Still the Same

Turning on the charm long enough to get you by. 

Humans have a habit of sanctifying people after they die. It's fascinating. We're not designed to communicate well, I guess. Most of the time, it's easiest to say something while hiding behind a text, an email, or maybe someone's back; that's all way less confronting than saying something to their face. Then, go figure, when the poor victim of our gossip and slander dies, we speak about them as if they were Mother Teresa. Hopefully, we figure out somewhere along the way that life is too short to not say the things you really want to say. Ideally, there also comes a moment when we take a look in the mirror and realize we're no better than anybody else on the planet. And if all works out, we stop acting on our assessments of people while we're all still alive instead of waiting until it's too late to tell them the truth, which in most cases boils down to little more than love. 

That's right, you self-righteous jerk. All those people you're upset with wouldn't be a source of frustration for you if you didn't care, and you know it.

But this isn't about me pointing out your assholish tendencies, however human they may be. This is about me pointing out my own.

And maybe some of Mark's because, let's face it, he gave up the right to defend himself when he pulled the trigger.

I say that with as much love as I can muster. Or something similar, like good intentions...with a pinch of guilt, nerves and a fast-beating heart. My point is, Mark was an asshole just like the rest of us. I, more than anyone, have not wanted to leave anybody thinking poorly of him, aside from the several months last year when just about everything I said about Mark was tainted with bitter disdain and rage. It's taken a lot of conversations and stepping outside of my comfort zone to even want to remember any of the wonderful things about Mark and our marriage. I'm very proud of how far I've come, and I love walking down memory lane towards his smile and the adorable way he used to chuckle. But good memories don't erase the bad ones.

I don't think for a second when I tell people that my husband died by suicide that their first thought is anything even remotely in the realm of how wonderful his life must have been. People don't choose suicide when life is fine and dandy. We'll never REALLY know why some people have gone through with it because they're not here to tell us. I don't know for sure why Mark did what he did, and I don't dare go down the rabbit hole of trying to figure it out. (At least not too often.) But I do know a lot of what Mark was dealing with, and until now, I have been too embarrassed to write the "big secrets" down. I learned after he died that far more people than I was aware of already knew what he was hiding; at the same time, countless people were shocked. 

I apologize if reading this leaves you with a lesser impression of Mark. Please consider that he was all the beautiful, kindhearted goodness that you remember, as well as a human being with personal struggles. I request that you use this as a lesson that can make a difference for others, maybe somebody in your life. Maybe even you. And if you're as nasty as the voice in my head that's telling me I'm a bad widow for telling Mark's secrets now that he's dead, too bad. This isn't your blog. HA! Plus, Shaela told me she has my back no matter what, and she's the best friend anybody could ever have in the whole world. So there. 

Mark was a compulsive gambler.

PHEW! I said it. *Pats self on back.* I can go to bed now.

Okay, okay, so I joke about things to help distract me from how terrified I am to say them. But humor, right along with trust, is typically nonexistent for survivors in the wake of a suicide, so I'll take it. I've been dreading stating any of this publicly for nearly eighteen months, and now that it's out there, what's present for me is a sense of relief. I'm also reminded that sharing is caring. I hope that someone reading this can relate and feel less alone. 

I was gifted a priceless opportunity to attend a seminar for military suicide survivors in October. It's the only one of its kind, put on annually by an organization that has been invaluable in my growth and healing. Experts in the fields of trauma, bereavement and suicide ran workshops, and I went into the weekend with one goal in particular: to honor and remember the Mark that I loved. Hell, even remembering that I loved him would've been a breakthrough, considering I spent so long surviving by acting like I didn't care about him. I was so proud of myself for doing an activity at the seminar that involved both a plant and a picture of Mark smiling. Seriously, my growth game was operating at full potential that weekend.

And then I went to a session about learning to love after loss. Given the title, I thought the session might be a happy one in which we looked to the future in a positive light. WRONG. Instead, the person leading the session, who is an expert in field of trauma, did exactly the opposite. It was sort of one of those "true friends stab you in the front" situations in which, instead of lying to you about how great you are and that the guy is the asshole, your best friend tells you when you're being a complete shithead and are about to throw away a perfectly good relationship. Something like that.

Simply put, she pointed out that before any of us in the workshop (almost all widows, plus a few mothers who lost children to suicide) could learn to truly love again, we'd have to deal with the fact that we trust NOBODY, as is common for suicide survivors. Furthermore, about ninety seconds into the session, the leader reminded us ever so lovingly that the suicide itself wasn't the only trauma that most of us had dealt with. On the contrary, she gave us some statistics and listed off some of the usual circumstances that occur before a suicide: addiction, infidelity, incarceration, lies and abuse of all kinds. By the third minute, just about all of us were crying, and we hadn't even gotten to work yet.

I don't really care to remember what it was like being married to a compulsive gambler, but that's exactly what I did during that workshop. We brainstormed on index cards about two things. First, we wrote all the things we were too ashamed to say out loud not just since, but also BEFORE the suicide. It took me a second, but once I started, the memories poured out of me like venom. I was pissed. It had never occurred to me that I was living in an abusive relationship because Mark wasn't mean, nor did he EVER do anything to hurt me physically. This made (and still makes) the situation even more frustrating to me because Mark didn't have a mean cell in his body. He actually had good intentions and wanted to take care of me, which I now know is characteristic of compulsive gamblers. On a good note, building upon my having grown up in a family with addiction, the nature of Mark's compulsive gambling only furthered my compassion for those dealing with an addiction. Yes, Mark killed himself, and he's the only one responsible. But I do understand now that his addiction was so much bigger than he was, and if he could have seen a way out of the tangled mess that he made, he probably wouldn't have chosen suicide. 

But once I was given the liberty to tell the truth about what it was like before Mark's suicide, I realized how very unsafe I felt in our marriage. Again, I emphasize that Mark was not physically abusive or even in the slightest sense mean to me. And that's not me defending my abuser. It really wasn't like that. On the other hand, Mark lied to me (and everyone) constantly. We never had any money. My debit card was declined at more than one grocery store and gas station. He stole, often from people we loved. Coupled with his lying, this put a rift in nearly every one of my relationships, whether directly or indirectly. Things would go missing, and he'd come up with elaborate stories that you'd hear about only in Lifetime movies. He was rarely home, and when he was, he was exhausted. People used to message me with questions, and I had no idea how to answer them. Nothing made sense because he would get caught up in his lies and tell confusing stories. He stopped running with me, which I recently saw is at the source of my feeling out of sorts with my running not since his death, but actually about a year prior. The Mark I loved sort of disappeared, only to make an appearance every now and then. The rest of the time, there was always something that wasn't quite right. It was very isolating.

The worst of it, aside from the obvious nightmare of his suicide, was how crazy I always felt. I could never figure out what I was missing. I am highly educated with a good head on my shoulders, but I never quite knew what was going on. It was maddening. Before I found out about his gambling, I thought he was just having a hard time transitioning from Active Duty back to the Reserves. This is undoubtedly a contributing factor; Mark loved being a Marine, and not having the opportunity to serve full time and provide for me was hard for him. I found out later that he'd been gambling since long before I met him, and the compulsive lying led to other choices I'll share some other time. For now, I'll say this: finding out about how your husband's gambling and lying impacted their life sucks; finding out on the Fourth of July, just two days after his suicide, how they impacted his military service is the perfect inducer of a psychotic break.

Very little of this got written down on the index cards during that workshop. It wasn't about Mark; it was about my experience in the dysfunction of my marriage before my husband's suicide. And it was a relief to say how I really felt (feel). Hearing what others wrote was heartbreaking, mostly because I could relate, but also because I realized that I haven't suffered some of the same abuses many others have. On the other hand, I was comforted to be around people who both love and hate the person they lost. That feels a little weird to say, and I don't think I realized it until now. But I did know in that workshop that I was in a safe place with people who understood my trauma as well as my commitment to moving out of the muck and the mire towards happiness for myself and honor for the one I lost. 

I was exhausted by the time we dove into the second part of the exercise, which was to fill out another index card with all of our fears for future relationships. I don't really want to talk about that right now, but that session was pivotal for me. The entire weekend was. It was the first time I acknowledged to myself that I do have PTSD, and also that it's okay. Simply writing "I have PTSD" in my journal turned me in a new direction towards healing and peace. Things work so much better when you can just be with the reality of a situation instead of denying and resisting it. I still catastrophize most things, such as believing people are dead simply because they didn't answer the phone, but I'm starting to catch myself before I go into panic mode. I've also started going OUT in the world with friends again. I let my guard down that weekend, or at least started to. This post and sharing this one aspect of my marriage with Mark is much more symbolic of letting one's guard down, but it definitely took route while I scribbled my most shameful feelings onto those index cards. 

Confession: I'll predictably try to hide for a few days after posting this and will probably convince myself that you all think I'm a terrible person for ridiculous reasons that don't have any meaningful impact on my life. But hey, I'm growing here. 

There are countless other things I could say about Mark's compulsive gambling. I can't pick one, so I'll do what most people do in a swirl of emotions and will give you all the feels. Discovering Mark was gambling made me very sad, and the mental image I have of him sitting in a casino for hours upon end hurts me more than I can express. If there were a word that could convey heartbreak to the 10,000th degree, that might come close to how it feels to know that my best friend and chosen life partner was suffering in that way. I've been to a casino once since he died, and I had to go outside for some air because I thought I was going to pass out. I get annoyed now that something as simple as the word "bet" reminds me of him, and usually leaves me worried about people making even the smallest of bets. I am not mad at Mark for gambling, at least not anymore. I'm relieved he's not stuck in that rut anymore, and though I know it's a normal reaction, I still feel a pang of guilt for being relieved that I also don't have to suffer from his addiction anymore. Sometimes I wish it were possible to literally knock or shake some sense into people, in which case I'd go back in time to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until that loose screw fell back into place. 

Mark's compulsive gambling didn't kill him, nor is it "the reason" he took his own life. He killed himself, and that's about all I know for sure. But it's safe to say that gambling and the consequences that ensued were contributing factors to his suicide. Or maybe they were simply a byproduct of whatever Mark was feeling internally. Who knows? 

I do know that talking helps, or at least provides us an access to working through whatever we're dealing with. For further information and support, please visit www.ncpgambling.org for the National Council on Problem Gambling, or call/text the 24-hour Confidential National Helpline at 1-800-522-4700. Please also visit www.gamblersanonymous.org to find your local hotline and meetings.