Being Angry About Suicide

I dreaded the next few minutes.

I was wrecked, it was late in the afternoon and our flight had just arrived an hour before. I had settled my boys (who at 4 & 6 were full of chat about their break away) at home with their Auntie; this was something I needed to do on my own first before bringing them.

My Mam and Dad were with me at least, they had picked us up from the airport.

As we drove into the estate I could see them, loads of them, they were spilling out of the house.

My Dad parked the car in the only available spot across the road from the house.

‘Oh God I have to walk across the road, why couldn’t he just have driven right up to the door so I wouldn’t have to do this’ is my only thought as I open the door of the car.

I step out and look over at the house, they are all looking at me; some recognising who I am, and I can see them whispering to each other and looking back at me, then looking away again. No one wants to catch my eye as I walk towards them.

But then I don’t want to look at anyone either.

I march on, looking straight ahead at the opened front door, the innards of the house as my only focus. I don’t wait on my parents; who I know are now trying to get out of the car as quickly as possible to follow me.

I continue my torturous trek up the drive of the house, passing by people I probably know but don’t care who they are at this moment.

I step inside the front door, having to excuse myself as I push past the people standing around. I glance towards the kitchen ahead of me. I see faces I know and nod.

I turn right, into the sitting room. It is where He is.

The room is also full. It is full even though I had rang ahead to say I was on my way minutes earlier.

‘Get out’ I say. They know by my tone that I mean business, and why shouldn’t I be cross, they should’ve known I’d want to speak to him on my own.

The full seats around the room empty immediately.

No one left except me and Him.

I close the door behind me and walk towards Him.

I want to shout at Him but I glance up at the open window and know that if I say anything to Him the crowd outside will hear me.

So instead of screaming and shouting at Him like I wanted to I have to whisper my anger. I have to whisper through gritted teeth. I am so angry at him, every bone in my body is angry for my sons.

‘How fucking dare you!’ I whisper quietly. ‘How could you do this?’

‘How could you do this to your boys?’

‘I thought you loved them?’

‘What am I going to say?’

How am I going to tell them?

‘How am I going to explain to them that you killed yourself?’

The door opens, I turn around to see my mother coming in. She closes the door behind her and comes over to where I am standing, beside his coffin and puts her arm around me.

‘Oh God, what are you going to say to the boys?’ she asked me.

‘The truth’ I answer.

RIP the boys Dad, I’m not angry any more.

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6 Responses to Being Angry About Suicide

  1. adomackno1965 says:

    you have a rare and beautiful talent, the ability to infuse the words with so much emotion, thank you for baring your heart and soul

  2. magnumlady says:

    You need to publish a book.

  3. Trich says:

    Oh God, how horrible for you all, suicide is not a good legacy. God be with you all.

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