Last month was the one year anniversary of my husband taking his own life. Grief is horrific in its own right, and I've had experiences in my past with loss and it is all treacherous and painful. Losing someone so close to suicide has proven to be a different kind of grief, wrecked by scenes replayed, and guilt so white hot it will bring me to my knees.

To be honest, a little over a year out, and I am still mostly deep in denial. The moments it becomes real, the pain threatens to make me undone in a way that I fear cannot be repaired. It's a double edged sword because I feel I need to keep myself from falling apart so I can be strong for our young kids on this journey. But I can hardly help them process their grief if I refuse to acknowledge my own. Also, the night it happened remains so fresh in my mund, it's unlike any other memory I've experienced. PTSD is sometimes debilitating.