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| Source - I couldn't find a picture that spoke to me.. so again I used my own photography. |
At Camp Widow, Michele did an amazing keynote.
It was about finding our “and then.”
My “and then” started 12 years ago. I was happily married to
my husband Seth.
And then 7 years into our relationship, bipolar stepped into my
husband’s soul.
And then… my husband took his own life.
And then… that was the end of our life together. And what I thought was the end of my life.
And then… I was left walking in a strange land. Where
everything was wrong. Everything was terrifying. Everything pissed me off. Nothing
helped my pain. All I could do every day was drag myself out of bed and go to
work. That’s all I had to give to this strange land.
I felt like an alien. I felt like my body wasn't mine
anymore. I was trapped in a body that didn't belong to me. Where the hell did I
pick up this altered version of myself?
Nothing fit in this new world.
I felt like I had this huge puzzle with a million pieces
missing. How would I finish this puzzle I call my life if the pieces are
missing?
I remember I was about a year into my widow journey. I was
completely devastated and trying to get out of the hell hole I call depression.
I remember thinking what will make this life.. my life.. worth living?
It was then that I took a look around... took a look at things
that kept nagging at me.
My mind kept taking me back to my struggles I had within the
first year. Struggles with depression, in-laws (out-laws) and struggles with
keeping my job through my husband’s death.
That’s when my FMLA (Family Medical Leave Act) petition dawned on me (see it here).
Through my petition I found a small piece to my “and then.”
It gave me purpose. It gave me something to focus my energy
on. Something to drown myself in.
Shortly after starting the petition, Michele came knocking. She
asked me to write for widow’s voice. To share my story, struggles and joy. To
write about my experience as a suicide widow.
I remember the morning after she called me I stood staring
at myself in the mirror. I was of course crying, because that’s how all my
mornings were back then. I wondered how I would ever share my story. For so long I hid my
thoughts in my personal blog. Where very few people knew it was my writings and
they defiantly never saw pictures of me or my husband. I pondered how I would
share something so personal, gruesome and tragic for complete strangers to
read?
How would I write so honestly about my life, without hiding
behind a fake user name?
That’s when I found another small part of my “and then.”
Sharing my story, with my name and my pictures was a relief.
I didn't have to hide my story anymore. I could scream my story and there were
people to hear me. There were people that understood my pain. There were people
that were just starting this journey and people that were years into this
journey.
I was no longer alone or hiding my story.
Sharing my story so honestly has given me another small
piece of my “and then.”
I realized one way to
help myself... was to help others..
I didn't want my husband’s suicide to be in vain. Through
sharing my story I could possibly help someone on the verge of suicide or a
widow that just needs someone to understand their pain.
My petition, my writings and helping other widows has given
me purpose. Has given me hope. And gave me small pieces to my “and then.”
I left Camp Widow thinking about how I have picked up pieces
of my “and then” without even realizing I found the pieces.
How did I pick up these pieces without noticing the movement
I had made to get there?
I couldn't stop thinking that my life is still missing some
of my “and then.”
What is my “and then?”
I don’t know. I’m still wondering what or where it is.
I realized I won’t see my “and then” as it’s happening. It
will be something that I look back on and realize a certain person, memory,
movement or even a thing or place… was my “and then.”
And then – I realized I still have work to do.
I still have pieces of this puzzle to find.
I still have pieces of my “and then” to find.
I left camp with hope.
Hope that one day… piece by piece, little by little, I would
find my “and then.”
