Walking away from suicide

But I didn’t like it. Not a bit. I didn’t get the relevance. I didn’t see how I could be walking away from something that was so entrenched inside me; a lead weight inside my heart.

And, yet, as I looked out from the terrace at Barcelona’s Parc Guell on Boxing Day and looked down on the city and the glinting Mediterranean sea in the distance, it struck me as nothing less than perfect.

Because, when you think about it, that’s exactly what I’ve done.

I’ve kept track of my walkouts, as I like to call them, and over the days and weeks and months, have already notched up over 2,000 kilometres. When you think about where I was in June , that is an achievement in itself.

Of course, as I’ve mentioned before, in the beginning it was difficult. Whether I was strolling around Badbury Rings, along the promenade to Boscombe or heading out for a bracing walk through the New Forest, Matt would always dominate my thoughts.

Some memories were happy ones, others less so. Snapshots of us as kids chasing after sand lizards on the common that backed onto my grandparents’ house in Wallisdown made me smile. As did me being a sulky bridesmaid in a dark green dress at his wedding in Ontario, Canada. But, predictably, the image of Matt hanging by a noose brought only tears.

I thought Christmas Day was going to be hard given that it was the fourth anniversary of the last time I saw my brother. Yet, when it came to it, I barely gave him a thought.

And I think that’s due, in part, to the novel I read less than a week before flying out to Barcelona for the festive break.

I thought I’d picked nothing more than a funny, engrossing read but then I should have known better when choosing a book with the title Dead Father’s Club.

Nevertheless, when the character Mrs Fell tells her pupil “The thing is Philip. There comes a time when you have to put the dead to rest Philip. When you have to trust the living instead,” (sic), it was as if she was speaking directly to me.

Because, if we’re being honest, I’m completely bored with suicide.

I’m done with people prying and wanting to know how Matt died, what he wrote in the suicide notes, and whether we had any inkling that he was going to kill himself.

Similarly, I’m over people pussy-footing around the issue as if they’re in danger of stepping on a landmine, hinting at ‘the tragedy’ but not daring to mention the words.

Here’s the thing: the raw emotions of March 31, 2009 when I got the phone call that changed my life will never diminish. That doesn’t mean that I have to focus on them, though.

It’s almost four years since my brother ended his life, which means it’s time to live mine and help bereaved children live theirs.

I know from seeing my nieces and nephew how young children are deeply affected by the death of a close family member.

So many people seem to think that children under five – as in the case of my then four-year-old nephew – aren’t hit as hard by grief but that’s simply not true.

In fact, pre-schoolers need just as much support as older children, with nursery staff and social workers speaking to them about their feelings in age-appropriate language.

And I’ve also seen the difference that charities like Winston Wish make in bereaved children’s lives.

Six years ago, six children I know lost their fathers in two very different circumstances. Three children lost their dad to cancer and had professional support almost immediately.

The other three children lost their dad to stomach cancer six months after losing their mum to breast cancer. Those children didn’t have professional support and had to make do – like so many others – with the extended family muddling through.

Needless to say, it’s the children that got the help and support that are thriving now, while the others – the ones that lost both parents one after another – that are still struggling to work through their feelings.

Knowing that Winston’s Wish really can make a difference to bereaved children’s lives – and remember that every 22 minutes a child in the UK loses a parent – is what is spurring me on to raise more than £2,000 for the charity.

And if you’re in any doubt about my ability to complete the 60km walk in May, don’t be.

Back in June, the 100 steps up to my brother’s top-floor flat in Barcelona puffed me out to the point of exertion.

This time I ran up them. I also ran up and down the hotel staircase to my room on the sixth floor instead of taking the lift and walked at least 10km around the city every day.

So, as well as walking away from suicide, I’m also four months away from completing the biggest challenge of my life.

Please sponsor me and give bereaved children a happy and hopeful 2013. You can donate here