Being bereaved by suicide has had a seismic impact on my life.  I can never truly define the scale of this, but it changed my relationships, career and lifestyle.  I became unwell for several years.  I see this clearly now with the blessing of hindsight.  I didn’t see the gradual, but very real, disintegration of my life while it was happening.  Many elements have played a key role in my ongoing recovery, one of which I’ll share here.

A sedulous and caring psychiatrist came into my life when I had lost hope and confidence.  She referred me to Penumbra, who signposted a local writing group, but also, she listened and understood I had been creative in the past.  This thoughtful mental health professional talked to me about people using their creative writing cathartically and therapeutically, to give voice to their experiences and feelings.  I’d never considered this.  Back then, writing was something I’d done when I was well; firmly rooted in the past tense, when I wrote to entertain.  The notion of documenting breakdown, panic and depression was unknown and quite frightening.

Reading and hearing the creative writing of others who had experience of mental illness was a revelation.  They wrote beautifully, evoking their journeys with rawness, colour, pain and promise.  I was inspired by their prose and poetry that sobbed and sang like a stony stream through empty earth.  I was not alone.