I lost my partner, Phil, during what should have been a hopeful time—the fresh start of a new year. The day he took his life, January 11th, marked the end of an entire reality, built jointly. Just ten days earlier, we’d celebrated the new year, singing “Auld Lang Syne” as the clock struck midnight:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And the days of auld lang syne?

In the aftermath of loss, those words resonate with haunting irony. When everything collapses, not everyone emerges with hope. For me, the darkness loomed large.

Receiving the news of Phil’s death was surreal. I was on a bus heading to him when I got the call from the Vienna Police Department. We’d been going back and forth that week on whether I should come out to Virginia from the city sooner: He told me he’d be fine until Thursday. My heart raced, my hands trembled, and I felt both a hyper-real sense of what was unfolding and its out of body opposite. I was watching a scene unfold while serving as its main charater. The one thought I could clearly form was the impossibility of my recovery.

As I limp through this first year of his absence, I’ve found that one of the many paradoxes of suicide is that while I may begin to find ways to continue living, true peace with the event always remains elusive. The senslenessness just lingers, shaping the way I move through the world.

Joan Didion famously described the surreal experience of losing her partner, capturing the disorientation that accompanies grief. She reflected, “We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe their husband is about to return and need his shoes.” Unlike Didion, I never entertained the thought that Phil would come back. After four months of grappling with knowing he’d never darken our front door again, I decided to leave the apartment we shared. I sought refuge with my cousin and her family, finding solace in the lively chaos of their home. Immersed in the joyful energy of her young children, I’ve discovered moments of grounding. Just last night, we sat together in the warm, dappled sunlight of summer, captivated by the sight of her one-year-old gleefully navigating her toy car while clutching her father’s empty beer bottle.

Yet, as my upcoming birthday approaches in ten days, I can’t help but dread celebrating without him. Phil should be here, joining me at the beach, recommending movies, being my unwavering companion. The absence is palpable, a void that deepens with each passing day.

People often say that time heals all wounds, but the reality is more complex. The sharpness of grief may dull over time, but it never fully disappears. Instead, you learn to carry it with you, integrating the loss into the fabric of your life. The hope is not to find peace with what happened, but rather to find a way to live in the world that now exists without the ones we’ve lost.

As I navigate this journey, I recognize that the conversation around mental health and suicide must continue. Each story of loss is a reminder of the importance of compassion and understanding. We never truly know the battles that others are facing, and extending kindness can make a significant difference.

In memory of Phil and for all those who are struggling, let’s keep talking. Let’s honor the complexities of grief and the importance of reaching out—both for those who have lost loved ones and for those who may be fighting their own silent battles. In doing so, we can create a more supportive and understanding world, one where no one feels they have to face their pain alone.

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