Four days ago, I found a dead body. I wish I could say this was a work of fiction, but unfortunately it’s not. 

That’s all the detail I will give, other than the fact his death was by his own hand, in case his family might one day happen upon this. Having met some of his relatives, it would be unthinkable that I could cause them more grief, after seeing their already unbearable pain. Besides, you really don’t want to know. 

I was with my husband at least and that gives us both something, someone to cling to, whilst we deal with the aftermath. So that’s what I’ll tell you about, the aftermath. I hope this doesn’t come across as a ‘woe to me’ post, a pity party, for that’s certainly not how it’s intended. More, I hope, a look at shock, at those left behind without answers, as unwilling witnesses.

For me, things have certainly come in well defined waves of emotion. Some lap gently at my senses whilst others crash over me, momentarily threatening to engulf me. 

It will probably be of no surprise when I tell you that the first phase was pure shock, numbness. I’ve got to say, I wanted it to last. I was comfortable in its presence. I told the man from the charity that phoned, that I was fine, we both were fine, actually, thank you. The police had passed my number to him and I was grateful that there was somebody there to talk to, should we need it. Not that we would though, because we were fine. We even managed a little black humour, because, after all, it’s got us through many a shitshow before. 

It was the next phase that took me quite unawares. And I’m not proud of it, as anger rose, with an equal dose of guilt. How could I possibly feel angry? He was dead, I was still here, breathing, unharmed, still surrounded by my loved ones. But the anger built unchecked, until I had to admit it to a friend. “I’m so fucking angry,” I told her to my shame. “I’m so angry that he knew he’d be found like that.” Of course, I understand that when someone decides to end their own life, they find it impossible to consider those left behind. I cannot imagine the pain they must be feeling, for them to even consider the act. No doubt their mind puts up its own barriers to ease the passing. Nevertheless, as a stranger, I felt and still feel, violated. The very last piece of life’s innocence gone. For while I’m certainly no stranger to death, it is usually cloaked, hidden just beyond view. By my own choice, I remember loved ones that have passed in their last living moments. But to have death thrust upon me, unexpected and naked in all its horror, I was furious. 

How could I suddenly be so cold? So unfeeling? The nice man from the charity had sent me some links to websites, and devastated at my sudden lack of empathy, I started to read, and my god was I relieved to see that anger was a normal part of the process. Perhaps I was still human.

I was angry for two days until it started to wane, before I turned a corner. I could get back to my busy life, thank goodness, start to block out what had happened and get on with things. And that was fine for a blissful afternoon. It’s not like he didn’t keep popping into my head unwanted and unwelcome, but I was fine again. After all, I’ll probably never rid myself completely of the image, but I was fine. Until anxiety swallowed me whole, and for anyone who’s experienced anxiety, (let’s face it, who hasn’t at some point and you have my utmost sympathy) it’s a crippling experience. But with the help of some breathing exercises, sleep and good old fashioned hard liquor (probably not recommended by counsellors) thank god, that too has receded. 

Now I just feel sadness, for him, his family, for everyone that loved him. Sad that he didn’t reach out for help. Sad at a life unfulfilled. 

So now, as I lie here, awaiting sleep, I’m glad of the sadness. Sadness feels normal at least. 

Samaritans – Telephone : 116 123