Not much helped at first. All I was capable of doing was sitting against a wall and sobbing hysterically. My friends would come around after they'd finished work and made sure I ate something, let me know I wasn't as alone as I felt. But nothing made sense. There was no purpose to life, no happiness, no laughter. Just me, rambling like a lunatic at the photos on my walls.
Then I started writing. I wrote him a letter every day for a few months. Letters filled with all the pain, the hurt, the questions. I told him how much I missed him. I yelled at him. I begged him to go back and make a different decision. I asked the questions I had, over and over. I told him how dark my thoughts were and how scared I was. I told him the things I couldn't say out loud to my friends at the time. I kept telling him that I couldn't get that image out of my head, that his last act is superimposed over everything I look at.
One day, I realized that I was starting to answer the questions, by telling him what I was feeling I was giving my brain space to process. The best part has been that I didn't believe I was getting better, but by reading back over those letters I've been able to see the changes in how I feel. I can see that I don't need to put scary things in a book quite as much anymore. The image has faded to a negative rather than a color photo.
Those letters helped me find clarity, gave me something to do when I just wanted to die and helped me feel like he wasn't totally gone from me. It started as one letter I wanted to bury with my beautiful fiancé but ended up being a story of the start of this journey. It's mainly an anniversary thing now, this month will be nine months without this wonderful man in my life. I'll pick the book back up then and tell him how I'm going. He knows, he's always with me but I like to tell him.