Jeff, It’s been three years
It’s been over three years. You’ve been dead for longer than I knew you now. There is still this raw piece of my heart, this hurt that I work to keep buried, but that sometimes surfaces unexpectedly. I try to keep it secret, thinking that nobody wants to hear about you, that part of “moving on” and healing is to not talk about you, worried that I’ll make my current boyfriend feel jealous, scared of making people feel sad, or making people think I’m wallowing in grief or using it all selfishly just to get attention. But it’s there, always, on the outskirts, sometimes appearing again in my artwork. I guess it always will be. When those images of you flash back I try to bury them again, hoping it doesn’t show on my face. What is a healthy way to keep someone who’s dead in your heart? How much should one reminisce, honor, worship the dead? How does one navigate how much to let go of and how much to cherish still? I guess it depends on how important they were in life. You were a shining wonderful thing in my life, the answer to what I always looked for; I fucking adored you! One minute you were alive, loving me, and then I found you hanging there, a light extinguished.
This painting is called The Brief Madness of Bliss, part of my thesis work which I dedicated to dealing with my grief associated with my fiance, Jeff Taylor’s, suicide.
paintingpoppy 
August 9, 2015 at 4:32 pm
Amazing. I think you are gifted. I’m sorry for your loss. I feel the loss through your work.
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August 9, 2015 at 4:34 pm
Reblogged this on mtaggartwriter and commented:
A true talent. I need to share this.
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August 10, 2015 at 1:13 am
This piece is close to my heart
I felt every part of your pain
I had a close friend this happen to…
As always Sheldon
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August 11, 2015 at 4:14 pm
Reblogged this on creating an online presence for tomorrow, today. and commented:
Harsh and beautiful – stunning.
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August 27, 2015 at 5:40 pm
I almost put my husband in the same situation. Was trying to commit suicide. Called a friend to say good bye (she was in a different state of the country. She called the local police where I lived. Had everything out and was getting ready to wash pills down with a bottle of Nyquil, when the officer started pounding on the door. Was taught to answer the door when I was little. They took me away to a mental hospital.
Promised I would never do that to him again. Had told him I was going to kill myself, he didn’t take me seriously. He listens now.
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September 17, 2015 at 9:52 pm
The scars run deep and never really heal. It’s been ten years for me. (Husband, brain disorder.) I still catch my breath when I see or hear a trigger–something that he would have said or laughed at. Be who you are and who you need to be, the world will either adjust or they aren’t worth your time. It is good you can channel the pain, though. Working it out through art may give grace notes to a terrible memory.
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September 22, 2015 at 12:23 am
Thank you for your like
As always Sheldon
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