Suicide Widow

Source

I am filling in for Amanda today. The current heat wave has knocked out her power! Amanda stay cool (get it?!) and I will try to stay warm!

Recently I have had a lot of suicide widows reach out to me on Widow’s Voice and facebook. “I have no one to talk to, I have no one that gets it. I can’t talk about the suicide to my friends or family. They change the subject.”

I get it.

The thing about suicide is.. it’s complicated. Very complicated. Which leads to very complicated grief.

We are often hushed, because suicide is a “sin” therefore we shouldn’t talk about it. Suicide makes people uncomfortable. Because in the real world, it doesn’t happen (insert sarcasm here).

Let me get this straight.. I’m not supposed to talk about my husband’s death? I’m supposed to lie about how my husband died? To make other people comfortable?

You got to be kidding me.

Seriously people, stop putting that kind of burden and grief on us! We have enough grief to deal with we don’t need to try to make you happy and as comfortable as possible.

Sunday I woke up to such a sweet email. Here it is –

Hi Melinda,

My name is *Name removed for privacy reasons *, I'm a 33-year-old widow from Brisbane Australia. I lost my husband to suicide in July last year, only six weeks after we were married. It's been a very difficult six months, however something that has really helped me is the daily Widow's Voice blog. I have really missed your postings since you moved on and was wondering if you had a personal blog that I could follow or wrote anywhere else (I hope I've got the right Melinda!!)? I hope 2014 is a good year for you, bringing you much peace and happiness : ) Warm regards, *Name removed for privacy reasons *

When I read the email, I leaned back in my bed with tears in my eyes. Tears because I remember being “there”.. Two years ago.. When I was a year and a half into this.

Tears because I thought when I retired from widow’s voice, that would be the end of my story. Somehow my past would end along with my suicide widow blog. Somehow if I didn’t write about it anymore, it didn’t exist.. Right?

I thought that would be the end of me reaching out to pull a suicide widow out of the hell and isolation they are living in.

It never occurred to me that a month after I “retired” I would still be reaching out.. Again.

It warms my heart to know that my gut wrenching, soul scrapping, story and writings actually helped someone.

There is the other side of this.. people that find my blog through searching for ways to end their life. On this blog that I wrote, there is a comment that stopped me in my tracks.

May 16, 2013 at 10:38 PM

At least for another day, you just saved my life. Im a 24 year old homeless veteran with post traumatic stress disorder. The nightmares and flashbacks from Afghanistan are unbearable. Im so far beyond lost and I feel so alone. I need help but the Army just threw me away. I just dont know what to do anymore. Rock bottom was a few miles up from here

When I started writing my story, I did it to get it out of my soul. I did it to help myself. It never occurred to me that I would be reaching out not only to the widowed, but to people that want to end their life.

Reading the stories, hearing the stories, is hard. Seeing that someone is suicidal is hard. But knowing I “get it” brings me peace.

Just when I thought my “And then” was starting, I do a double take and wonder if helping suicide widows (or those that are suicidal) is a huge part of my “and then.”

Hold on friends. This is a long and bumpy ride. But I promise one day, bit by bit, hope seeps into your heart. 

It will catch you off guard and it first you won’t know what has happened. What changed? Hope entered your life.

Be well my friends, until next time!

"And Then.." Part 2

Source

Well friends.. my time has come.

I am retiring from widow’s voice.

Today is my last blog.

I've been thinking about quitting for a couple of months now. I couldn't figure out why I wanted to quit something that has always brought me such relief and peace.

While talking to a friend about not writing anymore, he said “The Melinda I knew a year ago was a widow. Being a widow was your identity and made you who you were. The Melinda I know now has been widowed but is not a widow. It no longer defines you.”

Ah ha. It clicked. After the three year anniversary of my husband’s suicide I made major changes. Not changes that I actually went out and did. It just happened slowly, piece by piece, over time inside of me, slowly changing me.. suddenly I was no longer a widow. Being widowed happened to me but it did not consume me and my everyday life anymore.

A year ago I honestly thought being widowed would kill me. I was in so much pain I didn’t understand how I kept waking up every day. I now have days that are rough, they can be sharp, but they don’t leave me completely useless. I can cry and grieve and move on with my day.. the rough days no longer destroy my day. I can now sit with my grief.. and move on.

While I will always be widowed and it will always hurt, I will always miss my best friend.. but I am moving forward and finding peace. I don’t live in the horrible memories of my husband’s final days and his suicide.

I was honestly a little upset and scared to tell Michele that I was retiring.. especially because I couldn't quite figure out why I felt it was time to retire. She said “I love the transitioning of writers on our blog, because it means we are healing. And that, my friend, is a beautiful thing.”

She is right. I wrote to heal. I told my story to heal. I told my story to get it out of my soul. Now I am healing.

For that I will always be thankful for Michele and Soaring Spirits. Thank you guys for allowing me a place to write and to heal. Thank you for believing in me and believing my story would make a difference.

I will miss my readers.. but please remember that if I can walk out of this and heal.. so can you. 

Being widowed will not always identify you.

With that I am off to work on my “And then..”

Let me introduce the new Sunday writer, Sarah Treanor -

Sarah is an artist and writer out of south-central Texas. She lost her fiancé on June 12, 2012 at the age of 29. He was a helicopter pilot who had just finished flight school and landed his dream job as a commercial pilot. While on a contract, he was riding along with another pilot when they hit power lines and crashed. He was killed instantly.

Two months after his death, she quit her job as a designer, left the city, and moved to the country to stay with his family and focus on healing. With a fire to continue in his footsteps and live her own dreams, she is now devoting much of her time to her art and writing – including recording her journey and their life together on her blog http://our1000days.com. She has said that no amount of pain is a match for her fire to live life as an adventure - the way they did - and she wants to inspire others who have endured loss to do the same.

Welcome Sarah!

Happy Birthday

From our honeymoon, proudly showing off my "new" initials.
Eight years later I am still proud of my last name.

Today is my husband’s birthday. He would have been 35 years old.

This day has been creeping up on me since Halloween.

I found myself having to count backwards to remember just how old my husband would have been.

When I realized he would have been 35 I laughed. I laughed because he would have been “old”.

I was thinking about what my husband would look like when he was 60 years old.. 80 years old.. and as hard as I try to envision what he would look like.. my brain cannot come up with an aged Seth vision.

My brain will always see him as 31 years old.

I was thinking about when we were married and planning on growing old together.. I never was able to see us old and gray.

It’s almost like I knew he would never live to be old.

With yesterday being International Survivors of Suicide day and today being my husband’s birthday.. I find it ironic and painful.

Ironic that my husband’s birthday falls the day after Suicide Survivors day.

Years ago I didn't even know a suicide survivor was a real thing, I would have thought a suicide survivor was someone that attempted and lived through it.. nor did I know there was a day dedicated to suicide survivors.

Years ago I never knew my husband would be dead by 31 years old.. and would be dead by suicide.

Years later here I am.. fully aware what a suicide survivor is. And fully aware there is a day to recognize the suicide survivors among us.

Now I find myself having to do math to figure out how old my husband would be.

Now I have to count backwards to figure out how long it’s been since he died.

Now I find myself dwelling in self care. Trying to get through his birthday. Then Thanksgiving. Then Christmas. Then New Years.

I’m officially half way through my six month slump that paralyzes me every year.

This time last year.. I was a very different person.

I was crippled by my husband’s birthday. I was crippled by the fear of the holidays coming up.

I was crippled by grief and fear.

Fear that I would not live through another year without my husband.

A year later here I am.. looking forward to the holidays. Looking forward to spending time with my family. And not planning on hiding in bed until the day passes.

It’s amazing what passing the three year anniversary has done for me, my life and my grief.

Somewhere along this journey.. Something clicked.

Something clicked to help me recognize my husband’s birthday.. something clicked to stop the paralyzing grief that his birthday brings.

Something clicked that allowed me to say “Happy birthday honey, I love you.”

Stigma

Seth is in row 6, #13 from the left. Source

This week I had an eye opening conversation.

I was talking with a co-worker and Seth’s death came up.

She asked me how I am doing with it all and I could only come up with “It sucks. It hurts really bad. It really really sucks.”

She then said “Melinda, I just don’t get it. You are such an amazing person. Seth’s suicide makes no sense to me. Why would he leave such an amazing person??”

I was speechless.

I just wanted to scream at her “He was mentally ill!! What does that have to do with me being an amazing person?? He was sick! That’s like saying someone with cancer won’t die because they have an amazing wife at home!”

I felt like I failed. I felt like I needed to defend myself and my marriage. And I decided not to.. because what I had to say to her wasn't friendly or professional.

And clearly she doesn't have the first clue about mental illness.

Stigma slapped me in the face.. again.

People have this illusion that if you have an amazing life and marriage, that life is worth living. That all the amazing things in life override mental illness.

Frankly I am sick of the stigma that revolves around mental illness.

I’m sick of suicide being shameful.

I’m sick of mental illness not being talked about.

I’m sick of the stigma.

I’m sick of how mental illness is whispered about behind closed doors.

I kept my husband’s mental illness private. Very few people knew what was going on with him. I whispered about it to my closest friends and family. Why? Because Seth was ashamed of it and I respected his privacy.

And when he killed himself, it left people completely dumbfounded because Seth “never seemed depressed” and I had hid his secret for far too long.

But what did that do? It kept him isolated. It pushed him further into a hole because he had no one to talk to. Because he was too ashamed to talk about it.

One of my favorite quotes – “We’re only as sick as the secrets we keep” – Maria Nemeth

Mental illness needs to be talked about. Not whispered about behind closed doors.

Suicide is at an all time high, yet it’s whispered about. WHY?

Do I really need to point out the elephant in the room?

“Every 40 seconds somewhere around the world someone dies by suicide, that’s 99 people every 66 minutes. Every day, that’s almost 100 people in the United States alone, and over 2160 worldwide."

Why are we whispering about this??

Saying Goodbye.. Again

The last picture taken of me and my best friend.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about my dog being diagnosed with cancer (I wrote about it here)

Tuesday, the day after my birthday I had to kill put my best friend to sleep.

I am in shock. I am devastated. Three weeks after his diagnoses he went from being fine to not eating and his eyes rolling back in his head.

Nine years and one day after my husband gave me Clifford for my birthday..  I had to let go.

I had to say goodbye.. again.

I wasn't ready to let go.. again.

Yet no matter how much I fought it or how much it hurt, I had no say in it.. again.

Piece by piece, day by day, moment by moment, I lose another piece of my husband. I lose another piece of my before life.

Step by step I walk through a more than ever empty home.

Just when it feels like I have nothing else to lose, I lose my best friend.

The friend that never cared what I look like. Never cared if I can’t manage to get out of bed or not. Never cared if I was deep in grief. He always loved me. Loved me more than he loved himself.

Three years later I am saying goodbye all over again.

Three years later I feel like I am starting all over.. again.

My husband dying piece by piece never gets easier.

Saying goodbye and moving forward never gets easier.

Checking Out

I have known for a while I suffer from widow brain. Can’t find my keys, barely remember what day it is or what my name is. I have looked for my car keys for twenty minutes only to find they were in my hand.. the whole time. I have to set reminders in my phone from things like taking my sleeping pill to grab my lunch out of the fridge before leaving for work. I have to have a reminder for everything.

Lately I have noticed a new side effect of widowhood. I guess it goes along the lines of widow brain. Maybe I have always had it and I’m just becoming more aware of my “issues.”

I can be talking to someone and a smell, sound or memory side tracks me. I check out. It’s like I step out of my body all together. The noise around me stops. All I can hear is my thoughts. While I can see the person I was talking to still talking to me, I can’t hear them or comprehend what they are saying.

I check out and go down memory lane. I leave the person talking while I take my brain elsewhere.

The memories start clicking before my eyes. Noise, smells, memories, it’s like an old projector playing a movie of my life. Bits and pieces of my life. Jumbled together, skipping from scene to scene and back again.

Eventually my check out stops. The noise around me comes whooshing back and I can hear the conversation again.. but I have no clue what they just talked about.

I’m sure I just stare at them with a blank face, not realizing I am looking at them, because I can only see the movie of my life in front of my eyes.

I find myself asking people to repeat themselves constantly and I can tell some people grow frustrated with me.

I have been trying to stop checking out when I am with someone. But it seems to be an automatic thing my brain does. There seems to be no control over it.

I have accepted I can’t control it.. so I’m taking the other side of things.

If you are with a widow and they seem to have checked out in middle of a conversation, here’s some tips.

First – Stop talking. Don’t take it personal. They are trapped behind a movie screen of their life and have no control over what is flashing in front of their eyes. Just stop talking and let them be checked out for a while.

When they come back, ask if they are okay.

Then start your conversation over and act like the check out never happened.

Don’t blame them for not being present. Don’t tell them they aren't listening.

Please be patient with people that are suffering from widow brain and checking out. While it is frustrating to you, it’s even more frustrating to the person that is widowed.

Please remember we have no control over what our brain automatically does. As much as we like to think we have it under control, the truth is most the time we don’t realize we have nothing under control.

Being Kicked

Seth and Clifford - 2004

I've been struggling with my dog, Clifford. He had a shoulder injury that seemed to be getting better thanks to the vet and pain medication.

Monday I got up at 3:30am to go to work and I couldn't find Clifford. After searching the house, I found him sitting in the bathtub just staring at the wall. Not laying down, just staring. He wouldn't even look at me.

Right then I knew my baby was dying. For anyone that has seen the death look in an animal knows the look.

By time the vet opened at 8:00am Clifford was in shock, needed blood transfusions and was admitted to the doggy hospital. He had an ultrasound later that afternoon, and the diagnoses was cancer. It’s through his whole abdomen, in his liver and spleen. Most likely will spread to his lungs next.

I am devastated.

You see.. Clifford is our dog. Seth got him for me for my birthday in 2004. He was just six weeks old and has been my baby since the first time I laid eyes on him.

Through Seth’s death, he was my rock. I remember shortly after the funeral I was sitting on the couch hysterically crying. Clifford came up and put his head on my shoulder and licked the tears off my face. I realized that even though he was grieving (both my dogs went through a really weird grief stage) he was able to put his own pain and grief aside and take care of me.

Fast forward to now. I have decided to not do treatment on Clifford, other than pain management. After all, there isn't anything the vet can do other then blood transfusions every couple weeks.. which would mean he would need to be hospitalized every couple weeks. I.just.can’t.do.it. I can’t put him in the scary hospital for a short term solution. I can't put him through fear and pain for my own selfish reasons.

I have been in panic mode since Monday. Taking care of Clifford. Trying to make sure he is comfortable until it’s time to send him home to his daddy. Every night we are up several times a night, shoving pain pills down his throat and his multiple trips to the potty.

I am exhausted.

I am angry. Pissed off at Seth. Pissed that because my husband killed himself I am doing this alone. Pissed off that my husband isn't protecting us, yet again.

Clifford rolling around in the grass and sunshine.
Despite the fact that he is dying, he finds joy in the simple pleasures.

Shortly after Clifford’s diagnoses I had the following dream.

I was walking into a sporting goods store. I knew exactly where I was going and what I needed (Can’t remember what I needed). As I walked into the store, Seth was standing there with two of his friends. I thought SHIT. Pretend like you don’t see him, just walk past him fast, maybe he won’t see me.

After I quickly walked past Seth and his friends, Seth came up behind me. He kept kicking me in the butt and back, with each kick it would launch me forward. After the third or fourth kick he said “What, you just going to pretend like you don’t know me??”

I was furious. I whipped my head around and yelled at him. “You haven’t talked to me in three years. You just up and disappeared. You left me, and now expect me to pretend like I’m happy to see you??”

He didn't get the clue. He continued “What’s up, what’s new?”

“I don’t need your shit today. Clifford is dying. He was just diagnosed with cancer. The last thing I need is your shit.”

He started crying “don’t lie to me, Clifford can’t be dying, how did this happen?”

I was so angry I could have choked him. “If you were around for the last three years and were part of our family, you would know all this. Instead you abounded us and left us to figure out all this shit on our own.”

I woke up. I woke up angry. I couldn't shake the look in Seth’s eyes when I told him Clifford was dying.

Looking back the dream seems symbolic. Seth kicking me repeatedly when I don’t have the energy to get back up. Like in real life, I can’t recover from one thing before I get kicked back to my knees. Obviously I am angry Seth isn't here and my anger came out in my dream.

This is one of the worst things I have been through. It is completely devastating. I never imagined having one of my dogs die would be this devastating.

Today I reached my breaking point and asked for help. I have a friend coming to stay the night and be on Clifford duty for the night, so I can grieve and sleep.. and know my baby is being taken care of.

The silver lining in it all? When Clifford’s time has come I can have a vet come to our home and send him home to Seth. I don’t have to take him to the scary vet’s office and have him die on a cold metal table. He can be at home with his friends, family and doggy sister Juna.

I find peace in knowing I can put him out of his pain. I find anger in knowing I couldn't just put my husband to sleep and put him out of his suffering rather than him shooting himself alone in the mountains.

Survivors' Guilt

Source - I took this picture of the Tra Vigne winery, CA.

A couple of weeks ago I traveled to California to spend time with my best friend.

On one of the days I was there we went to tour a winery.

The winery was so beautiful. Of course the wine was amazing. The day was filled with love and laughter.

On the drive back to our hotel I was looking out the window.. taking in the beauty around me.

And it hit me..

It hits me every time..

The tears started falling.

Once again, my husband missed out on an amazing experience.

When I think about all the fun I had and all the fun my husband missed out on.. it leaves me in tears.

Every time.

It feels like every time I have an amazing day it is followed by pain.

Followed by a slap in the face that he is still dead.

Pain that my husband can’t experience these things.

Pain that I am having such an amazing time without my husband.

I've thought a lot about it. How come when an amazing day is winding down, night is setting in, my brain goes there?

It seems like I have some version of survivor’s guilt.

Guilt that I can actually live and love life.

Guilt that my husband couldn't see a reason to live another day.

Guilt that I am enjoying my life while my husband is dead.

It hurts. It bothers me that I have to have a melt down after an amazing day.

Three years out, when does the quilt subside?

When can I enjoy life without feeling guilty about it?

When can I stop feeling sorry for my husband?

After all, my husband decided to leave this life.. I did not make that decision for him. So why do I feel guilty for having fun?

Times like this I wish I could tell him "Do you see all the amazing things you are missing out on?? What the hell were you thinking??"

Survivor’s guilt. Three years out I am still learning about all the bumps in this road called widowhood.

Silver Lining

Source

I made the mistake of going through mine and Seth’s old emails.

He was in school full time. I worked a desk job. So we both sat in front of a computer all day.. and emailed each other during slow times.

I have a million emails between us.

Which can be a good thing and a bad thing.

I came a crossed an email that reminded me of right before my husband died. It also reminded me of times I had forgotten.

A lil back story. Since 2001 I needed shoulder surgery to correct snapping shoulder. I had two different doctors tell “Put the surgery off as long as possible, some people don’t need surgery and can manage the pain.”

I reached my pain limit in May of 2010. I was putting off surgery until February 2011, which is when my vacation at work would renew. In February I would be able to take time off work and recover from surgery without taking a loss in pay.

Thanks to the emails, I remember surgery was originally scheduled for February 2011. Come July 2010 and I couldn't stand the pain anymore. I was in so much pain I could barely brush my teeth.

My surgeon rescheduled my surgery to July 22^nd, 2010.

I don’t remember any of this.

I remember all this now due to the emails Seth and I sent to each other about me reaching my pain max, my surgeon scheduling emergency surgery, and talk of how we would manage me taking time off work without pay.

I went through surgery just fine. The only downfall was I couldn't do anything myself. I couldn't move my right arm at all. I am very right handed, I’m not left handed at all. Seth had to do everything for me, even brush my teeth.

I would sit in the bathtub with the water up to my waist and he would bath me.. and shave my body. Careful to not get my incisions wet or cut me while shaving.

He would then change my bandages, dress me while I sat in a chair, brush my teeth, blow dry my hair, curl my hair, do my makeup, and drive me to work. He did every single thing for me. My mom was there to cook, clean and help me get around while Seth was at school or work.

Five days later on July 27^th, 2010.. my love ended his life. Five days after my shoulder surgery.

Now.. I don’t remember his death being that close to my surgery.

I remember (now) that I went to my surgeon alone on July 26^th, because my husband had gone missing that morning.

I (now) remember sitting on my surgeons table, getting my stitches removed, getting my shoulder pushed and pulled on, dealing with the pain.. alone. When my surgeon asked me how everything was going (meaning my shoulder) all I could come up with was “fine.”

Really.. my world was falling apart.

Now I usually don’t say suicide is selfish (see this post I wrote a couple weeks ago).

But my husband killing himself five days after my shoulder surgery, when I couldn't take care of myself, was selfish.

But was there ever a good or convenient time for my husband to die? Probably not.

When I read the emails, reminding me of my surgery, and reminding me of how close to surgery my husband’s suicide was.. I was angry. How dare him leave me right after I had surgery! How dare him leave me when I needed him most.

Now counting back the days and going over his toxicology report, I realized he stopped taking all his medication a day or two before my surgery. How could he stop taking his medication when he knew I needed him for my recovery?

I read these emails a couple of weeks ago and have been trying to process the anger and thoughts.

I have finally come to see the silver lining in this.

The last four days of our life together was spent TOGETHER. We spent very intimate moments together during that time. I’m not talking about sex.. I’m talking about my husband bathing me.. and shaving me in places I wouldn't let anyone get close to with a sharp object.

Taking care of me in ways I wouldn't let just anyone take care of.

These are my last memories of him. Watching him carefully wash my hair, carefully wash me head to toe, attempting to not cause me shoulder pain or get it wet. My last memories of him is not the bipolar stricken person I had come to know. It was my husband that loved me, took care of me when he obviously couldn't live one more day.

His last four days on this earth revolved around taking care of me.

While I have been angry with him for leaving me in such a way, I will forever be thankful for this time we had together. The time he took to take care of me.  The times I sat helpless in the bathtub and just trusted him to do everything for me.

Ironically if I hadn't reschedule my surgery, I would have had surgery seven months after my husbands death. I wouldn't have had this time with my husband. And my mom would have been taking care of me.. including bathing me.

Maybe there is a silver lining in everything after all. 

Insomnia

Ugh. Insomnia. We have been enemies friends for six very long years.

I have tried sleeping pills. I have tried everything natural. I've tried having a normal routine. I’ve tried to not let myself lay in bed and stare at the ceiling for longer than 30 minutes before I get up and read, take a hot shower, attempt something to help me sleep.

I've told myself for the last year that as long as I am laying down, at least my body is resting. I have convinced myself that as long as I let my body rest for eight hours, I will be fine.

This week I guess I hit my brick wall.

I was sitting at my desk, just staring at my computer. I wasn't working, just staring. Not even realizing I was doing it. My co-worker came in and asked if I was okay. I told the lie I tell every day “Yes, I’m fine.” She continued “Are you sure? You look really upset?”

I started crying. She had that oh shit what did I say? Look on her face. “What’s wrong?”

I am so tired. So tired I can’t see straight. So tired that I think I am losing my mind. No one understands how insane insomnia is making me!

“How long exactly has it been since you slept?”

I couldn't think. I couldn't count. Eight nights. Maybe ten. Maybe twelve. Maybe two weeks. I’m not sure. The last time I got eight hours of sleep in one sitting? Months. Probably since I went off my sleeping pills in October.

Listening to myself try to remember how long it’s been since I slept, I realized it was time.

Time to go back to the doctor. Time to stop trying to do this alone. Time to throw in the towel and give up and scream “ I have insomnia!”

I made a doctor’s appointment.

Friday I found myself sitting in my doctor’s office, yet again. With another medical issue.. again.

My doctor came in and asked why I was there.

“I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept normal in six years. I stare at the ceiling for two to four hours before falling asleep. After I finally fall asleep, I wake up two hours later. To stare at the ceiling for another two hours. Or read for two hours. And I’ll be able to fall asleep for another two hours. Only to wake up again two hours later. And the cycle continues until it’s time to get up for work. I’m losing my damn mind! I can’t take this shit anymore. I can sleep all day but I can’t sleep at night. I don’t let myself nap. I am exhausted every.second.of.the.day. and as soon as I go to bed, I’m wide awake. Staring at the ceiling. I’m losing it. I do it all week long that come the weekend all I do is sleep. I think something broke when my husband died. Can "sleep" break? Is that even possible?”

I stopped. I realized I was rambling. I might have said too much. Maybe I should have sugar coated it and made it sound not as bad as it really is.

Mrs. Doc Lady “Let me get this right, you are sleeping two hours at a time, and have been doing this for six years now? And we have tried you on sleeping meds? Why are you not taking your sleeping pills that I prescribe?”

Because they are addicting.. and I don’t want to become an addict. I stopped taking them in October. I thought my body would reset and I would be fine.

I suddenly felt like I was on trial. I was defensive. How dare she question my sleep!

Mrs. Doc Lady “Honey, these sleep problems going on for six years NOT normal. You can’t do this anymore. Do you realize insomnia kills people?”

Yes. I know insomnia can actually kill you. But so can sleeping pills. But I’m not normal. I was widowed at 29 years old. What exactly is normal about me?

She could see I was defensive and upset. “You have been in counseling for six years. It's been three years since your husband passed away. It's time to get back to some kind of normal. I want you to sleep more than two hours at a time. Frankly if I was sleeping two hours at a time for the last six years I would probably lose my mind”

I took a deep breath and reminded myself she wasn't the enemy. After all, I called her for help. She didn't drag me in there.

Mrs. Doc Lady “So here’s what we are going to do. For six weeks you are going to be in bed, with your sleeping pill in your stomach, no later than 9pm every single night. Including Saturday’s. And you will be up at 5am. Every single day, including Saturday’s. No naps. No TV or phone after 8pm. Sleeping pill in your stomach and you in bed by 9pm, got it? For six straight weeks. After that we will wing you off the medication. If your sleep is not normal, and I mean at least six straight hours of sleep a night kind of normal, I am sending you in for a sleep study. I am afraid something is wrong but we need to do this before we can do a sleep study. And I need you to commit to this for six weeks. Six straight weeks. No skipping the medication because you think you can do this on our own. You can do this or I can send you for a sleep study tonight”

She had me backed into a corner. I was sweaty and slightly panicky. On the verge of tears. Frankly she scared the shit out of me the whole sleep study thing. What if my husband died isn't really my issue? What if I have a medical problem that causes me to wake up every two hours?

Feeling beaten, slightly ashamed, scared of the possibility of a sleep study and too tired to argue, I agreed.

I realized that even when I seek help, I don’t want to accept it. Even when I know I am at my wits end, I fight it. Even when I feel like I can’t stay sane any longer, I fight help.

Where did this come from? I used to gladly accept help. I used to admit I had a problem without feeling ashamed or attacked.

Now my doctor that is trying to help me, is the enemy. What caused this? Being widowed?

So I start my six weeks of a who can really do this normal sleep schedule. Bed at 9pm. Up by 5am.

I can’t help but grumble. Frustrated that I have yet another medical issue since my husband’s death. Obviously caused by my husband’s illness and suicide.

Frustrated that I am fighting another war alone. Frustrated that I will be doing this alone. Frustrated that I am getting up at 5am on Saturday and Sunday's to be.. alone. Frustrated that the only motivation for this is my own. I don't have anyone to wake me up at 5am, coffee in hand, and say "Get up. Only a couple more weeks and we are done with this whole thing. Now get up." 

Selfish

Source

I’ve been meaning to write this blog.. but I have been processing it.

A couple of weeks ago, I went on a date (gasps).

During the course of dinner, the topic of how my husband died came up.

My date started talking about how selfish suicide is and how I live in the past by “celebrating” my husband’s death every year.

I sat there.. sipping my wine and listened to his opinions.

And just thought to myself.. this.dude.doesn’t.have.the.first.clue.what.in.the.hell.he.is.talking.about.

Does not get it at all.

Surprisingly I was able to put his words behind me and enjoy the date.

The next morning as I was slowly waking up.. I started thinking about the night before and conversation we had about my husband’s suicide and how I live in the past.

It dawned on me I have turned some type of corner in my grief.

If someone, let alone a date, would have told me a year ago that suicide was selfish, I would have came unglued. Possibly told the guy to shove it. He might not have walked away from our date without a fork sticking out of his forehead. I could see myself handing him a “You are not alone card” and tell him to call me when he is suddenly thrown into widowhood. And most likely would have got my stuff and left him sitting in the restaurant alone.

But I didn’t. I wasn’t angry with him. I actually took his words with a grain of salt, took his opinions with me and have been processing it for a while now.

I guess with the three year anniversary behind me, I turned some kind of grief corner.

A corner where I understand people don’t get it. But also understand that they have the right to their opinion. Even when their opinion doesn’t mean anything to me.

A corner where I no longer care to try to help someone understand.

A corner where I realized I don’t owe it to this person to explain myself or my husband’s death.

I understand that he hasn’t taken care of a very ill spouse. I understand he hasn’t watched his spouse die piece by piece for an extended period of time. And he doesn’t understand the guilt I carry for asking my husband to keep fighting for so long when all he wanted to do was give up.

He doesn’t understand the sigh of relief I let out when I learned my husband was gone. When I learned he was no longer suffering. When I learned I no longer had to be a caregiver, that for the first time in three years I could take care of myself.. and only myself.

And he has never found himself in such a dark and painful place that suicide seems like the only option.

Janine wrote about her recent experiences with people saying suicide is selfish (read it here).

I couldn’t agree more. Amazing writing Janine!

I have been on the edge. Where suicide was the only answer. More times than I care to admit to. For the first three years I was angry every morning.. because I woke up, yet again. Yet again I was still alive. That the heart break didn’t kill me in my sleep.

At what point does it become selfish to ask your very mentally ill husband to keep fighting? At what point does it become selfish to keep him alive?

People don't understand that for the first time in six years, I can be selfish. If suicide is selfish and I am selfish, than where exactly does all this fit?

I am happy to report that something inside of me has changed. I am happy to realize something “clicked” inside of me. I am happy to say that I can actually see my progress.

A year ago I couldn't see any progress in myself. I saw progress as getting up in the morning and going to work. I didn't see the little things that have "clicked".

And I am happy to say my date walked away alive with all limbs still intact.

Fear

I suffer from fear.

A lot of it I think is normal for what I've been through.

Fear of being alone for the rest of my days. Fear of having my heart broken. Fear of falling in love and having him die. Fear that something terrible will happen to someone I love and I’ll have to start this grief process all over again. Fear that I am getting a little to comfortable with being alone and getting set in my ways.

While a lot of these fears I have no control over. They are there. They are a part of the new me.

But there is one fear that I haven’t been able to accept.

My ultimate fear is.. Snowbird Ski Resort.

The place where my husband decided to end his life.

The place I have constantly avoided for three very long years.

I’ve realized my fear of a place holds me back. It holds me back from enjoying the amazing activities that the resort has to offer.

Every year we would go to OctoberFest that is held at Snowbird. We always went as a family.

I haven’t been since that life shattering day back in 2010.

When I saw OctoberFest was here, I decided it was time to face my fear.

It was time to get over it and enjoy the resort for what it is. A happy place. A fun place. Not the place my husband died at. Afterall, the resort didn’t kill my husband. He killed himself.

Last weekend I gathered up my friends and family.. off to OctoberFest we went. Off to Snowbird.

I had a great time at OctoberFest. I didn’t think much about my husband’s death.

Until I decided to face my ultimate fear.. take the tram to the top of Snowbird.

The same route my husband took. The same tram I identified my husband through surveillance cameras on.

Once we made it to the top I was happy. I was proud of myself. I was facing my fear instead of hiding from it.

At the top of Snowbird. My husband died on the other side of the ridge behind me.

I had a pretty bad meltdown at the top, but I was happy to put this fear behind me.

I can now stop avoiding Snowbird and appreciate it for the beauty it holds.

Crap..

I’m sick of death.

I’m sick of the 27^th of every month.

On July 27^th, I passed the three year anniversary of my husband’s death. That same day a friend I have known since Jr. High passed away.

August 27^th (The 37^th month of my husband’s death) my childhood best friend became widowed.. without warning.. at the age of 30.

This friend I have known since I was about five years old. She was three years old.

I was very young when she was in a horrible car accident and was in a body cast from the chest down.

I pulled her around the neighborhood, in her body cast, in my red wagon.

Because she was cooped up and bed ridden, I pulled her around.. to get her out.. for some fresh air and fun times.

Now I have vowed to pull her again. Drag her through the “neighborhood” of widow land. I might need a wagon. I might need to drag her kicking and screaming. But I refuse to let her step into this strange and foreign land alone.

While I wasn’t alone when I started this journey, I didn’t have anyone that truly understood how devastating losing a spouse is. I felt like I had nowhere to turn.. nowhere to go for support. I refuse to let her face this alone. Sorry Michelle, I’ll be up your ass for quite a while.. so get used it.

When she contacted me this week and told me the news of her husband I swear my heart fell out and shattered on the ground.. shattered all over again. How could this happen??

When I got news of both my friend passing away and my friend becoming widowed.. I instantly was pissed off at Seth. Where was he? Why was he not protecting my friend and her husband? What is he doing?? Off playing in the amazing after life while we are left to fend for ourselves?

Why in the hell am I watching my friends die and become widowed at 32 years old??

What happened to living the long, amazing life? What happened to growing old and gray together? Sitting on the porch in rocking chairs watching our grandchildren play?

What the crap happened??

Watching all this unfold is crap.

It’s crap that at 32 years old I know the pain of being widowed, and I am now watching it happen to my friends.

Pure crap.

Stay, Jump or Live

Last week I wrote about how much my husband is missing out on (I wrote about it here).

The thoughts of all the things he is missing out on has been weighing heavily on my mind.

I started thinking about how I am missing out on life because of grief, depression, anxiety, feeling overwhelmed, financially.. the list goes on.

I decided to start saying YES more often then saying no. Even when I’m depressed. Even when I haven’t slept for night after night. 

I have vowed to say yes.. for the most part.

This weekend was a whole lot of YES.

Yes because I didn't want to miss out. Yes because I have the opportunity.

Yes because I am alive.

Because I am alive I can still experience these things that my husband is missing out on.

Yesterday I ran The Color Run 5k. I knew physically I couldn't run the whole way. I knew financially I should really put the $50 into savings.

But I also knew if I said no, I would be sitting at home doing nothing.. and missing out.

The 5k kicked my butt. But the whole experience was amazing and worth every minute of pain.

Don’t you just love my outfit?

Just ignore my blue teeth.

This morning, with my skin still dyed blue, red and orange, and the wash off tattoos that aren't washing off..

I will be jumping off a side of a mountain.

Yes. Me. Jumping. Off a mountain!

The fear of getting hurt held me back. Financially I was held back. Fear that I would land on my face and be on one of those shows that people get hurt.. and it's kind of funny in a hurt way held me back. Putting my life in someone else's hands held me back.

The song I wrote for my adventure..
At first I was afraid.I was petrified.
Wondering how I would jump off the side of a mountain
With some strange dude strapped to my behind.
But then he said "lean forward"
And I knew it was out of my hands.
I placed my life in his hands.
Let my feet leave the ground.
And I was off.
Flying through the sky.
It was then that I realized...
I will survive.

Why?

Because I can. Because I am alive.

And because I choose to live I choose to not miss out on this very slow yet very fast life we live.

I’m learning to let go. To live.

I'm learning to jump.

Missing Out

Lately I have been thinking a lot about where I have been, where I am going.. and how lucky I am.

I can’t help but think about my husband.

About how he didn't realize how lucky he was.

I know he had no idea how much he would be missing out on by choosing to leave this life.

I don’t think he had the slightest idea of how much LIFE he would be missing out on.

I look around and realize how much of my life that my husband has never experienced.. and never will.

From things like my “new” house (I wrote about it here).

Things like my achievements in work, life, socially, travel and experiences that just leave me in awe.

It pains me to know how much of life my husband is missing out on.

From watching me change.. and age. To camp widow, to taking a widow retreat in Golden, Colorado (took that trip in 2011), our eight year wedding anniversary, the invention of smart phones, me getting my second (and soon to be third) tattoo, pets that have come and passed. All of my best friends, my husband never met. My husband Is missing out on my family growing and changing. Our friends getting married and having babies. And some of our friends passing away.

Eventually he will miss out on seeing me walk down the aisle and give my life to someone.. again.

There is so much of the day to day “stuff” that he is missing out on.

Sure.. there is a ton of stuff that I have experienced because I am widowed. But I still want him to experience the widowed me.

Whenever something exciting happens I immediately want to pick up the phone and call him. I want to bore him with my excitement.. 

Then I suddenly remember.. three years later, he is still dead.

Then the sadness hits. Yet again, he can’t experience this excitement.

His life ended.. and so did his chance to experience this amazing thing we call life.

Knowing my husband is missing out on so much.. missing out on life.. is one of the saddest things I experience on a daily basis.

Maybe there is more exciting things after this life, but I still want him to experience THIS life.

Not Enough

The way Seth looked at me, reminds me that I was his entire world.

Since my husband’s suicide in July 2010, I have struggled with feeling like I was not enough.

I was not enough to keep my husband alive.

I have felt that if I was a better friend, a better wife, a better support system, my husband would still be alive.

Realizing that sometimes love is NOT enough.. is devastating.

What happened to all we need is love?

Three years later I struggle with feeling like I am not enough for the world around me.

Until recently I didn't realize how shattering my husband’s suicide was to my self esteem.

It now keeps me from being able to have a new relationship.

Because I’m not enough.. they will leave me, in the ultimate way.. suicide.

Feeling like I am not enough for anyone has left me looking at my future.. looking at a future that is alone and empty.

I remind myself that Seth did truly love me. Anyone that knew Seth always said I was his world. You could see it in the way he looked at me.

I remind myself that we loved each other deeply.. that our love was not an illusion.

What’s hard to swallow is that bipolar had a stronger grasp on my husband then I did. No matter how hard I pulled and pushed, bipolar always had the upper hand.

Tomorrow would have been our eight year wedding anniversary. Instead of showering my husband with love and affection, I am left with just the memories and broken dreams.

I want to love deeply. I want to give deeply. But how do I break the broken record in my head? The one that tells me you are not enough.

How does one “forget” and move forward?