This blog is mostly about the loss of Mottsu, the circumstances his depression and suicide, my struggle to come to terms with the trauma of that loss, my complicated grieving. It is hard to live with a person suffering depression. He said he couldn’t feel anything, that wasn’t always how it was. Way back, as early as our shared history stretches, we had been out for dinner with a group of mutual friends and a couple of stragglers were sitting in my kitchen close to midnight when the floors and walls shook. Each looked only at the other, both wondering if the other had felt the tremor. The earth moved when we met.
We soon learned the Turkish consulate a few streets away had been bombed that night. So it was a bomb rather than emotion that moved us. Even so our lives were changed when we met, as a couple of me people became a we.
We were a fabulous we, particularly he:
*we went to the supermarket together after gym
*he played eye-spy while we were horse riding
*we held hands at the movies
*he was a punter
*I loved him
*sometimes I was horrible to him and other times I just didn’t think
*he was a journalist and writer, who briefly kept a journal about his depression
This is my own journal. Suicide is hard, hardest on those left behind, that’s the story of Mottsu and me.
Left behind and on my own I am keeping it together. Sometimes surprise myself and I just as often disappoint myself. I keep on talking, writing and dreaming…
