When it’s (not) all my fault

So. Five months have gone by since my last post. I was actually planning to take this blog down, convinced my vision had changed, not so sure I needed it anymore. So what have I been doing? Living my story. I am still figuring things out here in Wisconsin, but the dust seems to be settling, and for the first time in almost two years, I have a routine again. A great job with amazing co-workers. Real friends. A kickball team. And yes, even a new romantic relationship. Wisconsin has surpassed my expectations, and life here is better than I imagined it could be.

But there has been a cost, and it’s been a steep one.

I’ve mentioned before that not everyone has agreed with my decisions. That some felt I was running away. That it was too soon for me to be involved romantically again (after a year and a half).  That I should stay in Iowa. That I should stay in grief.

For the most part, these voices were a minority. But the fact that they came from people I loved so deeply has been an unbearable pain, nearly as significant as the loss of my husband.

I tried to convince myself their opinion didn’t matter. I kept pushing forward. I kept following my heart. I thanked God every day for the friends who were sticking by me, cheering me on. And it worked well, for a time.

But then, well, that thing happened, and everything kind of fell apart. Just a couple of weeks ago, very publicly, I was accused of failing to prevent my husband’s suicide. More privately, I was told that my husband’s suicide was a direct result of the fact that I failed to be present when it happened. In short, I was told that it was all my fault.

All my fault.

And just like that, it was like it had just happened yesterday. And all of the pain that had begun to feel so far away rushed up to the surface.

I remember it all. I remember the screaming. I remember the keening from deep within me, and not knowing such sounds could come from my mouth. I remember my legs giving out so many times, as I would simply fall to the floor, unable to comprehend how any of this would ever be okay.

I remember what it looked like when I found him. I remember calling 911. My driveway filled with police cars. I remember hearing the officer making the call for his parents to be notified.

I remember realizing I was a widow at 31 years old.

I remember planning a funeral for the man that, 48 hours before, I had been planning to have a child with.

Mostly, though, I remember that for quite some time, I lost my desire to do anything at all. I remember everyone telling me how strong I was, but how I’d never felt so weak in my entire life.

Every. Single. Thing. I’d ever cared about or hoped for was gone. I woke up exhausted every day from crying in my sleep. I somehow got myself back to work, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. My heart wasn’t in anything anymore.

I tried. I tried so hard that I lied about it. Because I couldn’t take the constant sympathy, the constant barrage of people wanting to know that I was okay. I wasn’t okay. I was never going to be okay.

It was five months before I found a day without tears. It would be several more before that could happen two days in a row.

But I also remember fighting. Going to a counselor – twice a week for quite some time, weekly for almost a year – ready to do the work. Ready to heal.

Because even though I didn’t know how I could possibly find my way again, I had to believe it was possible. The only thing more terrifying than how I was feeling was the idea that I’d have to feel that way for the rest of my life.

And so I fought. SO hard. I mean, you just have no idea. For the better part of two years, I walked around feeling like I had my fists up and a sword drawn. I could not relax. I could not give in. I would survive. I had to survive.

And very, very slowly, I did. I went on dates (long before I was really ready). I left my job in search of bigger things. I painted rooms. I stepped out of my comfort zone, because I had no choice. I reclaimed my home, just in time to realize I needed to sell my home and move on. I stopped going on dates. I searched for jobs nationwide. I thought about the kind of place I wanted to live in. And at just the right time and in just the right way, I found myself headed to Wisconsin. I landed a job at one of the best universities in the nation. I found real friends who have supported me and cared for me, before and after finding out about my past. I began to relax my fists and holster my metaphorical sword. With the pieces of my life more in place, I took my chance on a few more dates. I fell in love again. And every single day, I have proof that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Which is precisely why the naysaying hurts so much. The idea that I ran away? The idea that I’ve forgotten?

I could not possibly forget. The events of the past 20 months have left me with scars I will carry for the rest of my life. The pain was unspeakable and unimaginable. And of course it was. I put on my brave face out of necessity. But please remember that I lost my husband in the worst way possible. And that I found him, shot to death by his own hand.

I will never forget.

And when I am told it’s all my fault? I don’t just feel blame for the fact that he’s gone. I feel blame for all that his death did to me – what it did to so many people. For the aftermath that is still felt by so many.

I did not know that after all of this time, after all of this healing, that it would ever be possible to feel that wounded again. I was wrong. I cried in my sleep again. I felt it all again. I lived it all again.

For the record, I do not blame myself for my husband’s death. My husband was a victim of suicide. I firmly believe that. There are no words to describe how much I wish he would have asked for help. That he would have let someone know that he was hurting. But he didn’t. He chose to carry his burden alone. He was a victim of suicide, but he was also the perpetrator. It is a hard thing to accept, to be certain. But that does not change that it is true.

Despite knowing this, I’ve been carrying the extra weight of this accusation around for the last several weeks. Trying to find my strength again. Learning that I must live with the fact that there are individuals who place blame on my shoulders – and that there will likely be nothing I can do to lift that burden. Resigning myself to the fact my relationships with people I once dearly loved have ended. Grieving once again, in a very different way, for the loss of those who meant everything.

And so, once again, I find myself here, fingers on laptop keys, relying on the only thing I know that always seems to help, which is speaking out. Pretending everything is fine never quite worked out for me. At least I figured that out much more quickly this time around.

I think, though, that this may just be a part of the grief process that I didn’t know about before. That every once in a while, for the rest of my life, maybe it’s just going to jump up and bite me, catching me unaware in a time when everything seems to have fallen into place.

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s okay to be reminded of what I’m made of. We are all tested in the life, forced to endure things we shouldn’t have to face. And in many cases, those are battles we must fight alone. I have learned that the hard way. I remember it every day. But I have come out on top before, and I will come out on top again.

So I go forward. Knowing I already possess the strength to stand, and ready to continue loving the life I fought so hard to build for myself. Knowing that loss can wound me, and it can scar me, but it cannot break me.

Thankful that once again, even when darkness surrounds me, I remain determined to shine.