Say Something

And I will swallow my pride. You're the one that I love, and I'm saying goodbye. Say something, I'm giving up on you. And I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you. And anywhere I would've followed you. 

I want to preface this by saying that I am clear that I am not to blame for Mark's suicide. This is for multiple reasons. For starters, it's really annoying when people tell me I can't blame myself because, quite frankly, I can if I want to. Secondly, when people do think I'm blaming myself, they worry. Then they tell me they're worried. Then I have to have a conversation with them about how worried THEY are. Then I get worried that I might say the wrong thing and lead them to further worry about my blaming myself for Mark's suicide. Then I become exhausted from all the worry and have a whole new set of issues, generally including my own new worry about how I am potentially blaming myself for his suicide. No fun.

Next of all, if you're not in my shoes and have never lost a spouse to suicide, you just have no clue. Anybody in my position would blame themself, at least on some level and for some period of time. You're plain old out of your mind if you think that's not going to happen. Finally, I really don't want to talk about the reasons Mark did what he did because I don't know for sure what they actually were. Nobody does. I could spend the rest of my life guessing and debating it with others, or simply with myself, but that seems like a real waste of time. I indulge in asking "Why?" now and then, but I don't let it go on for too long because it doesn't get me anywhere. 

That said, this is not a pity party. (This is a blog, silly.) I generally share this part of the story with others in person, but I have resisted putting it in writing. For some reason, I feel ready to share it now. Maybe enough time has passed that this piece doesn't sting so much. More likely is that I'm tired of skipping details for fear of judgement; seriously, it takes a lot of energy to keep secrets. Ultimately, it all happened exactly the way it happened, and it didn't happen any other way. Little by little, I have stopped censoring the story. My ultimate goal is to share it exactly as it happened, or at least as my foggy, grieving brain can remember, with nothing held back. The truth shall set you free, right?

There have been a few times now that I've referenced the forty-eight hours leading up to when Mark pulled the trigger. What I don't want to say is that those two days kicked off when I told Mark that I was going to divorce him. At the start of that week, after one of the best weekends we'd spent together in a long time, I found out about something Mark had been hiding. That's a story for another blog, but in short, he would quite likely have gone to jail for what he'd done, and I was in communication with and full support of the person pressing charges. Mark was in way over his head, and anything other than leaving decisions up to the law would have been enabling him. After not even two years of being married, with the majority of that time spent confused by all of Mark's lies, I'd had enough. I loved myself too much to continue watching my own life suffer at the effect of his gambling and lying. 

I'm proud of many things in my life, but the decision to end something so unworkable is by far one of the most courageous ones I've ever made. Nobody else could have done it for me. I had to be brave. I had to have the guts to cut ties with Mark, even though I loved him. I had to find the courage to stand for my OWN life. And I did that. Me. Nobody else. I was a badass. A powerhouse. A force to be reckoned with. My life was going to be amazing because I refused to be dragged further down by the mess and chaos of one man's turbulent behavior. So, just shortly before 10am on a Thursday, I told Mark over the phone that we were getting divorced.

And then the bastard went and ruined my plans AGAIN.

Within fifteen minutes, I received two phone calls: one from my mom and one from a friend, to each of whom Mark had made a suicide threat.

*Note: I don't like the term 'suicide threat' as applied to Mark because it wasn't a threat. He really meant it. Yes, hindsight is 20/20, and no, I didn't know at the time that he would actually complete suicide. But I do believe that Mark knew for those two days that he wasn't going to stay alive for much longer. 

In the midst of receiving their frantic phone calls, I also missed one from Mark. He left me a voicemail at 9:58am on Thursday, June 30, 2016 letting me know that nothing was my fault. I still have it. I don't remember taking him seriously based on that voicemail. I don't even remember when I realized he'd left it. Had my mom and friend not told me what he'd told them, I'm not sure I would've even picked up on the fact that he was letting me know he was going to end his life. Before I ever heard his message, I was already too busy calling him over and over and over and over and over while I sped to our apartment. It's amazing I didn't crash into anything. I don't recall how I handled any traffic or red lights, but I'm sure it wasn't with much caution. One part I do remember is being really pissed at him, but the rest was all nerves. Raw, terrified nerves. 

The next two days were the worst of my life on multiple levels, and I don't care to relive them right now. At 10:07am on Saturday, July 2, he shot himself. I found out a few hours later once the police were able to get into our apartment and confirm he was dead. And then it was over.

Forty-eight hours of hell resulted in a completely warped version of reality, my "new normal", all because I finally took a stand for my own life, free of lies and the complete lack of trust that goes hand in hand with being married to a compulsive gambler.