Looking Back

I recently got a rather startling insight into how things have changed in the last year. See, a year ago, a friend who works for NAMI asked if I'd be willing to go speak to a class on Death & Dying about suicide. She'd done it before, and thought I'd be able to do pretty well. I'd been saying for quite awhile that, if there's any good that I can make come from me darlin' wife's death, I'd be all good with that. When that chance came along, it was suddenly time to put my money where my mouth hand been. It went pretty well last year, and it seemed like the teacher and class got a lot from it. Enough that he asked if I'd be willing to come back and do it again this year. As it'd gone well before, I said, “Sure.”

And then I realized that, a year ago, I'd still been reading a lot on suicide and grief. At the time, I was still trying to get a handle on what'd happened and what was going on with me. However, I haven't felt much need to be reading or looking into that anywhere near as much in the last 10 months or so. I didn't have the same information at my fingertips I did before. So I had to sit down and go through some of the stuff I'd read and get some notes together. The last thing I wanted to do was stand up in front of the class and be, “Uhh.....suicide happens a lot. And it's bad. Uhh......any questions?” So I got a lot of stuff together.

One thing I pulled up is something I'd brought along last year. It was a piece I'd written up about six months after her death, trying to describe what it was like for me. It seemed like a lot of people didn't get it, and so that'd be the best I could do to help with that. When I presented to the class last year, I ended with that, and figured I'd do the same this time, too. The whole thing is about two pages typed out, but here's some of it:

It's kind of like what happens when you get a bad cold or flu. It's hard to think straight. I know what's going on around me and where I am, but getting the thoughts into coherent order is hard, sometimes impossible. Things suddenly feel unreal, even if it's circumstances that have been familiar for years or more. Sometimes those simple, basic things just don't click or make sense. In an abstract sense, they do. The ideas are still there. Getting them to click together, though, to feel like they've become REAL, is sometimes just impossible. It's like trying to put together a 3D puzzle with pieces made of barely-tinted glass that's coated in oil. Along with that, the level of energy present for doing much of anything is drastically reduced. The thoughts come to mind more than once that it's like watching the Energizer Bunny trying to keep “going and going and going” with only one or two of it's four batteries. There's no lively little step or smart rap of the drum. Instead, it looks like it's trying to drag its way through a swamp of cold molasses, wondering how many more times it can hit the drum before its arms just go dead and drop. Sometimes it's better, sometimes not so much, but it's never what it used to be as far as energy for doing—or even enjoying—things goes.
Suddenly even normal, routine things are complicated and hard to understand and kind of scary. It's again like having the bad flu and having to go up or down stairs when I'm weak and shaky and my balance & equilibrium are just shot. Something like walking into the grocery store where I've been dozens of times before feels like walking through a field of tazer mines. They're not going to kill me, but I don't know when something will suddenly pop up and hit like a blast of electricity...and hurt. The same is even true about thinking about who's now gone, who's been lost. It's kind of scary, as there's no way to know what will suddenly pop up in association with those thoughts. And none of them will just take me out, remove consciousness, no matter how bad they hurt. If several go off in a row, they just keep adding to each other....and taking what there is of me at the time apart. When it gets bad, reality starts to bend, and what's most scary about that is that at those times I'm aware there's less of me to be afraid than there was before it happened.
Thinking gets just....strange. Odd and unexpected thoughts come up sometimes. Some of them make sense, like wondering why it happened or what I did to bring this to myself in this life. Sometimes it seems like life's not worth living, especially when it hurts that bad. It's not the thought of ending myself, but just wondering what the point is anymore. It's hard to see something good coming. It's hard to see much in the future at all. In that way, it's like coming back to consciousness in the middle of a thick forest in heavy fog. I can see about five feet in front of me but that's it, and I have to get out. There's no way to hurry, too many low-hanging branches and rocks and unstable footing. I just have to pick a direction and hope I'm going the right way, 'cause I just....don't.....know. And it seems to go on and on and on and on and on.....with no real way to tell whether I'm getting anywhere or not. I just know I can't stay where I've been. Sometimes my brain just seems to shut off and I find myself staring at whatever's there for....I don't know how long. Especially if there's not someone else there that snaps me out of it.
One of the things that also stands out is that humor and joy are pretty much just gone. For awhile, sure, there's nothing that's funny or in which I find joy. That's bad, but not the worst of it. The worst comes a bit later when I started regaining at least the wish for it, the impulse to sing a song or make a joke or do something silly and funny. In the beginning, the impulse would half-form and then die in a cloud of sickening futility and despair. Over time, it's changed to where it doesn't die that quick. Sometimes I'll get out a line or two of song, the start of a silly voice I'd used before....and then it collapses. In some ways, it hurt less when there was just no capacity for it as opposed to the conception and then abortion of some of the more enjoyable things I used to treasure....and take for granted.

When I read it off last year, I could still very much relate and connect to that. It didn't feel like I was all that far from that place at all, even though a year had gone by. This time around, though, it was different. This time around, as I was reading it to the class, I found my stomach tightening and getting queasy, while the thought came up, “Man, I was messed up!!” It wasn't in a derogatory or critical sense, more just one of surprise. I could remember having written that. I could remember that it had fit rather well. I just didn't feel the same connection to it this time as I had before. And part of what was so striking about that was that it wasn't something that had come from me thinking about it and reasoning my way to a conclusion. It was the initial, gut-level reaction to reading what I'd written and where I'd been.

I know I'm not the same as I was before. I know I've still got more to go with regard to healing and working on actually LIVING my life. At the same time, though, it's good to see the proof of the progress that's happened. And, as intellectual as I can be at times, there are some things where it's just got to come from experience, from my gut, for it to really sink in.

Since that night, I've noticed the feeling of a core of stability in me that hadn't been there before. Maybe it had been, and I just hadn't seen it yet. Maybe it'd been getting built over the last weeks and months, and it wasn't until I was hit by something else that I got to find out that it's there. I know it doesn't mean that there won't be times that will hurt. But at the same time, it now means that, when those times come, I'll KNOW I can handle them. I may get knocked to my knees again, but it doesn't mean I won't get up again. It doesn't mean I won't heal.

It doesn't mean that I will ever be trapped in the Hell of loss and grief due to suicide.

Blurring of Feelings

One of the things that I realized recently is that sometimes it's just about impossible to keep feelings separated on things.  Specifically, right now I hate what I'm having to go through.  I still hate having to take care of the bills by myself.  Ariel was always really good at keeping track of them and making sure things were covered on time.  I've gotten a bit better, but I'm still not as good at it as she was.  I also hate having to do all of the housework by myself.  Even in the last couple years of her life, she still would occasionally do some to help with dishes or laundry.  It wasn't ALL up to me.

I also hate the things I'm having to work through to deal with the grief over her suicide.  I hate feeling afraid of opening up again, for fear of getting hurt just as badly again.  Intellectually, I know the odds of that are low, especially if I keep in mind some of the things I've learned in the last couple of years.  It doesn't seem to do much to change how it feels, though.  I hate getting ambushed by grief by stupid little things that either never affected me before or used to bring smiles to my face.  Drying fruit on the dehydrator.  Singing in the shower.  Sometimes rolling over too far onto “her” side of the bed.  Looking at the fall leaves that've turned colors.  Figuring out how to cook something new.  Even as much as I've enjoyed learning what I have about cooking, it's very often at least tinged with some sadness and resentment.

The big one right now is dealing with a heart condition that reared its head about six months ago.  See, I'd been there to help her through some nasty stuff of her own.  The viral arthritis she had left her essentially nonfunctional for a couple of weeks,and struggling for some time after that.  I was there for her through it.  I brought her food or drinks or things to read.  A few days, I had to help her in the bathroom because her hands and feet were so painful and swollen she couldn't take care of things for herself.  Just being there to reassure her she's not alone, that there's someone around to help her out and take care of her.  And now, when it's my turn to be sick and hurting and scared....she's not here.  I'm having to deal with that all on my own.  And it's hard to believe that this isn't at least in part from having a broken heart.

What's hard now is that it's sometimes really hard to keep the separation in place about hating my circumstances and the issues I have to deal with....from her.  I know that she was lost and in pain.  I know she was terrified of what other people would think if she told them the truth.  I know she was terrified that I'd try to have her committed to a psych hospital.  I know she wore herself down by abusing prescription and over-the-counter drugs to either be able to wake up or sleep.  I know she loved me.  But when my life now is hard, it's hard not to hate her for it.

The best I can think for now is to let it ride out.  I try to remember what a wise friend one said to me:  feelings aren't facts.  I hope that, if I don't dwell on or ruminate (too much) about them, they'll resolve themselves and pass.  I really don't want to hate her.  I don't think that's good for either of us, not in the long run.  And yet, for now, that's what I struggle with feeling.

No-one ever promised the route through Hell would be smooth or clear.  Only that, if followed, one can eventually find their way to the bottom....and eventually out.

I Remember

There are a lot of things I remember. Some are easier to recall than others. Sometimes the memories are overwhelming, like a tidal wave. At other times, they're wisps of cobweb that I have to move very gently to get ahold of. Sometimes they bring the comfort of the sun coming out on a cold, winter's day. Sometimes they leave me weary and drained, like realizing at the end of a busy, stressful weekend that the sink is still full of dishes that need to be washed and there are no clean socks to wear to work the next day.

• I remember going for walks in the park or in the neighborhoods where we lived, holding hands.
• I remember talking about books and movies we both loved, comparing favorite characters or elements, and wondering how we'd cast the movie version of them.
• I remember how surprised and grateful she was the first night she got sick after we were together and I went to the store to get things like juice and crackers before coming back to her apartment to make sure she'd be OK for the night.
• I remember trips to the mountains in the fall to see the leaves changing color.
• I remember holding hands across restaurant tables on Saturday mornings when we went out for “us-time.” And the waiter who was surprised when he asked to hear we'd been together for a couple of years; from how we acted, he figured we were still in the infatuation of the first few months.
• I remember how my guts were tied in knots when we were exchanging vows in front of friends and family.
• I remember the deep, abiding sense of comfort and peace holding her as we drifted off to sleep.
• I remember how grateful she was that I showed up for her graduation, as no-one had done that for any of her previous accomplishments.
• I remember nursing a screaming ball of fuzz that turned out to be a still-blind kitten we found in our back yard, and marveling at getting to watch her grow and develop.
• I remember sitting on the couch together, my arm around her shoulders, her head leaning against me, watching favorite movies and shows. And times she'd let me lay my lap in her head when I was so tired I wasn't sure I could stay sitting upright.
• I remember working together on the staves/walking sticks we made for our wedding, and holding those same staves when we renewed our vows on our 10-year anniversary.
• I remember the nights spent at coffee shops playing cribbage or backgammon, and both of us getting more excited about good play or unexpected events than caring who won or not.
• I remember the Sunday mornings we'd spend at the laundromat, talking about nothing and anything while we waited and making a good team when it was time to work.
• I remember blushing beet red and not being able to stop laughing the time we were looking at tools in Sears, when she picked up a stud finder, pointed it at me, and went “Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!”
• I remember loving coming up with puns to make her laugh, and even better when I could slip them into conversation without her realizing what I was doing. It got harder and harder over the years, but was always worth the effort.
• I remember times of touching and caressing and nuzzling and skin, learning how to please and satisfy each other.
• I remember waking up before her and just looking at her, and loving her smile when she'd wake up and see me there.
• I remember how lonely it felt on the mornings when I'd wake up and she wasn't there, because her anxiety wouldn't let her fall or stay asleep next to me.
• I remember the hollow loneliness of knowing she was only down the hall in another room, but wanted nothing to do with me. I remember the night after night of hoping she might come to spend some time with me, and the painful disappointment when I'd realize it'd gotten late, and she'd gone to sleep...and she wasn't coming.
• I remember the frustration when I'd try to talk to her about things that concerned me about us, only to be met with a sullen “Sorry” followed by silence.
• I remember the guilt when her episodes of screaming and pounding on things would get to me so much that I'd speak to her in anger. I never yelled. I never cursed. I never called her names. I never laid a hand on her, But I felt so guilty for being mad at her all the same.
• I remember the numb shock that dropped on me when the police told me they'd found her body in a nearby hotel.

I remember...

Regression...And Yet Not

One thing I've run into in the last couple of years is that life happens. Things go haywire. Unexpected stuff comes up. Things break. Medical issues crop up (which seems to be one annoying side-effect of getting older). And so on and so on and so on. Much though we'd like it to be the case, the word keeps spinning despite having to deal with the death of a spouse. Any mercy we get is grace or comes from the caring and support of people around us. We don't get a free pass from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, no matter how bad it was or how hurt we feel.

As time goes on, we get better at handling the little stuff. The day-to-day stuff. Realizing the car's low on gas. Or that the milk in the fridge is all but empty. Or that the lawn needs to get mowed again. Those get easier. And as they do, we gradually get to handle things that are a little bigger with a bit more grace and ease. It sneaks up on us. I know I didn't see it happening at the time. It was just realizing one day that I'd achieved the goal I'd set of wanting to get to where I felt like I could handle a whole day at a time. Sure, not all days were easy, but I was at a point where I wasn't starting the day having to just think about the stuff for the first few hours because trying to think of more was overwhelming. It surprised me when I could look at an approaching weekend from the vantage point of Friday afternoon and not feel anxious or depressed by the prospect. I didn't know exactly how it happened. I still don't. But it did.

And yet, there are still big things that happen occasionally. Those are the kinds of things that are just part of life that everyone gets to deal with. They're the kinds of things that throw most people for a loop, at least for a while. In the last few months, I've been having to deal with having been diagnosed with cardiac arrhythmia. I'm lucky enough that it's not the worst type that it could be, and that it's not something requiring immediate surgery or hospitalization. Still, it's a big deal. The idea that my heart isn't quite working right is a sobering and scary one. It helps to remind myself that this is the kind of thing that would mess with just about anyone's head.

What I'm finding still gets tricky is this. When those big things happen, when they do a number on my head, when they leave me either hideously anxious & raw or just emotionally flat, when they leave me having a hard time enjoying stuff that had been fun before...see, those are the times that remind me of what it was like after me darlin' wife killed herself. And, in that raw state, it's easy sometimes to get to be afraid that I've fallen back into that fresh, painful stage of grieving all over again. One of the things that's rough in those times is to remind myself that sometimes feeling like that is just a reaction to normal life. It's sometimes painful and unpleasant, but it doesn't mean that the progress I've made has suddenly been undone, leaving me back where I was. It passes a lot faster. I've been better able to sit with it for awhile overall. Admittedly, sometimes I do better at sitting with it and not reacting than others. But, while it's similar, it's not the same.

Trudging down through the landscape of Hell, sometimes some areas look the same. That's where it helps to be able to look back up to see where I was and how far I have come, even if it feels for a moment like I'm back where I was. It's OK to feel the fear of that. As long as I don't stop on the journey down to get out.

The Rules of the Story

A little over a week ago, the younger brother of one of my best friends was killed in a hit-and-run accident. From what I know so far, my friend's brother was out on his motorcycle when someone plowed into him at high speed, and then drove off. No rhyme. No reason. It just...happened. On the one hand, it's not been easy being there for my friend. Death is always hard to deal with. A sudden death like this pokes at some of the stuff about my wife's death, which had seemed to come from out of nowhere as well. And yet, I'm glad I've been able to be someone he can talk to, can safely vent to. I remember having the thoughts come up I wasn't sure I could share with anyone else, worrying about how they might react. I also remember how much of a relief it was to be able to say those things out loud to someone who wouldn't get critical or judgmental or try to tell me what I should do or think. Far too often, it's underestimated just how much having someone willing to accept you can mean, especially at times like that.

One of the things he mentioned that has been hard for him is the idea that some of the rules got violated. I'd written about that before, but there was a different spin that came to me about it. See, most of who we think we are is the story we create for ourselves. We don't recall the past exactly. We turn it into a story so it can be understood and encoded and so other events can be put into context and assimilated into it. The same's true with the future. We make up a story about how we think it's supposed to go...or sometimes how we're afraid it's going to go. Either way, we understand the past and the future as our story.

It's a story in which we're the hero. Oh, sure, we have plenty of people around us that we look up to and respect and want to be like. We talk about them being heroes to us. But, in our own stories, we are the hero...period. As we grow up, we learn certain expectations of how the story is supposed to go. Sometimes we're clear on them, and sometimes they're lurking in the shadows of our minds, hidden yet still holding tremendous sway on how we understand events and expect them to unfold. For example, I don't know anyone who has the rule/expectation that when we get married, it's supposed to be good for a couple years, then go downhill, and then one of us bails out so we can go find someone else. That's not the rule...at least not for marriage. Same with having kids. Nobody figures when they have a child that the rule is they'll be happy and healthy and then struck down by an accident or illness after 15 or 25 or 45 years. That's not the rule we learned.

When something huge like this happens and violates the rules, it shakes the very foundation of how we understand ourselves, our lives, and reality. All of a sudden, the things that we were so confident of, often to the point of never before having considered they might not be true, lose that immortal credibility. It's like seeing one who we thought of as a god suddenly dropped to his knees, whining and drooling from a sharp kick to the ol' family jewels. Sure, he might get back up and prevail, but the belief in the invulnerability of that god's been shaken. Or like seeing the sun suddenly pop up in the west and zip across the sky to set in the north. Even if it only happens once, it takes an idea that'd been so solid as to make the hardest rock look like heated marshmallow and puts a crack into it. And it brings up a hideous question:  HOW MANY OTHER RULES AREN'T QUITE SO?

For me, it's shaken a lot of those things up. The one that comes immediately to mind relates to getting married again. How do I know she won't leave me again, whether it's for someone else or by ending her life? How do I know that, even if I put everything I can into making the relationship work well, that she will do the same? The simple answer, which still sometimes makes me feel sick, is this: I. DON'T. KNOW.

The only rules I can look to that seem that solid anymore are the ones I choose for myself. What kind of man do I want to be? How do I want to treat others? How do I handle my mistakes? What do I choose to believe? What do I hold to be important? That's about it. The rest have fallen prey to Heisenberg, to a greater or lesser extent they hold uncertainty to them.

In the book Escape From Hell, the story is an extension of a re-telling of Dante's inferno. This time, the main character Alan isn't the one being guided out. He's the one who's gone back to try to guide others out. On the way, he's confronted by doubts about who he was, how he'd judged others, whether or not he was making a difference. The only rule he was able to hold to was needing to find out if it was true that anyone could get out of Hell. Not that everyone should get out or deserved to get out. Just that they could, if they were willing to do and change what they had to. Along the way, there were heartbreaking losses of those who were willing to struggle free of their torments, only to fall prey to other situations that dragged them in and held them bound just as firmly, if not moreso. In the end, it came down to his own rule for himself, that he would stay to find out if it was true that any soul could be redeemed...if willing.

I still find myself, my thinking, swayed by the old rules. They push on how I SHOULD look at things, how I SHOULD expect them to go. It's scary to have to remind myself that those old rules aren't the bedrock principles I'd believed them to be. And yet I can't shake the feeling that, if I don't release my tendency to clutch at and cling to them, they'll keep me bound in my own Hell. Whether made of velvet or steel, chains are still chains.

And I want to be free.

Signs of Healing

In the last week, I've had two things happen that pointed out to me that I've made more progress than I might have thought. One had to do with a co-worker talking about how her marriage isn't going so well. Some of what she talked about, specifically feeling distanced and alienated and estranged from her husband, reminded me a lot of how things were with me darlin' wife, especially in the last few years. It was hard to hear her talk about that. And it wasn't easy to let her know that I understood and tell her about some of what I'd gone through that was similar.

The other has to do with the sudden death of the younger brother of one of my best friends. It was a hit-and-run accident, one of those things no-one saw coming or ever expected. Not surprising, my friend is hurting right now. It doesn't help having to plan out the memorial and figure out how to get to where his brother lived and having to figure out what to do with his stuff....and be there for other folks around him, too. I feel kind of helpless to do much for him, given that he's several hundred miles from here, and the city where his brother lived is just as far in the other direction. I'm glad I was able to at least provide a reality check and let him know that the stuff he's thinking and the reactions he's having are pretty normal for an insane situation like this. Again, it reminded me all too well of the time after Ariel died when all that stuff had to get figured out. And it also makes me grateful for all the people that were around me to help me through it, too. I still can't imagine that I would've made it through that without their help and support.

See, what these two things have shown me is that I am doing at least somewhat better. Even though it hurt to hear what they're going through, I was able to stay in the conversation with them. I was able to share some of what I've been through and thought and felt and done...the good and not-so-good. And though it stirred some things up for me, it hasn't left me a raw, shredded wreck afterward. Sure, I don't feel great. I'm not kicking my heels or cheerfully running to the next tasks on my list. But I'm not lost in my own maelstrom of anger and fear and confusion and sadness and resentment and grief, either. I'm bouncing back from that stuff faster...a lot faster. I take that to mean I've done some healing, that I've built up some strength and resilience over the last two-and-a-half years. And I'm good with that.

I'm not done on my journey. But I can see where I've made progress. And if I can help others along their way, too, then it gives some meaning to all this beyond just doing it for my own survival.

And maybe it's helping bring me darlin' wife's spirit some peace, seeing that I am healing up, that she didn't utterly destroy me when she ended herself. I'd really hope so.

Ending A Life

When me darlin' wife left this world, we had two cats. The younger one was one she'd bought at a local pet store that we really liked. He was special, as she'd previously sworn she'd never get another kitten at a pet store. She'd rather go to a shelter where there were plenty of perfectly good cats who were in much more dire straits and more desperately needed good homes. And yet, on this one day, somehow this little guy charmed her right away. As soon as I saw her point out to the clerk the one that'd caught her attention, when he brought him out and handed him to her, when the kitten just draped the upper half of him onto her shoulder contentedly....I knew we'd just gotten another cat. She named him Zen, and he's still with me now.

The older one was one we'd found as a tiny, timy kitten in the back yard about a year after we moved into the house. There used to be feral cats in the neighborhood, and our best guess was that a mother cat had moved her litter and somehow forgot this last little one. She was young enough when we found her that the vet wasn't sure she'd survive. Her eyes weren't open yet. At the time, she weighed about four ounces and was about half the size of my hand. We named her Moses because she was a foundling (and we didn't realize at the time that she was really a She). When we learned her gender, we just nicknamed her “Mo.”

Mo was my cat. Oh, she liked both of us well enough, and Ariel loved her, too. But she was my cat. At night, she'd sleep next to me. When it got to the point that Ariel & I weren't sleeping in the same room much anymore, Mo would almost always come and curl up next to me. She'd let me brush her out or clip her nails much more easily. And she got to be a big cat, too. At her heaviest, she weighed in at about 18.5 pounds, and it didn't feel like it was flab, either. It just seemed that she was a solid lump of CAT. When she'd come to greet me when I came home from work, it would always warm my heart.

Mo ended up developing diabetes. I've had to wonder if it had some to do with how we'd fed her from the get-go. The vet said it also could've been a genetic predisposition; there was no way to tell. But it was there. For awhile, it was controllable with insulin shots, which she accepted without any crying or complaints or resistance. For a time after Ariel's death, it even seemed to go into remission. She did OK without the shots, and I was just careful to feed her good food and control how much she got. But then the symptoms came back. And they kept getting worse, despite going back on the insulin and going up to some kind of scary doses. Toward the end, the vet said that there was more testing we could do to see if it was being aggravated by something else, but that it'd be expensive and honestly kind of a long shot. Not to mention there wouldn't be any guarantee that, if there were something else found, that it'd be something that could be corrected or at least controlled. And all the while, Mo was having a harder time getting up or walking around. The functioning in her back legs was failing. She was also loosing control of her bladder, which was making for some pretty spectacular messes. It was horrifying to realize that there were times her urine had gotten through the cracks in the wood floor and showered down on parts of the basement.

So about 10 months ago I had the vet put her to sleep.

I was very torn about it. On the one hand, I desperately did not want to lose someone else I loved. I'd just lost my wife; wasn't that enough? I didn't want to imagine what it would be like to come home from work and not have Mo there to greet me. Or to feel her flop down next to my calves as I was trying to sleep. I didn't want to have to deal with another major change that would require an additional painful period of adjustment. Hell, I didn't want to go back to having crying jags again. I know it's OK to cry and that sometimes it helps to get the feelings out—and yes, it's OK for MEN to cry, too—but I have never liked the experience of it.

And at the same time, I could see that Mo was suffering. It was hard for her to get up. It was hard for her to walk around. She couldn't jump up onto the couch anymore. She had to be lifted up, and it was hard for her to jump back down. Hell, she was having a hard time getting up onto the futon I sleep on, which was only about at her head in height. When she'd end up peeing on the floor somewhere, she looked so horribly embarrassed, at least at the time. She was as affectionate as ever, but her energy level was just not the same. I know she still loved me and was glad to be around me, but it was getting harder and harder to see the things that were making her unhappy, too.

It finally came down to it that I couldn't justify avoiding my own fear of more pain and loss by making her suffer to keep her around. I had to let her go. And one of the hardest things to accept about it was that it was as much for ME as it was for her.

Doing that changed some of how I looked at my wife's suicide. Oh, I still felt angry about it. And I still thought (and currently think) that she hadn't done all she reasonably could have to get help for what was going on for her. At the same time, it also gave me a glimpse of what it's like to see suffering going on that doesn't seem to have any good end to it...where there's no hope seen to be grasped. The details and circumstances are different, and in some very important ways. I can't help thinking, though, that the feelings are much the same. And when those get strong enough, they end up running roughshod over reason.

I still miss Mo, in some ways more than the person me darlin' wife had become at the end (and, boy, is THAT a bitch to have to admit!!). But I am grateful for the laughter and love she brought into my life...and the final lesson 'n' shift of perspective she provided when I let her go.

Thank you, Mo.

Shaving and Grief

One of the things I decided to do after me darlin' wife left this world is to learn how to shave with a straight razor. I'd been interested off and on for quite some time, but this time around I finally got into putting the energy and effort into it. I know it's something that I pretty much only get to do on the weekends. It's not something I can do quickly in the morning before going to work. And, in some respects, it's a lot easier to use an electric or one of the disposable, good-quality razors you can find in a drug store or Wal-Mart. Still, there's something appealing to me about developing that skill. It's hope men shaved for a long, LONG time. And, heck, if the world ever does go to Hell, I'll still be able to shave. Heh...

Part of the process for me has been also learning how to sharpen and maintain a razor. I've known how to sharpen knives for a long time. That's been really handy, especially keeping my kitchen cutlery in good shape. The technique used for sharpening a razor, though, is substantially different from what you'd use for a kitchen or pocket knife. The edge that's needed is thinner so that it can be sharper. I've been working on that, too. And, in the process, I've gotten to learn that there's a big difference in how a razor operates when it's sharp versus when it's not. When it's not sharp enough, it is substantially more uncomfortable to shave. Sometimes even painful as it's more tearing hair rather than cutting smoothly through it. It's also true that it's far more likely that a dull razor will cut you. And that's no fun.

However, a properly sharpened razor has one major issue to it: IT WILL CUT YOU AND YOU WON'T EVEN FEEL IT.

As I'd thought about it, that has reminded me of dealing with grief in some ways. There have been plenty of things that surprised me, that brought up a lot more pain or anger or fear or confusion than I'd foreseen or expected. They were things I walked into, thinking nothing of them, and then found myself bleeding emotionally. And it's taken awhile to figure out just why that happened. It's a similar challenge in learning to shave with a straight razor, not having the immediate pain to let you know instantly when you've done something wrong. You get to figure it out in retrospect...and hopefully get it right.

Along with that, progress does come. I deal with things better now than I used to. Even the hard things generally don't mess with me as bad as they used to. Sure, sometimes I still get surprised. Sometimes handling things better means they hurt half as much, or maybe half as long. A fair chunk of that has come from trying to look back over what's come up, what I've done, and figuring out how to do it better. Now, when I do a good shave, I'm proud of how I look, how my face feels. Now, when I deal with something that was hard better than I did before, I've got some confidence in being able to handle things.

It doesn't mean there's not more to go through. But it helps bolster my faith with belief based on experience that I can make it all the way down....and eventually out.

Blind Spots and Soup

I was talking with one of the widows in the local group a couple of days ago. The one thing I've learned well in this whole nightmare is that it is a VERY GOOD IDEA to call your support folks when you're not doing well. Even if it's just to vent, it's a good thing. You don't need to even be able to clearly articulate all of the myriad threads and interwoven dynamics that are resulting in a sense of malaise and dysphoria (OK, I think my thesaurus just abdicated....). You sometimes only need to say that you feel miserable and have someone else hear it out.

This particular time, I was dealing with feeling lonely and sad and scared. What was really bugging me about it was that I couldn't put my finger on why. I've been pretty used to having a decent handle on understanding what's going on with me. It doesn't always mean I can do much about it; often, sadly, it has nothing to do with me doing much about it, at least at the time. But it's less crazy-making, at least in my head, when I have some sense of what's going on. This time around, that was not happening, and it was making me even more edgy and anxious and irritable and prone to having four-letter conversations with God while standing on my porch smoking a cigarette.

Having a little bit of sense left, I got ahold of, as I said, one of the local widows. She was one of the first I'd met out here. While there are lots of differences between us, I've always felt we've been able to relate quite well. I figured she'd be a good one to talk to, just to be able to put it out there and have someone say that they understand, that it makes sense to them, that I don't sound insane.

So my jaw hit the floor when, about three minutes into the conversation, she told me what she thought was going on, and it felt right.

I'd known we all have blind spots. Expecting we're all going to understand ourselves perfectly is about like expecting someone to be able to see the back of their own eyeball unaided. At the same time, the idea that I've had a good handle on myself (relatively speaking), has been a comfort. It's helped me get through the last couple-years-and-then-some. And, to be honest, there's a part of me that tends to think that some of my inner workings aren't the easiest to understand. That they'd take some explaining. So it was stunning and mind-numbing and humbling to have someone else, someone young enough to potentially be my daughter (hey, I could've started that early!) nail what's going on with me that quickly & easily. The shorthand for it? I want my mommy to come and make me soup.

No, not literally. I mean, not that I'd mind getting to visit with my Mom, and she makes some killer soup. But that was the shorthand. The more complete explanation is that I'm going through some scary stuff. I've had to go to a cardiologist. My heart isn't beating regularly. The last test is on hold as the cardiologist and the insurance company battle it out to see how much of it I'd be expected to pay for. And I'm still kind of floating in limbo with regard to just what the Hell it is, how serious it is, and what can/should be done about it. And that's all scary.

My friend made the point that, even 2.5 years out from my wife's death, I'd had a long time (almost 15 years) to get used to having someone there on a regular basis. Even folks with mental illness can pull themselves together enough and set aside their own crap enough when someone important to them is in crisis. Admittedly, that doesn't always last long. But at least they do serve as someone who's there. So when something like this that's serious and scary comes up, it both highlights the absence and also triggers the immediate, reflexive wanting to find that person who we've gotten used to being there...and kinda makes us flip out when they're not there. She compared it to the first time someone's gotten sick after going away to college. Sure, you might have friends around you could call in a pinch, but deep down, what you really want is for your mommy to come and make you soup.

The moral of today's story is twofold. 1) We all have blind spots. Having done lots of work on yourself helps reduce those, but it also, in some ways, makes them trickier and more intense. It gets easier to think they're not there because we've already figured ourselves out. And this kind of deep loss and pain and grief just aggravates all that. 2) No one makes it through Hell and out without some guidance. The angels who come to point the way can take a lot of different shapes and appear in a lot of different ways. But ultimately no-one does it all on their own. And there's nothing at all wrong with asking for or accepting help. Otherwise, it's far too easy to get lost in some of the bewildering and bewitching domains we have to travel to get down and out.

Pain and Holding Space

There's two things on my mind today, and I'm going to try to fit both into one entry, so please bear with me. One of them has to do with a realization, an insight that came to me a few days ago. See, come the beginning of next month, me darlin' wife will have been gone for 2.5 years. In that time, I've looked at a couple of things in my life and thought that it might be a good idea to change them. It might be good to get out of the house where I live. It's far more space than I need. I'm able to pay for it, but it pretty much means I live paycheck to paycheck. It's also the house we bought together, and where we lived from May of 2003 until February of 2011. That's a lot of time to build up memories. And they're still there. There isn't a room here I can go into where there aren't memories and reminders of her. Some are tougher than others, but they're all there. By extension, I've thought the same about moving out of the city where I live. We were together here for almost 15 years, and there's not a lot of places to go that don't remind me of her. Like the house, some are stronger about that than others, but there's not much of anywhere to go nearby that doesn't have the potential to bring memories up.

Then there's my job. There are a lot of things I like about it. There are several I really dislike, and some of those have cropped up since me darlin' wife took her life. I'd miss some of the colleagues I have. I'd miss doing the kind of work I do. I'd miss the stability of it. I certainly wouldn't miss the politics, or some of the unethical incompetents. I know I'm not perfect, but I do take pride in doing my job well...and it is both painful and infuriating seeing others coming in and bungling the same kind of work. It's worse when they've been told what to do (or not do) and refuse to change. Bah! Enough about that. Regardless, if I ended up moving, I'd have to look for a new job.

I'd done a bit of job hunting. I'd talked to a realtor before. I'd cleared out a lot of her stuff from the house. But in the last year, I've found myself unable to approach working on any of that. Sure, the thought has come to mind, but it always seems to slip away or get replaced by something else. Or I don't have the energy. Or I'm feeling sick. Or I need to do something else. I'd thought that once I was past the dark corridor from the end of September (our wedding anniversary) at least to the beginning of February (when she died), I might snap out of it. It hasn't worked out that way, though. That inertia, that lethargy, that resistance has continued. Up until a couple of days ago, I honestly had no idea why. I wasn't sure if I was just still running, if maybe I'd managed to “break” something in my heart or my brain. In my darker moments, I wondered if maybe this was all God was going to let me have now, and I should just be thankful there's not less.

And then, in one of the bleaker moments, one thing hit me. It wasn't a flash like lightning. It was a bit slower and a bit harder to accept. It was like the sudden flare of orange-red when the volcano on the far side of the valley suddenly blows its top at midnight. And the idea that came was: on some level, some part of me has been trying to hold & preserve a space for her to come back and fill. That thought rang true. It made my guts drop. For a little while, it banished any other thought from my head. And, dammit, it fit. No wonder I hadn't done more to sell the house. No wonder I hadn't boxed up or cleared out the last of her stuff. No wonder I hadn't been more active in looking for another job. If, on a gut level, some part of me still didn't want to accept that she was gone, it'd make sense to try to hold a space for her to come back to. A room for her to stay in. A house she could find. It's the same kind of logic that drives acts of sympathetic magic, where you do something to one part of a connected whole and it affects it all....even if all the pieces aren't in the same place.

The other, related idea has to do with pain. See, I'm not so sure that I would've been open to an idea like that if I hadn't been in such a bleak, painful place. I know several people that just want me to cheer up. I'm not sure if they really believe that's what's best for me or if it's just easier for them when I'm not hurting and so they want my pain to go away...for their sakes. Regardless, I don't think being happy or comfortable would have led—or maybe driven—me to that idea. I believe it took hurting and being sad and confused and afraid. Most importantly, I believe it took being willing to sit there with those feelings and not let them drive me away for that to happen. It was embarrassing, deeply embarrassing, to have to admit that might be the case. After all the work I've done on myself in the last couple years, and as much as I've talked about that work, that seems like a huge oversight. How could I not see that? And how could I be so immature, so needy, so insecure as to have that go on with me? My ego and pride took a real pounding when that idea came through. It still hurts to think about it now, though having had some time for it to settle in, it's not as bad.

There was a psychologist I knew once who'd said that, in therapy, he would always go to what hurts. It would usually be resisted, but it would also usually be either the core issue itself or the key to getting there. And being happy and cheerful doesn't have the same power to get us to move as being uncomfortable does. It sure doesn't for me. Those folks can be frustrated with me or pissed off at me when I don't suddenly become cheerful and positive when they want me to. I'm the one who has to get through this, and if it means hurting or being afraid or being sad....so be it. Much though I still love me darlin' wife, I will not follow the road she took. And I can't see living a life where I'm trapped and tormented by things I don't want to face because that'd mean not being happy or positive right now. Fuck that. The facade cracks, no matter how well it's maintained, and those demons are there, eating away from the inside. I'd rather get to where I'm whole and intact, in my heart and mind and soul, than to just look like and getting good at pretending I'm happy....while I'm decaying and dying inside.

Getting insights like those used to seem like something that'd make things suddenly better somehow. I'd understand what's going on, I'd have a handle on it, I'd have some control. I'd know what to do. Things would be come different, better. As I've gone through the last years, I've gotten to find out that's rarely the case. Sure, it makes things clearer, but it doesn't do anything, in and of itself, to change them. That's another issue in and of itself. It's the difference between seeing there's a way out of Hell.

And walking it.

Emotions and DGI's

One of the favorite terms I've learned from some of the other widows and widowers I've gotten to know is the DGI. This refers to the rather clueless group of people who say really thoughtless, insensitive, unhelpful things....and have no idea how what they're saying is actually coming across or affecting people. I tend to believe that most of the time, DGI's are well-meaning and truly just living up to their name: Don't Get It's.

One of the main areas where this seems to manifest is in dealing with issues revolving around emotions. These are people who will end up saying things like, “Well, it could always be worse,” or “I'm sure you'll end up feeling better,” or “At least you still have__________.” One of the worst is “I know how you're feeling.” And it really doesn't help when they say things like, “Oh, just cheer up” or “You shouldn't dwell on that so much” or “Look on the bright side.” As I said before, I think they're generally meaning well, and very often don't understand why what they say instead seems to make us worse...more angry, more withdrawn, more depressed.

A good parallel came to mind recently that helps make sense out of these folks a little further. Oddly enough, it came from physics. See, the DGI's are just like folks who only learned Newtonian physics. You know Sir Isaac Newton, right? The one who kids are taught discovered gravity 'cause he sat under a tree and got hit in the head by an apple? He codified most of the basic physics that we deal with in our day-to-day lives. Things that are matter are solid objects. They sit still unless something makes them move, and then it takes something to slow them down or change direction again. Space and time are consistent, constant aspects of the universe. Things are either matter or energy. Things can't occupy the same space at the same time. All of those basic, humdrum rules that define what our “normal” lives are generally like.

For those of us dealing with a major loss—in my case the suicide of my wife—we're not running on just those laws anymore. We're now governed by the laws of quantum physics/mechanics as well. We get to deal with all those additional fun things like things not being only matter or only energy....but instead pretty much everything being “Mattergy.” Space and time can be bent and folded, like by the massive gravity field of a black hole. Things are connected in ways that aren't immediately apparent, like paired electrons matching each other's spins, even when they're separated by quite a distance. With some things not being able to know BOTH where it is AND where & how fast it's going (Heisenberg's uncertainty principle).

Those laws affect how we function, how we feel, what we remember, what we feel we can and cannot do. Things that seem utterly peripheral can evoke very intense emotions. Things that ordinarily would be the type to evoke happiness also bring up sadness or fear or resentment. Being around some of those reminders warp what we're capable of feeling, pulling and twisting it down into depths of sadness that are really hard to climb out of. And it sometimes doesn't seem to take much to get a strong mood going, or to make one suddenly shift in an entirely different direction.

When we've had to live with it for awhile, we kind of understand what's going on. I know I can't always predict what's going to set things off or how they'll go, but I've got a better sense for it. I've gotten a better sense for what things actually do get better by just focusing on something else for awhile, and what things I need to focus on and go deeper into in order to get through. I've at least gotten used to having intense memories and emotions sparked off by things that seemed utterly inconsequential and, at least on first glance, unrelated to much of anything else. And I can at least relate to the other widows and widowers I've gotten to know when they have the same kinds of things going on, too.

For the DGI's, it suddenly seems like we're talking about the world having turned upside-down and inside-out. Imagine, if you would, suddenly finding out that the world is really run by the kinds of rules you'd get if you crossed Alice in Wonderland with the Twilight Zone. Most of the time, when we hear people talk about that kind of stuff, the first thought is to wonder if they've taken their meds....or if they should be on some. Or if, perhaps, the boys with the butterfly nets and the nifty jackets with the extra-long sleeves with a plethora of buckles shouldn't be called in.

In our cases, that's the reality in which we have to function. And someone who's never had to walk it isn't likely to understand, at least not without a really open mind and a fair amount of help. And, instead, they mistake the journey down through Hell as running from reality or self-flagellation.

And not the way through to get out.

Choice

I'd been thinking about this topic off and on and, up until now, there were two things that hadn't come together. One was knowing what I'd want to say about it. I've seen a lot of opinions out there, and it seems like it's a question a lot of people feel very strongly about. I also wasn't sure where I cane down on it, and I'd at least need to be clear on that. The other thing was the willingness to potentially upset some folks with my opinion. Well, as recently I seem to have been struck with hoof-'n'-mouth disease, it seems like as good a time as any. So, here we go. The topic for today is choice and how it relates to suicide.

Before I get into it, I want to start with a disclaimer. I know that some people who get really caught up in this question are the ones who're dealing with losing a loved one to suicide. In that case, they've got a total pass on it in my opinion, at least for however long they're dealing with the loss & grief. They're not the ones who I have a harder time dealing with. I get how those questions don't leave folks alone, how there's that burning need to know, one way or other, if choice is the deciding factor. It's other folks who I have a harder time dealing with around this issue.

Some people say that it's certainly a matter of choice. People choose what they do (or don't do), what they say, where they go. Our legal system is based on that, that people are responsible for what they choose and do. That's why, at least technically, suicide is the one crime for which someone simply CANNOT be charged if they pull it off, but theoretically could be charged if they tried and failed. That idea of choice is why it takes going through a rather intense process to get someone involuntarily committed to a mental institution, at least for any length of time, or to be force-medicated. There's some evidence to back up the idea that choice is certainly involved in suicide, like the following:

• People decide how they're going to kill themselves (or at least try), and they choose different means. Some of it depends on what they can get access to. However, almost everyone has access to a sharp knife/blade, a length of wire or rope, and chemicals or drugs that are highly toxic, especially if taken internally. People in similar circumstances don't always take the same approach. Ergo, there's an element of choice.
  
  
• Maybe the strongest piece of evidence has to do with how long folks who attempt or commit suicide were depressed and hurting beforehand. While with some it's an impulsive, spur-of-the-moment act, with most there's some degree of consideration and deliberation. Despite feeling hopeless, they hang in there for awhile before acting, sometimes for a long time. The reasons they do so vary, but regardless it points to the choice to act or not act.

Other people say that it's not a matter of choice; it's a matter of mental illness. Research over the last several decades has shown substantially higher rates of suicide in those with major mental illnesses, such as major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and some of the personality disorders. There's a reason those are called “major mental illnesses.” People say and do things they wouldn't ordinarily when they suffer from those conditions. There is a legal defense of insanity that points to the idea of someone who's suffering from severe enough mental illness not knowing what they did. There's also evidence for the idea that it's about mental illness:

• As mentioned above, the suicide rates are dramatically higher for those who're diagnosed with serious mental illness. In some cases, going back and reading over journals or correspondence suggests that people who hadn't been diagnosed with major mental illness likely would have been. For example, there's been some studies suggesting people with borderline personality disorder have suicide rates roughly 400% that of the “average” people.
  
  
• One of the symptoms of depression is a sense of pessimism and hopelessness, the idea things just won't get better. That goes along very well with the concept of suicide, where it's taking a permanent exit from one's circumstances or life. People usually value at least some things in their lives enough to stay around for, even in hard circumstances. Getting to the point of not valuing anything enough to keep trying is pretty outside of what's considered “normal.” And that's part of how mental illness is defined.
  
  
• When treatment for major mental illness is provided and followed through with, the rates of suicides and suicide attempts go down significantly. That's been seen enough times to be able to say that it's not just a fluke or accident. There's something to it.

So, there's evidence on both sides of this debate. Which one wins? How hard do people press their points, either reinforcing their evidence and position or undermining that of the “other side”?? Some people get pretty...intense about this. I think a lot of that's because people either have personal investment in it, or see the money tied up in it....or both. Regardless, the arguments/discussions get pretty heated at times, and on both sides there are people who are insisting they have The Right Answer!

The problem is, I've been coming to believe that they're asking the wrong question.

I don't think it's a black-and-white, yes-or-no kind of issue. Is suicide chosen or not? I think that's the wrong question. I think that it's more an issue of how much of choice and how much of mental illness play in...and how they interact. Is it possible to choose to not act toward ending one's life? I think so. However, that doesn't say anything at all about HOW HARD THAT CHOICE CAN BECOME. I think that's where the mental illness comes in. It makes it harder and harder to see the options that might be there, or to believe they'll help/work. For anyone who's experienced significant pain over an extended period of time, they'll also get it how that just wears a person down, saps energy and resolve, slowly takes the color out of the world. It's one of the reason why prescription pain medications are some of the most widely abused drugs; people get to the point where they're willing to do damn near anything to make the hurting stop. In that case, it's a continuum of things people might do to get it to stop, with the ultimate end being suicide. 'Cause there's no coming back or other options after death. At least not in this life.

One of the things it helped me to do, when I accepted both are involved, was have more compassion for her pain and more respect for her strength. I'd gotten to read some of her journal files, the ones that weren't massively encrypted, and found out how long she'd been depressed and hurting. How long that had been weighing on her, dragging her down. And I also got to see how long she had gone on and chosen to keep going. She was thorough and thoughtful enough about killing herself, that there had to have been a good stretch of time where she was thinking about it AND DECIDING NOT TO DO IT, at least not then. And that kept getting more difficult. And she kept choosing to stay around, as long as she could. And when it finally hurt too bad to keep choosing to stay, it was because of the depression and anxiety and anger and everything else that robbed her world and her life of comfort, of color, of worth. Of hope.

Like I said in the beginning, I get how those who're still hurting and grieving focus on the one or the other. When you're hurting and empty and confused and scared and angry like that, it's too hard to look at bigger, more complicated questions. But it's ultimately not as simple as a yes-or-no, this-or-that kind of issue. Both play into it. And until we figure out how to deal with both, it's going to continue to be a problem that isn't going to change.

For me, being able to accept that I'd been asking the wrong question was another leg of the journey. A little farther down. A little closer to the way out.

Rules Break Down

One of the things I've felt and heard from other widows and widowers is feeling like we're falling apart, like we're going crazy. It comes up in regard to a lot of different things: paying bills, going to work, talking to friends, trying to have fun, watching movies or TV, trying to (and often having a hard time with) sleep, listening to music. Things we used to be able to handle just fine are suddenly...different. We can't handle them the same. We have reactions to things that, at least at the time, don't seem to make sense. Intellectually, we know we're grieving and dealing with a catastrophic loss, but on a more visceral level, we wonder just what the Hell is wrong with us.

One thing has been coming to mind lately for part of why that is. See, growing up we all learned certain rules. They're the rules we use to get along in the world, to negotiate dealing with others, to take care of our responsibilities. They tend to be pretty universal, though the extent to which we buy into them can vary. They're often so simple we hardly ever think about them. Take your turn. Say “please” and “thank you” and “excuse me.” Work hard and you'll do well at your job. Treat people nicely, with at least respect if not kindness, and you'll be able to get along. Be a good boy/girl, with the usually unspoken implication that if you do things will go well. Do a good job. Don't hit people, even if you really want to or it seems like they really deserve it. Things we generally haven't had to consciously think about since they were first taught to and impressed upon us. With all of them, there's an implicit expectation that if we follow them, things will be well and we'll get to be happy. At first, we probably learned to follow them to avoid getting punished. Over time, most people move beyond just following them to avoid punishment to see the reasons why they're good rules. They generally do lead to good outcomes for us, which is what pretty much everyone wants (though the ideas of what “good outcomes” might be do vary).

When someone you love dies, whether it's suddenly or not, then it suddenly seems that at least some of those rules are suspect. They didn't work. Even when the death is natural causes there's suddenly a not-so-good outcome. When it's the result of an accident, it's a little worse. When it's the result of someone else's choices and actions, worse yet. In the case of suicide, when it's the actions of the person who died that brought it about, it's even worse. The rules seem to have broken, because they didn't result in what we'd come to believe they should do.

For me, one thing I've come to realize is I'd had a rule I'd been following that I hadn't even consciously realized or been aware of. It was another one that, on the surface of it, seems to make a lot of sense. If you love someone and commit to them, in my case through marriage, then you take care of them. The implicit piece of it was the expectation that they'd take care of you and you'd both get to be happy. Sounds good, doesn't it? And, in truth, it worked for quite awhile. That made it hard to deal with how things changed, when her depression and anxiety and anger had her withdrawing and being more sullen and less able (yeah, I know, some think that should probably read “willing,” but that's a post for another time) to do things for me. The rule had worked before, dammit, so if I kept following it, it should pay off again. Right? At a level below my conscious awareness, at least at the time, that was how I saw things.

And then she killed herself. The rule hadn't worked. I'd cared for and taken care of her, and she hadn't done the same for me.  Not at the end.

All of a sudden, a fundamental part of the world didn't make sense anymore. It'd be something like suddenly waking up to find out that what's defined as “left” and “right” would change at random intervals throughout the day. Think that doesn't sound like much? Imagine trying to drive, with the laws and rules we have set up about what kind of turn you can do when and who has the right of way, and suddenly not being able to know which is which for sure. If you're really paying attention, you'll get some scares and close calls. Odds are, you're likely to end up in some fender-benders, and be shocked to find out that it was your fault.

And when one of those fundamental rules breaks down, it brings with it some fear that maybe the others aren't as solid as they'd previously seemed. It suddenly makes the world seem like a scarier place. It'd make anyone question how well they're able to be in touch with reality, to deal with even normal, day-to-day stuff, much less bigger things. Suddenly there's a lot more conscious attention and energy being focused on rules that previously operated at pretty much a reflex level, and that's exhausting. Think it isn't? Try tying your shoes while paying conscious attention to EVERY MOVEMENT OF THE LACES AS YOU DO SO. Not just what you're doing at the moment but what it's setting up to do. Doing something that you've done on autopilot for years (or more) with that kind of conscious effort and attention isn't so easy, and it's tiring. Want another example? Think about shaving, but with your OTHER hand (I'm not recommending this, mind you; I put it out there as a mental exercise). What'd previously been automatic and required only slightly more focus and concentration than standing up or putting on pants becomes something much harder and more involved.  And, if you make a mistake (which is more likely), it's gonna hurt.  Now think about having to function the same way almost all the time. Think that might wear someone down, make them wonder about and doubt themselves, make them feel broken?

In time, we get settled with the rules again. It's likely we eventually get to where a fair number of the old rules still apply and go back to reflex level. Others, however, end up having to change. And we get to go through the process of having to pay that conscious attention and put in that focused effort to get them down to that level again. And it's not a linear process. When we're stressed or tired or distracted, we sometimes go back to old habits, even if on a conscious level we know they don't work or apply anymore. That doesn't do much good for the ol' self-confidence, either. It's not a short or easy process. It requires patience and perseverance, even if sometimes that means making time to sit down and cry and feel hopeless or overwhelmed for awhile....and then getting back up and getting going again. Sometimes, that's all we can do, and it's good enough. It fits with an old Chinese proverb: Be not afraid of moving slowly, only of standing still.”

The "Oh, SHIT!!" Response

I hope y'all will bear with me in this entry. I'm starting with some of the stuff I've been reading about that's made some more sense of things for me. I'll get to the more personal, applicable-to-real-life stuff in a little bit. Hang in there, OK?

As human beings, we've essentially got three brains crammed into our skulls. The first one I'd call the “Amoeba Brain.” This is the oldest part, the one that's responsible for keeping us alive. It does things like make sure that our hearts keep beating, we keep breathing, we absorb nutrition and get rid of waste, etc. Any living thing that has anything like a nervous system has this part. If this part breaks down, well, we're done. Pretty immediately, too. The next part that evolved is what I've heard called the “Puppy Brain.” This is the part of the brain that focuses on things like knowing to be afraid of dangerous things, getting angry to deal with threats we don't need to run away from to survive (or can't run away from), and to want to have connection and interaction with others of our kind, and dealing with more than just making copies of ourselves. Among other things, this is where emotions live and do their things. This kind of brain is present most obviously in mammals, though some of those functions can also be seen in some other animals. The newest part of the brain is the “Person Brain.” This is where we actually think about things, we compare memories of how things were to what's going on now, to consider the possible outcomes and consequences of potential courses of action. When people say that you should “use your head,” this is the part of the brain they mean.

The piece I've been thinking most about lately is the “Puppy Brain.” We developed those functions and parts because they'd give us an edge with regard to survival. If we hang out together, we tend to have better odds of surviving. Groups can handle bigger threats better than single individuals. It's also more likely that our young will survive and grow. It also means that we don't have to have everything hardwired into our DNA. See, that emotional stuff lets us learn things from others. When we're young, we pay attention to others around us. If they get scared by something, we learn to be scared of it, too. It makes us more flexible and adaptable than, say, plants, which have to have all of that stuff coded into the genetics. Incidentally, it makes sense out of why plants in general have so many more genes than we do. And that part of the brain keeps on learning throughout our lives. That way, we can continue to adapt to and deal with novel circumstances and situations.

Where it can get problematic is when the “Puppy Brain” creates what I call the “Oh, SHIT!!” association with something. See, that response makes sense in regard to real threats to our survival, like suddenly walking up on a tiger. When a threat's that strong, that emotional coloring gets stamped hard onto those cues and memories. The problem for us is twofold. One is that a lot of stuff we deal with in day-to-day life isn't really that serious of a threat. There's actually relatively few things we run into as we go along that's likely to kill us quickly. Not like when we were still hanging out in the trees or living in caves, anyway. So having that permanent stamp on there isn't as adaptive as it used to be. It's especially problematic when it's not just that specific set of circumstances that evoke that response, but things that we see as similar enough to remind us of them. The second part of the problem is strongly related to that. No other animal really thinks about what's going on the way we do. So those “Puppy Brain” responses are only based on what it's got going on around it at the time. Our ability to think and remember, though, means that it's more likely a wider range of things can spark off that “Oh, SHIT!!” response. Seeing or hearing something that reminds you of a particularly intense crisis can be enough. For me, one time it was seeing someone in an airplane who, at least at first glance, looked just like my late wife. Suddenly my heart was pounding, I was sweating, my muscles were shaking and my guts tied themselves in knots...all the same things that physically get the body ready to either run from or fight off a real danger. She was about two-thirds my size and didn't even know I was there. She was no danger to my continued life. But the “Puppy Brain” reacted anyway.

That leads to two points. One of them is that trying to be rational and reasonable doesn't work in dealing with those responses. Look on the Internet and it's easy to find videos of puppies and kittens freaking out over their reflections. Now imagine trying to intellectually explain to a small animal about the principles of reflection to get them to calm down. Yeah....good luck with that. Well, guess what? We've got that part of us, too. And, when it sparks off the “Oh, SHIT!!” response, trying to intellectually explain things is just as useful. To me, that makes a lot more sense out of some of the reactions I've had that have made me wonder sometimes if I've been losing my mind. Walking through a grocery store she and I had gone to twice suddenly sets off panic. Well, my “Puppy Brain” got reminded of losing a critical connection, which it interpreted as a threat to survival, and suddenly I'm caught halfway between a panic attack and a psychotic episode. And much though people around me care and want to help & be there, it's not always easy to get it that the usual, rational way we talk about and deal with stuff just isn't going to make a difference.

The other point is that it's made a lot more sense out of some of the things I'd found myself doing over and over again. It seems we all have them, even though they vary from person to person. The common ground in them all is they bring a sense of safety and comfort. There's good reason why some things are called “comfort foods.” They're the ones that have associations of safety and good times for us. Just the taste and texture is enough to evoke that feeling that things are OK. Not the thought that things are OK, but the feeling. The “Puppy Brain” doesn't get thoughts, but it does get feelings. Same with sitting on the couch watching TV or staying in bed under the covers and reading. For some folks it's shopping. For others it's going to the gym and working out. Yet others find it in getting to talk to people, especially those who'll listen and validate what we feel. That's why sometimes we just need someone to hear us out; no advice or fix-it required. Depending on the severity of the crisis, it can take a long time to get the “Puppy Brain” calmed down again. Making the time and space for those things can be critical.

In walking through Hell, we don't just face challenges and barriers that come from outside of ourselves. Some of the torments are driven by parts of who and what we are. To the extent we don't know and understand and accept ourselves, those parts can be turned against us. “Accept” doesn't mean “like.” It just means acknowledge what's there so we can know what it is and how to deal with it. So it's one less thing in the way as we walk down to get out.

Shift Happens

Two days ago, things shifted rather intensely and radically for me. For the first at least year after she died, it was serious work to try to pull up recollections and memories of the good times. The best I could get were like the equivalent of faded black and white photographs. You know the events they captured and commemorate, but they really don't let you see or feel much of it. That's what it was like. Slowly, a bit more of the detail started to come back, but the color still stayed horribly faded and achromatic. I'd said for quite awhile that my hope is to eventually get to where, when I do think about her, it mostly brings up the good memories about what we had and got to share. I know the other stuff will always be there, and there's good reason for it. If nothing else, I've gotten to learn some things I NEVER want to do again. But that's been the hope.

In the last six months or so, a change started coming up. With some of the more intensely positive memories, I started having some of that neurological crap hitting along with them. See, one of the lovely things I've gotten to deal with in the last couple of years is what seems like some neurological dysfunction. It's not constant, so thankfully it doesn't look like it's Parkinson's or anything like that. However, when emotionally overloaded, I'll start shaking like I've got a moderately-bad case of Parkinson's chewing on me like a hyena on a downed monkey. I've also gotten to deal with these brief, intense jerks and twitches. They're almost like mini-seizures except they only last for a fraction of a second and only hit one area or muscle group at a time. It really sucks when they hit my back and shoulders, as that jerks and tosses everything around. Believe me, neither of those are fun while driving! It also sucked in that I haven't been able to find anything I can take that'll do anything about them. Once they hit, I get to just wait it out. I'd mentioned this to my doc, and his take has only been to say that he'd like to see me get to sleeping regularly and then see what happens. Asshole. Added to that, nothing he's offered has helped with sleep, but that's another rant for another time...

Anyway, the stronger the positive emotions associated with those events, the faster and more intense neurological crap I'd get hit with. The ones that would instantly kick off those mini-seizures, ECT-wannabe reactions were the memories of us making love. To make matters even worse, in the last three months or so, while more of those memories have been coming up, they've also been feeling almost alien, like they're not even mine. Like I'm remembering things that someone else lived. How's that something to mess with one's head? You can remember the bad stuff plenty clearly, and your biology won't react much at all, but the memories of the good times feel alien and get your nervous system shorting out like the Xbox some jackass just accidentally inundated in Diet Coke.

And then Friday night....it was different. I got home from work feeling like something was trying to change, to move, but I couldn't for the life of me pin down what. When I just sat with the feeling for a bit, the idea came to mind to go outside by the garage and sit. My outdoor chair's been coming apart for awhile, but hers is still solid. I went out there to see what'd happen, and pretty quickly started having memories of good times we'd shared coming up. One of the first things that struck me was that I could recall them a lot more clearly, and with more of the emotion from the time present. Color had come back to them, even if it's still kind of faded. And, as worried as I was about the neurological crap getting kicked off, there was none of that. Not with ANY of the memories that came up. I'd originally gone out there with the idea of sitting for maybe 15-20 minutes.

When I got back inside, I realized I'd been out there for about an hour and a half.

I was exhausted. It was a helluvan intense experience. Not all of the emotion was fun/positive/up. Some of it was still uncomfortable, like some of the sadness over realizing there won't be those times with her again. But at the same time, it feels like a significant part of me has come back on-line. It's going to take a bit before that feels normal again. I reckon that's a lot of what it's like when a bone's popped out of joint and needs to be re-seated. There's a sense of relief and things being right when it finally gets put back in place, but depending on how long it's been out, it might take awhile for that to feel totally normal and comfortable again.

I can't say for sure what made that happen. I'm pretty sure part of it is just time. There's a lot that the brain and nervous system need to readjust when a spouse is lost suddenly, regardless of why. There's also a lot of emotion there to have to deal with: anger, fear, sadness, guilt, shame, resentment, etc. Those answers don't come quick. At least for me, I've also learned that I can either deal with them now or I can stuff them back. If I do avoid them, though, then the price they demand still comes due...and it's given the chance to build interest. I think some of it's also come from some of the things I've been able to do, like contacting her family, getting ahold of the folks who adopted her daughter, scattering her ashes, and even taking some time on days like our anniversaries or her birthday to honor her. I'd be quite surprised if there's not a lot more to it. Those are just the pieces I see.

Then again, Dante didn't get to see all of Hell. He just got to see what he needed to. And, like him, this seems like one of those rare moments when I can look up at where I started and see how far I've come. I've had my own versions of the desert of raining fire and the river of boiling blood to deal with. Those are done; they hold no terrors for me now. I may have to deal with them again, unlike Dante on his journey, but I know what they are and that I can make it across/through them again if I need to. They don't hold me back anymore.

And each step farther down brings me that much closer to finally getting to the way out.

A Stupid Hose Cart

The weather's finally gotten good enough, and I've gotten tired enough of looking at the wild growth in the lawn, that I got off my ass and did something about it. Thankfully the lawnmower's hanging in there. It was a gift from one of my best friends when we bought this house. He had his wife had flown out for my graduation, and we were able to get the keys to show them where we were going to live. His response was to think for a bit and then buy what's turned out to be a kickass lawn mower for us. I know it was said before, but thank you, boyo.

Anyway, I also figured it'd be a good time to get around to spraying the lawn for dandelions and other weeds. They haven't come up too much yet, and I think I can thank the colder-longer-than-usual winter for that. At the same time, I don't want to push my luck. This isn't a great lawn, and if it's not sprayed soon, there'll be an ongoing, uphill battle to keep the weeds out. So, I clomped out into the yard with my old boots and the stained jeans I keep for working around the house or on the car and got to work. Mowing grass is always more of a pain when it's wet, so that was where I started. Somehow, I wasn't too surprised when I got kind of distractable toward the end. The upside to that, though, was getting to see that the one little rosebush in the back that I'd thought was dead is still hanging in there. She'd been the one to find it years ago, half buried under the tall grass and ivy that seems to replicate about as quickly as cockroaches or pennies. I felt a fierce surge of pride at the little thing for hanging in there and spent about 15 or 20 minutes rather violently clearing out a good space around it. Dammit, I can at least help keep a ROSEBUSH alive!!

Then it was time to spray. Any more, I'm a fan of the ones that you just screw onto the end of your hose, turn on the water, and hose down the lawn. Yeah, it's maybe not the cheapest option. And it's maybe not the most effective. It works, though, and it's something I can handle doing. Good enough. So I went to set the hose up for it, unscrewing the nozzle that's been on there for years 'n' years and pulling it out to its full length off the little cart around which it can wind.

And then I got knocked on my ass.

See, in the last month or two, I've noticed something. There's an online group of widows and widowers (mainly widows) that I've been involved with. One thing I'd noticed is that it seems I pretty frequently see things posted by them that are about the husbands or ex's that are now deceased...and make it very, almost painfully clear that they still love those men. Even with the frustration and pain that also comes through, there's consistently that sense of love there, too. And I haven't felt that as much for her. I've had more good memories come up lately (which has been a whole different struggle), but when I've thought of her aside from that I've felt pretty flat, almost numb. I'm not angry or resentful at her anymore, thank God. But it's bothered me some that it doesn't seem like I love her the way the other widows I know and have read seem to. And, before you ask, yes a fair number of them became widows because of suicide.

I know, I know; everyone grieves in their own way. I'm also not stupid enough to think that what's posted for this group is everything that they're thinking or feeling. I don't put everything up there myself; why in the world should I think they do? Sometimes, though, it's hard to not compare myself to how others seem to be doing, and it's easy to look at the things I think they're doing well and where I fall short.

This does tie into the hose cart. The cart's a pretty simple deal. The base has four wheels lined up. Two supports come up the sides, and they hold a cylinder between them. On the inside of that is a nozzle that one end of the hose can screw into. It's also got another short piece of hose that'll screw into the spigot coming out of the wall. That way, you can use it to store the hose easily. It was something she'd wanted to get when we bought the house. Having to re-coil a hose by hand was more than she was able to do without some real strain, especially when it was full of water. She didn't mind doing yard work; back in those days she loved having a yard and garden area and doing stuff to take care of it all. But the hose needed the little cart for her to be able to work with it and not have it turn into something that felt like drudgery.

At the time, I wasn't real hot on the idea. The cart didn't seem all that solid, as it's made out of plastic. I pretty quickly found out that the nozzle on the inside of the cylinder that the hose screws into leaks. Also, if I pull too hard on the hose to get it to unwind, it can drag the cart across the cement, meaning I need to take it easier and more careful/thoughtful in working with it than I'd really care to. And, to be perfectly honest, it didn't really occur to me at the time what a pain it could be to deal with a hose filled with water for her. I can yank and fling it around with ease, so what's the big deal, right? Yeah, I still had some growing up to do. At the same time, I could tell it was something that was somehow important to her, and I gave in. I'm not sure that I ever thought it was a good idea. It was just one of those compromises I'd made at the time because it wasn't important enough to get into an argument, or even an extended discussion, over.  Even after we'd brought it home and realized that the connection between cart and hose tended to leak, it stayed in the yard.  It wasn't worth arguing over, and it seemed important to her so....OK, it stays.

Looking at it today, though, hit me like a kick from a horse to the sternum. For the first time, I saw it more like she had back then, as something that'd make it easier for her to get to do some of the yard work. It meant she wouldn't have to ask me to come take care of something for her. It was something that gave her some freedom, it helped empower her in her own home. Even if she didn't use it a whole lot, or even at all in the last few years, it was something that made it possible that she could do some things. And, at least at first, that had made her happy.

And it hit me that, if I had to do it all over again, I'd still buy her a stupid hose cart. Just because it made her happy. And that thought & feeling makes me want to cry. Maybe I don't always feel the same sense of love for her that I see in the things a fair number of others write about their lost loved ones. But it doesn't mean that they're entirely gone, either. Maybe just needing to rest for a while more.

It's moments like that, the brief flashes of hope or comfort, that make it possible to keep trekking down through all the layers of this Hell, to eventually confront and walk past my own Devil...and find the way out.