Pray you now, forget and forgive—King Lear

I’ve been off the bloggy radar for the past few days—weird time for me. Yesterday was the 4^th “anniversary” [I don’t know what other term to use….] of my ex-husband’s suicide. Always a tough time.

And then this morning, I heard the story about the girl who took her own life after being bullied in school. God, I know just how her family is feeling. Every time I here of someone making that choice, it takes me back to the horrible pain my kids and I endured for weeks/months afterwards.

In our own non-church-going way we’ve prayed; but we will never forget. You can’t. You want to, but you can’t. You want to forget how his life ended and remember how fully and sweetly he lived it for a long time. You see, he had scoliosis of the spine and had undergone a double spinal fusion at age 15. He was in alot of pain, but from the time he was 17 until well into his 40s, he learned how to ski on land and water. He played drums in a couple of bands. He learned how to surf- and later showed our son how to do it too. He rode a motorcycle [courted me on it as a matter of fact]. He was a hands-on dad to our daughter and son [except for dirty diapers-he couldn't hack those]. And he spent hours with our grandson. He LOVED being "Pop."

Fortunately neither my kids or I were the ones to find him, but the information from the police and the death certificate were pretty specific. I know all three of us get weird mental images at odd times….. Believe me, we’d like to forget.

At Christmas, my grandson caught my daughter off-guard by asking if Pop had left a note. He knows his grandfather took his own life, but he does not know the method—my daughter didn’t want him to have the same mental movies that we do. It’s not necessary. I guess, like the rest of us, the kid was looking for answers, an explanation, something. She didn’t know what to say or how to react…. At first she just walked away, but then she realized that not dealing with things was a big part of her father’s problem.

So she told him what she knew—yes there was a note, but it didn’t say much. I wound up with custody of a COPY of it [the original is on file with the police, I guess]. I told her that oddly enough, I chuckled when I received it—this freaked her out a bit.

Then I told her that he’d written his one-sentence summation of his actions on the back of an envelope. He was ALWAYS writing things on the back of envelopes. I’d find random names, phone numbers, addresses. It was so HIM to use an envelope for that too. Another odd image….

Ah, now we come to the forgive part…..

That is so much harder—for all of us. I’m still working on forgiving him for choosing to self-medicate his pain—both physical and emotional. I tell myself—he was sick [depression was finally diagnosed in 1999]. I think: "You wouldn’t have felt this way if he’d had cancer." But it’s hard. And I’m working on forgiving him for not valuing our marriage or me enough to get help. I spent about 8 years trying to help him help himself. My daughter and I are trying to forgive him for making us worry about her son when he was struggling adjusting to being away at college. We’re working on forgiving him for passing some of his traits on to my son—who seems to be trying to take a different path. Thank God.

And, lest you think I’m a cold-hearted bitch, I’m working on forgiving myself for not being better tuned in to mental illness, for not seeking more help myself to know what to say and do. Could that have helped him? Could all of this have been avoided?

[sorry if I’ve upset anyone, but I needed to get my thoughts/feelings down somewhere.]

Peace til next time. E

Writ in remembrance more than things long past.

Friday would have been my ex-husband’s 62nd birthday. Sadly, we lost him to depression almost 4 years ago. He chose to end his own life and my children and I still wonder what triggered him that day to decide he couldn’t handle it anymore. He had faced many adversities in life, what was the one that pushed him to his limit?

I met him when I was 18 and he was 24—we married 2 years later. Our artistic natures added to the initial attraction [he was a photographer]. But it was his generosity of spirit and strength of character that sealed the deal for me. And my instincts were right; he was a great father and a good husband. In spite of having scoliosis and having undergone a double spinal fusion in his teens, he taught our son how to play ball—and later how to surf. Even though he was in pain many days, he rarely complained and was at all of the recitals and school functions—cheering his kids on and taking photos. This continued with our grandson as well.

But something went wrong. The last six years of our marriage were very difficult as I tried to help him cope with major job challenges, alcohol problems and increasing depression. When it became clear that all of this was having a severe adverse effect on my own health, I had to get out. And I hated admitting defeat, as it were. I kept telling myself “He’s sick, you wouldn’t leave if he had cancer.” But I realize now, that nothing I did could have helped him if he wasn’t willing to help himself. And that is so sad. I miss the man he was before the illness took over.

So we were estranged at the time of his death—and I had a lot of guilt about not having made an attempt to forge a new type of relationship. I would ask our children about him all the time and they would tell me what was going on. And my grandson talked about visiting his “Pop.” Now I think my daughter and son may have glossed over some things—not to protect me, to protect their dad.

One thing our family has decided to do is to be open about the struggle—in the hopes of helping others understand. And ourselves as well. It never gets any easier, it just gets a tad more tolerable each year. I can recommend a wonderful book to anyone dealing with the issue. It’s called THE SUICIDE INDEX and it was written by Joan Wickersham oer the course of 15 years following her father’s suicide.

Sorry if I’ve bummed anyone out, but I needed to get my feelings out somehow. We miss him, but we know his pain is over now.