After a suicide ...

When her husband took his own life, Phyllis MacNamara began to write to help her face the horrible truth. She kept a daily diary about Michael and how he died. Here, she explains how words helped her heal and offer hope to others.

ON April 19, 2008, my much-loved husband Michael took his own life. The lead up to this horrific moment was relatively short, I knew that Michael was suffering high levels of stress at work but I never thought, for one moment, that this would lead to his death.

I believed that my love and care would get him through this difficult patch. I could not have been more wrong. I did not understand that you can never measure another person’s pain. I shall never ever be able to forget the moment I found him: my first thought was “Now, now see how bad he is, he is in so much pain that he is actually dead.”

It was at this point that the real horror began, the constant questions, the loneliness, the shock of it all.

Michael, my adored husband, my best friend, was dead, how could I possibly even consider living without him?

On the days following the funeral I was totally dazed. I felt I was disintegrating, I needed someone to hold me or I believed that I would float away and disappear. I felt my arms were coming away from my body — I was literally falling apart. I lost all sense of identity.

Nights were to be dreaded, as I never slept, when I finally dozed off it was only to wake up and remember the horror that awaited me.

One morning I tried to write, “Michael is dead, “Michael is dead”. The words helped me face the horrible truth, this nightmare was my reality.

I started to write the daily minutiae of my horror, I would read what I wrote over and over, and read it to anyone who would listen, but I still could not grasp this was my reality. I kept writing and crying, crying and writing, some times I howled. I was in a very dark place screaming to God for help and to anyone who would listen. I kept writing.

I read so many books about grief, bereavement and surviving suicide, but the support I received from Consoles counsellors slowly taught me how to cope.

The grieving does not end, it may never end, but there were days when I saw the beauty of the world and rejoiced without sadness.

There were days when I could laugh, and eventually a day that I could dance... I sent a text to my son: “I am dancing, I am dancing and I never thought that I would dance again.”

Grieving is different for everyone, there is no right or wrong way. For me it was essential to write and to talk about Michael and how he died.

I wrote to express myself in every way I could. I wrote about the daily difficulties and about my struggle to accept what had happened. None of this would have been possible if I did not have the professional help of Console, who are specialists in bereavement counselling for those bereaved by suicide. It was they who encouraged me to write.

I have lost the love of my life, but in his passing he opened new doors for me. Friends have shown me comfort, love and compassion beyond one’s wildest dreams.

I am now open to many new experiences such as the care of Michael’s beloved garden, and I have and will travel many paths that I never travelled before.

So until we meet again may Michael rest in peace