I'm no longer fragile and clinging onto life

After finally understanding why I’d had so much nervous energy to burn off, it’s like an invisible weight has lifted and I’m no longer on edge or haunted by my brother’s ghost. I’ve been hesitant to write about it because I thought the feeling might have been fleeting; temporary relief in the journey of grief.

But this time I’m willing to go so far as to say I think I’ve shaken off the past for good.

The need to walk fast and frantically to get rid of the thoughts that plague me has gone. Instead, like the colourful butterfly poised on the spiky cactus in my favourite photo, I’m perfectly still.

This state of being isn’t so much the natural high from pounding the pavements every day as a return to normality and – far more gratifying – to being me.

As a suicide survivor, that’s vitally important. Losing a loved one to suicide immediately puts you at risk of taking your own life because you can often see no other way of ending your pain and burden of perceived guilt.

That’s exactly what happened to Elizabeth Treasure whose inquest took place last week. She killed herself in December 2011 after struggling to deal with four suicides in her immediate family.

When she was 22, her father, Alan, killed himself. When she was 26, her brother, Billy, did the same. When she was 39, her sister, Sally-Anne, also ended her life. And when she was 44, her 21-year-old son, Richard, hanged himself in hospital.

After four decades of trying to overcome the feelings of loss, pain, desperation and guilt associated with suicide, Mrs Treasure died by asphyxiation.

Dealing with one suicide is enough of a struggle. I can’t begin to imagine how painful it must be to have four close family members end their lives. After writing in The Times last year about sibling suicide and my own difficulty in accepting my brother’s death, my friend, L, sent me the photo of the red admiral on the cactus.

“That butterfly is you,” she emailed.

“You’re clinging onto life, fragile and yet strong at the same time.”

Not that I saw it like that back in March 2012. I never thought of myself strong because I was still incredibly raw. I wobbled every time the words ‘suicide’ or ‘Matt’ was mentioned or students wanted to play hangman in class.

But over the past year, there’s been a subtle, yet permanent, shift in my outlook and while my hurt hasn’t healed completely, it’s definitely no longer an open wound oozing pain and resentment.

I know that soon – very soon – the wound will scab over completely before leaving me with a neat, shiny scar to add to my collection.

There are the ones on my feet from when two of my toes were amputated when I was 17; the one on my stomach after I dropped a just-off-the-stove coffee pot all down my pjs and the boiling coffee burnt my skin; and a tiny one on my right wrist after sleeping with a too-hot water bottle which blistered me during the night.

But I don’t mind them. In fact, I love them because they are reminders of pain I have lived through. Matt’s suicide will simply become another one to add to the collection so I can focus on his life rather than the way he chose to die.

And besides, there’s another reason I have to deal with my own pain and not pass it onto others – be that venting in frustration or choosing suicide myself.

From the Cumbria shootings in 2010 to the former Los Angeles policeman on the loose today, too many people act on their emotional pain and pass it on to others. I’m determined not to be one of them.

The Big Em and M Challenge is, of course, a part of that. I will never be able to repay my friends, the colleagues and the students who were there for me when my unbridled happiness was smashed apart with a sledgehammer in spring 2009.

But what I can do is pay their selflessness and generosity forward.

There are now just 91 days until I walk 60km across the South Downs on May 11 in aid of Winston’s Wish, which means the big countdown has begun.

I’ve spent ages Excel colour-coding my training schedule that is now pinned to my bathroom mirror, my bedroom door and the kitchen whiteboard. I also keep a copy in my brown leather diary which means I’m constantly reminded about the challenge ahead.

Just walking 10km around town most days is no longer enough so I’ve also joined the gym and developed a four-times-a-week habit. I’m following a very scary programme which has been drawn up by an equally scary personal trainer.

Because he follows me around the gym monitoring my every move and doesn’t allow me more than 30 seconds rest between one exercise and the next, I have no possibility to slack off. He’ll occasionally allow me a sip of water but that’s about it.

Now whenever I look at the photo of the butterfly which is the screensaver on my iPhone, I smile and think how far I’ve come.

The photo still applies to me except for two things: I’m no longer fragile and clinging onto life.

Instead I’m strong. And perfectly still.

I’m raising £2,000 for Winston’s Wish www.winstonswish.org.uk , the UK’s number one charity for childhood bereavement. Change a child’s life. Sponsor me here.