Sarah

Sarah is retired.

She started writing letters and poems after her son Darin died in 1995.

“I can’t spell to save my life. I have absolutely no idea where a sentence stops or starts or where you put a comma or a full stop.

I had no education. I’m the youngest of 18; we went to school in the country. The teacher we had taught us nothing. “Get out your exercise books!” he’d say. Then he’d warm his backside on the fire and read the paper the rest of the day.

When I was younger and I first came over here from Ireland I thought I could go and get some lessons on how to write a letter. I never did though. The kids came along, I didn’t have time.

I couldn’t string a poem today if you paid me a million pounds. But at the time they just flowed out of me.

It’s just the strangest thing. How did I do that? How did I get them into verse?

“I’d just be sat thinking about him and I’d make up a little verse and write it down. I couldn’t really say why I wrote them. ”

He used to work away a lot. When he was away, I’d stand at the window in his bedroom and look out in the distance at lights in the night. And I used to wonder where he was, what was he up to, was he safe, you know?

Then of course, he was gone. I couldn’t drive on the motorway at night for a long time because the lights would be coming towards me and it would make me so sad.

He used to grab me from behind and say, ‘Do you love me?’ I’d say, ‘Enough to get you by!’

But he was sensitive too. He hurt easy.

There were days I thought I was going demented. It was such a desperate, physical pain I thought I was going to die. 

I had a priest friend who visited me. One day he said, “Have you ever thought of writing to him and telling him how you’re feeling?” He never said to save it or anything. 

And so I did. I’d just be sat thinking about him and I’d make up a little verse and write it down. I couldn’t really say why I wrote them. 

But I wrote bits and put them in the paper for about five years. Some were for his birthday and some for his anniversary. I’ve got all the cuttings. 

Everything was written by hand. I wrote it on an old writing pad. And then my friend read them and typed it up so I could print them. 

You never get over it. You just learn to live with it better. 

I suppose writing it down helped me cope with it a little better. I wish to God I could have read something like this when I needed it.

A lady from my church said, ‘He probably didn’t mean to do it. You could always tell people that.’

I couldn’t believe it. My child was gone, I was utterly devastated - I didn’t care what anyone thought. We’ve got to talk about suicide and the devastation it leaves behind.

I often felt like I was going mad. The family were all working and getting on with life and I just couldn’t understand it.

I went down into the pits of hell many times. But eventually, you have a good day. You see the sun come out and you feel it on your face or you hear the birds. I want people to know that.

There are good days, better days.

It never goes away. But one day, you’ll find a way to cope.”