The strength of the wild horse.

For years, especially in the early days following my husband's suicide, I felt an overwhelming urge to share our entire story.

I wanted to express everything ......to scream, to rage, and recount the unkind words and actions of those involved.

I longed to share the journey leading up to his desperate attempts to seek help and the responses of those around us.

I was holding onto all of this, and it was consuming me.

I felt isolated, as if I might vanish into thin air, standing as the odd one on one side of the bridge while everyone else remained on the other.

Each time I contemplated blogging about it all, something deep inside urged me to refrain.

Instead, I turned to prose and poetry, conveying my experiences without naming the characters.

I spoke of my profound pain in subtle, quiet ways.

Over a decade has passed since his death, and I still find myself on that other side of the bridge.

This is the impact that losing a spouse to suicide has had on me personally.

This path was anything but easy.

It remains challenging, as fragments of my grief and trauma linger, and I encounter people who pretend they played no part in my pain and no part in the story of his suicide.

I don’t remove those pieces.... they are my badge of honor, proof that I died the day he died, but the following day, I woke up breathing.

I'm still alive.

In the years following his death, I felt like a child, constantly told how to act and what I should do and shouldn't do.

I believed that failing to meet others expectations made me a bad person, and I struggled under the weight of constant people pleasing.

Now, a decade later, I am in my late forties, and I am no longer afraid.

I no longer feel like a child.

I am in control of my story and wield the pen.

Love always, Nik

Purchase my books here:

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Nikki-Bonkoski/author/B0F7K2WCK7?