I wish I would have known..

I wish I would have been told that I will be ok, but it will take time. The intense pain of the early days and weeks does not continue in the same way, slowly, so very slowly, the pain begins to subside. So slowly it is imperceptible. The slow drip of water into a bucket, only over time will you see the water accumulating, evidence of the work you are doing to heal. Grief is not constant, it changes. It will come and it will go. Hearing the stories of other suicide widow survivors that it takes at least 2 years, or worse, that it never gets better, crushed me.

I could not imagine this pain continuing on forever, it was unbearable. For the very first time in my life, I had a glimpse of what Andy experienced. I understood how people could come to the conclusion that life is too hard, and contemplate ending their own life. It is a real risk for people like me, the suicide survivors. I’m in several online groups, and suicidal ideation is shockingly common. Many people struggle with these thoughts, are admitted to the hospital in the ER or psychiatric ward, or have attempted suicide. These stories scared me, I feared I would fall into this path, that I would forever be lost in my grief and wouldn’t find my way out.

I was in a fog. Each day, putting one step in front of the other.

As a researcher by profession, I did what I knew to do when I didn’t understand something. I researched. I immersed myself in understanding suicide theories. I went back to his medical records, his journal entries. I tried to make sense of what had happened. Logically, it all checked out. I could check off every single box in the steps that lead to suicide. I could see his pathway that led to his decision.

Next, I went to communities who have experienced loss and hardship. I listened to podcasts and read memoirs of people who have had impossibly difficult lives. Who have struggled with hardship. I saw Andy’s story reflected in them, but also my own. I sought solace in knowing I wasn’t alone in suffering, and once the doors opened to this world the magnitude of how large it was astonishing. I was left with a sense that no one leaves this earth unscathed, some of us are just lucky enough to live.

But I was determined not to give up. My kids only had one parent left. I decided early on to fight hard for them, but also for myself. To do whatever I could

In the beginning, there is so much to do to deal with the death. Planning for a memorial or funeral, in my experience so similar to planning a wedding on virtually no notice. Making decisions about where to have him cremated, a location for the service, music, readings, urns, catering, chairs. And I had a lot of help. But it was a part time job. First I had to learn to go through the motions. Doing simple things was difficult. My world was shattered, everything I knew about my life was fractured. Including my own self perception. I wanted to be the advocate for suicide awareness, and still do, but I couldn’t shake the shame. I felt like eyes were laser focused on our family, with whispers about what happened to Andy. I imagined my community looking at me and saying, “That’s the lady whose husband killed himself”.

I couldn’t leave my house alone to go anywhere public. It took a few weeks before I could even go to a farmers market at the end of our block, and I made my daughter go with me. She couldn’t understand why it was so important that she went, but I just kept telling her I really needed her to go with me. I didn’t even go for very long. There was no lingering or interacting with anyone. I was on a mission to walk down the street, purchase a flat of strawberries and raspberries, and come straight home. I hid behind my sunglasses. Sunglasses are an amazing concealer. They hide so much of our emotions. Just another similarity I know shared with Andy; the dual purpose of protecting sensitive eyes and hiding the truth from the world.

Grief is most certainly not linear, it gets better, but there are set-backs. There are many set-backs. The come both in times you might expect them and out of the blue. In some ways, the waves that hit many months later are more painful, you find your footing, you recognize yourself and a semblance of a life that is recognizable, and then out of nowhere you are knocked down again. The pain and the anguish return. I was prepared for the ebb and flow of grief, but only on a day to day or week to week timeline. The idea that some months might be harder than others had not occurred to me.