Today is the 3-month “anniversary” – that’s a horrible word to use for this. I hate that I even notice it. 😥
I promised myself (and you) a raw, no-bullshit blog. I also warned you that I cuss. A lot sometimes. If you’re sensitive to cussing, cover your ears. This post is pretty raw and cussy.
I’ve planned my suicide. How’s that for honest?
It’s true. Initially it was a rough and impulsive plan, just a “stop the pain” idea. But now, I have thought about it long and hard, in sad times and calm times. And I have refined “the plan”. It’s a well-thought-out plan.
I’m not going into details about it. I’ve confided in a close friend about it, and I’ve told my grief therapist. Whether or not I’ll ever act upon it is a mystery. It could be 20 years from now. It could be never. I don’t know if I’ll ever do it. I don’t think I will. I can tell you as of today, I am not in danger of taking my own life and I can say, and I believe, that I would never do it. Obviously I wouldn’t, because I’m still here. But my life philosophy is so, so different right now. Temporary or newfound? Only time will tell, I guess.
Now, I feel like I have nothing left to lose. I’m a bit careless because of it. I’m drinking too much (this is all relative – I’ve never been much of a drinker so my version of too much may not be yours). I’m not eating really (quite common for widows; it’s not intentional. I just forget to eat, sometimes for days). I’ve lost a lot of weight on accident and my main source of calories is beverages. Coffee, Soda, and boozy cocoa. I’m not good at drinking so my booze has to be disguised in something delicious. I’m not sleeping despite enough medications to knock down a moose. My mind never stops. It’s out of my control. I’m now on three medications for anxiety/mood/sleep issues.
I’m not on a suicide mission by any means. If I were, I’d execute “the plan”. I just have zero fucks to give. Zero. What is this all for? WHY am I here? (Please refer to my About The Writer page, where we make a deal that we won’t preach, k?). I don’t mean the big, philosophical question. I mean the literal question. Why the fuck am I still here? What purpose is it serving? I had a crappy teenhood with an emotionally and mentally and sometimes physically abusive alcoholic mother, got out as soon as I could and spent my life raising kids since I was 19 years old. And now, at the age of 50, what do I have to show for my life? I’ve lost my son and grandkids. I’ve lost my husband. My dad is dead. I’m living in a state, in a place that I only moved to because of Michael. My heart and soul are homeless and I don’t feel like I belong, or fit, any place with anyone. I am facing the winter (which I fucking HATE both physically and mentally) alone. I’m alone without even an emergency contact; or for that matter, anyone to execute my non-existent-yet will if something happens to me. I have a degenerative spinal condition that is worsening and I need fusion surgery, but now I cannot commit to the recovery time or the expense (Michael and I were trying to figure out when we could plan my surgery because I would be on my back recovering for 3 months). Which takes me to the next sucky reality; if I end up sick like Michael or my dad did, I have nobody to take care of me. I can’t get needed surgery for the same reason. I’ll never be able to hospice and die in my home like they both did. And I know it sounds dramatic and people think “oh that’s years away, so much can change”, but after what I’ve seen in the past few months, normal “healthy” people can get sick and be dead in a matter of days or weeks. It could happen. And if it happens to me, I’ll be alone. THEN, I would probably execute “the plan”. Because I have no other options. Which brings me back to, WHY the fuck am I still here?
I gave up asking why all of this has happened. I gave up wondering or trying to question why it had to be Michael. I gave up beating myself up and telling myself I must suck as a person so much, that I deserve all of this loss. I never felt the “it’s not fair” feelings because I hate whiners and I never expect fair. So no; I’m not going to drive myself crazy asking why it all happened. It is what it is. But I do wish I knew why the fuck I’m still here.
I always believed that we are here in this life to do good, to learn many lessons, to teach a few lessons, and to love. I feel like I’ve done enough good, loved enough, and learned plenty. Not sure if I’ve taught anything worthwhile, but I made an effort to. How many more lessons do I need to learn, and who gives a fuck anyway? What’s it all for?
When I hear someone say, “Poor Michael” or “that poor man”, I almost laugh out loud. Poor Michael? He’s better off than the rest of us. He doesn’t have to deal with shitty floors and an asshole contractor with an asshole attorney who’s jerking him around and bullying him while he’s grieving. He doesn’t have to spend countless mind-numbing hours making phone calls to wrap up the remaining pieces of his dead spouse’s life (car insurance, homeowners insurance, every credit card, bank accounts, social security, and that’s just scratching the surface). He doesn’t have to rake the leaves, feed the dogs, and clean out years of accumulated possessions in case he has to possibly sell the home we bought and made together. He doesn’t have to continually worry about sustaining a non-profit org or retaining volunteers. He doesn’t have to continually worry about supporting himself. He doesn’t have a collapsing fence, a houseful of dogs, or bills to pay. He doesn’t have to panic about how the hell he’s going to afford health insurance that was being paid for through his spouse’s income and employer. He doesn’t have to strategize and over-think every single dollar he spends because he doesn’t know how he’s going to make this life-built-for-two work with one set of hands and one income. He doesn’t have to winter-prep the house. He doesn’t have to have anxiety attacks at the thought of the holidays that are bearing down on him like a freight train. He doesn’t have to live with hurt feelings, being rejected by his children, or feeling and being alone. He doesn’t have to worry about or evaluate toxic relationships. He doesn’t have to work through PTSD after seeing his two most beloved people wither away and die horrible deaths right before his eyes, one right after the other. He doesn’t have to worry about anything ever again. So many people think he was sentenced to death. Not me; I believe he was rewarded with it. Living is the sentence. Dying is the reward.
I lean heavily on the belief that ALL things are temporary. The bad news is, I really only tend to remember this when things are painful. When things were great, I conveniently forgot that it was just for a season. My selective amnesia turned on and I thought I had what I had for a lifetime. I forgot that good things are temporary too. I have no idea how, but I forgot that the universe takes shit away all the time. Or maybe I always knew that, and I felt I had lost enough. It never occurred to me that HE, that Michael, that my life, that our home, that US, that who I was…. that all of it was temporary. Happiness, sadness, life, death, pain, love, grief, joy, bliss, everything…everything is temporary. This life sentence I’m serving is just the blink of an eye in the big picture. Believing that this hell existence is temporary is the only thing that keeps me from moving ahead with “the plan”. I don’t have to end this suffering myself. It will end on its own, it its own time. At least I hope so.*
In the meantime, don’t put me on suicide watch. I’m safe. I’m reminding myself that this pain is temporary in the bigger scheme of things. I’m still choosing to wake up and get through each day. I hate it, but I’m doing it. For whatever it’s worth.
*Please, refrain from judging my state of mind and resist the urge to comment to tell me that life is worth living, etc. These are things I know. But this is my blog about my experience. My hope is that others can learn and gain something from it. And this is my truth. Unfiltered. I’n not looking for atta-girls or cheerleaders; this whole blog is an experiment in sharing things from an honest and vulnerable place.