Intensive Outpatient Therapy Update #1
I've been home from Boston for a week now but I'm still collecting my thoughts and processing all I've learned before I dish on the experience as a whole.
There is one weird thing I have to share because it's been bugging me. It's not anything major, I guess. It's just that while I was in individual therapy going over the day and aftermath of Mike's suicide I began remembering small details of that night. Conversations that occurred after the gun shot. The feelings and confusion I had immediately after we ran but before I was told he was dead.
It took a really long time for SWAT to get set up and to make entry into out homethat night. I remember begging and pleading with the officers to just let me go in to put pressure on his wound. If he shot himself he'd bleed out while they were getting into whatever "formation" planned. I grabbedon officer's arm and desperately begged. I had no fear for my own safety. Regardless of the struggle that just ensued. I didn't know if he was hurt and bleeding to death alone and that made me sob. In the shock of it all I felt like he needed me and I couldn't get to him. The kids were safe in secure in a neighbor's basement. I could still get to him in time. It didn't occur to me that: A) he could be or not be alive and waiting to finish the job or B) He told me when his dad gave him those bullets they were intended for maximum destruction.
(I am very thankful in hindsight that the officers did their job and told me no. I didn't need to see that and there was nothing I could have done.)
Also I remembered being completely unable to describe his tattoos and locations of the tattoos he had for the officers. The shock, I guess? How do you know someone for 20 years and not his tattoos? Trauma. I remember having to look at our Facebook photos to describe left or right for each one. And, I remember being indignant about why they even needed to know. I asked "how many people are bleeding in my garage?! That's him!"
And then, I recalled that I could not find my dog after. He loved her so much. I thought for a minute he shot her too. I was certain I only heard one shot. Was it the dog, not him? I had hope. Not that he shot my dog but if he had shot the dog that meant he was still alive and could get help and I wouldn't have to tell my kids their dad was dead. The next morning after we were allowed back in my siblings finally found my dog...under my bed, terrified. She was never the same again either.
The last flash of memory I had was being notified he was in fact, dead. I hadn't remembered or blocked that part out through the years. The SWAT team loaded me into this armored vehicle and drove me down the street about four houses and stopped. I was very confused. (After thinking about it I realize that's when they opened the garage door and they wanted me out of eyesight of it as I was directly across the street standing in a window looking over there until that point.)
An officer made small talk but I don't recall what about as we sat in that dark van. Moments later another officer walked up and got into the passenger seat in front of me, turned to me and told me he was found and he was "deseased". I don't know if I was let out of the vehicle or let myself out but the next thing I remember is running through my neighbors yards toward my house, the wet grass, then my legs turning to jello. Being on all fours in my neighbors front yard and puking my guts out. (I have a thing about puking. I've literally only puked a handful of times in my adult life) I remember the bile/acid in the back of my throat burning. I'm not even sure what came next. I remember being back in my neighbors kitchen and the sun starting to come up. My mom was there by then. I told her I needed her to ask the police if someone could go in my house and get my work clothes. I was new at my job and couldn't be late the first 90 days. Again, I'm grateful my mom said no. I was in shock and would not be going to work.
How I forgot these things I cannot say for sure. There are some moments after we ran from the house I guess I still don't recall entirely. Regardless of how many times I've written about the experience, the trauma, those snapshots stayed hidden for just short of four years. Looking back they are not necessarily useful memories, they make no difference either way to the recall or retelling of the night Mike died. They are just moments I'd forgotten.
Our brains and bodies do some crazy things. I guess that's all. I've put those memories out into the universe so I can let them go.
There is one weird thing I have to share because it's been bugging me. It's not anything major, I guess. It's just that while I was in individual therapy going over the day and aftermath of Mike's suicide I began remembering small details of that night. Conversations that occurred after the gun shot. The feelings and confusion I had immediately after we ran but before I was told he was dead.
It took a really long time for SWAT to get set up and to make entry into out homethat night. I remember begging and pleading with the officers to just let me go in to put pressure on his wound. If he shot himself he'd bleed out while they were getting into whatever "formation" planned. I grabbedon officer's arm and desperately begged. I had no fear for my own safety. Regardless of the struggle that just ensued. I didn't know if he was hurt and bleeding to death alone and that made me sob. In the shock of it all I felt like he needed me and I couldn't get to him. The kids were safe in secure in a neighbor's basement. I could still get to him in time. It didn't occur to me that: A) he could be or not be alive and waiting to finish the job or B) He told me when his dad gave him those bullets they were intended for maximum destruction.
(I am very thankful in hindsight that the officers did their job and told me no. I didn't need to see that and there was nothing I could have done.)
Also I remembered being completely unable to describe his tattoos and locations of the tattoos he had for the officers. The shock, I guess? How do you know someone for 20 years and not his tattoos? Trauma. I remember having to look at our Facebook photos to describe left or right for each one. And, I remember being indignant about why they even needed to know. I asked "how many people are bleeding in my garage?! That's him!"
And then, I recalled that I could not find my dog after. He loved her so much. I thought for a minute he shot her too. I was certain I only heard one shot. Was it the dog, not him? I had hope. Not that he shot my dog but if he had shot the dog that meant he was still alive and could get help and I wouldn't have to tell my kids their dad was dead. The next morning after we were allowed back in my siblings finally found my dog...under my bed, terrified. She was never the same again either.
The last flash of memory I had was being notified he was in fact, dead. I hadn't remembered or blocked that part out through the years. The SWAT team loaded me into this armored vehicle and drove me down the street about four houses and stopped. I was very confused. (After thinking about it I realize that's when they opened the garage door and they wanted me out of eyesight of it as I was directly across the street standing in a window looking over there until that point.)
An officer made small talk but I don't recall what about as we sat in that dark van. Moments later another officer walked up and got into the passenger seat in front of me, turned to me and told me he was found and he was "deseased". I don't know if I was let out of the vehicle or let myself out but the next thing I remember is running through my neighbors yards toward my house, the wet grass, then my legs turning to jello. Being on all fours in my neighbors front yard and puking my guts out. (I have a thing about puking. I've literally only puked a handful of times in my adult life) I remember the bile/acid in the back of my throat burning. I'm not even sure what came next. I remember being back in my neighbors kitchen and the sun starting to come up. My mom was there by then. I told her I needed her to ask the police if someone could go in my house and get my work clothes. I was new at my job and couldn't be late the first 90 days. Again, I'm grateful my mom said no. I was in shock and would not be going to work.
How I forgot these things I cannot say for sure. There are some moments after we ran from the house I guess I still don't recall entirely. Regardless of how many times I've written about the experience, the trauma, those snapshots stayed hidden for just short of four years. Looking back they are not necessarily useful memories, they make no difference either way to the recall or retelling of the night Mike died. They are just moments I'd forgotten.
Our brains and bodies do some crazy things. I guess that's all. I've put those memories out into the universe so I can let them go.
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