My Life After His Death

I am on my way to Denver. No memory of you there. Nothing that should stir my unsettled emotions.  I heard a new song by Disturbed yesterday called “Uninvited Guest.”  I bought it and listened to it 17 times (I checked on the iTunes counter) in a row.  I wanted to share it with someone to let them know that THIS is how I feel every day.  THIS is now my normal.  But I don’t know who to share it with.  I don’t know who I could trust with this naked truth.  

I should be sharing it with Paul, but it’s hard. He doesn’t want to hear about you. He is trying so hard to help me move forward. I want to tell him that everything he has done so far IS HELPING ME. Best of all, he is NOT you.  He treats me like I deserve. Honestly, it’s wonderful and I sometimes have to pinch myself that he is real.

You never opened doors, nor carried things for me.  I remember all the times you literally walked in front of me, letting the door close behind you, narrowly missing me.  When I pointed this out to you, your response was to walk faster.  I remember being at the farm for the first time, opening the trunk of my Lexus and expecting you to lift the suitcase out and carry it into the house.  I remember pausing and waiting for you, but you turned your back and walked in the house, leaving me struggling with the weight of a week’s worth of clothes.  That should have been a sign.  That should have been a wake up call.  Why didn’t I pay attention to those? 

I could be sharing it with my long time best friend Sam. You know very little about him because I’ve protected his existence in my life for our entire relationship. I knew you would not understand the relationship I have with this man.  I’m not really sure how to describe what Sam and I have. We’ve known each other since we were both 15 years old. We have an unusual connection via where we grew up that has resulted in him knowing more about me than probably any other human in my life.  If he were gay, I’d call him my best gay friend. But he’s not.  He’s married and lives in across the country. Those facts have always placed constraints on an authentic description of our relationship. I’m not sure how what he and I have impacts my memories of you.  Maybe I should go back to a year ago.

One year ago, Sam and I met in Anaheim. This was only about three months after you died. Yes, you and I were there the previous spring.  Do you remember?  I was at a conference, and you couldn’t let me go by myself.  Ironically, I paid for your flight so you could fly with me, stalk me at my sessions, make sure that I didn’t “meet” someone.  Remember this?  Time for truth here…I did contact with Sam when I was there.  We met for a drink at one of the hotel lobbies near the conference centers.  I skipped a few sessions to see him.  It was a harmless visit, just a hug and somewhat awkward conversation about nothing, especially not the always-present chemistry between the two of us.  I didn’t tell you because of all my friends over the years, he was the one that I did not want you to meet.

Meeting him would have been a mistake.  You would have not missed the connection between us.  You would have reacted to him calling me “Beautiful” and would have accused me of things that were never part of this relationship. I couldn’t take a chance that your paranoia might have jeopardized my relationship with this man.  Not Sam. Had you told me to never contact him again, I wouldn’t have listened to you.  Sam was a line that I would have drawn.

But in Anaheim, we did meet.  For about two hours.  And darn it,  somehow you knew, didn’t you?  Somehow you sensed that this was going to happen. When we walked out the lobby to his car, I glanced to the right and saw you walking by the entry to the hotel.  There is no way you would have been there otherwise.  You were stalking me.  Was I surprised?  Not at all.  Add this example to all the other stories.  I lied to him and steered him away from you.  I think I blamed Martina and said I was trying to avoid her.  This was not the first time I lied to Sam about you.  Like with many of the people in my life, I didn’t want him to see the hidden complexities in our relationship.  I was embarrassed that I was being controlled by you.

So the very next morning after you died, I texted Sam and said, “Oh Sam, my friend, I need you.  Scott shot himself in my garage.”  Several months later, we met again in Minneapolis for a quick dinner, and decided to meet again in Anaheim, where I had yet another conference several weeks later.  I did not foresee the significance of this October encounter.  When he met me in the airport, I felt the pain of the first three months melt away.  Several hours after we ate lunch, walked on Huntington Beach (remember?  We were there, too), drank a Cosmo at a delightful ocean front bar, we were together telling stories and laughing, trying to understand how quickly 30+ years can both disappear and shape a future I don’t think either of us anticipated when we were teenagers. We still talk often by phone and I love that our conversations allow me to leave the reality of your death behind, if only for a few days.  

Oh Scott…you haunt me still.  Turns out you haunt others too.  Grant and I have bonded now over your macabre act.  We are puzzled/afraid/awestruck about what seems like an orchestrated attempt from “beyond” to pull us together. First came his letter and my response.  Next came a random encounter on Highway 65/610 (where I NEVER drive).  Suddenly, I found myself following Grant’s motorcycle, with that damn banana patch and worst-yet, stuffed banana strapped to the rack.  He didn’t see me, so I took a picture and later sent it to him as proof that something divine had occurred on our mutual evening commute.

That was a springboard to finally getting together, talking about our common grief, laughing and crying about our experiences with you and how we handled, (and have NOT handled) the trauma. It made me ache, but perhaps, for the first time, I felt that I could be real with my true feelings.  Your friend understands the thin line between love and hate.  I feel no judgment coming from him as I describe how angry I am with you in one sentence, followed by how much I loved you, followed by how much I miss you, and finally, followed by how I am finally free without you.  

Did you orchestrate our attendance at “A Star is Born” that forced us to both relive and revisit your own experience? Did you want us to cry when we realized that Jackson was going to kill himself? (Yes, I saw the parallels from his last request to look at her face one more time and your request to give me a hug. Yes, I cried when he fed his dog the steak dinner and they showed the dog whimpering outside the garage door…how could I not think about Toby’s experience?  Yes, I saw the deliberation in Jackson’s decision to move the truck, take his belt off, take his hat off, and close the garage door…the same way I imagined you leaving your vest on the counter, taking your rings off, taking the gun out, and closing the garage door, knowing that the next person to open it WOULD BE ME.). The sirens, faintly heard in the background, along with the shadows of the lights in the movie, unnerved me because it brought me right back to sitting on my driveway, watching police officers walk into the house, the garage, taking over, leaving me broken. 

We sat perfectly still until the credits stopped, the lights came on, and the 16 year old kid came in to pick up garbage.  People had to wonder why we emerged with tear-stained eyes and stunned at the similarities and the sense that you had somehow emerged from the grave, held our hands, and led us to this coincidental, divine, and belated suicide note gifted to us as a popular movie.

This is actually for Grant.  Did you know that he apologized on Facebook? He messaged me and Amber personally, asking for forgiveness. He followed that up with a very public apology to his Facebook friends and then attempted to set the record straight with truths. I wasn’t prepared for that as apologies, especially public ones, are a rarity in this day and age. I didn’t respond right away, but when I finally messaged him back, this is what I wrote:

Grant,

I hope you understand why I didn’t immediately respond to your message.  I am glad I didn’t because the quick response would have been made in immature anger.  I needed time to think about your apology and truly consider what forgiveness means.  You should know that I never do things spontaneously, but only with great thought and reflection.

I am writing this from an airplane on my way to San Diego.  Escaping, once again, the physical memories that have plagued me since Scott’s death.  I think it’s important for you to know what the last year has been like for me.  You will likely find many similarities between your own grieving experience and mine.  I write these not to make you feel bad, but to give you a realistic understanding of why forgiveness is such a difficult thing to grant.

I need you to understand one thing:  I loved Scott.  I never wanted him to die.  I never wanted him to leave, but his irrational, psychotic behavior was scaring me. Did you know that our counselor feared for my life?  That he so violently ended his life should be an indication that something wasn’t right in his beautiful, but sad mind.  People who knew Scott well, his parents, his daughter, his ex wives, his long-term friends, all responded the same way when I called, “Oh my God Kim, I thought he would kill you, too.”  Says something, doesn’t it?

You and the rest of the CRT circle saw the side of Scott that he wanted you to see.  I was always jealous of that.  You all got the best of him.  You all have peaceful last memories of Scott…hugs when you greeted him, or when you said good-bye.  His smile when he was riding his bike, happy memories of the last time you saw his face.

Mine is not like that.  I live with the horror of finding him in my garage every single second of every single day.  No one else experienced that, and I’ve never shared the details with anyone except for the police.  I started to watch the memorial on July 10th with everyone, but couldn’t stay with it.  My memories are different.  Seeing his face on everyone’s profile was incredibly painful.  I can’t light a candle in his memory because I DON’T WANT TO REMEMBER IT.

The PTSD he suffered, he passed on to me.  I am months into therapy, but I still can’t tame the paralyzing flashbacks, the night terrors, the nightmares.  

Thank God for the Suicide Survivors Support Group.  They were invaluable, and helped me to cope with the comments you put on your Facebook profile.  I had already read all the email and text correspondence between you and Scott on his cell phone, so I truly understand your anger towards me.  Please know that much of what he wrote/told about me was never true.  Amber and I talked often about wanting to meet with you to explain that his elaborate and untrue stories were a pattern with all his ex-wives, his daughter, his parents, and everyone that was close to him.  You clearly expressed that you did not wish to hear this.  I am hoping that if you are serious about forgiveness, that you will now be willing to explore the truth.  Please know that I have no wish to damage his reputation, only to help you understand that he was truly a very unstable and unhealthy man. 

And yet I still loved him.  And wanted him to get healthy.  I thought that was why I was placed in his life.  And I failed. I didn’t need to be reminded that I was “the one responsible for his death and that he would haunt me.”  Your words crushed me.  Your public statements buried me. My support group and my counselor both assured me, however, that statements such as yours are commonly made to suicide survivors. That made it a little easier to understand, but my anger towards you was still there.

OK….water under the bridge.  It has now been a year.  I am dealing with my feelings.  Ironically, I have forgiven Scott.  He had a serious mental illness, depression, PTSD, etc.  I understand that.  I have thought a lot about forgiving you.  I’ve read a lot about the act of forgiveness and I understand its importance for my own peace.  I am willing to talk to you and work towards forgiveness.  I can’t just wave a magic wand.  I’m far too introspective for that.  When I get back from San Diego, let’s try to set up a time to meet.  It would be great if Amber is there as well.  

Forgive the length of this response, but I wanted you to have all the information before we met.  I’m a quiet person and it’s easier for me to write what I want to say than actually say it.  You should know that I am trying to move on.  I have very happy moments!  I have a great relationship with my children and other family members now.  I have a new guy in my life who isn’t part of the Scott-drama and has been there to help me wade my way through this healing process.  He was actually the one who suggested that I write this, and meet with you.  He understands the nature of forgiveness far more than I do.

Time for me to go and put my toes in the California sand. I intend to put this behind me before I land so that I can TRY to have a few minutes/hours of time when I’m at peace.  In the meantime, thank you for your public apology.  It meant a lot to me.  Now let’s work on the forgiveness part.

Me

It’s hard for me not to hate you right now.  You got what you wanted!  You got a group of people to memorialize you!  Sing your praises!  Light candles in remembrance of you!  Publicly state they love you and change their Facebook profile to pictures of your smiling or scowling face. Could you hear this from your place in death?  God, I hope not.  How satisfying for you.

To you…

One Year, two hours from the moment you killed yourself.

I am on a motorcycle ride to lower Michigan.  I’m with Paul and no one here knows this is a day to “remember.”  Everyone around me is blissfully ignorant of the pain I feel inside.  Paul praises me for handling it so well.  You can’t blame him for that.  He doesn’t see the inside pain.  No one really does.  Those closest to me despise you.  They can’t understand why I ever loved you.  They can’t understand why I feel so much pain and I have a hard time even admitting that you plague my thoughts constantly, relentlessly.  They say horrible things about you, tell me to forget you, congratulate me for living while you died. Tell me I should celebrate.  

I can’t do that.  The horrible truth is that in spite of all the pain, abuse, lies, anger, there were good days.  I loved you.  That makes this anniversary so confusing.  I have been hovering over Facebook all day, whenever I can sneak in a few minutes without being called out by Paul.  All I see are tributes to you by your Crow River Thunder support team.  They are all struggling to understand this.  Not me.  I understand this just fine.  

But what I don’t understand is why they didn’t support me through this.  Why didn’t anyone call me?  Why weren’t they THERE for me?  I felt ignored.  I felt like they chose you over me because you brought the drama they craved and perhaps needed to justify their existence.  You gave them a cause.  You gave them something to rally around.  I gave them a reminder that you weren’t the person they thought you were.

And yet it’s been a year today.  Probably a year from the moment you pulled the trigger.  I read the police report.  It only justified what I believe to be true about the day you died as there isn’t anything on there that gives me a time of death.  Nothing that helps me understand your last eight hours of life.  I see references of rigor in the police report.  I see references of brain matter and skull fragments splattered on the wall and on the cabinet.  (I immediately pulled the cabinet and gave it to Goodwill after I read the report.  I couldn’t take the chance that part of you was still connected to that.)

Strangely, today isn’t as tough as I thought it might be.  Actually, yesterday was worse because IT happened on a Monday.  THAT Monday.  I’ve learned that you never really ever forget these kind of anniversaries.

I am on the plane returning from Florida…a trip that has always and will most likely will always remind me of you.  So many times I thought about you in the past few days.  When the palm trees swayed.  When I heard music outside by the Tiki Bar.  When I breathed the tropical air and saw motorcycles riding down the street.  (Not one Goldwing, though.). I found myself thinking often about what it would have been like if you hadn’t died.  And if I hadn’t wanted you / needed you / asked you to leave.  Would I have still been considering a life in Florida?  Some of those old feelings came back.  

No sobs though.  No bad dreams.  No random, painful thoughts.  Just a quick self-check on where I am because of your choice, wrapped around what kind of person I have become because of it. Am I stronger now?  Damaged somehow?  A better person? I hate these questions.  The answers are always elusive and probably always changing anyways.

I just finished a book on killing.  I’m sure that would be of no surprise to you as you are very familiar with my morbid curiosity.  There was a section on murder-suicides, which made me again question whether my life was ever truly in danger with you.  I tell people that I was.  People tell me I was.  I try to imagine you doing that to me and I have to admit that I don’t think you would have. Murder-suicide makes you the villain and me the victim.  Suicide makes you the victim and invariably points to me as the villain.  In your lucid, calculated days, this would have been your goal.  

I keep thinking that your respect and love for me might have mitigated that and once again, I find myself wanting desperately to know what you did after you woke up and I left that morning.  Did you go for a ride, start to change your mind, and then come back?  Deep down inside, I know the answer.  You had already made up your mind the evening before.  You woke up, didn’t even put your socks or shirt on.  Pulled your gun out of your vest, which you left in the kitchen, laid on the garage floor, put the gun to your temple, and pulled the trigger. In the morning. Five hours before I came home. I always come back to this narrative.  It’s really the only one that makes sense.

If you wanted me dead, you had many opportunities to do that, but that wouldn’t have gotten the result you wanted, would it?  If you had killed me before yourself, everyone would have viewed you as the monster and felt sorry for me.  No “In memory of the Scotty D or “the banana.”  You would have been the bad guy.  You were smart.  You knew this is not the way you wanted people to think of you.  Narcissistic people don’t kill the people they victimize.

It’s been a long time since I wrote to you.  I can’t even remember when I wrote before but you should know that I haven’t NOT thought about you once.  Even after all this time, you still occupy a part of my mind and everything I do, say, or think about, gets filtered through memories of you.  I’ve gone through Thanksgiving, Christmas, and your birthday.  I’ve gotten through the worst winter and watched the snow melt into spring, revealing new growth for everything in nature, except perhaps me.

And it’s now motorcycle season.  I was on the bike Sunday with Paul (more about him later) and we rode to Watertown and went to the Luce Line Lodge.  I expected to be flooded with memories.  There were a few, but time has erased many of them and I found myself seeing you sitting on the bar stool, or on that high top table where we once ate for the first time.  I looked at the menu and everything you ever ate jumped out and taunted me. 

As I walked out the door, I looked down the road and saw the bar where you stepped in to break up an impending fight.  I saw the old Italian restaurant where we mulled world events over glasses of wine.  I saw the yellow gold wing owned by the cook at the little cafe.  And I caught my breath because I felt a sob rolling up my throat.  The yellow wing was really too much.  I don’t know if I can handle the moment I see YOUR bike ridden by a stranger for the first time. 

Did I tell you about the auction?  I can’t remember the last time I wrote.  Your daughter put everything you owned that we didn’t want up for auction.  So much I can write about that, but it was hell for her to have to go through the belongings that once made up the fabric of your life.  Kevin drove your bike up to Cambridge where it was scheduled to be auctioned off with the rest of your belongings.  I followed him in the jeep.  Following the bike to its final destination was one of the hardest things I had to do since you died. (Or killed yourself…shot yourself…I still never know what to say.) Watching it go down the road, seeing the decals from the Sturgis Tattoo shop, the buffalo, the horses, that damn skull…when we finally got there, I couldn’t stop myself.  I jumped off the bike and touched it…sobbing…so many exploding emotions.  I knew it was finally going to be over when the bike and the truck and the trailer and the Emmitt B Kelly clowns were gone.  I’m not sure I knew then what “going to be over” even means.  I don’t think that’s a point any of us suicide survivors ever reach. 

I didn’t go to the auction.  Your daughter said it was really hard watching your clothes, shoes, dishes, collections, and yes, your guns, including the one that ended your life, walk off with other people.  THE gun finally was given back to her after your investigation was concluded. Amber put it with the other guns and now someone else carries it, likely unaware that it was used to hollow out your skull.  She didn’t make much when it was over.  Your truck and motorcycle probably brought the most interest.  It took her a long time to find the title, and make the actual transfer and that was really frustrating for her. She lived with the truck and trailer sitting outside on her driveway for way longer than she should have.

We buried your ashes the day before your nephew’s eleventh birthday.  He should never have to connect your burial with your birthday, but I fear even a day before will leave that indelible mark on him.  I knew this day was going to be hard, but like your actual death, I had already “practiced” your burial and again, like your death, it played out almost exactly like I thought.  I prepared a collection of things to be buried with you. Since I know you can’t reach out from the grave to actually see what I put in there, let me tell you:

1. I wrote you a letter with 100% truths about our relationship.  Some tough admissions that I can’t even bring myself to write here.  Those admissions will be buried with you.  These are things I don’t want anyone else to know, but somehow I know you can be trusted with them due to the permanency of death.  I did tell you that I loved you.  That is a truth.  I told you that over and over as I put my hands around the urn before it was placed in the ground.
2. I put the heart stone you found on Lake Superior up by Shovel Point when we were up there on New Year’s Eve, when you almost asked me to marry you and I almost said I would.  
3. I put one of JR’s feathers in the urn, pictures of Toby and Cowboy…the braided mane you took from Ty before he died.  I knew you would want your pets with you.  
4. I put pictures of Mary in there since we decided not to honor your request to be buried next to her.  If there is a chance you know this already, please know that I’m sorry.  Her family would never allow you to be next to her.  We spared her family the pain of that decision.
5. Sturgis pins, several pins from your vest
6. An Eagle feather…

Your parents picked a beautiful blue urn in keeping with your wishes and your marker has your badge number on it.  Everything you wanted and everything you asked for in that damn description of your last wishes. 

Remember when you shared with me what you wanted at your funeral? It was about six months after Mary died and you were in a bad place.  You told me that you wanted me to speak at your funeral and you told me exactly what you wanted me to say.  You wanted me to talk about your search and rescue, your love of horses, and being a member of the reserve sheriff department. You told me the color of the urn, what you wanted on your headstone, and yes, you asked to be buried next to her. I tried to push this conversation off but you were adamant that I listen.  Somehow, even back then, I knew I would need to use this awkward conversation. 

But back to the gravesite…I haven’t been there since that cold, graveside service. I didn’t publicize your burial.  I didn’t want anyone from CRT to be there. And I didn’t want my children, my friends, my people to see me grieve.  After all, I needed them to know I was strong.  So it was just your aunts and uncles, your brother, your mom and dad.  A small group.  Nothing too fancy for the service.  Just Brad from the bike group, who had led your memorial back in July, there to give you last rites and say a quick prayer.  

 I wanted to come up and bring Toby but the snow came almost immediately afterwards (fitting, isn’t it?).  I kept wanting to take the bike up to see you now, but I’m stuck.  I don’t want to go alone.  I don’t want to go with someone else.  I’m terrified that the emotions I felt that day are still inside me and I’ve worked so hard to deal with them…

As I write this, I am 24 minutes from landing in Florida.  It’s been hard to bring myself to this state as everything about it screams YOU!  I couldn’t go to Ft. Myers yet.  I promise I will and when I do, I’ll go on a dolphin cruise and dump your ashes in when the dolphins come to play in the wake.  I still have a little vial of them.  They are sitting in my wooded buffalo box.  Fitting, don’t you think?

I am hoping to create new memories and reconnect with some of my friends who haven’t seen me since you started controlling my social life.  My relationship with you resulted in the loss of many important friends. I have the opportunity to be with someone that I have not seen for a very long time and I know it will be good for my soul to experience time with someone utterly unconnected to you.

 I am happy to be on the east side and not facing the gulf side with the sunsets you loved so much.  The last slide on your funeral’s PowerPoint was the picture I took of you watching the sunset in Fort Myers with your back turned to me and your hands in your pockets.  Beautiful, peaceful, nothing like the pain you were hiding inside. I like to think of you that way.  It’s better than my last image of your lifeless body on my garage floor.  Some images will never go away.

I’m landing and will soon have my feet on the ground.  I don’t know when I will write again.  I only know that writing both causes that exploding grief to rise up my throat and anger to be exhaled through the typing motion of my fingers. And so I’ll continue to use this cathartic way of communicating with you.  

It’s been three months and one day.  I crashed and burned yesterday.  I completely fell apart in a way that I had never done before.  When I woke up, I felt like I could no longer exhale, like all the wind had been constricted from my lungs.  I don’t know why the three month anniversary drew such a tense response.  I thought I had more control than that.  Mistake number one: Social Media.

I truly felt empty and wanted to post something that would let others know in a gentle way that I was hurting.  I wanted to feel love and support.  And I did…but every time someone posted a “hugs” or “thinking about you” in response, I felt a tear roll down my face. Eventually the tears became overwhelming and I had to leave.  I was home when I saw Grant’s three month post.  Maybe you even saw it. Maybe you even composed it for him. His exact words were “During this October I pray he is haunting the one who is responsible for his death, may they not rest.” 

That’s when it really hit me. I am being blamed for your death by the very people I thought were my friends. That explains why the club members turned their backs on me at the funeral. Literally. Would not hug me. Would not acknowledge me. Clustered together in the back of the room. 

Am I responsible for your death? No. Others need to understand this though. And I don’t know how to tell them and that crushes me.

The Superintendent came into my office and invited me to a fundraiser event tomorrow night.  Ordinarily this would have been something the two of us would have attended together. (Although I do have to add that had we actually gone, I would have worried about what you would wear, what you would say, how you might say one thing that impacted and deconstructed my articulated persona.)  I want to go, but I’m terrified of driving there alone, walking into a room with total strangers, sitting at a table and trying to make small talk. You always helped me get through things like this.  You made it possible for me to hide behind your flamboyant personality.  I’m not sure if I can do this without you.

I thought I felt you today.  I picked up a small, palm shaped candle holder that I had given you several years before your death. You loved how it felt in your hand and I remember you lighting it and asking me to hold it in my own palm. I felt your presence like I’ve never felt before…almost crushing me against the wall.  I clung to the weight until the tears started to form in my eyes. I called Toby over and he put his head on top of the candle, as if he sensed your presence as well.  He stood there for what seemed like an eternity.  Again, tears simmered to the surface as I brushed him with the candle holder.  He stood motionless, as if he needed to feel your weight and your comfort as well.  I was tempted to call out to you, ask questions, and be angry.  All I could do was say, “Oh babe” over and over in my mind.  Why is the pain harder today than it was two months ago?

It’s been 11 weeks and two days.  I went to Duluth this weekend and for the first time since you died, I was surrounded by good memories.  I hate that and I love that. We went to Tettegouche State Park and I couldn’t even bring myself to look at the lake because it reminded me of New Year’s Eve when we had the park to ourselves and you almost asked me to marry you.   I would probably almost have said yes.  We had such a beautiful connection that day.  Marty (our/my counselor) told me to go to places where you and I had good memories and talk to you there.  Had I walked across to the lake side of the park, I might have tried that.  I didn’t.  I walked across the road and turned my back on the memories of you and I together.  I created new memories with my friends and tried hard to replace the memories of you and Lake Superior with new ones.  

Lake Superior always centers me.  I touch the smooth lake stones, listen to the waves, smell the pine trees and suddenly, all my strands, all the parts of the various Kims I’ve groomed, pull together.  Suppressed emotions rise to the surface, challenging my delicately balanced facade. I allow grief and sadness to wash over me.  I step out of the “you’re so strong” description that I wear like a badge of accomplishment, and instead, feel weakness.  And you know what?  I actually allowed myself to remain immersed in weakness.  And it felt surprisingly comfortable.