I woke up this morning to find that 783 people have viewed by blog. Since I went to bed last night at 10:30. They LIKE ME. A man from Nigeria likes me. Christ, do they even speak English there? It turns out there are all these big cliques of bloggers out there. Who knew? I’ve spent a good part of the morning browsing a lot of very funny blogs. I so wish I would have started this on the sly, without my photo sitting up in the corner of the page. It’s just that it happened so innocently. My friends kept texting and emailing and calling, asking how I was doing. What did they want me to say? Fine? I was so sick of lying because maybe they didn’t really want to know. But the truth is that I want people to know. I want people to know just how much this sucks. I want jerks out there who have thought about killing themselves to read my blog and feel like slime. To be ashamed of themselves. And to tell somebody or get help. And I want spouses and friends of people who seem depressed and withdrawn to do something that I didn’t do. Drive that mutha to the hospital and drop them off!!
After Dave died, I uploaded all his photos to shutterfly. Every photo ever taken of him. Shutterfly automatically puts your photos in chronological order. Let me tell you something. Looking at those photos in chronological order was a true awakening for me. What the heck was I thinking? What a fool I was. It was my fault! I pressed the slideshow button and I watched him die. Over and over and over again. I watched him die quickly on my screen. I had a conversation with my dad about this. He assured me it wasn’t my fault, because it happened in real life time, not 2 minutes of slideshow time. If Dave had taken a trip for a month and come home like he was in the end, detached, withdrawn, silent, sad, skinny, etc., I would have driven him to the hospital. I would have. But that’s not how it happened.
Unfortunately, it was just our real life. Day in and day out. Me, noticing he just wasn’t himself. Him, denying repeatedly anything was wrong. Me, asking if he was taking drugs or drinking. Him, with his best lie face, perfected over the years, calmly saying no and fooling even me. Who the fack fools me? No one. That’s who. I knew something was wrong. But an army of psychic seers could not have convinced me he would DO THIS.
He renewed his driver’s license that morning. We were texting from the eye doctor’s office where I sat complaining about the wait. We talked about dinner and about how much longer we would be. And then, he just quit answering. Because he was standing in our garage with a loaded .38 caliber touching his chest. So accurately did he blow his heart away that he surely must have felt for the beautiful vibration of his beating heart to place the gun just so. My 16 year old stepdaughter was standing at the top of the outside stair landing holding my 18 mos old son and also holding hands with my 4 year old. They were coming to ask him if they could go swimming. They saw him walk into the garage. They heard a noise. Didn’t know what it was. Cause surely it wasn’t him killing himself. But it was. Because this world is not at all what we think it is. Because we don’t control anything. Because in an instant….BOOM. Your ass is handed to you.
I worry sometimes that people will think I don’t love my kids or that I’m not good to them. I don’t really care. It’s precisely because I love them so much that I am brutally honest about how I feel. Because I think other parents feel like this sometimes too and they feel it even though they are getting a $%#@ing break and don’t have their spouse’s suicide note in their drawer! I never ever ever wanted to be a single parent precisely because I was quite sure I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t pass muster. I was right. Don’t get me wrong. I am doing it. One day I might even be good at it. But I doubt it. I’m too selfish. I need breaks. I happen to love myself. A lot. But I never get to. And I miss me. Profusely.
Tomorrow I swear I will write about just how much I love my kids. About how they rip my heart open, so full of love it becomes when I just even look at them. I wish this wasn’t their life. I know deep down it’s not the best it can be because I remember another life. And I think that’s what I hate so much. I know what a better life it could be…how having a daddy would be like a soothing balm just being massaged all over them. But I’m just a mommy. I don’t have that daddy balm. No matter how much I do, say, overcompensate….I can’t be a daddy. Just yesterday I passed a woman in the grocery who beamed at my darlings and said, “Oh your husband must be so proud.” I hope so is what I mumbled.