The Work is Worth it

Losing someone is always hard. Death is never easy. I have lost many people in my life. My grandmother died of cancer. I cried for months but she lived a very full life. My best fried died when I was 16 in a drunk driving accident. She was the passenger and was killed instantly when ejected from the vehicle. After her death I found it hard to become close to others in fear of losing them and being hurt that way again. My favorite aunt died in a car accident as well as two uncles. Because of this I fear being in a vehicle. Every time I start the engine of a car I remember that it could happen. Someone could hit me. But I take a deep breath and put the car in drive. With that being said nothing has effected me more than the loss of my husband.

When your spouse commits suicide, your rational brain knows he was sick but part of you feels such a sense of abandonment. There are still moments if have to fight asking what I could have done better to make him stay, was I a bad wife?

The moments leading up to his death replay in my mind regularly. Earlier in the evening on that night he kept motioning me to come to the bedroom and I refused. His behavior was scaring me. The look in his eye was unfamiliar. Why did he have two loaded guns in our bedroom that night? He never kept the gun in our room it was always locked up in a foot locker in our garage. One of the guns I had never seen before. Where did it even come from? After knowing he had those guns in there was he luring me in to kill me too or did he plan to kill himself right in front of me? In the room we shared?

I was told there were three unspent full metal jackets lying near him when the police made entry, one officer said my actions saved the lives of my family that night. Was he really planning or even capable of such horrors?

At the time of his death our life had finally started falling into place. I had a job, he was in school, we had a house, he was retired after 20 years served, my autoimmune disease was finally under control and I was healthy, the kids were adjusted to moving across country. We were once again close to family and he saw his parents often. Even reunited with his sister he hadn't seen in 20 years. The only real issue was his PTSD, drinking heavily. I have no idea what triggered his decision.  It was all going as we planned for so many years. But yet, he still was not happy.

How long had he planned on doing this? The week before he died he took down all his Marine Corps awards and memorabilia from the wall. Was that part of the planning?

For a long time after his death I questioned if my calling 911 pushed him to do it.  Remember in my account of the incident a year ago? When he realized I was on the phone with 911 he looked up at me from the landing and said "you called the fucking COPS?!" (That has always stuck with me. Such an odd question. Of course I did you had a loaded rifle in your hands walking through our house. Why wouldn't I call the cops) If in that moment he felt he had no other option. But then I read the police report and he was found wearing his gym shorts with only his Missouri drivers license in the pocket. And the day after he died I saw that he had posted a message to God asking him to take him about one hour before he pulled the trigger.  The combination of those things helped me to realize that I wasn't at fault. This was his plan. It took me a long time to forgive myself for something I know was not my fault now.

Being abandoned the was he left us has been hard to recover from. I am in love again and a year later I am still afraid at times. I gave my husband all of me. I completely surrendered to him. His illness made him controlling and sometimes mean. I did what I was told when I was told to do it.  And then he disappeared. Now when I feel the least bit bullied in any situation I freak out. Even when it's not true, only in my head. 

He had a special way he liked his clothing put on hangers. If it wasn't right I had to redo it. Even a year later I get really nervous when it's time to put away laundry. I sometimes now even avoid it all together or spend an hour making sure all the fronts of the shirts are facing the same direction, the clothes worn most often toward the front and in color order. There are times I say fuck it and throw my stuff on the floor in a independent stand (but then later I can't find anything and I get aggravated with myself) I'm finding my middle ground.

When Mike was alive he had final word on all matters. Even if I told the kids they could do something. He'd come home from work and find out they'd done it and ground them because they should have known he'd say no. It was at times absurd. He had taken away my authority as a parent and then disappeared. I had no control after his death. I had to re establish my role as a parent. It was partly my fault. I lied for the kids to keep them out of trouble. I'd tell him I had done whatever he accused them of so he didn't punish them. His discipline was sometimes insane. He didn't know how to discipline them and move on with his day. He literally stayed mad at them for days. 

He was the same with me though. If he didn't like something I did he could go a week without speaking to me and he'd never tell me what I'd done wrong either. I'd go all that time wracking my brain trying figure out what it was. 

Looking back on it I can see how twisted it was but he had done so well at mindfucking us that we actually thought it was just normal. We craved his praise. We tried to be and do everything he wanted. When we were good we were very good. When we were bad we were the lowest form of life.

I walked on eggshells. I was proactive. I anticipated his needs and responded accordingly. At one point he had me believing the kids were really as bad as he claimed and it was my fault because I was the one raising them. At the end of his life I was also in a state of depression. I was especially hard on my self. Everything had to be perfect. So much pressure.

He would never go out into public because he said the kids embarrassed him. He told them that and my heart died a little every time. They are beautiful funny amazing kids. But I dare not speak up to him.

He never left the house. We lived on Pendleton for Seven years and right before retiring we went to walmart just outside the gate. He didn't know how to get there. 

He had major sleep problems. He sweat so much that out turquoise sheets were bleached in the shape of his body. He could never get to sleep on Sundays. I often wondered why Sunday? Whats the significance of Sunday? I never asked so I will never know.  Interestingly enough he took his life on a Sunday night.

I guess the whole point if this blog is that grieving his suicide by it's self is hard but it's also combined with reprogramming myself to live like a normal human being. It's a bit like leaving a cult. The past year has been a lot of work. Getting past the pain of such devastating loss but also forgiving myself for giving him all my power for 11 years and allowing him to treat my kids so poorly at times. That is the harder part. Forgiving myself for not sticking up for them and protecting them. Hindsight is a tricky bitch.

Even after death I make excuses for him. He was sick. That wasn't who he was inside. He loved us. Old habits die hard. 

It's not as simple as grieving his death, it's also coming to terms with what happened before that. As if grief isn't hard enough alone. 

I'm committed to helping families who are where we were before he died. To help prevent suicide by addressing the mental illness that causes it and truly has an effect on everyone in the family. Of course it's easier said than done. If you'd told me my husband was abusive before he died I'd tell you to go fuck yourself. I was too strong and independent to ever allow something like that. Ha! See how powerful that hold is?

I have PTSD now from the night of his suicide. That night I feared for my life and the lives of my children. I work on it everyday. I acknowledge it. I share my story with others. I'm not ashamed of the diagnosis. I am slowly getting past the shame of living in an abusive marriage. It's all work. It's all difficult but raising my kids healthy and as well as I possibly can is worth it. That means I must also take care of myself.

I am now in a relationship with a man who is my partner. Ironically he's also a counselor so that definitely doesn't hurt. But we share responsibilities and choices and we are a team as a family. I have to sometimes stop myself from old habits and he's aware of the dynamics of my former life. When he says "hey, sit down let me do that. You don't have to do everything yourself" I feel such relief. The more I love him the more I realize just how bad things had gotten with my late husband. 

Everyday I try something new and work a little harder. It's an odd feeling to enjoy such independence while mourning a loss. Very conflicting. Sometimes a guilty even. But I want health and happiness for us. I know if I keep trying we will be whole again.