When you lose someone to suicide, the world becomes a different place. My story with Jonathan is complex, painful and ultimately a testament to the importance of mental health awareness and compassionate support.
This is Uday's story.
An extraordinary man
We met in 2008 through Gaydar, an online dating platform popular among gay men at the time. I was fresh out of a relationship, adamant that I wasn't looking to date. But Jonathan was different - an incredibly handsome, tall man who stood out immediately.
From our first interaction he was magnetic. Standing well over six feet tall, with a presence that could fill any room, he was more than just physically attractive. His intelligence was razor-sharp, his wit cutting and brilliant.
Jonathan was a walking contradiction. Professionally successful, incredibly smart, and seemingly confident, he was actually deeply insecure. I now understand he was likely dealing with undiagnosed neurodevelopmental issues, possibly bipolar disorder. When he was "up" he was extraordinary - the most entertaining person you could imagine. He could command a room's attention not just through his looks, but through his incredible storytelling and humour. But when he was down, he could be incredibly volatile and difficult.
Our relationship was never simple. I tried multiple times to get Jonathan to engage with professional help. We attempted couples therapy, but he was more interested in performing for the therapist than being vulnerable. He'd discuss his traumatic childhood experiences, but always as a joke, never seriously. There was a profound sense of shame around mental illness, around his experiences of being gay in conservative environments and around his time in the Navy.
People consistently misunderstood Jonathan. Because he was good-looking, intelligent and seemingly successful, everyone assumed he was fine. But that was just a carefully constructed mask hiding deep emotional wounds. Behind his charming exterior was an incredibly shy, insecure man who struggled to form genuine connections. The complexity of our relationship became increasingly apparent, with incidents of emotional and physical volatility. Towards the end I told Jonathan that while he could stay in my house, I thought our relationship needed a break. I was planning a trip to France and suggested we use the space to think.
The 9th of July
While I was in France, Jonathan took his own life - in our bed, in our home. The immediate aftermath of Jonathan's suicide was a complete emotional paralysis. I remember feeling simultaneously numb and overwhelmed. My sister picked me up from the airport and those first days were a blur of phone calls, bureaucratic procedures and an overwhelming sense of unreality. People would ask questions, and I'd find myself repeating details mechanically, feeling completely detached from my own experience. The guilt was suffocating. Even though his sister Mary and my friends repeatedly told me it wasn't my fault, it was hard to shake the feeling that I could have done something more. The last conversation we had - where I suggested we might end our relationship - played on repeat in my mind. Was this my fault? Could I have prevented this? These questions haunted me relentlessly.
What made the grief even more complicated was the social response. People didn't know how to approach suicide. Some avoided me entirely, while others would approach me in the most inappropriate moments - like in a supermarket - with their condolences and questions. Each time I'd find myself reliving the entire traumatic experience. The sympathy, though well-intentioned, became its own form of emotional torture when accompanied by curiosity about the facts around his death. The bureaucratic process was emotionally and mentally exhausting. I even had to educate authorities about GHB, the drug he had used to end his life, and insisted the coroner test for it.
I couldn't stay in our home. The bed where Jonathan had died, the spaces we had shared - they became unbearable. That's when I made the decision to essentially run away from my grief. I spent nearly a year traveling, moving from place to place, staying with friends and relatives around the world. It was my way of avoiding the pain, of not confronting the massive emotional void Jonathan's death had created. This wasn't healing, but a form of emotional escape. I was running, quite literally, from my own emotions. Each new location was a temporary distraction, a way to avoid the crushing weight of loss and guilt. I would laugh, explore, meet new people, but underneath there was always this deep, unresolved pain. It was a pain I wasn’t quite ready to confront.
Learning to heal
The turning point came unexpectedly in Los Angeles. My cousin found a peer-support group specifically for LGBTQ+ individuals who had lost someone to suicide. Unlike previous support groups I'd tried - which felt clinical and impersonal - this one was different. Here I wasn't an outsider. I didn't have to explain the complexities of our relationship, or justify my grief, or explain what GHB was, or feel different because of my sexuality or cultural background. Those group sessions were my first real step towards healing. I learned that my experience wasn't unique. Other people had gone through similar pain, similar guilt, similar confusion. We shared stories, cried together and, slowly, I began to understand that my grief was valid, my feelings were normal and that I wasn't alone.
Slowly the nature of my grief changed. Initially, thinking of Jonathan would send me into spirals of sadness and guilt, but, gradually, those memories became softer. I started remembering the laughter, the incredible moments we shared. I could talk about him without breaking down and could remember his wit and intelligence with a sense of fondness rather than only pain.
The healing wasn't linear. Some days were impossible. Other days I could breathe. I eventually started therapy, not to "get over" Jonathan, but to understand our relationship, to process my grief, to learn how to carry this experience with me. Today, when I think of Jonathan my memories are nuanced. Yes, there's sadness, but there's also incredible fondness. I remember his ability to make me laugh like no one else, his passionate lectures about medieval architecture, his introducing me to gardening - a hobby I now cherish. He's not a wound anymore, but a chapter - painful, beautiful, transformative. I've learned that love doesn't end with death, and grief is not something to "get over," but something to integrate into your life.
When people ask me for advice about mental health and loss I always hesitate. Our experiences are so deeply personal, so uniquely painful. But if sharing my story can help even one person feel less alone, then Jonathan's memory becomes something more than just his tragic end.
What I have learnt
For those struggling with mental health I want you to understand something crucial: your pain is real, but it is not your entire identity. Jonathan was the most brilliant, charming person I knew, and he was also deeply wounded. These truths can coexist. I learned that the hard way. Reaching out sounds simple, but I know how impossible it can feel. Jonathan would joke about his struggles or completely shut down whenever I tried to discuss them seriously. But there is always - always - someone willing to listen. It might be a friend, a helpline, a support group, or a therapist. The challenge is finding someone who makes you feel genuinely heard.
I've also learned that support isn't about grand gestures or perfect words. It's about consistent, genuine presence. Many of Jonathan's friendships were superficial - people saw his external charm and assumed everything was fine. True support means showing up, repeatedly and authentically. To those supporting someone struggling: listen without judgment, be present and understand that your presence matters more than perfect words.
Professional support also matters, but it's not a one-size-fits-all solution. The first therapist might not be right. The first support group might feel wrong. Jonathan tried cognitive behavioural therapy and found it unhelpful. But that doesn't mean all therapy is useless. It means finding the right approach for you.
For those who have lost someone to suicide I want to be brutally honest: the guilt will consume you if you let it. I carried an enormous weight, believing I could have prevented Jonathan's death. Mary, his sister, was instrumental in helping me understand that his choice was not a reflection of my love or support. Grief is a strange, unpredictable journey. Some days you'll feel almost normal. Other days the pain will be so overwhelming you can barely breathe. This is not just normal - it's human. Be extraordinarily kind to yourself. There's no manual, no right way to navigate this landscape of loss.
Today, when I think of Jonathan, I feel a complex, emotional tapestry - sadness, love, frustration, joy. He wasn't just his mental health struggles or his suicide. He was brilliant, funny, passionate about medieval architecture, a great cook and a total nerd about gardening. Remembering him means embracing his entire complicated humanity.
Eventually I did find a way back to happiness. That doesn’t mean the grief is gone, just that I embraced healing and allowed myself to be happy, to love again. To anyone who is going through something similar, I hope you can do the same.
If sharing my story helps even one person feel less alone, then Jonathan's life - and his death - will have had profound meaning. In the end, love is complex, mental health is nuanced, and human beings are beautifully, painfully intricate.
(The story about Jonathan’s life and death is also told from his sister Mary’s perspective, in the article ‘Holding on: A Sister’s Journey through Grief and Understanding’)
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