One Week
I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve.
I can remember several challenging weeks in my life, most of which seemed to involve the death of a loved one. My childhood friend, Cassie, was the victim of drunk driving just a week before her 18th birthday. We were seniors in high school. It snowed so much that week that school was closed Monday through Wednesday, and those painfully long days were followed by the funeral on Thursday. So, my friends and I basically spent the several days snowed in and feeling miserable only to get a break for a final goodbye to Cassie. THAT was a terrible week.
During my senior year of college, I lost another friend, this time to cancer. Tim had been fighting the battle for a few years. One day I found out he’d woken from a coma that I didn’t even know he’d been in. That Friday, I took the bus home to Boston to see him, having no idea the physical condition the human body is in after several months in a coma. He couldn’t speak, but he knew I was there and roused when my arrival was announced. I crashed on a friend’s couch and got up early for one more visit with Tim before my bus ride back to school that Saturday afternoon. He passed very early Sunday morning, so just a few days later I was driving back home with friends for his funeral. The services were beautiful, but that week was tough.
The week that my husband died tops the list. It doesn’t even really count as a week so much as an era, if you ask me, but for a span of seven days, I discovered more upsetting news about my supposed life partner than I could handle, hence the subsequent shitstorm. It started when I found out Mark had been caught on camera stealing a substantial amount of money from a friend, a story I’ll share more about another day. Then I spent two days secretly planning our divorce; you have to do those things in secret when dealing with an addict and trying to remove yourself from an unhealthy relationship. Then he disappeared for over a day. The fourth day, his last day alive, was filled with texted photos of his gun, repeated phone calls with the police and yet another search for his whereabouts. On the fifth day he shot himself and gifted me the experience of partaking in a police investigation and interacting with SWAT. Day six is a hungover blur mixed with some alarmingly slow-paced retail therapy at Target, because what else do you do the day after your husband kills himself? And on day seven, the 4th of July, I found out he’d been lying about his military service and was, at the time of his death, on the verge of being dishonorably discharged from the Marine Corps. THAT was a fucking terrible week. And then I had to plan his funeral with his family that, understandably, didn’t take too kindly to me.
Needless to say, I’ve been through some shit. We all have; it’s part of being human. If your weeks are only good, you’re not taking enough risks.
Yes, that means you’re boring. Stop that and go take some risks.
I, on the other hand, was anything BUT boring this week. I don’t mean to suggest that I’m great (Lies. I am, and I’m so fucking proud of myself for how I handled this week.) nor that the emotions of the last several days surpass the tragedies of losing Cassie, Tim and Mark. Not even close. Their deaths will each impact me forever. Hell, I even ran a marathon in honor of each of them. My first was for Cassie, the second was for Tim, and my most recent, though a failed attempt that finished at mile 14, was for Mark. I’m not about to go run another one in honor of my most recent emotionally exhausting week, or even my survival of it. But this week plain old fucking sucked. There’s nothing really wrong. Nobody close to me died, thank goodness. I’m well cared for and healthy, at least for the most part. My life is really quite miraculous. But if I could somehow take this week and put it into a tangible form that I could run through the garbage disposal, I’d do so with a smile on my face.
And probably also with a glass of wine in my hand. And then I’d probably take it back out in all its destruction and mess and put it in a box for safekeeping, should I ever need to be reminded again of how much I can handle.
Seriously, it was shitty. I’m exhausted, both mentally and physically. The good thing is that I’m not at all a victim of my circumstances. On the contrary, everything that happened this week, I caused, and I’m CLEAR that I caused it. I asked for all of it in a sense because I asked for change. And my goodness, I got me some changes this week. I just didn’t quite expect it all to go this way, though who ever does? Life would be awfully boring if we always knew what was waiting for us around the corner.
I mean, the way my PTSD is set up, I generally freak out about ANYTHING that is waiting for me around the corner. But that’s beside the point.
Even so, I’m having an adventure. If you haven’t yet caught on, or are perhaps a touch daft, that’s my way of keeping a positive and empowering mindset in the face of a shitstorm. And suicide widowhood is certainly a colossal shitstorm. I think that if she were a hurricane, her name would be Dolores or Persephone. Or maybe Mildred, simply because it sounds so depressing. Anything following the commencement of widowhood by suicide that leaves you feeling emotionally distraught is then encompassed in the shitstorm-of-widowhood category, seeing as basically any challenge you face feels like the end of the world once you’ve been through a spouse’s suicide.
Disclaimer: Because you’ve survived the suicide of a spouse/partner, you know that you can handle anything. You’re a fucking badass. You’ve got this. However, you will only remember that you’ve got shit handled like a boss AFTER the initial panic attack. Any and every challenge will feel like the apocalypse for at least a minute, whether it’s something as intense as losing someone else to suicide or simply spilling something on your shirt. IT. WILL. ALL. FEEL. AWFUL. And you will feel awful about yourself, as if you can’t do anything right and everything around you falls apart. You’ll cry over anything, and your brain will start to prepare itself for the worst because you know the worst is possible. Fortunately, this will subside over time and it won’t take you as long as it once did to remember that you’re not being attacked and our planet hasn’t been invaded by murderous aliens. Most importantly, it’s unlikely that anybody else in your life is on the verge of killing themself, even though you know that it’s possible at any given moment. But once the fear passes, you’ll be cool as a cucumber in all your glorious badassery. I promise.
Weeks like the one I’ve just had should definitely be named like tropical storms. I think I’ll call this one Alastor, given his repeated tormenting and destruction of any and all emotional stability. Seriously, he (Alastor, that is) just wouldn’t back off. He did, thankfully, give me brief and foggy glimpses of my badass self, which I’m pretty sure kept me sane. But then he came back for more. You’re probably wondering what happened that had it be such a shitstorm. In no particular order, here are some of my week’s top events:
I got rid of my dead husband’s car. (This was a good decision that took major widow balls and will only serve me in the end, but it means I’m now walking two hours a day as part of a commute totaling more than three hours. Being physically exhausted has its pros and cons. I sleep like a baby, but I also get so emotional from being tired that I cry like one, too.)
Things ended with the guy I was seeing. (This is also a good thing, albeit an emotional one. We have a pretty mutual understanding of each other and really get along. He’s not ready for a relationship, and this week made it clear I’m DEFINITELY not ready for anything serious. So we’re going to try being friends instead while each of us tackles our own challenges. No major concerns here; just a lot of tears and feels that will hopefully make for a great blog post about the adventures of widowed dating!)
I had a breakup of sorts with my mom. (I won’t be going into detail about this publicly out of respect for her. All I will say is that it’s been unbelievably challenging.)
I started the process of resolving some unanswered items regarding Mark’s military service. (This overwhelms me too much to talk about right now. I’m sure I’ll share about it once it’s done.)
And then I got served. (Yup. That just happened this morning, officially. It’s for debt that started before I knew Mark was gambling. It’s my responsibility to deal with it, and I’m in the process of getting it resolved. At least Alastor waited until I’d had a good night of sleep before making gifting me a lawsuit.)
So, there you have it. Now that it’s over, it doesn’t seem so bad. It pales in comparison to the week of Mark’s suicide, but it didn’t feel that way AT ALL while it was happening. Things were pretty dismal for me the last few days. I’m so glad it’s over. Alastor might still be lingering in the area; I’m not yet sure. But even if he is, I’ll be fine. I am a badass, contrary to what some might think or say. And I have some pretty spectacular friends who helped me get through, whether they let me cry without any judgement or let me share all my feels.
Perhaps you’re having your own disastrous week and everything feels terrible. If you’re like me, you might not see a point to anything at all. That’s how I felt yesterday afternoon, and it was scary. But I made it through, and so can you. Holler at your friends, and if you don’t have any, trying hollering at a stranger. Tell them you need to vent. And if that’s too overwhelming, text it. Send me a message. The simple act of typing “I’m having a hard day.” can bring so much relief. It won’t always be this way. This too shall pass, and next week will come. You’ve got this; you’re a badass.