William. Dum spiro spero...

I am not sure which stage of grief I am at with this.

Six years on, a lot of sadness and stages later, you would think that I could at least pin point or name the emotions that spill from me?

But I can't. It is still, even now, just a mess in my head, in my mouth, in in my heart, in my history. And now, quite possibly a mess on my keyboard too.

At the end of November 2006,  my eldest brother, William,  took his own life.

He was a man of massive charisma. A man of immeasurable success in his professional life. He was a smart man. Intellectually, accademically and with a streetwise integrity that knew no bounds.

He had a beautiful son. (A son who I now love as my own.)

But he was a man filled with demons and a terrible debilitating depression. He was bi-polar.

He was in so much mental pain that even someone of his emotional intelligence (or perhaps, even, because of it?) could not cope. Just could not cope.

He sought help. He was given help. He was given medications by the barrowload. He saw doctors of every nature. He spent weeks that turned into months in private phychiatric facilities. He was so aware of his state. But no one could help. I suspect the medication actually hindered.

He attempted to take his own life four times in less than three years. The final attempt was successful. He electrocuted himself. It is a method that is known, I now realise, by police and medics to be the tactic chosen by those who are far beyond "crying for help."  It is, apparently, the suicide method of choice for those who are unreservedly determined to die. To escape their mental pain.

Between attempts, the medications was increased. The long term stays in private psychiatric hospital - self admitted, more frequent.

Between attempts he carved more creative success.

Between attempts he holidayed with us in Darwin.

Between attempts, he gave me away at my wedding.

Between attempts, he would arrive in Adelaide from Perth to simply spend an hour with me, to cuddle my two elder children.

Between attempts, he would sink beers with my husband as they embraced the viewing of the cricket they shared an adoration of.

He was my big brother. He was William.

He was a bear of a man whose love for me was totally unconditional.

He operated, as so many bipolar sufferers do, at a level of enthusiasm unrivalled in any other character I have ever met.

His ability to create, to plan, to stage manage, to make magical things happen was just phenomenal.

But with that, as I now know, goes the spiralling to deeper depths of misery than I ever want to contemplate. My heart shies away from allowing myself to think of the utter despair he must have felt.

The last time I spoke to him in person was as I wandered around a supermarket, four years ago. We would have been gossiping together over the 'phone and planning a virtual meal together.

But I spoke to him today.

Four years later. I still call his mobile phone number. His voicemail is still there.

And I hear his voice, and I just miss him so much. So very very much. And I am so angry. So very angry at all this waste.

William, I pray with all my heart that you are resting in peace.