Now I am here, and I am in my own home, and I have some quiet, and some time to think, and some time to feel, and I realize how little grieving I have actually done for my husband.
Certainly, those first few days I grieved him. I missed him in every moment, every time I looked at my phone and it wasn't him, every time I crawled into that big empty bed. Every time I looked around my house, and in the fridge, and almost everywhere.
But somewhere along the line, I kicked into survival mode. I took all of those feelings of missing him and thinking of him and wishing for him, and I shoved them into a closet in my soul, and I bricked that doorway up.
I can't grieve him like most other people grieve. Every grief is unique, every griever is unique. Suicide grief is unique. Every time I miss him, I know he did it on purpose. Every time I think of a good thought of him, I think of the pain of missing him, and the anger rushes in. It rushes in and I am no longer missing him; I am too pissed to miss him. This grief is filled with anger.
Why? Because our lives were filled with so much good. Storm saw himself as a loser because he didn't work for a number of years, for reasons of our own. His friends saw him as the luckiest man alive. He had a lovely wife, who never became angry with him because things didn't get done inside our outside, who never got angry with him for spending the whole day playing a game, or playing cribbage, or drinking, or sleeping, or whatever his pleasure was that day. I just wanted him to be happy. He had a wife who literally served him hand and foot. I showered him, brushed his hair, brought him drinks, took care of his laundry and often his dishes, ran his errands, and gratefully enjoyed his sex while I gave him mine to enjoy.
I say this all the time, but there was no reason for him to do this. There was no end of the rope. There was no horrible earth shattering event. Every area of our life was going remarkably well, and then Storm ended it all with the shrug of a shoulder. That's how important our life was to him. The shrug of a shoulder.
I wake up every day to the reality that I was a participant in the death of the most important person in my world, and Storm created that. I live every day thinking of the last angry, crazy things we said to each other, and Storm created that. Every single good he ever brought into my life is tinged with pain and regret, and Storm created that. He said all the time that all that he wanted to do was make me smile. Instead, he left me the worst pain and regret and emotional disability that I ever experienced, and Storm created that. As a husband, it was his job to love me as he loved himself. That's not what happened. All of our life together, I thought that was true. That he loved me as he loved himself. Or maybe, he did, since he pretty much hated himself. Either way, the result is the same.
But this week, something shifted. I'm not sure what. I can think of him and cry for what was without immediately being angry. It was probably a combination of things, including getting enough sleep to feel rested. It was also the moment of taking a shower, when I sensed I should take it without the distraction of my phone. I stood there, in hot, hot water, and I cried for the first time for my husband without feeling angry and guilty and bitter.
I can think about the times he used to barbecue for me at 5 in the morning, in the freezing snow, in our garage in Illinois. I remember how he freaked out when we were trapped in the back of the van. I remember how determined he was to get me home to my family. I can remember his sexy voice, and his distinctive whistle that made both the dogs and me pay attention. I remember how hard it was for him to be nice at people's social events. I remember how much he loved his grandbabies, and how he loved my daughters, even when he didn't want to.
I'm glad to be in this place, even though it means more tears, more crying. I do enough crying these days, that's for sure. In fact, I sometimes don't make it out of bed before I'm crying. Nevertheless, I'm grateful. So grateful.
I don't want to hate that I love this man. I don't want to hate missing him. I don't want to hate the thought of him, or the smell of him, or the foods he used to make.
I believe the healing has begun. I see it in the dog bite scar on my leg. The deep wound has left a scar, a tube of scar tissue through my leg, but the tissue is healing...the two spots are fading, and I think my heart, maybe my soul, looks the same inside of me.
I turn to Yahweh every day in prayer, and I have trusted from the beginning that he would help me become like refined gold through this trial of fire. Though I am often alone, I am never really lonely. Yahweh sustains me. He makes me strong. He is my strong refuge, my rock. Today, I turn to him in gratitude, and give thanks that he has allowed my heart to heal.
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| Blackberries in the garden Storm grew me. |
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