Comfortably Numb

Now I've got that feeling once again. I can't explain. You would not understand. This is not how I am.

...except, it is...

I really wanted to write today. I had a topic picked out. A special friend got a sneak-peak into what my next post would be about. I came up with some witty lines to include. Oh, it was going down.

Then grief happened.

I don't really know what that means; I just haven't come up with a better way of putting it. Pick your favorite grief cliche:
It comes in waves.
It's a roller coaster.
It's the price you pay for love.
It'll all get better in time.

I've said all those things, those stupid, insufficient lines that are applicable almost never. Sometimes, we get lucky and they fit the moment just right, but they are mostly crap. We've all made the mistake of being the asshole that used such a thoughtless phrase when what was probably more appropriate was a hug. Or maybe a stiff drink. Still, we're only human, and there are some things for which, no matter how hard we try, there really are no words. Suicide is one of those things. So, the best that I can come up with is that "grief happened".

As if it ever stops.... but let me stop myself before this turns into yet another cliche.

I don't know how to describe how it feels to lose my husband to suicide except to say that it changed everything. I wish I had something more profound to say, but I don't. Everything is different. EVERYTHING. And the shock value of this whole experience is overwhelming. That's probably what I mean most of the time when I say that "grief happened": the reality of Mark's suicide dawned all over again, leaving me sort of stuck in a state of shock. Maybe. Ask me tomorrow, since it's likely to strike again some time in the next day. 

I definitely don't mean that I'm crying over Mark. Not even close. I'm feeling far too baffled to cry. I don't even think this is me grieving Mark, so much as grappling with the fact that suicide is a real thing that can actually happen. My family didn't shelter us from death as kids, and I have probably an above average acceptance of my own mortality. So I'm not really sad about Mark right now. On the contrary, I've found a unique solace in those moments when I truly miss him; it's nice remembering that there are good things to miss and be sad about.

But that's not happening right now. It's the whole suicide thing that I am stuck with. It does have me feeling a little angry, but more in the sense that I'm annoyed with how much of my energy this takes up. I'm too tired to be angry, even though I took a nap when I got home from work. (You know, because I was so exhausted from putting aside all the thoughts about Mark's suicide and the pointlessness of life to focus on my job all day.)

Grieving a suicide doesn't work the same as most other losses because there's the loss of the person, and then there's the suicide. I could probably be schooled in what other deaths and tragedies are like to those who survive them, but I do know that suicide is in a category of its own. And let me tell you, it's like having a terrible song stuck in your head ALL THE TIME. Seriously, worst broken record EVER.

This is the song that never ends...

It doesn't stop. Ever. It's like a plague of ickiness that has glued itself to that voice in your head that replays nonsensical b.s. and does nothing to empower you, but instead convinces you that life is doomed...the one that never shuts up and seems to have a fetish for all things awful and unpleasant. Imagine giving it a taste of suicide to add to the endless reel of disempowering folly. Then try getting some sleep. Or focusing. Or doing something without forgetting what it is you're doing and why.

The human brain is fascinating, but it is wired to constantly try to make sense of everything, even the most senseless of things. This isn't a problem when I can remember and remind myself that my brain is just doing its thing; I'm actually pretty good at distinguishing between my feelings and what's happening in reality. But who am I kidding? Most of the time, I'm your basic nutcase, and when I get caught up in the madness, oh boy. I think that's what happened today, after my very necessary post-work siesta. I was fine one minute, and then the next, BOOM! I was stricken with an infatuation for the absurdity that I am WIDOWED BY SUICIDE. 

HOW did this happen? Oh, yeah. I married Mark, which is just weird...and then he killed himself... HUH???

I am very grateful that, for a number of reasons, I have spent very little time and energy on the "what if's" that so many suicide survivors dwell on. I was so heavily involved with the police, and I spearheaded any and all efforts to have him NOT go through with the allusions he made to suicide in the last two days he was alive. The intimate details of that time still reside in that area of things that I'm comfortable sharing only in person, but I don't mind saying here that Mark's suicide was quite an event with far more people involved than is typically the case. All the time, energy and care that were invested into keeping him alive have left me with some peace that I (we) really did the best we could to prevent what tragically ensued. I seldom ask, "What if...?"

But the HOW... That shock value I mentioned before gives way to perpetual stupefaction. 

Confession: I totally just found that word (stupefaction) in a search for some worthy synonyms for 'amazement', and I fell in love with it purely for how much it reminded me of Harry Potter. #stupefy! #iamprofessormcgonigle I fully intend to overuse it.

Really, though. I can't help but constantly try to figure out HOW this happened in MY LIFE. It's just weird. And if I'm not careful, I'll probably end up writing what will essentially be this exact same post many times over since this feeling, the "grief happening", is what I experience more than anything else these days. Much to my dismay, (and not all that far off from how I was before), I am now a broken record and say the same things over and over. Your thoughts create your world, so that was bound to happen, but I probably won't make it as a writer if I don't come up with anything new.

I never wanted to write about this, whatever this is. On the one-year day/thing (I haven't come up with a word I like for that either.) I decided, clearly in a moment of "grief happening", that it would be cool to re-read all of my journal entries from the whole year since Mark died. You know, to see how much I'd grown.

HA. HAHAHAHA.

When I was done "reading" (wincing my way through each page), it was painfully evident that I was never going to make it as a writer. If a student ever handed me an essay of the same quality, I probably would've told them not to quit their day job. I also became aware that, in addition to filling a journal with balderdash, I spent the first year barely surviving. Surviving and growing are two veeeeery different things.

The first year will be a blur, they said. 

The ENTIRE year's worth of "journaling" revolved around three themes: 
-me hating Mark, lots of f-bombs included
-me loving "Andrew", lots of cheesy romance included
-me insisting that I was fine, lots of lies included

Pure crap, however entertaining. The same three things over and over and over again, mostly scribbled during fits of rage. But hey, it made sense at the time. And you just read this, so I can't be that poor of a writer. *Chuckles*

Alas, there just aren't any words to properly express what it is to lose your husband to suicide.