Diving In Again

Loneliness seems to be something that always comes with the death of someone close. Even if we've still got lots of people around us, there's still that sense of something important missing. Someone we've built up habits and beliefs and defaults around aren't there anymore. We can't just call them or wander over to visit and catch up. We won't see them at all the times we're used to seeing them. We won't see them at work or at the game or at the regular get-togethers. With people who're important to us, we get used to things that we talk with them about and how we talk to them. The closer they are to us, the more special that is. Even if we've got other close people in our lives, no-one is quite the same to talk to. They don't quite understand things in the same way. They don't have quite the same perspective. They don't have the same way of putting things. They don't make us laugh in the same way. No-one can quite fill that space.

One of the things that gets hard about that when you lose a spouse is the idea that people can move on and get married again. There's the chance to have another relationship again. That's about the only kind of family relationship where that's the case. People don't talk about having a parent die and looking for a replacement to take over. If someone were to suggest that after having a child die they should just make another to replace the loss, I doubt anyone would think that a response involving a tire iron or baseball bat would be out of proportion. Anyone who'd have a sibling die and approach their parents about getting another one would likely be judged to be in need of some substantial psychiatric medication.

That's not the case with marriage. If a marriage ends, there's often the idea that one or both people will go on and find someone else. Becoming a widower in my early 40's, I've had a fair number of people express the belief that I'm still a young man and can find someone down the line. I know—OK, I assume—they mean well by it.

The other thing that makes it hard is starting to date again. See, at that point, there's a difference. We'd gotten to know what it can be like to be married. Hopefully we had a decent chunk of good years in there. We've gotten to know just how good it can be. That makes it hard to start dating. The question comes up with anyone new that we might be getting involved with of whether it might ever get to be that good with them. Will it ever bring the happiness and peace and comfort and contentment and fulfillment we got to know before? Could it ever measure up? Or are we facing the possibility that it's been as good as it's ever going to get, that anything with anyone else from here out is going to be settling?

I know, I know...that's also true with folks who've been divorced. However, when there's been the death of a spouse, especially one related to suicide, we've also gotten to know the worst of what it can be. There may or may not have been a lot of conflict and problems and strife before the suicide was completed. Regardless, the horror of knowing your spouse would rather die and having to ask the question of how much of it was about you (and all the other questions that come along with it), is about as bad as it gets. We get to know just how BAD it can be, too. The question also comes up there of whether we're going to have to deal with anything that bad or that hard again. Is it worth taking that chance? Are we able to pick any better than we did last time?

There's no easy answers to those questions. There's no way to know for sure rather than to make a decision and go ahead with it...and run the risks.

Or don't.

Healing with Class

I got an unexpected opportunity a few days ago. One of the people I've talked to is the person from NAMI who sponsors the monthly suicide survivor's support group that I've been attending. She's been great. I've said for awhile that one of the few things worse than what I've had to deal with, the suicide of a spouse, would be the suicide of one's child. Her son took his life several years ago. I've consistently been impressed with how open she's been to talking about all of this stuff, anything that might come up. She's one of the people that I look up to and gives me hope about where I might be able to get someday.

She got ahold of me a little while ago and let me know that there's a class up at the local university on death and dying. The teacher was looking for someone to come in and talk about suicide for the one class they'd have on the topic. She'd done it before, but had the feeling that they might be more interested in hearing from someone who'd had a spouse commit suicide. She asked if I'd be interested in speaking to the class. To say my initial reaction was mixed would be an understatement. It was flattering to hear that she thinks I'm doing well enough to handle that, and that I'd have some to offer to the class. My guts also tied themselves in knots wondering what might go wrong, how bad it might be if I started crying in front of the class, what might happen if someone asked an insensitive question and I might want to flip out on them.

One thing kept coming up, though. I'd been saying for some time that there's nothing I can do about what I've been through. Ariel's dead, and nothing can change that. Much though I'd like to make the deal with God that if I suffered enough then no-one else would have to go through anything like this. However, if there's nothing I can do to change it, I can at least be open to the idea that maybe there's some good I can do with it. If I can pass something on that helps someone else, then I'd be good with that. Admittedly, I'd thought that it would be more one-on-one with someone else who's working through this. However, that never precluded getting to talk to folks who are maybe looking at going into working with folks who've gone through major grief and loss. But it's still a way to try to make some good out of it.

So I decided to do it.

I appreciated the suggestion I got that I could think of some different ways to approach the topic and then ask the class what they'd want to hear about. I'd thought of a couple to start with. I said I could talk about some of the research and literature I'd read about suicide and what tends to be associated with it, what tends to aggravate the risk for reoffense. I could talk about some of what I've learned about how the grief process with suicide differs from other kinds of loss due to death. I could also talk some about what I've gone through and what I've found to be helpful. All three of them seemed to be of interest to them. Then again, at the start of the class they weren't all that energetic or responsive. I guess that's one of the hazards of having a class that starts at 6:00 PM.

To be honest, I don't remember a whole lot of what happened, or at least not very clearly. I ended up going through those three areas in that order, which I think worked out well. It made it easier to not start with the stuff that would be more likely to push my own buttons. It also seemed to get the class more interested and involved. They had some good questions, and it's also when a couple of them first started talking about their own experiences with suicide. It seemed like that lead nicely into what's different about the grief that comes with suicide. It was a good chance to work in Bowlby's model of grief, which they hadn't heard about yet. That works, especially as they'd heard of the Kubler-Ross stages and seemed to have some of the same reactions about it. At the end, I did talk about some of what I'd been through. That included reading off a couple pieces I'd written up that got posted on the state's NAMI website.

When I was done, I looked down at my watch and said something about how I was surprised to have been talking for an hour. I asked if there were any other questions; there were none. Then the teacher said thanks and that the class was over. I was a little surprised by that and looked down at my watch again. At that point, I realized that I'd made a math mistake. I hadn't been talking for an hour. I'd talked for two hours. Non-stop. The class was very kind, with several thanking me for coming in. The teacher also thanked me, too, and said that it was very good and he'd invite me back up again next year if he gets to teach the class again.

I hadn't realized it at the time, but it really took a lot out of me. I didn't really notice it 'til Friday, when all of a sudden in the early afternoon it was hard to focus. I had a hard time with even stupid things at work, like typing. It's rather disconcerting when I mean to type one word but, when I look at the screen, something else is there. Saturday I was pretty much useless. It also brought up how much I've tended to run on having one thing that I HAVE to deal with to another. I'm not real good at just sitting quietly and peacefully anymore.

There is something, though, that is satisfying about having been able to do something like that...a couple things, really. One is realizing that I can handle something like that. It wasn't easy, far from it. There were several times I choked up while I was talking. However, I was able to pull it together and keep talking. I wasn't so trashed afterward that I had to sit in the parking lot smoking multiple cigarettes until I could safely drive home (which was one of the things I was afraid might happen). I was also glad to be able to pass on some of what I've been through. It seemed like one of the students who had some questions was also struggling with some of her own experiences. She was crying for part of the class, but it also seemed like it helped for her to hear that, yeah, it usually is that rough and that long to work through all of what comes up with a suicide.

I'm still sorting it through, but I think it was worthwhile. It's not something that everyone might want to do. Still, it also does help make things a bit brighter with the idea that maybe I can do something worthwhile after all.

Sex After Death, Part I

OK, as promised, here's the first post having to deal with sex.  If you were hoping that this would be something titillating, that it would give you something to use as spank-material hearing about the wild adventures of a (fairly) newly-no-longer-married-guy, you're going to be sorely disappointed.  On the other hand, if you're able to hand some grown-up ideas, then this might have something to offer for you after all.

The typical stereotype that comes up when someone has a spouse die is that generally women go frigid and lose interest in sex while men suddenly run around trying to get into anyone they can find. After all, isn't it the case that men are the ones who women have to manipulate into fidelity? That they'd rather be able to run around and jump into bed with any and every woman (or whoever else) that they can get to let them? That once their spouse, their partner is gone, that their true nature starts coming back out again? Either that or they're just looking for someone else to take the place of their spouse...or maybe looking for a new mommy to eventually take care of them.

By contrast, women do it for love. When the love's gone, there's no reason for them to be interested in sex and they just shut down. Or if you go with the evolutionary perspective, they only do it to have kids and once they do, there's no reason to have more sex anymore. And, of course, there's the perspective that women start thinking that men are just out to get into their pants, at putting on a good facade to make them seem like they're good guys just to have a chance to get laid. That they're just lying, manipulative, untrustworthy beasts who, once they get what they want, will disappear at the soonest sign of responsibility. Given that, why should they bother?

That's how they are, right? That's what people tend to think.

It's not really the case. It's not that simple.

Just like a lot of other things having to do with death and grief, there's a huge range of individual differences for how people react and respond. I've gotten to know some men who sexually just shut down after their wives die, at least for a decent-sized chunk of time. They're not interested anymore. The thought of being that open and vulnerable and potentially getting hurt that bad again is just too much. And there are some women who just want to know that they're still attractive, that they can still be desired....that they can still feel something other than the terrible, crushing pain and loneliness and emptiness.

In this case, the stereotype is a shorthand for trying to understand people. The reality of it, though, is far more complex. Maybe the stereotype works if you're looking at overall statistics, of general trends across large groups of people. For understanding any one person, what they're feeling, what they're going through and what they're going to do....it's pretty useless.

People are just that. And each has to find his or her own way through, with whatever it is that gets them through.