underwear (?!) and told me, “you’ll have to make your own way home.”
It hurt to see her go and she’d also nicked my favourite bra and Moroccan Oil serum. This morning I woke up smiling and then promptly burst into tears which then dripped into the cup of tea I had made myself. They’re still flowing mixed with snot (why do widows never mention the snot?). I loved seeing her but it hurts. Sometimes I want to forget and never see her again.
Since wife died, I’ve had to navigate solo. She’s not here to get pissed off at me or be grumpy when hangry. I’m fucking useless with a map, particularly when driving in middle of fucking nowhere, and can only navigate in cities by using shops and cocktail bars as key landmarks. Come to think of it, since she died, I HAVE been navigating my way via shops and cocktail bars, but going inside them too an awful lot. New dress, shoes, handbag, jewellery? That’ll do for the party I have to find and go to alone. Porn Star Martini? Yes, that’ll do for one of my five a day. Five Porn Star Martinis? Sorted! I have a loyalty card for that particular bar. They have to stock up on passionfruit in advance.
Often, I’m a drunken homing pigeon. I can’t see, but I make it to my own bed instinctively. One day, maybe soon, I’ll be moving out of this home which I created with my wife, but it’s also the home I lost her in. I wonder where I’ll wander and what I’ll see. I seem to be seeing a heck of a lot of fun stuff so far on this new widowed journey so I’m not scared, although I do get pissed off that I have to go it alone.
With time, I’ve progressed and no longer “see” her hanging when I open the door to the room she died in. Once upon a time, it made me utterly hysterical. Now, what do I see? Well, I redecorated so I see a lovely girly light green room with orange accents. Trust me – the colour combo works. Wife would have bloody hated it. Ha! You told me to make my own way, darling…
My wife was very ill and abandoned me in a hurry to make her way to a new home in heaven. I love her even though she did this to me. I’m glad I have the ability and clarity of mind now to see her smiling. Often, though, it fucking hurts in my heart, the skin around my nostrils flakes, and my eyes sting. This is when it hurts to see someone you love so damn much.