I Got a Name

I've got a song, I've got a song. And I carry it with me, and I sing it loud. If it gets me nowhere, I'll go there proud. 

I'm not sure anybody is more sick of me talking about Mark's suicide than I am. 

And my talking about it pales in comparison to how much I think about it.

I was warned early on by others who have been through similar experiences that there might come a point when people want me to stop talking about it. Given the society we live in and how uncomfortable most humans are with grief, however universal and normal it may be, it's not uncommon to hear people say that it's time to move on, or some equally crappy expression. I've said it to others, and I've thought it more times than I care to admit. I watched my mom grieve the loss of her twin brother for years and remember how UNhelpful so many of us were by telling her to get over it already. The man was her TWIN, and I judged her and her grief. That doesn't mean I didn't mean well and want to see her happy, but I mostly just made her wrong and told her not to feel the very real and understandable pain she was feeling in the wake of losing the one person she'd been with her entire life. 

I know better now. That doesn't make me great; I just get it now. Life does go on, but it can be a bit wonky. You've got to learn to live life without the person you got used to having around and woven into countless little aspects of your life. It's interesting to notice myself progressing through various stages that I've heard about from the experiences of others. When they said the first year was a blur, I wanted to tell everyone to shut up. I could barely think five seconds into the future, let alone a year. I still can't see that far ahead, but at a bit more than twenty months out from my husband's suicide, I can look back. And they were right; the first year was a blur. I am firm in stating that I am not reliable for remembering anything that happened that year. I often don't even believe that much time has passed. I never thought I'd make it through, not even once. Surviving for an entire year wasn't even a fleeting thought. I was too busy being in shock, and thank goodness for that because the second year was a whole new kind of misery.

I recall several people telling me that the second year of grief is harder than the first. Not shockingly, I also wanted to tell them to shut up, and maybe throw something at them. I may or may not have done that, and I definitely laughed (maniacally) at such asinine comments. 

How in the hell am I supposed to think about how much harder the second year is supposed to be when I can't even remember why I came to the store???? AND HOW IS ANYBODY SAYING THIS HELPING?!?!?!?!

Much to my dismay, this has been the case for my second year. It's not worse, but the numbing effects of shock and denial have worn off, leaving me vulnerable to a whole myriad of new emotions, each of which is both glorious and disastrous in its own right. It's a miracle, really, that the human mind has evolved to go through some fairly predictable phases while grieving a loss. It's different for everyone and for every loss, but if you let things be, you'll likely experience some shock and denial, some anger, depression and sadness, bargaining/fixing, and then hopefully some acceptance will come. If you're like me, you'll experience very long bouts of each of these with smatterings of all the others throughout, and perhaps you'll pass into the rapid-cycling between 7,931 different emotions that I seem to feel in a single day now. And then you'll sleep.

Hopefully. This is also questionable. But don't worry. Even though the second year is less of a blur, you will be so tired from all the feeling that you still won't remember much of what's going on. If the first year is blurry, the second year is foggy; you are more present, but things still aren't clear. 

No single phase, feeling or emotion is any better or worse than any other, though being in denial in the beginning does help you from completely losing your mind. It's a gift, really. The brain can only handle so much at a time, so it's okay to be in shock. Enjoy it (HA!) because once it dissipates, you start to FEEL, and feeling is just not fun. Lately, I've been experiencing a new wave of dismay and shock that is so bizarre I actually feel a bit nutty, but it's also a nice break from being angry and feeling other things. Mostly, though, it's leaving me very confused, and that's tiring, too.

I mean, can you even keep up with what I'm saying? I can't. 

In short, grief is exhausting. But that's not what this post is really about. It's about how I was warned that people would want me to move on at some point, and I must say that I've started to get that vibe (and sometimes direct comments) from people. It's fascinating, really, that another human would have the audacity to tell me to move on without taking any time to talk to me or be at all involved in my daily life. I might talk a lot about Mark's suicide, but I also work a full-time job, am currently training for my 4th marathon, spend time with some marvelous friends and even do some volunteer week, regardless of how challenging it may be at times. Still, some people like to pass on what they think is good advice. This is to be expected, and it's okay. I don't get too bent out of shape about it because what they say is more about them being uncomfortable with grief than it is about me.

What I wasn't prepared for was that I would be the one telling myself to move on. As with all humans, I'm my own worst critic, my own worst enemy, my own biggest challenge. I've lost count of how many times I've wanted to say something about Mark or suicide or being widowed but then stopped myself because of some thought in my head telling me that my time to say those things was up. 

MADNESS!

The truth is, I think that I am supposed to talk about suicide a LOT. I don't know that I believe in divine intervention, but I am clear that there are things that we as humans generally do not understand because they are bigger than us or outside of our typical realm of thinking. Life is what you make it, but life also has ways of giving you clues and signs. Things that keep showing up aren't to be ignored; they keep showing up because they're not resolved or complete. Once they are, the next thing for us to deal with shows up because there's new space for it. So, as much as I often don't want to keep talking about all this, I have so much more to say. 

* "All this" is my blanket term for any and all things related to Mark's suicide, my being widowed, our marriage...it's all the same to me. It's everything, and I get annoyed when people don't understand that what I'm upset about is somehow always related to "all this".

On that note, I guess now would be a good time for me to share that I am writing a book. Maybe I'll write two. Or twelve. I think I'm supposed to be an author. I fantasize about living my own version of Nora Ephron's life. She's basically my hero. I think people who write books are incredibly brave, and if I could spend the rest of my life reading the words of others, I would still fall very short of taking in all the written wisdom I wish to consume. Books are, in my opinion, romantic in every way that anything can be. I'd love to leave at least one behind for others to read. Likely, it will make a difference for at least one reader.

Also, I can then take my amazing last name, "McGonigle", and make it famous as spelled in my family. And yes, it is pronounced the same as Harry Potter's Professor "McGonagall", who is portrayed by none other than MAGGIE Smith. Coincidence? I think not. 

But unlike J.K. Rowling, I don't believe I'll be writing any fiction or fantasy books. The one I've begun writing is (shockingly) about Mark and his suicide, with all its uniqueness. This blog, in fact, was started as a way for me to separate my own experience from what happened with him. I want to shed light on HIS veteran suicide, as it is quite different from what most people think of when they hear the phrase "veteran suicide". I'm not in a rush to get the book complete, primarily because writing it is hard. The last thing I want to do is intentionally relive everything that happened leading up to his suicide, especially the last forty-eight hours of his life. They were awful. Up until I found out he was actually dead, they were the worst two days of my life, and I wouldn't wish for anybody else to go through anything like what I went through. But I do know that finding the words to talk about it helps me move forward, and I'd like to share it with others because it is in sharing ourselves and our experiences that we make the biggest difference. 

Perhaps I'll write other books, too. I have plenty of ideas and, I hope, plenty of time. For now, I'm having an adventure with this blog. Truly, I am enjoying it. It's both a challenge and a grounding experience at the same time. If you've read it, thank you. If you've shared it with somebody else, thank you. If you think it's ridiculous, thank you; sometimes I do as well. If it's made you cry, I'm not sorry. If it's made you laugh, you're welcome. If it's made a difference for you because you're also widowed by suicide, I am sorry for your loss. Please send me a message. Notes from other widows are my favorite to receive, crushing as they are; I need your words as much as you might have needed mine before you read them.