There are still days, however, where I find myself needed to share my story and as I get to 'that' bit... the uneasiness in my stomach grows again.
This morning I saw a health professional and as we discussed the stress I've been under due to my personal circumstances, it became relevant to explain the trauma around his death.
After nine months, I still stumble with the details and struggle to deliver it gracefully.
It seems so inadequate to just say 'he took his own life'.
He deserves more than this, he was so much more than 'just' a victim of suicide and I feel compelled to try and explain his actions.
The most adequate explanation (short of spending a good 20 minutes going through what a brilliant, good-hearted, thoughtful, caring man he was) seems to be along the lines of: 'he had depression, we had no idea how badly... His symptoms were predominantly memory loss and inability to focus, so he became convinced he was developing dementia and, during a suspected psychotic episode, took his life to save us from having to care for him.'
But the truth is, this is merely the picture I ended up with from the prices of the puzzle that I could pull together. Pieces like: the beautiful, heart-felt note he left me; conversations we had about how scared he was by his symptoms, as well as those he had with his doctor; the assumption by police that his death was not planned or pre-meditated, but carried out in a state of detachment; and the undeniable fact that he adored me, and would never have wanted to willingly cause me this pain.
However I will never truly know what happened in his head that day. There will always be questions that creep in when I let my guard down. I will never fully understand the why's, no matter how much I try to help others understand and accept.
Maybe the best I can hope for is to find peace in knowing I will never know, and one day I won't need to ask the questions anymore.
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