Brave

I wonder what would happen if you say what you want to say and let the words fall out honestly. I WANT TO SEE YOU BE BRAVE!

Maybe you'd inspire somebody...

This one's for my widdas. So often, you tell me your bad widowed secrets, usually in a whisper and with your head bowed in shame, eyes darting around in avoidance of the judgement you anticipate in response. But you won't get any judgement from me. There was a time I was convinced that I was the worst widow ever. (Intense hatred of dead husband + extended stint as a floozy + big mouth that pisses people off by telling them all the things = bad widow, right?) That's how it seemed to me. 

I know better now than to judge myself so harshly. Sure, there are stereotypes, but there's no right way to widow. I'm actually a spectacular widow, in my humble opinion. Contrary to my childhood goals of being one of the only people in my family to make my first marriage not only work, but be my only marriage that lasts foreverrrrrr, I was twenty-eight when I lost my husband to suicide. Since then, I've morphed into something else that I think is called "World's Most Badass Widow". At first thought, I want to say that I haven't the slightest clue how this came to be, but that's a lie. It's my brutal honesty that earns me this title with which I've dubbed myself. Being straight and direct is sexy, and when your sex appeal is dragged down by your suicide widow status, you must collect sexiness anywhere you can. The same goes with confidence. Hell, you've got to fake it 'til you make it, widsters (and widbros)! It works like a charm when your life is falling apart and your partner is dead. Plus, it feels a hell of a lot better than trying to hide all the things that are now pieces in the puzzle of your life. 

So, my fellow widdas, here's a lovely collection of some of my bestest worst choices in this widowed life. I've expended a lot of energy hiding so much of this, at least for brief periods of time in the early days of widowhood. But THIS is the stuff we relate on. Hearing other widows' shitstorms and complete disasters helped get me through the early days when I didn't want to remember Mark, but instead wanted to party. So if you've done it, I probably have, too, and probably worse. You're not bad; you're human. And you're quite an extraordinary one given what you've been through. Seriously, if you're reading this, you're winning. Reading is one of the hardest things to do when your brain is scrambled with grief. 1,000 POINTS FOR YOU! But enough work for now; you'll be tired any minute after all these words. It's time for a chuckle! Or a tear. Or a few of both. Enjoy!

1. Two days after Mark died, shortly after hearing some upsetting news about his military service, or lack thereof, I told my mom not to bother flying out for his funeral. I also told several of his Marines that they were crazy for honoring a dishonorable person. And I did all this while yelling into the phone on my friend's porch at about 6am. Then I screamed at my mom for even considering NOT coming out for his funeral. And five minutes later I started laughing hysterically. Temporary insanity? I think so.

2. I got in a (somewhat) physical fight with my mom a few days before the funeral. I don't even remember what started it. I'm pretty sure she was just worried about me driving away in a state of panic, given how much of a mess I'd been. I recall throwing a pair of sunglasses at her and then, while they were still midair and hadn't even hit the floor, freaking out because they were Mark's and I didn't want to ruin them. I told her I'd scream for the neighbors to hear me. I think I even yelled for help, and I definitely threatened to call the cops on her. She eventually gave in and let me leave. I made it to the car, where I cried hysterically and talked to a friend about how I was not only a terrible widow, but also a terrible daughter.

3. I hated Mark's funeral. Truly. The only things I remember fondly are the music we played, meeting/reuniting with his Marines, and the fact that I was given his flag at the burial. The rest was awful, and that's really saying something considering how much my Irish roots love a good funeral. The differences between mine and his Filipino family's culture were tough. I wanted to do things as they wished, and I don't actually regret any of it. I have my own ways of honoring and remembering him, so his family should have theirs as well. But I hated how it turned out. 

*Note to ALL who outlive me: My funeral will be a party that goes all night with my favorite music, food and drinks. If you do it any other way, I will come back to haunt you. And you'd better believe it because I believe in ghosts. 

4. I kicked my mom out and made her fly back to New England two days after Mark's funeral. It was just too much grief in too little space, which was even more condensed considering that we were barely using the guest room where Mark killed himself in our small apartment. 

5. I slept with someone three weeks after Mark died. It was one of his Marines. We met at the funeral and are still friends.

6. Two days after that, I went out with some friends and found myself rolling around on the beach with one who is married. I met his wife at Mark's funeral, which she reminded me of in a (completely understandable) message online. One month later, I made out with her on my birthday. I think it's safe to say she forgave me for my initial drunken, grief-stricken need to flirt with anything male that looked my way.

7. I made out with another married guy who actually told me how lonely he was with his wife. Not my proudest moment. We chatted it out the next day and agreed that it was a good thing we didn't do anything further.

See? I had a FEW responsible moments!

8. I slept with one of Mark's old friends a few weeks later. We met purely as a result of Mark's dying. The night started with drinks and ended with sex in a parking lot. We repeated this several other times in several other places, and it was so worth it; it was just so out of character for the person I used to be. Grief sex is a real thing, people, and it'll lighten you up! I'm happy to say that he and I are also still friends. 

9. I called the cemetery where Mark is buried purely to yell at them for not notifying me that his headstone had been put in, leaving me to find out about it through Facebook photos posted by Mark's family. 
*In their defense, I wasn't technically the main contact because I wasn't the one to pay for the plot. It still sucked, and they (rightfully) hung up on me. Oops.
I then called Mark's family to yell at all of them.

10. I slept with another one of Mark's Marines. We also met at the funeral. I apparently also met his wife at the funeral, and then again later when some of us were away on a weekend trip and she borrowed my face moisturizer because I'm nice like that and share lotion with the wives of the men who have affairs with me. And then he and I pretended to date for a while, even though he was still married. Then we actually dated for a while, even though he was still married, but sort of separated, but I'm not really sure because he lied a lot. And he used to sleep over, or just show up at 2am. Or 5am. And he knew my roomies and a few of my friends. And I was his date once at a semi-formal event. And then we broke up, if you can even call it that. Then we were on again. And off again. This grief-stricken madness lasted a little over a year. We were basically battle buddies in the trenches of our own disasters, two hot messes happy to not be LONELY hot messes. It was a shitstorm. A fucking shitstorm. It got me though a LOT of hard times, and, since it was a hard time in and of itself, it's what had me start this blog. So I guess I can thank him for that. One of our last "breakups" resulted in my first post. We stopped talking the day he got jealous of me going to the Marine Corps Ball with some of Mark's other Marines, some of my dearest friends. At the time, he was back with his wife. Riddle me that.

*I swear I don't make it a habit of sleeping with all of Mark's Marines and friends. It was a phase in which they were the only people I trusted, and NO, I haven't slept with ALL of them. Just, like, maybe... about almost half-ish. Some of my favorite people and most reliable friends are his Marines, and our relationships are completely platonic. They're my brothers. One of them even helped me set up my account on the tinder. We sometimes get drunk and have sleepovers that are entirely appropriate, at least in a sexual sense; we're otherwise drunken assholes you probably wouldn't want to hang out with. There are a few others of Mark's Marines with whom I'm tremendously close and can chuckle about our (usually less than stellar) sexual encounters. And a few other poor choices, generally fueled by alcohol, have caused some rifts between some of us, which at times have felt more heartbreaking than it was losing Mark. But I'm not worried. I'll always be there for them if they need me, and there are no hard feelings on my part. Those of his Marines who are still my friends don't mind that I went a little nuts (slutty) for a bit.

11. But I may have slept with one other a few months ago. It was terrible. We hadn't seen each other since the services, so I thought it would be fun. On the contrary, it was incredibly odd and ended with me getting picked up by my besty around midnight when he left to get food for himself and bid me adieu by asking, "Your friend is picking you up, right?". He seems to have his own shit going on, and I wish him well, but I learned that night to draw the line at emotionally unavailable men who would rather take a sip of their beverage than look at me while having sex. 

12. I didn't have a single dream about Mark until about seven months after he died. It might've been longer, considering the first nightmare wasn't even about Mark. It simply related in that it had a shotgun. I probably wouldn't have even noticed if other "good widows" hadn't been posting in the Facebook groups about all their wonderful dreams about their sweet husbands and how much they missed them. Over two years later, I still haven't had one of those dreams, and that's okay. They're mostly nightmares, so don't worry if you also are not having pleasant dreams about your dead partner. 

13. Though I didn't actually DO anything, I've been publicly (on social media) blamed for Mark's suicide on more than one occasion. I'm clear I'm not to blame, minus those moments when my mind goes crazy and tries to tell me otherwise, asserting that it's all my fault because I'm cursed in such a way that made my partner kill himself. But mostly I know those thoughts are nonsense. Unfortunately, being blamed is a common occurrence for nearly all suicide widows. Further, it is a fear of ALL widows, whether by suicide or not, that others will find blame in you, so I simply want you to know that you're not alone in sometimes feeling that way or in people taking their hate out on you simply because they can't handle their own grief.

14. I considered checking myself into the psych ward. And I mean I actually considered it. I discussed it with my roommates and typed out a text to a friend I was going to contact to support me in the process of checking in because I knew he volunteers weekly supporting families as they deal with a relative being checked in for the first time. There's really nothing about this that brings up my previous concerns about being the worst widow ever, but I did sometimes wish I could just suck it up and get over it.

15. I blame Mark when my technology doesn't work. And I mean that I verbally, out loud, talk to Mark about making my technology not work. To this day. I'm convinced his ghostly spirit or whatever the fuck he is now messes with my phone, car, internet, you name it. Who does that????

If you don't already do this, widdas, you'll probably start doing it now. You're welcome. 

16. I keep two of Mark's things in the car where he left them. There's nothing significant about either of them, so I don't have a good reason for why they've stayed and other items have been removed or tossed out. I just like them where they are. I also put one of his blades and some chem lights in the glove compartment, just in case. The knife has come in handy a few times. It makes me feel badass, and I think Mark would be pleased with my preparedness. 

17. I've yelled at Mark's cousin on more than one occasion because I felt she was the only one who'd listen. I am very sorry for all the anger I've taken out on her as she's been nothing but gracious with me in return. 

18. I had a nervous breakdown on a weekend trip away with my roomies close to a year into my grief. This left all of them on alert and me under an informal suicide watch. One missed call while taking a nap led to a minor panic and one of them calling my aunt, followed by a few of them rushing to the house to make sure I was still alive. They really love me, so as embarrassed as I was about the whole thing, I'm also grateful. Having suicidal thoughts in the wake of Mark's suicide didn't feel like a very good way to honor him, but I now know this is common for survivors of suicide loss.

19. I broke up with my (first) therapist by ghosting her after she called me out on something I didn't want to hear. I just stopped calling and answering any contact she attempted to have with me. I justified this by telling myself we weren't a good fit.

20. I waited seven months to get a new therapist and deal with the fact that what was really going on with me was PTSD. I spent those seven months, and the several months prior, pretending I had a handle on my anxiety, when in reality I was afraid to leave the house and believed I'd get shot on the walk between my car and the front door of the house. I justified all of this by blogging and pretending that sharing my experiences with others through writing was just as good as therapy.

Hypocrite. 

21. I finally saw a new therapist and got diagnosed with PTSD. I went to two meditation classes as part of my treatment and then decided I was fine and stopped going again for five more months. I was too tired to even try justifying this one. And then I drank too much for a month or so.
*I'm happy to report that I now see my therapist every month and also take a weekly yoga class. It's going well and I now seldom experience irrational fears about being shot while walking into my house. Consistently having others talk to me about their mental health was enough to get me to get the help I needed. 

22. I put Mark's flag in a Trader Joe's bag, which I then put into my closet where I wouldn't have to see it. When I finally got a shadowbox with a flag case almost two years after his death, I shoved the unkempt flag, desperately in need of a refold, into the case and completed only about 75% of the box. I intentionally left the model photo inside the frame because I didn't want to put Mark's there and have to see his face. Lastly, I placed the entire thing on the floor of my bedroom and covered it with blankets and pillows so that I don't have to see any of it. That was over two months ago, and it hasn't moved. Baby steps, people. Baby steps. 

23. I semi-ended my relationship with Mark's family. I'm definitely open to having one if we all feel we can handle it, but the anger, frustration and sadness were so overwhelming that at least one of us was left in an upset after every encounter. It's been a little over a year since I cut ties while in the depths of my depression and when my PTSD symptoms first became too much for me to handle on my own. Things might've healed enough at this point to start reconnecting. I'm hopeful we'll be on good terms, which is what I think Mark would've wanted. 

24. I registered Mark with Run for the Fallen, got all the information for his approximate day/time/mile/location, and then forgot about it and missed the entire thing. OOPS!

Bad, bad widow...

25. I haven't been to the cemetery where Mark is buried in over a year.

26. I once drove all the way to the cemetery only to immediately turn around upon seeing Mark's mom sitting at his grave site. I needed to be alone that day and simply couldn't handle it.

27. And I slept with one more of Mark's Marines a few months ago, but we've decided it didn't count since we were a wee bit drunk. We now laugh about it.

So, there you have it, my lovely widdas. I hope you feel a little better about yourselves now. It was one of you who inspired me to share even more of my ridiculousnesses. It's not easy at times, and it's definitely not always pretty, but it's worth it if it makes a difference for another widow. Personally, I try to make it entertaining. Seriously, this material is just too good to not be used for a laugh. You couldn't make this shit up. It's original, and it's GOLD! You probably have some great material, too. I believe that a reality show about (bad) widows would be a big hit. Sure, some people would fucking hate us because we're obnoxious and disgusting on a level most people don't understand. And all the "good widows" would probably cringe. But we're also incredibly funny, loving and inspiring in our own beautiful ways. 

If you feel you've done worse, please message me! (Or maybe even comment on this PUBLICLY so that others can see! *SHOCKED FACE*) I dare you to start sharing more of the ugly stuff, but only if it works for you right now. I don't suggest that you tell people things you're not ready to share, but perhaps you could start letting out some of those little secrets to some of your widsters. I wasn't ready to say most of this so candidly until now, so it's all been creeping out in phrases here and there. But it's all what I needed to get through the initial madness of being widowed by suicide. Now that it's out there, I feel lighter. If you starting letting it out, you'll feel SO much better, too! Give yourself the freedom and grace to be perfectly imperfect. Let yourself breathe a little easier. And before you know it, you'll feel sexy as fuck, just like me. Others might even start to notice. Being open is refreshing for both the speaker and the listener. So go strut your stuff, you sexy bitch!