So yesterday was the official “one month” anniversary and yes, your friends in the club mourned your absence.  They are going through their own stages of grief, and they have thankfully left me alone to go through mine. I get text messages from time to time. Otherwise, my days are filled with other friends and family members trying to provide a protective cushion around what they perceive to be my fragile being. I am tired of people whispering around me.  I am tired of people asking if I’m OK. (I’m not, by the way, but I would never admit that.)

I went back to work within a few weeks.  I tried to jump right back into routine and that actually helped me.  I did best when colleagues simply ignored me.  It was hardest when they wanted to talk. I never know how much they want to know or how much detail they are comfortable with.  With suicide, the questions always come down to:

• How did they die? 
• Do you know why?

I am to the point where I hate both and I know when they are coming. I tend to be blunt. You shot yourself in the head in my garage.  Sometimes the shock of that abrupt answer results in no further questions. There is always a pause that hangs in the air as the other person struggles for an appropriate response.  The thing is that there is none. 

And it doesn’t matter if I am blunt or vague.  The question ALWAYS brings me right back to the picture of you laying on the floor with the puddle of blood surrounding your head.  I wonder if the person asking the question realizes that.  I wonder if he can tell the way my eyes glaze over and my voice changes. 

The other question about the “why” actually is harder for me to answer and it angers me the most.  If I say that you had a history of mental health issues, they nod sympathetically and then will often follow it up with, “That must have been so hard for you.”  Most of the time, however, there is silence. And I feel like the arrow of blame is once again upon me. 

I hate songs about suicide.  I hate public service announcements about suicide. I hate when a musician interrupts a concert and tells the audience that you can save a life by reaching out to those who are depressed, and that it’s your responsibility to intervene if someone you love is suicidal. 

I tried all those things with you. “Survivors” have enough to deal with without being blamed. Our relationship began when you were grieving Mary’s death. You started the so-called “cries for help” through texts, phone calls, conversations about death.  Remember that night when you called me while you were sitting on the floor with your shotgun in your lap? I begged you to put it away and call your counselor, the police, anyone that could help you. You told me that if the police were called it would be “suicide by cop.” I called your counselor and she told me the words I have clung to since the very moment I found you, “He’s an adult. If he wants to kill himself, he will.  If you get in the way, you will be a victim too. You will not be to blame, but yet you will be blamed.”  

And that’s why I hate all those “stop suicide” messages.  Those must be made by people who have never tried to convince someone they love to stay alive over and over again.  They must be made by people who haven’t opened the garage door and found a gun next to a dead body.

And everyone wants to know if you left a note. My response is always no. Yet I was cleaning out Facebook messages and found the last message from you.  In all the trauma, I forgot about it.  You wrote, “Has anyone held you accountable as strongly as you hold myself and others?”  You then wrote, “I am sorry for me being in your life.  I will be gone tomorrow.  Not an intended game or power struggle. When you are gone people play the game. That empowered somebody?  No reply needed.”

Was this a suicide message for me?  I never shared it with anyone because I was afraid it would reveal that I was indeed to blame.  I have read and reread your words over and over.  Some parts of it make complete sense to me.  This is what I believe to be true:

1. You asked about anyone holding me accountable. Everyone in my life has. My ex husband, my children, my parents. All the people you tried to keep out of my life and our relationship.  I told you this so many times.  You never listened.
2. I am sorry for being in your life. I will be gone tomorrow. When I read this at 10:30 at night, I was relieved.  You finally understood that you needed to leave.  This nightmare was going to be over.  I did not think it meant you were going to kill yourself.
3. When you are gone, people play the game…etc.  Like so many emails and messages you have written before this one, the rest of your words made no sense to me.  I turned these words around and around in my mind and never found any interpretation that actually worked. 

So that brings me back to the question of whether these were meant to be your angry final words to me.  I didn’t feel that anger in your hug the next morning.  I think that if you had stayed angry, you wouldn’t have done what you did.  (A new euphemism for “killed yourself).  Anger feeds into your bad decisions, but not permanent ones.  I remember reading that text at 10:39 at night when I was hoping to be sleeping.  I rolled my eyes because it was the same as all the other texts you had ever sent me after you had been drinking and I had offended you in one way or another. I didn’t respond because then you would have known that I was laying there awake and you might have tried to start up the argument all over again.  I was so tired of arguing. And I think I was a little afraid that I might cave in and allow you to stay.

Tomorrow we will go to the storage unit to clean it.  The day after your death, friends came and moved everything that remained in the garage that was remotely associated with you to your storage unit.  (Actually it was my storage unit as I paid for it.) There were a few things I left at the townhouse, your leather vest, your hats, a few shirts that still smelled like you.  Everything else, even horse-themed dishes from your farm, went into the storage unit.  Your family and I decided that we needed a few weeks to catch our collective breaths before we started going through your material possessions. I am not looking forward to this except that perhaps it will be healing in some way. 

Your mother, father, brother, nephew, and daughter will all be opening every box and itemizing the contents. I know what’s in those boxes and I’m afraid some of what’s in them will tarnish your family’s perception of you.  That’s why I have already thrown away some of your journals and your tablet. Did you even think about this task when you made your decision?  Did you even think that someone was going to have to go through all that crap?  The thought of the job ahead of us on what will be a hot August day makes my heart beat unusually fast. I have to stop typing.  I’m shaking again.  Please make this stop.