A couple of weeks ago, I lost my partner to suicide.
Obviously, I am in the absolute depths of grief and right now I feel like my life is over, so I thought I’d write about it to see if it helps.
Trigger warning: Please don’t read any further if you are going to be triggered by the subject of suicide and/or bereavement.
My love was the most kind, caring, sweet man I’ve ever met. He was funny, intelligent, and so much fun to be around.
We were the epitome of a whirlwind romance. We met in person for the first time on 8th April 2019. Immediately, we were in love. To be honest, I’d fallen in love with him over the phone, before we met in person. He was so special. Unlike anyone I’d ever met before. And he made me feel special.
Just weeks later, I packed up my stuff in England and moved to the Isle of Man to be with him. Something inside me told me that this was it. He was the one. He was the soulmate I’d been searching for my whole life. Nothing else mattered – I needed to be with him.
We were so happy together. Yes, we had our struggles; both of us suffered (and I continue to suffer) with mental health issues, but we supported each other and we laughed together every day. He would envelop me in his arms and everything would be alright. I’d feel safe.
My mental health started to take a turn for the worse a few weeks ago. I was increasingly isolating myself and withdrawing into my own head. I know it took a toll on him. But he stood by me, my strong, patient man, and held my hand through all the shit my brain threw at me. He always told me he was okay.
Then one day, he wasn’t okay. He was acting strangely, but we had had a disturbed night the night before, so I put it down to tiredness. I shouldn’t have.
I found him in bed. I tried to wake him but he was unresponsive. This wasn’t unusual for him – he was a very heavy sleeper and I often had to shake him to wake him up in the morning. So I shook him. And shook him again. And again. I shouted his name. I tried to sit him up. I threw water in his face. Nothing.
I rang 999 and the paramedics blue-lighted him to the hospital. He was rushed into a room and I was left standing on the other side of the doors, helpless.
My love had taken an overdose. He remained alive but he had a seizure and had to be ventilated, and during the next week, he developed pneumonia and sepsis. His organs started to fail. Then he had a massive heart attack. I held his hand as his heartbeat trailed off and he passed away. I kissed his forehead and told him I loved him. Then I walked away from my lifeless soulmate and collapsed into a kind of sobbing I had never experienced before.
I returned to our house and looked around. Our photos on the mantelpiece. His stuff everywhere. He couldn’t be gone. Not just like that. It wasn’t possible.
But it was.
My sweet, precious man is gone, and he’s never coming back. It feels like my life ended that day with his.
I wish I had something inspirational or helpful to say now, but I don’t. The grief of being bereaved by suicide is a pain like no other. I miss him. I blame myself. I should have seen the signs, should have asked more questions, should have, should have, should have… but it’s too late.
There’s no pretty or tidy way to sum up this blog post. I am bereft.
Rest in peace, my love.