Six years ago, this was your last day on Earth. Were you sure then? I often wonder what made you decide…what was the moment? I am not sure I remember that day right or a single conversation we had.
Six years together and I only recall moments, phrases, being in the same place and, eventually, the pain. I can remember anguish or the abyss. I clearly remember the way I felt as if my body was being torn apart as I watched the three police officers approach me to confirm what you had done. How I fell out of the hard plastic chair onto the cold, dusty ground as one of them said, clinically ‘he’s dead’. The anger and embarrassment as the other two just stood there staring at me as if I were a zoo animal.
You made me a widow and abandoned the children. You left us in a world that made us things to be pitied, judged, and questioned about our grief. I did not want condolences or sympathy, I wanted to be left to be furious with you for hurting everyone who loved and cared for you. I wanted you to come back and explain to these babies why you inflicted a lifelong trauma upon them. I wanted you to tell me how I was going to tell them and at what age was appropriate to explain suicide to a little Autistic boy? He was unable to handle the noise of the car wash at 5, when would he be understanding of a violent self-inflicted death? You put his sister and I in a position of carrying a lie to protect him. You forced me to break the rule that we never lie to each other.
Your decision put me in a place where I had to carry on and pretend I was fine. To keep the betrayals to myself, to keep my tears in when I saw happy couples at the market, to keep smiling for the kids. I had no time to collapse and cry, or stay in bed and process my world being turned upside down.
Logically, I understand you felt there was no other option. I knew your mental health was the last thing you wanted to address. Each time a Psychologist diagnosed you, you chose to run. Your Bipolar manifested in ways that damaged every aspect of your lie. The impulses, the financial ruin, the compulsions, the lies…cycle after cycle. I cried and forgave again and again. I hoped for better times and believed you when you would say ‘I’m not that guy anymore’. No more job losses, repossessions, no more sneaking around blowing rent on strippers and God knows what else. I thought your days of making a fool of me were over.
Then, you did it and I felt more of a fool than ever. I had believed you, I stood by you, and I did not see where you were headed.
I often try to imagine what you thought about as your sat in that car. What was going through your mind as you neatly placed your belongings on the passenger seat and pinned the envelope with my name and number to the back of the seat. As you felt the weight of the gun in your hand, did you hesitate? I picture you staring out at the mountains from the top floor of the parking garage and I wonder if you said anything. Did you listen to one final song before leaving this world?
These are the thoughts I can not shake. These are the stills and the loop I play in my mind. Why was it easier to end your life than to start over?
The guilt that I carried, the weight of not knowing what you planned and being helpless to help you was punishment for what? What was so awful about life with us that you believed your only option was death? Why did you never speak up or be truthful with me when you were having a hard time? You went as far as to block my number that morning so I could not talk you down.
In the aftermath, the only comfort I found was the truth that all of us left behind bathe in this suffering together. We share the haunting thought that our love was not enough. We fear that we failed as a partner, a friend, a parent or sibling.
As a survivor, I live with an intense fear that it will happen again. I became hyper aware of my loved one’s moods. I still feel panic when my now husband does not answer his phone or texts right away and I worry endlessly if someone I care for is especially quiet. I blame myself and stress over what I can do to fix it rather than adding it up to someone having a shitty day. Annoying as fuck…I know. I have to force myself to stop and recognize it is my trauma response mode.
Your decision didn’t simply change me. It began a chain reaction with those in my orbit. You find out who means it when they said they were your ‘ride or die’. People you believed were your soulmates scatter. They find excuses to escape dealing with your inconvenient grief. Secondary loss is not their problem.
However, people you never expected to show up step up. Others just drop into your life to be nosy and collect the gory details. I had people monitoring my widowhood. Unsolicited advice and outright intrusive questions and/or statements about how I should process loss, when I was ‘allowed’ to move on, and ‘shock’ when I did. I nearly made a template that said ‘Kindly fuck off. We all grieve in our own way on our own time.’
The ability to trust, the criteria for who you allow into your life and, more than anything, who you share feelings with is forever altered. You learn to mask whether you like it or not. I spent three months in grief counseling and he let me go by saying how ‘resilient’ I was. Like a garbage bin bouncing back into shape…after being plowed over by a truck. Resilience was not a choice, it was survival. I had to keep going full speed ahead for the two people I brought into this world.
I was not allowed to fall apart and I needed them to know that I would never leave them. I had to rebuild their sense of security and work my ass off so neither would grow into adults with abandonment issues. It was my duty to preserve their childhoods as much as possible.
In your note, you said ‘please don’t hate me too much’. It is not hate I feel for you. It is disappointment and pity. Also, I think you are an asshole. My first thought when I think of your death is ‘what a dick move’. Maybe that is mean of me and I am sure some think it callous, but it is the only was I can cope without falling apart. More so, I know you would agree with me if you were thinking rationally.
I am sorry you are missing out on life. Especially the joy of watching these beautiful kiddos grow into compassionate, funny, brilliant and creative people. We have all changed, for the better in spite of what we endured. We are closer, stronger, and free from secrets. I am just sad that it took you removing yourself from the world for us to get where we are.
For anyone dealing with suicidal thoughts or needing help dealing in the aftermath of a loved one’s completion, PLEASE call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1–800–273–8255 or utilize their online chat at suicidepreventionlifeline.org.
