"The worst part about grief is that it's so one-sided, so unrequited. Lost loved ones don't reciprocate, when you get right down to it. You try to convince yourself that they do. But [he] hurts me everyday with his indifference, his aloofness. I pray, I journal, I speak to him. Not a peep. He's like the popular kids in high school, breezing by in a flash with no eye contact of acknowledgement of my existence."
~Good Grief, by Lolly Winston
Brace yourselves for a non-PC-declaration, but there are days when I honestly think it wouldn't be so bad if I ended up with something like early onset dementia or Alzheimer's. At least then I could happily live in my confused little world where Jon is still alive and I don't get smacked in the face about 100 times a day with reminders of the fact that my husband is in fact very much dead. I mentioned a few entries ago that I don't mind this stretch of the year while it's still calm before the big holiday season storm, but I'm thinking I might have to partially recant that statement. I forgot about how the summer overflows with wedding extravaganzas - it seems like everyone around me is either getting married or engaged. I can't speak for the rest of the population, but that's at least how it appears to a twenty-eight-year-old widow. At the risk of sounding ultra-negative, I can't get too excited right now about engagements and weddings and parties to celebrate the aforementioned things. It's kind of like the couples-and-babies phenomenon - when people talk about that stuff, I turn away or make some excuse to go check on something in another room. I don't know why these things drive such a bitter wedge in my heart at the moment, but they have this very unique way of sucking the air out of me while simultaneously planting a giant brick smack-dab in the middle of my chest that makes me feel like I need to take a knee and hang onto something to bear the extra weight.
For the longest time after Jon died, it felt like no one needed me. And no, I'm not trying to sound overly dramatic or score sympathy points by playing the part of the poor tragic widow. However, as the main character in a book I'm currently reading asks in typical self-deprecating widow fashion, "is there anyone less essential in the world than an unemployed widow without children?" She has an excellent point. I literally had no responsibilities of any kind in those months following Jon's death, besides trying to drag myself out of bed each day - I withdrew from law school and was technically unemployed while I waited for the Army to approve my new orders. I had no set structure or schedule, so I sat at home aimlessly for hours each day plotting how I might be able to escape from this world without having a direct hand in my demise. When that failed and I came up empty-handed, I'd research what would be the most painless and easiest way to die.
I've mentioned before that I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder before I even met Jon; well, just try to imagine how the reemergence of those symptoms plays out in the wake of trauma for which no one, not even the happiest person in the world, can possibly prepare. I remember sitting on the floor in the bathroom of Jon's parents' house about a week after his death and rocking back and forth, whispering "Oh my God, oh my God..." I thought I'd left all those suicidal ideations behind me when I graduated from high school and distanced myself from the place and the issues that led my initial diagnosis. I thought I was a "success story" because I'd moved on from that miserable time in my life and had put the building blocks in place for a new and happy future with Jon. And yet when I lost him, the depression managed to find me again, and when it did, it hit me with an ominous familiarity that took my breath away. Grief-induced depression is a very normal and common occurrence in the months following the death of a loved one, but when the depression is already lurking there of its own accord, ready to strike at any time, it tends to add several layers of hopelessness to what, by definition, is already a debilitating emotional state. Grief and depression are like unwelcome guests who appear without warning and make themselves comfortable in your home. They cling to you like stubborn tree sap. You think to yourself, "God, if only they would just leave me alone!!" But they seem, for whatever exasperating reason, to feed on your despair and the more you desire that they be gone, the longer they stick around.
In the first weeks following Jon's death I went to the emergency room on two separate occasions for swallowing a whole bottle of pills - once in New Hampshire (where we held Jon's funeral service) and once at Walter Reed in Washington, D.C (where we buried him at Arlington National Cemetery). I don't remember too much about those experiences - just a whole lot of tubes poking out of my arms, electric sensors stuck all over my chest, and this awful activated charcoal mix I had to drink to flush out the toxins. I wasn't proud of what I put my family through and I regret to this day how my actions added yet another dimension of misery to an already nigthmarish situation. But death was all that seemed to make sense. Jon was gone; hence, I should be gone too - if it were ever to be that only one of us could survive to live another day, it should have been him. Once I was no longer under the watchful eye of various family members and found myself home alone back at Fort Bragg, the grief and depression became less like guests and more like looming, permanent fixtures in every room of my house. I just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up again since the thought of fighting through another day without him seemed utterly pointless. When I felt there was absolutely no way I could take it anymore, I made a few trips to the store, bought what I would need, and made several - yes, several - half-hearted attempts at pulling the plug because the weight of the grief was literally crushing my rib cage and making it impossible to breathe, much less continue to live. I wanted to escape from myself and from my overly active brain, but there was no where I could go, so I figured that left me with only one viable option. One of these attempts was on my twenty-third birthday. It was just a few months after Jon died and, in my opinion, it had already been a few months too many - there was no need to turn another year older when the only person I wanted to celebrate it with couldn't send me a card or toast with me to many more happy returns.
It was around about then, at the bottom of my pit of self-loathing and despair, that I turned for help to a good friend of Jon's (who later became more than a friend to me), and let him into the dark, scary parts of my heart that I was too afraid to share with anyone else. Looking back, I wish we'd stuck to comforting each other as friends as we stumbled our way through the grieving process. I wish I could still call him up and laugh at our shared memories of Jon, but he's since distanced himself from me and we don't talk anymore. At the time, however, I was in such bad shape that I was willing to do anything to take the edge off the pain, even if it meant jumping into a new relationship long before I was ready. As suspected, it was simply too soon, and there were too many mixed emotions since he was mourning not only Jon's death but also the loss of other friends who'd been killed during the deployment. Although I knew he had big plans for our future, I couldn't commit to any of them because he simply wasn't Jon. I know I broke his heart when I eventually ended it, and for that, I will always be sorry. However, I will also be eternally grateful for the fact that he coaxed a little life back into my heart at a time when it couldn't take much more and was ready to utter its last beat. I attribute the fact that I'm still here to tell this story in large part to him and the support he provided at a time when I didn't know how to open up to my family because they were already too emotionally invested in my pain. It was almost easier to confide in someone slightly less entrenched in the situation at a time when nothing, not even drinking myself into oblivion, seemed to make me feel any better.
I've made some progress since those dismal days that defined my existence in the months after I lost Jon. Some of my progress is, admittedly, minor and may even sound trivial, yet I know it's a step in the right direction and that's a whole lot better than the alternative. For example, I care enough now to shower on most days (whereas, initially, taking a shower required far too much effort and way too many steps). I don't even think I took a shower on the day of Jon's wake. I just showed up downstairs, an emotional and physical wreck, and presented myself to Nancy, a local hairdresser, who had offered to come over to my in-laws' house and fix my hair. I didn't give her much to work with but she somehow made me look half-way decent and presentable. I've more or less quit watching terrible TV shows all day to fill the time, except on some weekends when I find myself in some little podunk town for Army training and there's literally nothing else to do in the surrounding area. I can also read a whole book now without having to switch over to the TV to give my brain a rest, and I don't always drink a whole bottle of wine by myself - I tend to try and enlist the help of one of my girlfriends when they're around. And on the more tangible side of things, I've slowly gotten back into the physical activities in which I used to take so much pride by participating in events that allow me to honor Jon's memory, like the Army Ten-Miler Race in Washington, D.C., which I ran to raise money for the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors. Again, baby steps...it's a slow process. I'm learning to accept that it won't happen overnight and to shed the expectation that I'll wake up one day and find myself magically back to normal all at once.
For the record, this entry is not supposed to represent a call for help. I don't need anyone to send me concerned messages about how I should never think I'm alone and that there will always be someone here to listen, etc. I know these things - I promise. The point of this, again, is not oh-woe-is-me; rather, it's an affirmation of the uglier and less publicized places grief will take you when you think you've reached the end of the road and run out of options. At the TAPS Good Grief Camp for Gold Star families in Washington D.C. this past Memorial Day, Vice President Joe Biden (who lost both his wife and daughter in a tragic car accident) admitted that although he "probably shouldn't say this with the press here," the grief he'd experienced helped him understand for the first time how someone could consciously decide to commit suicide: "Not because they were deranged, not because they were nuts; because they'd been to the top of the mountain and they just knew in their hearts they'd never get there again, that it was never going to be that way ever again. That's how an awful lot of you feel."
So please don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that it's "okay" to not want to live anyone...but I know that there are many others who have found themselves in a dark place and are afraid to share this part of their experience because they fear being coddled or, worse yet, carted off the loony bin. For those reasons, I'm putting it all out there and saying that although it may not be okay, I still managed, despite being at hell's door, to somehow pull through to see another day. I still take medication, I still talk to a therapist, and I still talk about Jon every day with my family and friends. I used to apologize for these things because I thought they signified weakness, but now I'm actually okay with the fact that I can't always do it all on my own. These things are more than okay - they're what I do to avoid succumbing to the depression that's still there beneath the surface, waiting for an opportunity to drag me down again with it. With the support of my family and friends, I won't let it get me. So when I say I'm fine and that I don't need help, feel free to go ahead and ignore me, because the truth is that I'm not superwoman. And yes, this part of what I'm saying is a personal plea. Thank you to all who have listened to my plea over the past few years...and all who continue to listen and love me unconditionally along the way. Thank you especially to the widows who've looked me in the eye and told me that I could survive this. If you ladies hadn't been standing there in front of me as living proof, I never would have believed it. You are my living angels, each and every one of you.
The following words of remembrance from Jon's funeral have always reverberated with me over the years, especially during my most trying of times: "God must have a great need for Jon's talent in his kingdom, and, without a doubt, God will reward Jon for his selflessness, his courage and his kindness. I just wish that God had given us more time with him before calling him to his new mission." In retrospect, I think that's why Jon stepped in and didn't let me go through with any of my attempts to end it all; I must still have some purpose that he needs me to fulfill in this life. And until I'm called to my next mission, that's exactly what you'll find me doing. There are so many people out there who can't say they've done something truly good with their lives, but apparently Jon had it all figured out because he managed to pack a whole lot of living and a whole lot of good into an incredibly short lifetime. I guess some of us just need a little longer to figure it all out. When it's my time, I have faith that he'll let me come home to him, and I'll be more than ready. To borrow a quote from our favorite movie, Gladiator, "just not yet. Not yet..."
For the longest time after Jon died, it felt like no one needed me. And no, I'm not trying to sound overly dramatic or score sympathy points by playing the part of the poor tragic widow. However, as the main character in a book I'm currently reading asks in typical self-deprecating widow fashion, "is there anyone less essential in the world than an unemployed widow without children?" She has an excellent point. I literally had no responsibilities of any kind in those months following Jon's death, besides trying to drag myself out of bed each day - I withdrew from law school and was technically unemployed while I waited for the Army to approve my new orders. I had no set structure or schedule, so I sat at home aimlessly for hours each day plotting how I might be able to escape from this world without having a direct hand in my demise. When that failed and I came up empty-handed, I'd research what would be the most painless and easiest way to die.
I've mentioned before that I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder before I even met Jon; well, just try to imagine how the reemergence of those symptoms plays out in the wake of trauma for which no one, not even the happiest person in the world, can possibly prepare. I remember sitting on the floor in the bathroom of Jon's parents' house about a week after his death and rocking back and forth, whispering "Oh my God, oh my God..." I thought I'd left all those suicidal ideations behind me when I graduated from high school and distanced myself from the place and the issues that led my initial diagnosis. I thought I was a "success story" because I'd moved on from that miserable time in my life and had put the building blocks in place for a new and happy future with Jon. And yet when I lost him, the depression managed to find me again, and when it did, it hit me with an ominous familiarity that took my breath away. Grief-induced depression is a very normal and common occurrence in the months following the death of a loved one, but when the depression is already lurking there of its own accord, ready to strike at any time, it tends to add several layers of hopelessness to what, by definition, is already a debilitating emotional state. Grief and depression are like unwelcome guests who appear without warning and make themselves comfortable in your home. They cling to you like stubborn tree sap. You think to yourself, "God, if only they would just leave me alone!!" But they seem, for whatever exasperating reason, to feed on your despair and the more you desire that they be gone, the longer they stick around.
In the first weeks following Jon's death I went to the emergency room on two separate occasions for swallowing a whole bottle of pills - once in New Hampshire (where we held Jon's funeral service) and once at Walter Reed in Washington, D.C (where we buried him at Arlington National Cemetery). I don't remember too much about those experiences - just a whole lot of tubes poking out of my arms, electric sensors stuck all over my chest, and this awful activated charcoal mix I had to drink to flush out the toxins. I wasn't proud of what I put my family through and I regret to this day how my actions added yet another dimension of misery to an already nigthmarish situation. But death was all that seemed to make sense. Jon was gone; hence, I should be gone too - if it were ever to be that only one of us could survive to live another day, it should have been him. Once I was no longer under the watchful eye of various family members and found myself home alone back at Fort Bragg, the grief and depression became less like guests and more like looming, permanent fixtures in every room of my house. I just wanted to go to sleep and not wake up again since the thought of fighting through another day without him seemed utterly pointless. When I felt there was absolutely no way I could take it anymore, I made a few trips to the store, bought what I would need, and made several - yes, several - half-hearted attempts at pulling the plug because the weight of the grief was literally crushing my rib cage and making it impossible to breathe, much less continue to live. I wanted to escape from myself and from my overly active brain, but there was no where I could go, so I figured that left me with only one viable option. One of these attempts was on my twenty-third birthday. It was just a few months after Jon died and, in my opinion, it had already been a few months too many - there was no need to turn another year older when the only person I wanted to celebrate it with couldn't send me a card or toast with me to many more happy returns.
It was around about then, at the bottom of my pit of self-loathing and despair, that I turned for help to a good friend of Jon's (who later became more than a friend to me), and let him into the dark, scary parts of my heart that I was too afraid to share with anyone else. Looking back, I wish we'd stuck to comforting each other as friends as we stumbled our way through the grieving process. I wish I could still call him up and laugh at our shared memories of Jon, but he's since distanced himself from me and we don't talk anymore. At the time, however, I was in such bad shape that I was willing to do anything to take the edge off the pain, even if it meant jumping into a new relationship long before I was ready. As suspected, it was simply too soon, and there were too many mixed emotions since he was mourning not only Jon's death but also the loss of other friends who'd been killed during the deployment. Although I knew he had big plans for our future, I couldn't commit to any of them because he simply wasn't Jon. I know I broke his heart when I eventually ended it, and for that, I will always be sorry. However, I will also be eternally grateful for the fact that he coaxed a little life back into my heart at a time when it couldn't take much more and was ready to utter its last beat. I attribute the fact that I'm still here to tell this story in large part to him and the support he provided at a time when I didn't know how to open up to my family because they were already too emotionally invested in my pain. It was almost easier to confide in someone slightly less entrenched in the situation at a time when nothing, not even drinking myself into oblivion, seemed to make me feel any better.
At the lowest of my lows, I also tried to remind myself of what Jon had told me regarding his thoughts on suicide. We lost one of our good friends to a self-inflicted gunshot wound during my senior year of college. He was hilarious, always the jokester in the group, and no one saw it coming. I was devastated by his death, and I'd cry on the phone to Jon about it since he was stuck in training at Fort Polk and couldn't be there to attend the service. Jon, being the far more calm and level-headed one of the two of us, agreed that it was, indeed, incredibly sad, but said bluntly that there are fewer things more selfish in this world than suicide. It doesn't affect the person who's gone; it affects the ones they leave behind. That always stuck with me, and when I found myself in the very doldrums of my despair without a clear way back out into the light, it served as a nagging reminder of the fact that I was allowed to make stupid mistakes and learn from them, but ending it all is one from which there would be no learning and no recovery. I know this might sound a little morbid (though perhaps we passed that point already?), but I also figured I couldn't risk taking my own life since I'd be throwing away the possibility of spending an eternity with Jon. Better to suck it up for the rest of this life, I told myself, than to wind up somewhere I could never hope to see my husband again. So here I am. Biding time and doing my best to still enjoy and take pleasure in the little things in life. None of these things, however, will ever be quite the same without my Jon here to experience them with me.
So please don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that it's "okay" to not want to live anyone...but I know that there are many others who have found themselves in a dark place and are afraid to share this part of their experience because they fear being coddled or, worse yet, carted off the loony bin. For those reasons, I'm putting it all out there and saying that although it may not be okay, I still managed, despite being at hell's door, to somehow pull through to see another day. I still take medication, I still talk to a therapist, and I still talk about Jon every day with my family and friends. I used to apologize for these things because I thought they signified weakness, but now I'm actually okay with the fact that I can't always do it all on my own. These things are more than okay - they're what I do to avoid succumbing to the depression that's still there beneath the surface, waiting for an opportunity to drag me down again with it. With the support of my family and friends, I won't let it get me. So when I say I'm fine and that I don't need help, feel free to go ahead and ignore me, because the truth is that I'm not superwoman. And yes, this part of what I'm saying is a personal plea. Thank you to all who have listened to my plea over the past few years...and all who continue to listen and love me unconditionally along the way. Thank you especially to the widows who've looked me in the eye and told me that I could survive this. If you ladies hadn't been standing there in front of me as living proof, I never would have believed it. You are my living angels, each and every one of you.
The following words of remembrance from Jon's funeral have always reverberated with me over the years, especially during my most trying of times: "God must have a great need for Jon's talent in his kingdom, and, without a doubt, God will reward Jon for his selflessness, his courage and his kindness. I just wish that God had given us more time with him before calling him to his new mission." In retrospect, I think that's why Jon stepped in and didn't let me go through with any of my attempts to end it all; I must still have some purpose that he needs me to fulfill in this life. And until I'm called to my next mission, that's exactly what you'll find me doing. There are so many people out there who can't say they've done something truly good with their lives, but apparently Jon had it all figured out because he managed to pack a whole lot of living and a whole lot of good into an incredibly short lifetime. I guess some of us just need a little longer to figure it all out. When it's my time, I have faith that he'll let me come home to him, and I'll be more than ready. To borrow a quote from our favorite movie, Gladiator, "just not yet. Not yet..."
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