Everything That Died
Did you notice the world stopped turning on a random afternoon in February last year? I know you’re busy and may have missed it. It was everyone’s worst nightmare and now, mine. The sky tore open and many things died that day. I picked everything up and carried the remains on my back. I was very clumsy at first. Sympathy poured in for my plight but my head was so foggy. If you’d seen me, you might have said, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through! I may have asked, Could you come closer and try?
The first to die was my wife, Patty. She killed herself. With her service firearm. In our bed. One sharp snap of the pistol set off a nuclear bomb in the center of my life. The blast was heard far and wide. From your view, you can probably guess at just how huge that crater was but all I could make out was piles of concrete rubble and rebar in every direction. It took a long time for the dust to settle. My eyes watered for months.
Have you ever heard someone say they’d never kill themselves because of ________ — their kids, their supportive family, how strong they are, etc.? I used to think that too, until the bomb. I know how Patty found herself in the bind that killed her — the sliver of rock and hard place. Contrary to stereotype, she didn’t struggle with mental health issues; rather, a rare event occurred. After mounting pressure from a big case at work, she’d experienced a psychotic break and became delusional. If you’ve never had this happen, it’s pretty upsetting. Your brain tells you (for certain) that you and your loved ones are in danger. It’s a sort of gaslighting trick; the kernels of truth aren’t actually the conspiratorial hard evidence they add up to in your mind. So while the alarms are ringing in your head, no one believes you. Can you imagine? It’s too overwhelming to manage, especially if it’s never happened before. A big enough calamity forces anyone to the edge.
Worried about someone or yourself? Talking it out helps more than you realize. Check out this list of links to find someone for talk or text: Suicide Prevention Lifeline
The next to die was my career. I’m a clinical psychologist. You know, the person to go to when things get dark? Who would trust themselves to me now when I couldn’t even save my own wife? It took months for me to realize that suicide is so big that even a clinical psychologist can’t save someone. Unable to work, my private practice came to an abrupt halt. That day, it was me who died for my clients. We are collateral damage.
Then there was my identity — who I knew myself to be. I didn’t realize the extent of the destruction until later. I’d been a happily married stepmom with a routine, a loving household, and a minivan. I was living the dream! Now I’d find myself alone, in the middle of an ugly cry, not knowing how or when it began. I bought boxes of fancy tissues for my chapped nose. From one day to the next (the 8th to 9th to be exact), I was now a widow. That word is harsh but I secretly want to shove it in your face. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be cruel but it’s hard to get used to.
That first summer, I found myself disconnected from life, floating in the atmosphere above all the humans still grounded in daily existence. I found refuge in suicide research. I typed in the search word so often that Google regularly offered me the suicide hotline number. Are you sure you don’t need help? I ignored it. Something wasn’t adding up — my beautiful wife was in love with our life and obsessed with me and the kids. She was always in the middle of things and never wanted to miss out. And she knew how I worried about her at work. Racing out of the office, bulletproof vest velcroed around her chest, she’d call to let me know she was okay. If I didn’t hear from her, she knew she’d get that warning text, “Babe?” and I wouldn’t stop until I heard her voice. She was so plugged into life. Given any other choice, she never would have left us. The research didn’t answer my questions. Time passed and I lost faith in the science of suicide I’d been taught. Something wasn’t right here. Boilerplate stereotypes that I began to call “the depression narrative” were a harangue. That’s when the old story of suicide died. Little did I know, from that death, a new story would spawn. But I won’t get ahead of myself.
That Fall, I realized all meaning and purpose had died with my wife. Before you go off saying I was codependent, hear me out. In one fell swoop, I’d lost the life I’d carefully curated. It’s hard to get your head around something like that. To rebuild my crumbled sense of purpose, I tried out various ideas but nothing stuck. The first sandcastle I built was a new obsession with the afterlife. Never having given it much thought, I found brief reprieve in documentaries and books about spirits, souls and near death experiences. I met with five psychic mediums in six months. I kept a Google doc of all the weird stuff that happened. Like the time when Patty’s name and picture disappeared from her contact info on my phone only to magically return nine days later. In my newly procured dream diary, I had no less than 27 dreams about her that first year. My exploration yielded some new meaning but no solid purpose that a random wave couldn’t wipe out.
The most recent death is that of my ignorance. I’m not exactly sorry to see it go. It’s probably not the last thing to leave but I’m getting the hang of it now. On the plus side, a new perspective has taken its place. In my previous life, I’d get stuck in the details — lamenting some hassle or wishing some already great part of my life was more awesome. I know that makes me sound shallow but that’s not how it was. I never pictured myself a suicide widow at the grand age of 45. Who would? I thought I’d paid my dues. Instead, I’ve learned again that life continues to be unfair and hard work is not rewarded with smooth sailing like I’d thought. This isn’t a bad lesson. Something does seem to be happening. Instead of the stratospheric disconnection of last summer, I think I’m standing on firm ground now but I still see daily life at a distance. My feet are (mostly) under the rest of me. I’ve accepted that time continues to flow, memories will fade, and grief takes an impatiently long time to work its natural process.
Stubbornly, I acquiesced to this new life and found that despite all this death, something was born as well. There’s a next version of me — born kicking and screaming to be sure. I’m still getting to know this infant self but at least it resembles me. I no longer pay so much attention to the details because, well, I have (so far) survived the suicide of my wife. That makes me feel brave and invincible. If I must live with this nightmare, I might as well get something out of it. My eyes are clearing and I’m getting used to lugging around the remains that will never leave me. New muscles have developed. Wasting nothing, I’m writing a book on the new story of suicide. Perspective is less a consolation prize and more a precious gem. Amazingly, that torn sky was also a curtain pulling back, revealing greater truths. The bomb crater became an archeological dig. I refuse to let it all be for nought. I guess you could say that’s one seed of whatever meaning and purpose will come.
No one wants to imagine themselves in my shoes so I appreciate your company. I hope you got something out of this too. I’d never wish this grief on anyone. Paradoxically, affirming the awfulness is the fuel I’ve needed to sort through the rubble. Maybe seeds germinate in the nexus between my words and your eyes. It’s been rough but I don’t want you to feel bad for me. All I need is for you to occasionally survey the bomb site at ground level. Maybe that means you’re not as afraid to talk to me or say the word “suicide” out loud. Or perhaps, we can both be brave and tell others that those lost to suicide are far more than how they died. Sympathy is a distancer and compassion connects us. I treasure my allies and you’ve helped more than you know. I put myself out there and you didn’t let me drop. Just in case you think listening to me isn’t enough, let me assure you that it is. While you can’t take away the awfulness, it sure helps to have you on my side. Thanks.
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