The Eternal Challenge of the Suicide Widow

Last night, after a tough week, a friend and I treated ourselves to a night out at a local comedy festival to have a few laughs and blow off some steam. We had tickets to see an up-and-coming Australian comedian who has acted in a couple of popular local TV shows and I was really looking forward to seeing her live. 

It was great... until she started joking about suicide. My stomach dropped, my face started burning, my throat tightened and my eyes were pricked with tears.  I couldn't believe it.  There I was trying to forget about being a suicide widow for a night and the topic was being shoved in my face. 

I tried really hard not to spiral into the grief, to just breathe and push it aside, but I just couldn't loosen up and laugh properly again after that.  At the end of her suicide bit she may have noticed a few blank looks in the audience (there were a few laughs too though) and finished it with 'come on people, lighten up, I'm joking!'.  Making me feel not only sad and self-conscious, but also like I was some kind of uptight downer who couldn't take a joke.

Driving home, I kept thinking about it.  I know it's not uncommon for comedians to push the limits of social decency for the sake of a joke. But is suicide EVER funny?!  Even for those who haven't been touched by it?  

Dan's suicide has been weighing heavily in my thoughts this week.  I don't usually focus on it, but have found myself heavily distracted with questions around why and how it could have happened to him.  

A few days ago I was searching for something on my computer and found a link to his wedding speech.  I'm going to share it here for anyone who might be interested.  We were married a little over six weeks before he died.  So this man, standing up in front of a room full of people who care about him, brimming with happiness, love and gratitude, was 45 days away from taking his life.  I want to track down people who say 'suicide is a choice' and show them my husband's wedding speech.

It's probably been a year or so since I've watched it.  Seeing him standing there, talking about how meeting me was like finding his home, brought on a wave of disbelief that hit me like a tsunami.  I didn't see depression in him that night.  

Looking back, I can see times throughout our relationship where he was a bit quieter than usual or seemed a bit withdrawn.  He never pulled away from me or held anything back between us, so I had made assumptions that it was his personality to sometimes be a bit detached from the hustle and bustle going on around him.  I had no way of knowing what he was battling.  Any silence or space in the months before he died was most likely filled by my own excitement about our wedding and starting our life together.  He was always fully there with me, never giving me reason for concern.  But what did I know?  I had no idea what to look for, I just didn't see it. 

In his speech my husband says: 'Our lives are just beginning and together there is nothing we can't do.  We can take on the world, it's me and you and nothing else matters.' 

These words have echoed around my mind and torn at my heart since I heard them again this week.  I want to feel angry.  I want to rage at the injustice of him dying like he did.  It's not supposed to happen like that.  How is this my story now?  What on earth happened?

It can be so easy for those of us left behind by suicide to get lost in that torment of what should have been. I have worked incredibly hard to find a place of acceptance in the way Dan died.  This is the only way I can move forward. There will never be answers to the questions that I deserve to ask.  No good can come from fixating on them, I have to let them go.  

This is my eternal challenge, because even though months can go past where I feel like I understand how depression took him and I'm at peace with it, they will never be resolved and I will always have to work at the 'letting go'.

It's so very difficult, this extra layer of grief that suicide hands us.  The stigma that it brings can cast a shadow on the memory of our loved ones that makes the burden slightly heavier to bear.  I never could have imagined that this might be part of my story, but it is.

I have to keep reminding myself that he died from a disease.  Looking at him standing there, in his beautiful wedding suit, the pride and happiness beaming from him, I can't see this disease.  This in itself is the problem.  It's invisible, tormenting and sneaky and would have caused him to doubt himself in the cruelest of ways.  I hate this disease. I am petrified of it and I hate it.  I think of it as the demon disease that fed lies to my wonderful husband until his brain was poisoned beyond his own recognition.

When I look back on photos from our time together I sometimes see a shadow here and there, a flatness in his eyes in some photos. And these break my heart.  But I'm glad I couldn't see it in him on our wedding day.

I hope he had some reprieve that day.  I believe he did.  And so I will carry these memories with me always, using them to bring comfort during the times that his depression attempts to torment me too.

Disconnected by Pain

Source

Last weekend, both my sister and my best friend were out of town on (separate) family holidays when my grief decided it might be a good time to roll on up and knock me around for a bit. Knowing I was in for a quiet weekend, I had set myself a few tasks around the house and planned to lay low, catch up on laundry and housework, do some cooking for the week and fit in a gym session or two. 

However when I woke up on Saturday morning, with the weekend stretching before me, the feeling of loneliness was heavy and the emptiness filled my bedroom. I am usually quite comfortable spending time alone and quite enjoy my own company, so it’s not unusual for me to have a weekend by myself.  But I think that knowing my two ‘go-to people’ were unavailable if I started feeling lost or down, opened the door to that horrible realisation that my person is gone and I am on my own. 

By midday on Sunday the tears had been falling almost non-stop all weekend, I had achieved none of the chores I’d set myself and had lost a significant number of hours just staring at the wall and waiting for time to pass.   I was in a deep depression and felt disconnected from the rest of the world.  The idea of returning to work Monday morning was actually looking appealing.  Yep, things were that grim!

Somewhere in the depths of my logical brain, I knew the fog that had settled would lift again.  I knew there was light and hope and happiness out there somewhere, it was just out of reach in that moment so I had to buckle up and wait for it to pass.

Luckily, mid-week I started doing better and am feeling ok now but when I caught up with another friend and mentioned that I’d had a bad few days, she asked why I hadn’t called her. It was so hard to explain.  I’ve never been very good at asking for help and the grief complicates this even more, because no one can make it so that Dan didn’t die and bring back my old life.

I’m lucky that my sister and my best friend know me well enough to sense when I’ve gone a bit quiet or usually hear the strain in my voice when I lie that ‘I’m ok’, and just turn up to sit with me and talk it out.  But even with them it takes a considerable amount of effort to show them my pain.

In my head, it’s like I’m so miserable and sad, I just can’t bring myself to subject other people to that.  I don’t even know what I would say or what I need/want. In my grieving brain, I can’t see the purpose in calling and saying, ‘Oh hi, I’m really sad.’ I mean, what am expecting from them?  I feel terrible for putting someone in the position to have to respond to that.  It’s not like I’m asking for help moving a heavy piece of furniture, I’m asking them to help me feel less devastated.  What a massive thing to ask of someone!

In hindsight I know the act of reaching out always leads me to a better place.  Once I connect and start talking I can usually identify whatever particular thought or emotion it is that happens to be taking the floor at that moment and almost always feel a release by just verbalising the pain.  But when you’re in that hole, you just can’t see that.

In a way, if I put myself in the company of others, I’d probably just feel pressure to try not to be sad and upset them, so I’d feel compelled to put on my cheerful mask to reassure everyone that I’m ok, and that’s just even more exhausting. 

Which lead me to think, I wonder if that’s kind of how Dan felt when his depression passed that point of going beyond being able to reach out.  Maybe that’s what stopped him from talking to me that day.  Did he think that there was nothing I could do to help him, so he didn’t want to worry me and inflict that on me?  Maybe he didn’t want to put that pressure on me – or knew he’d feel compelled to put on his ‘I’m ok’ face and just didn’t have the energy to do that anymore. 

I’m not anywhere near as desperate and lost as he must have been feeling, because I’m not suicidal.  So it makes me sad to think just how dark that place must have been for him. It’s a cruel disease, depression.  The way it feeds you lies and blocks you from getting help.  If he had of been suffering from a physical pain, rather than a disease in his brain, he would have had the logic and capacity to communicate how he was feeling and seek help.  But the depression took that from him.

It had been said there are significant similarities between grief and depression, but it’s also incredibly important to know the difference between the two.  I have felt depressed in my grief but I haven’t had depression, although I know many of my widowed friends have, which is very scary for them.

Every time the darkness of that deep grief descends upon me I’m reminded of some of the feelings my darling husband must have been battling with.  It helps me understand how out of control he must have been feeling and again reaffirms that his suicide wasn’t a ‘choice’ made by a rational brain, it was a desperate act by someone who felt deprived of any other solution. While I can remind myself that the fog will lift and my deep pain isn’t permanent, he just wasn’t able to find that hope.  

Not Like Any Other Normal Day

While my husband was taking his last breath, I was at home re-potting these plants. Totally oblivious that my world - as I knew it - was about to end.

The shower drain in my bathroom really needs to be cleaned out, yet the thought of doing it causes the blood in my body to rush to my toes and leaves me feeling like I can’t breathe.   You see, the last day that I cleaned the drains in the bathroom, something catastrophic happened.  My husband died.

It started as a normal day. Daniel had hit snooze on his alarm a couple of times and was struggling to get up and get motivated.  I knew he was having a rough time, mornings were always the hardest for him.  Since being diagnosed with depression and starting on anti-depressants a few weeks earlier he seemed to be struggling even more and the medication started to take effect. However we’d checked in with our GP about it, who’d told us to stick it out and give it more time, assuring Dan that he would start to feel better soon.  Just earlier that week Dan had admitted that as mornings progressed he seemed to ‘warm up’ and the day got easier.  So I wasn’t alarmed that he was dragging his feet. 

I had absolutely no idea what turmoil he was battling inside.  I have replayed that morning over and over and over again in my head, looking for signs that I missed.  Trying to work out what was different that day.  Wondering at what point the disease took over and he came to the conclusion that he couldn't get through another day.  Wondering why I didn't see it; why I wasn't paying more attention rather than thinking about cleaning the stupid bathroom drains.

Did he know when he told me he loved me and kissed me goodbye?  Did he get as far as his office parking lot before turning his car back on to the highway?  Did he even, absentmindedly, find himself an hour away from home, at the location of his seemingly-spontaneous suicide, before realising what he was about to do?  Before deciding he was at the end of his tether and the time had come to end the pain?  These are just a couple of the hundreds of questions that I still struggle to let go of.  Will there ever come a time where I don’t torture myself with them?

As I cheerfully lugged bi-carb soda, vinegar and pots of boiling water up and down the stairs to our bathroom that morning, he was wrestling with demons that had him questioning everything he knew to be true.  Depression was telling him lies, convincing him that he was losing his mind to dementia and the best thing for everyone would be for him to remove himself from our lives. 

By the time I’d finished the drains and headed to our back yard to re-pot some plants that needed tidying up, he had written his final words in a letter to me, apologising for the pain this act would cause, begging for forgiveness and trying to explain that we’d all be better off this way.  While my gentle, intelligent and loving husband took his last breath, I was gardening. 

That seems so ridiculous to me.  I was doing these mundane, mindless, household tasks. Safe and secure in the belief that life was good and everyone I cared for was ok.   How could I possibly have been so naive and unaware, while my soul mate was fighting for his life and losing.  Surely I should have sensed something was wrong in my universe or felt an uneasiness?  Yet, I had no idea.  I was pottering around in our garden, without a care in the world, enjoying the feeling of the sunshine on my face.   

I think the fact that life was so ‘normal’ until that day plays a big part in why my brain still can’t process that Dan died from suicide.  It’s not something you ever grow up thinking could happen.  I used to worry about a loved one being hurt in a car accident, or a natural disaster – you just don’t ever comprehend that your new husband will take his life.  

I think I assumed that in a situation like this there would have been more signs; more opportunity for me to intervene; more time to fight the disease and get my head around the gravity of the situation that he was facing.  I know now that I was so naive about so many things.  But that’s not my fault, who WOULD be prepared for these circumstances?

When I think about that morning, the last moments before my world collapsed and the shadow of grief was cast across my heart, I almost feel guilty at how carefree I felt.  I recall my sense of contentment and satisfaction as I cared for our home and worked on building a nice life for us – and wish with all my heart I could go back to that time.  The biggest worry on my mind that day was getting my housework done in time to meet friends for lunch.  I had absolutely no concept that my husband was about to die from suicide.    

So, I don’t want to clean the drains again.  I don’t want to acknowledge that the word could have another blow waiting for me.  I don’t like looking down into the murky drain pipe while I wash my hair but I just can’t bring myself to do anything that vaguely resembles the course of events on that worst day of my life.  

It's Just Not Fair

I was driving home from work recently, singing along to the radio in my own little world, when I passed a car the exact same model and colour as my husband's. Next thing I knew I was instantly transported back to That Day.

The last time I saw my husband, 11 months ago, was around 8am as he kissed me goodbye and left for work. But he didn't go to work that morning, he drove an hour away from our home, parked his car in a hotel car park, checked in and took his life.

Seeing that car triggered my grief and my brain went careering down that slippery slope: ‘What did he think would happen to his car?  Did he realize that I’d have to arrange to collect it?  Did he realize I’d have to find a new purpose for ALL of his possessions?  Did he know his parents would fly in and help me with that?  How did he think we’d be capable of sorting this out?  Why would he do that?  Why didn’t he TALK to me? What the hell happened to us?’

And I’m back.  Right there in that very moment where my husband’s suicide defines our existence – all there was and all there ever will be. 

So. Many. Questions.  He left a note for me, written on the hotel stationery (which indicated that he hadn’t planned or prepared for his death) but what about his parents?  His sister?  His friends?  They all wanted answers too.  Didn’t he realise they’d be just as devastated?

He left so many things unfinished – dirty laundry, paperwork, our weekend plans to visit friends at the beach.  He received and made work calls on his drive that morning, set up meetings even.  Did he know then that he wouldn’t be able to attend? 

I had planned to plant a garden in our backyard that day and sent him a photo of my handiwork via text message only 15 minutes before he died… didn’t he want to come home and see it? See me?  Hug me?  Crawl in to bed with me and tell me he was scared and let me help him and hold him?

These questions are such torture and I will never get the answers.  Why did this happen to him?  How did he get to that point?  When did he decide that this was his only option? If only I'd seen it, if only I'd stopped him from leaving the house that morning.

I’ve had intensive suicide bereavement counseling and I understand and accept that it wasn’t Dan that day, it was a disease in his brain, but in that moment I forget all the rationale and the questions build and build and build until I feel like I’m drowning in them. 

I finished my drive home with tears flowing freely and fell in to bed, muffling my howls with my pillow.  Until, almost like she I knew I was struggling, a message popped up on my phone from an old university friend I haven’t seen for more then 10 years.  We drifted apart but are Facebook friends now and even though she didn’t know Dan, she felt compelled to reach out when she heard the news and still checks in with me now and then. 

I replied to her message, confessing how distraught I was, telling her I couldn’t understand why and how this happened. 

In her reply, she said she understood more than I realized.  She opened up to me about her own depression.  Unbeknownst to me until that day, her battle was a fierce one, and ongoing one.  One that she had come close to losing. 

My beautiful friend told me that almost five years earlier she had been in a dark place, struggling with an abusive relationship and a stressful job.  Her depression was deep and she had thought abstractly about suicide but knew she would never, could never do that to her family.  It was not an option she would ever consider.  Until one day she had a sudden ‘brain snap’ and decided in an instant it was the only answer.  Within moments she had made a serious attempt on her life that failed purely because she had been in such a rush.  It was incredibly close though and only by pure luck and chance that she survived.  She eventually reached out to her family, admitting how serious her state of mind was and got the help she needed. 

Today, she still struggles with her disease, but she is strong and determined.  She wanted me to know that she came very close to a similar fate as my husband’s.   Under different circumstances he might have survived his 'brain snap' too, and gone on to get the help he needed.  We might be telling his story to other people who are suffering and giving them hope. 

It made me realise (again) that my husband wasn’t a man who took his own life.  He was a man who had a disease that took control of his body, and caused an incident that claimed his life.  I stopped thinking of his death as a suicide even, because in my mind that implies a conscious act or choice. 

This conversation with my friend calmed my raging questions but made me very sad.  Sad that she had been through such a terrible experience, one that lasted years and still affects her deeply.  Sad for so many others who are battling with mental illness and not getting the support and treatment that they need.  And it made my sad for my sweet, gentle husband.  My beautiful Daniel. My darling didn’t deserve to leave our world in such a tragic way.  If life was fair, he wouldn’t have died so young.  There wouldn’t be disease in the world taking such beautiful souls from us, there wouldn’t be accidents or murders or cruel twists of fate, there wouldn’t be so much pain.

It sucks.  Death sucks.  It’s just not fair. 

The Next Chapter

My husband Daniel and I on our wedding day.

When Michele invited me to write for Widow’s Voice I was incredibly honoured and also excited at the opportunity to help other widows and widowers, particularly those affected by suicide.  I was, however, very nervous about opening up and laying our story out for everyone to see; and potentially judge.  My husband Daniel was a conservative and private person, even with his cheeky sense of humour and warm, outgoing, friendly nature.  He was the ultimate gentleman – so respectful, fair, classy and not one to push his opinion on others or air dirty laundry in public (just to be clear, not that I consider depression to be ‘dirty laundry’ on any level).  

The day after he took his own life I started the never-ending, painful process of telling our world what had happened.  I had called his parents and sister the night he died, after he failed to come home from work and police officers eventually came to my door at 10pm notifying me that he was gone.  That was the most difficult call of all – telling his family.  I was in deep shock so hadn’t felt my own heart break at that point, but I heard theirs shatter and will never forget that night.

Telling our friends and work colleagues was a slightly different experience.  I needed to decide, how much would I share?  How could I say he’d died by suicide?  People wouldn’t believe it – he was so happy, popular and successful.  We were only married six weeks … they might assume he didn’t love me (and sadly, I heard that there were some comments made, questioning our relationship, but that’s for another day).  I knew he would be disappointed and embarrassed that this was his last chapter.  He wasn’t ‘that person’. It just wasn’t supposed to end like that for him.

So I decided it wouldn’t.  His story would go on because I wouldn’t let his death be his last act.  Instead, I would talk about Dan’s depression and suicide.  I would work hard to try and understand it myself and then share our story because maybe, if someone had of shared their story with Dan, he might have realised that what he was feeling wasn’t normal and wasn’t ok.  He might have been moved to ask for help rather than be silenced by the stigma of mental illness and the ridiculous notion that to admit that you’re not feeling ok means you’re weak or broken; or being an unnecessary burden; or attention-seeking.

I would look people squarely in the eye and say "I lost my husband to depression.  He took his life after five weeks on anti-depressants, after becoming convinced that he had dementia and was becoming an inevitable burden on myself and our families."  I would brace myself against the waves of pity, shock and disbelief that came when I dropped that bomb and be patient with the ignorant or insensitive comments that sometimes followed, attempting to educate others and push them out of their own pre-conceived assumptions of why people succumb to this disease that is mental illness. 

Please don’t think that because I manage to talk about my experience that I find the process easy.  I cry every day.  I couldn’t function for months … still can’t some days.  My family and friends carried me through the darkest days and the horror of his death still haunts me.  Just when I start to think I’ve finally made peace with his suicide and can now divert my energy to processing my grief, there it is again, asking ‘why’ or ‘how could this have happened’ or ‘what if’.  These questions will never go away, but I’m not as scared of them as I was before and feel better equipped to make my peace with them and let them pass.     

So above all else I am grateful that Michele has put her faith and trust in me to talk about Dan’s suicide and my grief here, in the hope that it helps others walking this path beside me.  And I’m grateful to you, for reading, for being part of this community and reminding me that I’m not here alone.  Thank you, I look forward to sharing my story with you.     

I survived....

... Christmas, that is.

I won't lie to you, the week before Christmas, I was not feeling great.  The weight of another Christmas without Greg weighed heavily on my mind. 
I missed him.
I know I miss him every day, but last week I really missed him.

I missed sitting on the couch and snuggling, watching the lights on the tree flicker. 
I missed talking to him about everything. 
I missed his strong arms.
I missed his safe embrace.
I missed seeing the kids play with him.
I even missed seeing him stuck under a piece of machinery, tinkering away for hours on end.

I was sad.
Really sad.
Should-have-been-medicated sad.

But then on Sunday, I received an e-mail from my friend that made me feel less alone.

On Monday, we went to stay the night with one of my oldest friends and her family.  She is the friend that introduced Greg and I, 20 years ago.  Greg was best man at their wedding.  We drove to their resort-like house on the hill on the other side of the city and we swam in their pool and drank champagne while all of the children played.  I walked through the bushland at their house and smelt the eucalyptus. We laughed and cried and it felt so wonderful to be there.

On Tuesday, I got a phone call from my friend who lives too far away from me.  I haven't known him long, but it feels like we've known each other far longer.  He is a widower with a school-aged child: we understand each other. Talking to him put me on a high for the rest of the day ..... to the point that when I took the children to church for the Christmas Eve service, I actually sang every carol.  I sang the harmonies and the descants.  I sang for the love of singing, if not from the love of the song itself.  This is HUGE. This is the first time I have sung inside a church for the past 3 years and 9 months and 24 days.....

Christmas Day itself was so much better than I could have imagined last week.  Of course I missed Greg like crazy, but for the first time since he died, I felt some of that old Christmas joy float in on the breeze.  My children showered me with love and my darling parents came bearing food and gifts.
It was hot here (Australian Christmases usually are), but we feasted on cold meats and salads, enjoyed Mum's plum pudding and ended the day with a swim ....
.....and if you know me, you know that swimming is my path to instant happiness.  I don't want to sound trite, but some of the most peaceful and surreal experiences I have ever had have been when I was floating on my back, staring up at the sky, remembering how much he loved me.

....and so I find myself on Boxing Day feeling the best I have since Greg died.
Last week, I couldn't envision any way that I would feel this calm, peaceful and even happy.

Again, love has saved the day. 

Love never dies.

Changes

What follows is my own opinion.  I know it is not everyone's and I am truly glad to live in a country where I am free to vote for whomever I wish.  I am grateful to have a vote when so many women are denied this right.  ...and I also appreciate the freedom to express my opinions here.




Well, we've had a bit of a change over here in the past week..... there is a new Federal government and a new Prime Minister.



...and the emotions of the day, both in the queue at the polling booth (a really rude, racist man yelled at an elderly Asian lady, I just gave him my best teacher stare which seemed to shut him up .... and then later he followed the kids and I back to our car in order to hurl abuse at us) and the certainty that we were headed towards a new political era  ....  left me unable to calm down at the end of the day.

I was in tears as I watched the tally unfold. I was pacing the room and shouting at the television.   Really mature.  But really worried about the future of my country.

To add insult to injury, out voting system in the senate has a loophole which seems to have allocated seats to minor, single-issue, ridiculous parties that have an miniscule percentage if the primary vote, but preference deals have seen them somehow gain seats in the upper house. Motoring Enthusiasts Party anyone?  What about the Sporting Party?  Both of these single-issue groups have been handed seats in the upper house. 

It all makes me feel sad and worried about the future of my country.  It seems to me that we are taking a giant leap back 50 years.

...and I had no Greg to commiserate with me. Nobody to remind me that we survived years of this party in government before.  To tell me that things might not actually be as bad as I think they will be (he was ever the optimist but I can't help but focus on the climate-skeptic, right-wing, compassionless characteristics that seem to underpin their policies).  

I know I will pull myself out of this downwards dip and I know that I need to distract myself from thinking too hard about it all.

But for the time being, I shall mope around and kick things 'cause sometimes, that is just what I need to do.

I just hope Greg lets me know he is commiserating with me before I break a toe.....


 

Phoenix

source

Last Wednesday I had a session with an amazing healer right when I thought I couldn't go another step in this life without something major happening to lighten the pain I was experiencing in my heart and soul.

I had hit a wall and wanted to be done feeling heartbroken and sorrowful, uncomfortable in my own skin and completely terrified by the future. I'd been feeling bitter and resentful, too, when I thought of how my life, when it comes to loss by death, seemed to be the reverse of what we think of as the normal progression. Instead of becoming an adult first and then seeing both parents die and then living a long life and then watching a spouse die, I'd already seen all three foundational people leave this earth in terrible ways by the age of 35. I couldn't (still can't) imagine the rest of my life suffering through more losses than that. I just felt done. I wanted to trade in my heart and soul and life for another one. A do over.

I wanted to feel happiness for others who had both loving parents and a loving life partner. I wanted to feel gratitude for a beautiful sunset, my furballs, art, music, comedy, nature and all the other things that normally make my heart happy, but nothing was getting through the veil of sadness.

The healer saw me at the point at which I could no longer hold my shit together, even in public. I was a trembling, sobbing heap of sadness.

In my sessions with him, he told me that his spirit guide knew that Dave hadn't passed all the way over into the spirit world. He was stuck in the middle void because we were connected with an energy cord, a heart cord. He said that for both of us to go on and do what we needed to do, the cord would need to be severed. He also said he'd seen my soul pattern and that it was the Phoenix. A challenging soul that had chosen a life of suffering only to rise from the ashes and heal, first the self, and then the earth herself. He said I was an Earth healer and that the pain of the earth as we abuse her was my pain as well. I was here to help her in some way.

Now, to hear this and not dismiss it immediately is a testament to how vastly I've changed since Dave died. Before he died I didn't even really understand what a chakra was, or pay one iota of attention to healing arts, or the afterlife much less soul patterns and heart cords. I would have instantly dismissed this sort of information as quackery.

I no longer dismiss anything. Especially if it brings me healing, peace, or answers of some sort. I don't even care if any or all of my healing is because of the placebo effect. The result is the same. I feel better. I don't think much beyond that.

The sessions I had with him were intended to melt away the protective shell around my heart, keeping me from truly living and severing the cord keeping Dave in that middle ground and me stuck in so much pain.

I can say that since then, I've noticed the following (and I'm feeling extremely cautious about any and all good results since it's only been a few days and I know the tumultuous nature of grief and depression so well)...
1. I feel more able to feel. Both good and bad emotions are flowing a little more through me without crippling me.
2. I can enjoy food more than ever.
3. I am, almost without thinking about it, doing chakra breathing exercises and visualizing/meditating for the first time in my life. Meditating had always been incredibly uncomfortable for me and I'd have to force myself before.
4. My voice is stronger and there is a light in my eyes.
5. I feel more present.

I'm still not sleeping really well and I still have a tremor in my arms and hands that stubbornly won't go away but I'd say for the last few days I've felt more alive than dead and that's new for me.

A discovery I've had since the healing is that I've never allowed myself to throw a really good ANGRY fit for the loss I've experienced and the pain I've felt. When faced with adversity I get small and quiet and cry. Reacting that way, I disappear into my pain. Somehow, a new righteous anger has displaced a little of that and I've been feeling that it's also replaced some anxiety. Instead of disappearing into the pain and sadness, I felt larger than it for the first time.

I've felt more powerful than I can remember feeling in a long time, if ever. Also, more than a year ago, when I first sold my house and moved to Portland I became briefly obsessed with the phoenix bird. Some of my computer passwords contain the word phoenix and I considered a phoenix tattoo for a while.

I guess maybe I really am a Phoenix. Rising from the ashes isn't for sissies.

Dark Shadow

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Depression. It's my dark shadow. I've been living with it since my late teens. Even so, it can still trick me.

For the last few weeks I've been under its spell and up until today I didn't realize it. Instead of seeing the depression as the REASON I feel as though everything is hopeless and life sucks, I have been thinking that I'm depressed BECAUSE everything is hopeless and life sucks. It's a big distinction but depression has an incredibly convincing way of telling me terrible things and getting me to believe them all.

Complicating all of this is that my sweet husband died and even after more than two years, I miss him all the time. Grief and sadness and depression are all tangled up at times, and so hard to sort out.

But what I can see now (even still in the depression - though it might be lightening a bit now) is that there have been times (even after he died) when I didn't feel that everything was hopeless and my life sucked. I never once felt as though my life wasn't hard and painful and full of grief, but it wasn't hopeless and it didn't completely suck. It contained incredible lifelong friends, nature, new wonderful people, a home, the financial freedom to not have to struggle to find work again, relatively good health, a picturesque neighborhood, the chance to start over career-wise, travel, writing, art and even the opportunity for new love.

Under the black veil of depression, though, at times, my mind told me that none of it mattered and it was too hard to go on. When the veil lifted I could see that the depression had been talking.

And that is what has happened to me again. I fell for it again. Which is a testament to how powerful a force depression can be.

I have to remember to take care of it like any illness. Get as much sleep as I can, eat as well as possible, surround myself with people who can love on me, take my meds, give myself compassion.

This time, again, I forgot about this momentarily. I tried hard to be happy. I tried not to be a bummer. I tried to be something I couldn't be. I thought the fake-it-till-I-make it strategy might work. I felt ashamed for being so sad. It can't be fun to be around someone this sad, right?

Then again, I am sad. I'm terribly sad. I can't fake a different mindset or push myself to be what I'm not. I'm also worthy of love and compassion from myself and others and I definitely haven't been giving those to myself. I've been hard on myself. I questioned my character and wished I could be different. Someone who can feel happiness, silliness and joy.

I am that person once the depression lifts, but right now, the depression has a hold on me and I can't blame myself for it.

It's the depression to fight, not my self. My self is still there. My funny, nerdy, loving, silly self is there. Once the veil lifts, there it will be. It's not the self from before Dave died. She died that day, too. It's a different self, but one I think is pretty great too.

I just have to remember that when my dark shadow whispers so convincingly that I'm not good enough and that everything sucks.

Miss Sadness

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I wrote the following just a few days ago and I'm already in a different mindset now. Reading it, I think "Whoa, this chick is DRAMATIC,", and I'm a little embarrassed now that the misery has lightened a lot. But, this is the truth of grief and depression. Here it is. The real deal. It's ugly and sad and feels endless while I'm in it, but it doesn't last forever at this volume (thank God).

I don't get true pleasure from anything lately. There have been a few moments since Dave died when I did, but it's always been muted. Experienced through a gauzy, hazy layer of numbness. Lately, though, even getting simple comfort has been hard. 

My brain seems to be on the negativity channel and I can't change the frequency like I often can. A silly comedy I'd normally lose myself in at least partially, just annoys me. I can't find relief in music. No genre seems right, songs either grate at my nerves or make me too sad. Food is a requirement, not a pleasure. Being alone doesn't feel soothing and being with others feels like I'm putting on an act.

I'm angry, bitter, sad and confused. I don't want to take a hike, or go on a little road trip, or cook, or paint or take pictures or learn to play my guitar. I don't feel like volunteering or traveling, or working on my resume or my Oregon teacher's license. I don't want to walk dogs, or work on my dog training certification. I want out of my skin. I want escape. I want to feel better. But I feel awful. Awful inside, awful outside. I feel jealous of others who don't have a dead spouse. I feel jealous of people who have kids. I feel jealous of people who have had loving parents. I am searching, searching, searching for a glimpse of the feeling of true belonging.

I keep realizing for a moment or two that that feeling died with Dave and that it might be years before I feel that way again, if I ever do. Then, I forget that fact and feel so convinced I can find the feeling again. Where is it? I think. Oh right, it's gone.

I got myself out to the nail salon today. Forced myself. As the woman was  painting my nails, I overheard another woman say "I tried to mow the lawn today...".

My eyes filled with tears as I thought,  I used to have a lawn. I used to have a life. I used to have a future. It's all gone. Sitting there with my hand cradled in a stranger's hand, I wanted to tear it away from her, run out of the place and race home to cry. I waited it out, and finished the manicure, paid and trudged home. 

I tried to eat lunch, but the only thing I could fathom putting in my mouth was ice cream. I shoved spoonfuls in while crying loudly like I've heard kids do when they don't get their way. A temper tantrum cry. A helpless, wailing, outpouring of frustration.

I tried to watch a funny movie and it made me mad and sob more. My big, warm, purring cat curled up on my chest and I felt empty. Even his sweet warmth wouldn't soak in.

What do you do when the things you normally rely on for comfort no longer work their magic?
Where do you go? Can I run from this? Can I fake it till I make it? The inertia of my misery feels irresistible.  It feels like there isn't enough love in the world to ever fill the holes in my heart. It feels like there isn't a thing I could do that wouldn't make me more miserable.

It will pass and the light will come again, I tell myself.
Hold on and wait it out. It won't last forever I say.
But I don't believe it right now. Right now it feels like I'll always feel this empty.

Sitting here, on the other side of it, I'm relieved it's over for now. I hope I'll have from now until after Camp Widow to ride this wave of feeling better.  If not, I'll be Miss Dramatic SADNESS trudging around the Marriott in San Diego with a little storm cloud over my head and a pint of mint chocolate chip in my hand.

We Keep Going

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My depression guides me to reach out for help. My loneliness guides me to connect. My fears guide me to act anyway because it must be important if I'm scared of it. Thinking of these uncomfortable emotions as guides helps me somehow.

Lately, when the depression has taken over, I've let it guide me to do whatever feels right*. I'm finding it easier to push against thoughts like "Distract yourself, numb yourself, don't lie around all day, you'll just wallow! Don't be lazy. Don't give in to the feelings." and instead do exactly what my body feels like doing. If it feels like rotting my brain with a Parks and Rec marathon, I do it. If it feels like cocooning in bed in the middle of the day, I do it. Get dinner delivered rather than cook? Yup. Leave the laundry and clutter and dishes until some unknown day when my energy returns? Sure. 

As I succumb to the things my body says it wants, I realize more and more that if I just do what I need, I pass through the stage faster than if I push against it, trying to ignore the messages I'm getting.

Sure, if I stayed extremely busy I might skim over some of these feelings throughout the day, but they always return. I have to tackle them anyway. Taking them on, all at once, instead of one little sip at at time can feel overwhelming and scary, but it's never permanent. I always shift back to the world of the living. I always emerge.

Interestingly, when I do emerge, I feel like I've really conquered something. Not just the fleeting pangs of grief that poke through a busy day, but full-on Tsunami waves of loss and heartbreak, desperate fear and hopelessness. I realize that I did that. I got through that. The emotions didn't kill me, though they felt like they certainly would. They were actually thoughts about feelings and they were mostly about the past or future, not the immediate moment.

My immediate situation is hard, very hard. It's missing someone I spent almost half my life with. But it's also evidence of how much I've survived, how hard I've worked to rebuild this life and what a fucking warrior I am. If my thoughts remain on my current situation, I see that I'm not in immediate danger (though the anxiety makes me feel like I am), that I'm surviving, that I'm loving harder, accepting myself more, listening more, feeling instead of numbing, and getting up every day to at least attempt to face the heartbreak I still feel at every moment.

*I realize how unique a situation mine is. I don't have to go back to full time work yet, and I'm not raising kids alone, so I have the "luxury" (ha!) of grieving fully when normally I'd be filling my days with work and kid-raising. I know this is rare and I'm fully aware of how many of you have to work full time AND some. This is just my personal experience within this life of mine.

On the other hand, I've noticed lately that being alone is harder than ever, I'm more and more envious of families with children and often tears spring to my eyes before I know what's happening when I witness little nuclear families. I have less career-related motivation than ever and have a harder time figuring out what it is I even want to do with my life.

So, that's my reality as I begin year 3 of this crazy new life. It is a life so completely different than my former life that I often shake my head in disbelief as I look around me. Other than the love of my Dave, I've kept so little of that old life. In many ways, that has helped me move forward. A fresh start and new viewpoints were what I needed. On the other hand, the old life sometimes feels like an illusion. Did I imagine that? Or am I imagining this new life?

I just keep plodding on. My mantra is "Just show up" and sometimes I succeed and sometimes I don't. My other mantra is "He wouldn't want you to give up" and I can say with conviction that I haven't. Each day I get to wake up and try again, I do. All of us going through this can say that. That is our superpower. We keep going.

Even Now ......

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...... depression sets in.

Still.

I rarely see it coming.

I just seem to wake up mired in it.

Still.

It's usually accompanied with the sense of feeling completely overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed by all that I'm "in charge of",  all the upkeep that comes with owning a home that is slowly becoming way too large, way too lonely and getting larger ...... and lonelier.

I feel overwhelmed with being the only one.

The only parent.

The only home owner.

The only care taker.

The only decision maker.

The only bill payer.

The only appointment maker.

The only receiver of phone calls/emails from well-meaning schools and teachers.

The only responsible party.

The only mistake maker.

The only safe person upon which to vent. 

The only one who has to decide when to sell this house.

The only one who has to decide what the hell to do with all of the "stuff" inside this house.

The only one to talk to many days of the week.

The only one to talk to almost every single night of the week/weekend.

The only one having to come up with health insurance for 5 people.

The only one to eat dinner with.

The only one in my bed every night.

The only one who can't sleep most nights.

The only one.

In a life that was meant for two.

And more.

But though it still comes ...... even now ...... it doesn't come very often anymore. 

In fact, I can't really remember the last time depression paid me a visit.

And though it still comes ...... even now ...... I know that it will leave again ...... sooner, rather than later.

I now know that depression is not moving in with me, with no end of its occupancy in sight.

I know that I may feel sad, blue, tired, depressed ...... for a day or three, but then depression will move on.

I didn't know anything about depression in my "before" life.

But in my "after" it became something I learned a lot about.

More than I  ever wanted to know.

Which has turned out to be a good thing.

Because though it still comes to pay me a vist ...... even now ......

I know that it won't take me down.

Because I've grown stronger over the past 5 years.

And I'll continue to grow stronger ...... in spite of, and because of,  being the only one.

Even now.

6 Month Slump

I have been in a slump.

It started with me catching a cold in October. I had a nasty cold, it didn't matter how much I slept, I was beyond exhausted. I couldn't stay awake for the life of me, even driving the 10 miles to work every day was a little sketchy. I chalked it up to depression, a different kind of depression.. a kind I have not had before. I thought the exhaustion was just depression, even though the depression I had before left me suicidal with no will to live. I had just passed the two year mark, so of course it was depression, why wouldn't it be?

I never really got over that cold. After 2 months of having a never ending sore throat, and sleeping 14 (plus) hours a day, I decided it wasn't just a cold anymore. I went to the doctor and had a full physical. They did full blood work, to check all my vitamin levels, hormones levels, even checked for cancer. When my doctor told me she was going to do a blood panel to test for cancer.. my heart broke all over again. Getting cancer after my husband’s death would be the end. I don’t think I would have the will to go on and fight it. I didn't dare tell my mom about the cancer talk my doctor and I had. I just couldn't do that to my mom.. unless it came back positive. (My mom is now just reading this and learning about this, yes mom.. there was serious talk about cancer. I am sorry I didn't tell you!)

After an anxious wait, my doctor called me with my results. Everything came back normal... 

Except I tested positive for mono.

I took my doctors advice, and whenever sleep came a knocking, I slept. I slept non stop. I called into work several times, just to sleep. I wish you could have heard my bosses’ voice when I would call in and say “I’m too tired to work today.” He was always like… “Err.. ok??” He didn't get it, and that is okay.

This was the beginning of this slump. I have been exhausted since then. I still have had a never ending sore throat. But now my blood work shows I have an “old” infection of mono, not an active infection.

The last 6 months have been pure exhaustion. Every day is a struggle. I haven’t had the energy to do the “normal” things in life, such as cleaning or grocery shopping. In fact, it has been so bad, I would rather just not eat then go to the grocery store or fast food joint because going to get food took far too much energy. Energy I couldn't afford to waste.

I took this exhaustion phase and just accepted it. I decided to “sit” with it. Not fight it. Unlike in the past, I have fought the depression, anxiety and exhaustion, until I crumble under the pressure. So I decided to just be with it. Just allow myself to be exhausted. Allow myself to sleep as much as my body tells me to. Allow my house to be a mess. Allow my life to be a mess. All to take care of myself.

I started thinking I would never get out of this exhaustion. I started wondering how I would manage life when I don’t have the energy for any of it.

I grieved a lot during this. Because I refused to push my body past its limits, I sat with it. I sat with the grief. Sat with the mono. I had 6 months of a lot of sleep and time on my hands. I had some really bad days. Days where I was sick of being sick, sick of the exhaustion, and sick of the grief. Days where I couldn't see an end to it all.

Today, a day after the 33^rd month anniversary, I realized I have come around a curve. I have more energy. I want to do the things I enjoy again. I want to be out in the sun. I want to be out and meet new people and try new things.

How did this curve happen so slightly, that I didn't notice at first? Why can’t I take a very sharp turn, look back, and think, HA! I passed a turning point!

I am pulling out of my 6 month slump.

Maybe it was mono. Maybe it was depression. Maybe it was grief. Maybe just pure exhaustion from the busy life we live. Maybe a combination of all of this.

Or maybe it was meant to be. Meant to make me sit still. To sit with grief and life. Maybe it was to make me slow down, rest, and do the bare minimum… for once in my life.

One thing I learned out of my 6 month slump is.. just to sit with it. Accept it. It’s okay to dwell in it. It’s okay to have a pity party. It’s okay to have my house a mess. It’s okay to be lazy. It’s okay to sleep all day long.

After all, worse things have happened then dirty dishes. The dishes will still be there tomorrow, but if I don’t take care of myself today, I might not be here tomorrow.

I have realized life is too short to dwell in having a spot less house and an empty soul. I choose to do what makes me happy, and not do the things I am “supposed” to do.

The dishes will still be there tomorrow, they aren't going anywhere. But will I do them? Probably not. My soul needs to be outside, working in my garden, and not dwelling in dirty dishes.