"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??

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.

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. 

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?

3 Year Anniversary

My husband doing what he loved.. climbing the mountains around Utah.

Last week I passed the 3 year sadiversary of my husband’s suicide. I wanted to share some pieces about what I have been thinking about and have learned about grief and myself.

•  That having self awareness is a must have.
• Having fear of what the anniversaries will do to me is a good reminder to take care of myself.
•  Remembering the good times, hurts.
• Sometimes it’s easier to remember the bad times.
• 3 years ago, I never thought I would be writing for a widow blog 
• When I was thrown into widowhood, I never thought I would take my experience, and try to help other widows as they start this journey.
• I never thought hearing that someone I don’t even know, died from suicide, would shatter me.
• I never thought that hearing someone had recently become widowed, would send me into “I need to run to this person. Hug this person. Wipe their tears.” Even when it’s a complete stranger.
• I have learned (Well sometimes I still doubt this) that the suicide of my husband, will not actually kill me. But there will be days that I wish it had killed me.
• That every year, shortly before the sadiversary, I fall into the anger stage. As much as I hate the anger stage, it’s okay. At least I know now that come the next sadiversary, anger will be there waiting for me.
• I have learned who my true friends and family are. Friends come and go. I come and go. Some of my friends, were only my friends when my husband was alive and healthy.. but they don’t want to be friends with the – widowed Melinda. Some of my best friends are widows.. and because of my husband’s death, I know them and cherish them. That’s all okay. I need to be surrounded by people that love me and support me, not people that suck the life out of me.
• That it’s okay to tell someone they are toxic to me, and I don’t want them in my life.
• 3 years later, I still can’t think of the time the detectives came to my door and told me they found my husband’s body. That memory will always be a huge trigger, that immediately leaves me without any air in my lungs and buckets of tears flowing down my face.
•  My poor mom was there to hold me the detectives told me my husband was deceased. I will always wonder how painful that was for my mom.. to know she just lost a son, and seeing her daughter go complete ape shit.
•  I’ll never forget shortly after the detectives came, my brother coming to my house. Seeing my brother made me completely lose it again. To where I could only hug him, and let out these blood curling cries, that caused my knees to give in under me. A couple months later, my brother told me “I've only seen people cry like that in the movies, it was insane!”
• I learned that it’s okay to need medical help for depression and anxiety. If I wasn't medicated at the 8 month mark, I wouldn't have lived to write this blog.
• I've learned it’s okay to ask for help. I don’t need to do everything by myself.
• I've learned that I need to learn how to do things for myself.. so whenever something is broken, I watch my dad fix it, and ask him a billion questions.. so next time I can do it by myself. I’m proud to announce I can mow the lawn, program the sprinkler timer, figure out what is wrong with a breaker and fix sprinklers, all by myself. I know how to shut off the water, when a broken pipe is flooding my neighbor’s basement (I learned that through pure panic and error).
• I've learned that the 27^th of every month, will always be a trigger. Even if Seth didn't die this 27^th, he died on the 27^th of July, and it marks one more month that we have been apart.
•  I've learned that the 2^nd year was worse in some ways then the 1^st year.. but I hope I never have to relive the 1^st year again.
• I've learned that walking into the 3^rd year is horribly hard in a different way..
• That checking "widowed" on some type of legal or medical form, will never get easier.. especially at a doctor’s office.
• Through Seth’s death, I gained the “I don’t give a shit” and swearing gene.
• I've learned that I can’t fight or push off grief. I have to sit with it and let it run it’s course. If I don’t, it will be back.. with a vengeance.
•  I've learned at the end of the day, all I have is myself.. And taking care of myself comes before anyone or anything.

Looking back over the last three anniversaries of my husband’s death has made me realize..

That the one year anniversary, I didn't know I was still alive.

At the two year anniversary, I wished I wasn't alive.

Now just passing the three year anniversary, I am thankful I am alive.

Bring On The Rain

Yesterday was my three year sadiversary.

I woke up yesterday and look outside. Of course it was raining, just like it has on July 27^th for the last 4 years.

My brain took me back to July 26^th, 2010.

This memory has been forgotten or locked away in my brain, for my own protection.

July 26^th, 2010 is the day my husband went missing.

The detectives had called me and told me they had pinged my husband’s cell phone, pulled video surveillance, and knew my husband was up at the top of Snowbird (a local ski resort) somewhere. It was early in the day when they sent out search and rescue.

However, they told me they considered my sweet husband armed and dangerous..

That they could not use normal search and rescue… they had to use SWAT to look for him.

As the day wore on, no news came. I was hoping no news meant good news.

They called me that night around 8pm and told me it was snowing very heavily at Snowbird and they had to call off the search for the night.

I remember going to bed that night thinking about how my husband was in the mountains somewhere… getting snowed on in zero degree weather.. I was especially concerned because I had seen the video surveillance. My husband was wearing a light shirt, shorts and flip flops and was not carrying anything.. I knew he was not prepared for this weather.

I suddenly woke up at midnight. I sat up in bed, and instantly knew my husband was gone.

As weird as it sounds, I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew he wasn't suffering anymore. I was okay with the fact that my husband was gone.. because I had watched him suffer for so long. I felt selfish for asking him to fight for so long.

The next morning around 9am the detectives called me and said they needed to meet me. In my heart I already knew my husband was gone.. but hearing that the detectives needed to meet with me, cemented my gut feeling.

They came to my house and told me they had found his body.

The pain and screams that were released from my body.. scared me.

When the medical examiners report came back they ruled the day and time of my husband’s death midnight on July 27, 2010.

The same date and time I woke up in middle of the night and knew he was gone.

Every year since then it has rained or snowed on July 27^th.

When I woke up yesterday and saw it was raining, I couldn't help but think about how ironic it is that it rains every year.

The rain brought back this memory.

Now I look at the rain on July 27^th with a sigh of relief.

I miss my husband dearly but I do not miss seeing him suffer.

No one should have to suffer that badly.

A Case Of The Bothers

Source

My husband has been gone for 1090 days.

6 days from now I will be walking into the 3 year anniversary.. even though I don’t want to.

It’s insane when I think about it being only 3 years.

It feels like all this happened to me in my last life.

It feels like a horrible nightmare. It doesn't feel real.

I guess I am starting to disconnect from my before life. Or maybe I have disassociated from my husbands suicide.

One thing I still struggle with is there will always be a hole in my heart where Seth belongs. It bothers me that I will never “get over it.”

It bothers me that I have another 40-50+ years to live with the pain of losing my husband to suicide.

It bothers me that I suffer because of my husband’s decision.

It bothers me that I know how badly suicide hurts.

It bothers me that every July 27^th will be another year that he is gone.

It bothers me that I will never forget.

Knowing and realizing that I will never get over it is unnerving and makes me feel like no matter how hard I try to move forward.. it’s not enough.

I hate that my memory is losing the sound of his voice. I have to try really hard to envision his face.

I hate that when I do try to remember his face, I see him in the coffin.. with the bullet hole..

I hate that I am losing our memories. The good memories. The years and years of memories are slowly being forgotten.

It bothers me that the 3 year anniversary feels more painful than the 1 year anniversary.

It bothers me that it has been 1090 days.

It bothers me that I know how long it’s been.

It bothers me that all of this.. bothers me.

It bothers me that…

I am widowed.

Joy

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I am starting to find joy with the small things again. I can actually (finally) sit back, laugh my guts out, have an amazing time, without feeling like I’m pulling my own teeth and have “he’s dead” constantly repeat in my head.

For years everything has been.. dull and painful. Everything has been a struggle. A struggle to drag myself out to do things that are supposed to be fun, when all I want to do is climb into bed. Very few things have brought me joy. There was very few times I could forget about the past and be present in the now.

I am now finding joy in concerts, dancing the night away with my friends, going to the movies, and I am thoroughly enjoying trying new restaurants and new foods.

It’s interesting how grief can sneak in and attempt to steal my joy. I can be at a concert and think wow, Seth would love this! Then comes the he’s still dead, remember?

I've learned that when I’m enjoying myself and the death sneaks into my mind.. to sit with it. To let the music fill my ears, the death consume my brain, but also just accept that my husband isn't here to enjoy it.

I have gotten to where I refuse to let the he’s dead thoughts destroy my joy. Yes when it pops into my head, it kills me piece by piece.  But I have learned to tell myself I’ll deal with this pain later. Right now I’m at a concert and enjoying myself. 

My husband’s death will just have to.. wait.

His death will have to wait until I am done enjoying myself. It will have to wait until I climb into bed or a hot bubble bath.

My husband died because he found no joy in this life anymore.

I refuse to let his death steal my joy. I still have a whole lot of living to do and I can’t live in the he’s dead world anymore.

Joy is all I will let in my life now., because my husband had no joy, I will have joy for both of us.

And Then...

Source - I couldn't find a picture that spoke to me.. so again I used my own photography.

At Camp Widow, Michele did an amazing keynote.

It was about finding our “and then.”

My “and then” started 12 years ago. I was happily married to my husband Seth. 

And then 7 years into our relationship, bipolar stepped into my husband’s soul.

And then… my husband took his own life.

And then… that was the end of our life together. And what I thought was the end of my life.

And then… I was left walking in a strange land. Where everything was wrong. Everything was terrifying. Everything pissed me off. Nothing helped my pain. All I could do every day was drag myself out of bed and go to work. That’s all I had to give to this strange land.

I felt like an alien. I felt like my body wasn't mine anymore. I was trapped in a body that didn't belong to me. Where the hell did I pick up this altered version of myself?

Nothing fit in this new world.

I felt like I had this huge puzzle with a million pieces missing. How would I finish this puzzle I call my life if the pieces are missing?

I remember I was about a year into my widow journey. I was completely devastated and trying to get out of the hell hole I call depression. I remember thinking what will make this life.. my life.. worth living?

It was then that I took a look around... took a look at things that kept nagging at me.

My mind kept taking me back to my struggles I had within the first year. Struggles with depression, in-laws (out-laws) and struggles with keeping my job through my husband’s death.

That’s when my FMLA (Family Medical Leave Act) petition dawned on me (see it here).

Through my petition I found a small piece to my “and then.”

It gave me purpose. It gave me something to focus my energy on. Something to drown myself in.

Shortly after starting the petition, Michele came knocking. She asked me to write for widow’s voice. To share my story, struggles and joy. To write about my experience as a suicide widow.

I remember the morning after she called me I stood staring at myself in the mirror. I was of course crying, because that’s how all my mornings were back then. I wondered how I would ever share my story. For so long I hid my thoughts in my personal blog. Where very few people knew it was my writings and they defiantly never saw pictures of me or my husband. I pondered how I would share something so personal, gruesome and tragic for complete strangers to read?

How would I write so honestly about my life, without hiding behind a fake user name?

That’s when I found another small part of my “and then.”

Sharing my story, with my name and my pictures was a relief. I didn't have to hide my story anymore. I could scream my story and there were people to hear me. There were people that understood my pain. There were people that were just starting this journey and people that were years into this journey.

I was no longer alone or hiding my story.

Sharing my story so honestly has given me another small piece of my “and then.”

I realized one way to help myself... was to help others..

I didn't want my husband’s suicide to be in vain. Through sharing my story I could possibly help someone on the verge of suicide or a widow that just needs someone to understand their pain.

My petition, my writings and helping other widows has given me purpose. Has given me hope. And gave me small pieces to my “and then.”

I left Camp Widow thinking about how I have picked up pieces of my “and then” without even realizing I found the pieces.

How did I pick up these pieces without noticing the movement I had made to get there?

I couldn't stop thinking that my life is still missing some of my “and then.”

What is my “and then?”

I don’t know. I’m still wondering what or where it is.

I realized I won’t see my “and then” as it’s happening. It will be something that I look back on and realize a certain person, memory, movement or even a thing or place… was my “and then.”

And then – I realized I still have work to do.

I still have pieces of this puzzle to find.

I still have pieces of my “and then” to find.

I left camp with hope.

Hope that one day… piece by piece, little by little, I would find my “and then.”

The Dress

This week I am at Camp Widow West (Woop!).

Since I’m at camp I’ll save my typing (on my phone) and will spill the beans next week about my experience at camp.

This week I want to share something I have been thinking about.

For Camp Widow I HAD to have an amazing dress.. well in my head I thought I had to have the perfect dress. 

With limited funds and a sense of panic, an amazing person came to my rescue. 

I was given a dress that had never been worn.

This wasn't just a dress. It was THE dress. 

This dress was more amazing then I envisioned. When I put it on, I carefully did a little twirl, skip and a hop.

This dress made me feel.. Important.

When I sent it in to be altered I had extreme anxiety about it.

What if they mess up my dress? What if I have to find another dress right before camp? What if? What if?

It dawned on me I had more anxiety over my Camp Widow dress getting altered then I did my wedding dress.

Me enjoying my wedding dress - 2005

Why? I don’t know. I guess because if my wedding dress was wrong, I was still getting married either way.. even if I had to wear pajama’s.

But my Camp Widow dress? I couldn't just show up in my pajama’s… 

well they would have accepted me no matter what I was wearing, but in my head, this was (is) a huge event.

I've been thinking about how some of my favorite memories involve me wearing a big fancy dress. Prom, my wedding and now.. camp widow.

I realized I very rarely get to wear a fancy dress. There are very few occasions to wear one to.

There are very few occasions where dancing the night away in a fancy dress is a given.

So now I get to brag and show off my dress!!

Tada!! Aren't you amazed? Yah I know, me too!!

Okay, I am done bragging.

To the person that donated this dress to me… thank you for the bottom of my soul. The dress has become a part of me. Every time I see it hanging up in my closet I will always remember the amazing memories made at Camp Widow. I promise you, one day I will pay it forward. 

I will help a widow in need, even if it means passing this dress on. So Thank You!!

The Questions

Source - I took a picture of this heart (graffiti) last year. While searching the internet for a perfect "why"
 picture, I decided to take my photography and turn it into my own why picture. See more of my photography here.

For the last two years my life has revolved around questions.

What if? Why? Could I have done something? Did I do something to cause my husband’s suicide? Would of, could of, should of, why me? Why my husband? What did we do to deserve this? Why was love not enough to save him? Why was life not enough?

I have beaten myself daily with questions. For two very long years.

This week while reading I wasn't ready to say goodbye (by Brook Noel and Pamela D. Blair) I realized I don’t live in the world of questions anymore.

Somewhere in the last 6 months the questions stopped.

I still question why? But I have come to the realization that unless I walk in my husband’s shoes, the world of mental illness, I will never understand.

I will never understand what it’s like to see dead people or hear voices. I will never understand what it’s like to have the voices in my head constantly tell me “You’re not enough. Just kill yourself.”

I will never understand how the love of my friends and family is not enough.

I (hopefully) will never understand the pain my husband was in. Pain so bad that suicide is the only way to make it stop.

I will never understand how he could leave me. I will never understand the thought process of suicide. Even at my darkest moments when I was suicidal, all I could think about was my family and what my suicide would do to them. So I will (hopefully) never understand the deep dark hole he was in.. where the hole is so deep and dark that thoughts of your family can’t even leak in to save your life.

I will never understand the stigma that comes with suicide. See, because my husband had bipolar disorder which is not a physical disease, people don’t get it. With mental illness people think “Suck it up, get over it. It’s all in your head.” People don’t understand that bipolar is more of a disease then a disorder...  In my husband’s case it was a disease that killed him, not a disorder.

I will never understand the comments DGI’s (Don’t get it’s) make. “Just kill me now.” Perfect example - this week a sales rep said to me “I have so many customers screaming for product that I just want to kill myself.” There is a certain hand gesture people do that is very insulting and triggering. People don’t understand how devastating suicide is, and to joke about it is just.. There are no words for it. All I can say is it’s not a joke and it’s not something to laugh about.

There is a lot of things I will never understand. I just accepted that I will never have the answers. 

So I stopped asking the questions.

Not questioning all of this has brought me peace… and quite. My brain is a lot quieter. I don’t get the racing thoughts as often (Sure, they still pop up, as soon as my head hits the pillow) but it's not a everyday, all day, process. 

Somewhere along the line, the questions stopped so gradually, that I didn't even notice it. I had to see it in black and white on paper to realize the questions have stopped.

I find peace in knowing my husband was suffering so badly that his suicide was not impulsive. It was years of suffering that lead up to his suicide.

Sure.. I will always wonder why. But I know at end of the day, I will not get any answers. 

I also know when it’s my time to go, it will all make sense.

That brings me peace.

                                                                                                                                                                                    

Father's Day

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For the first time since my husband’s death, I’m struggling with father’s day.

Today it smacked me square in the face “Your husband will never be a father because he’s DEAD.”

My brain is full of trickery and really pisses me off.

I haven’t struggled with father’s day in the past because Seth wasn't a father and we never had children. It’s the one holiday I don’t struggle with. Until today.

Today my mind went back to his first suicide attempt (I wrote about it here)

We had been trying to get pregnant for a couple of months. Not trying - trying, but not using any kind of contraceptive and we just decided if it happens it happens. If it doesn't then it doesn't.

All signs pointed to that I was pregnant. Possibly a couple months along. But all the pregnancy tests kept saying no.

Then my world fell apart. My husband tried to kill himself, he was sitting in a psychiatric ward.

I’ll never forget getting the call that my husband was in intensive care due to a failed suicide attempt. I hung up the phone, and all I could think of is “Holy shit, what if I am pregnant??”

Being pregnant, with my husband sitting in a physic ward, wasn't the dream I had envisioned.

Three days into my husband’s hospital stay, I started my cycle. After three months of not having one. After three months of thinking the tests were wrong, because my cycle had always been like clockwork. I have never gone three months without it making its lovely presence. 

I assume I had a miscarriage. A miscarriage due to stress, or that the baby was never alive.. or that for some unknown reason, my body just stopped for three months leading me to think I was pregnant.

While Seth was still in the hospital, I went and had a 10 year contraceptive put in my body. I didn't talk to him about it. I didn't ask his thoughts. I just did it.

I wasn't willing to bring a child into what I was going through. I knew if I did have a baby, I would be a single parent.. but I thought it would be due to me divorcing Seth because of his suicide attempts, not that I would actually be a single widowed parent. I think my brain knew far more than I did of what was coming up for us.

Seth was mad at me until the day he died for having the contraceptive put in. I think he honestly thought having a child would fix everything and I didn't know what road he was heading down when I agreed that we could start trying to a baby.

As I look at father’s day today, I realized that I could have a 5 year child at this point.. and would be explaining to my child why his daddy isn't here. In a way, it was a blessing that I wasn't pregnant. I don’t know how I would take care of a child when most days I can’t take care of myself. I don’t know how I would ever explain to my child that daddy killed himself. 

But in another way, it reminds me that Seth might have been a father. And I might have been a mother.

Bipolar took my husband away. It also took away a lot of things that Seth could have experienced.. such as being a father.

So today I am thinking of all you widowed parents. Who play both mom and dad. Please give yourself a huge pat on the back, it’s a huge task, and you deserve a huge hug.

Today I will wallow in what could have been. I am saddened that Seth never got to experience being a father. I am saddened by the things that will never happen.