I have found it almost impossible to work on this blog. I have created and destroyed many posts, over and over and over again.
I have not learned to understand my wife's suicide. I am learning to accept.
It has been seven months now. In the past few months I have removed and thrown away Cyndie's makeup, clothes, shoes, purses, and other items. Oddly enough, the makeup was in some ways the worst as these were very personal things. Lipstick that touched her lips, and perfume that is so familiar, and the many day to day things she touched and used. Shit, I am crying now and I have learned to hate crying. Trash goes out on Tuesday night for Wednesday morning pickup, so one thing I learned was to toss things on Tuesday so they would not hang around. It took much strength to not dig in the trash for the perfume.
I saved two items of clothing, both old and rather ratty. Eventually those will be stored away some where. I still have her main purse to go through. I went through it once, and then just packed it away. In the purse, I found the first picture of me that I ever gave her. After that, I just put it away, the pain is still too fresh.
Suicide is the ultimate act of selfishness. She left me and her children and grandchildren behind. She left a note for each of us, but it is not enough. My note created more problems than it solved for a while. She said she feared our marriage was failing and did not want to wait around for it to die. Neither I nor the children understood that. Later, I did understand. She had an affair. I found this out while searching her laptop for clues to the big WHY? In fact, I found this out the night before the viewing and subsequent cremation. Not sure it made it worse at the time. Right then, it was just another bee sting in a face already full of tears.
I was in Afghanistan when I found out she killed herself. I went from war to a series of plane rides to home to her death. It was mostly a fog. A friend took me all the way from Kabul to Charleston, SC, we look after our own. I was away for a two plus month job and was due home in about 20 days. My friends took my gun away and watched me until the plane ride. I was close to walking out into a mine field, might have if not watched.
I was close to my own suicide for several days, but could not do that to my children and granddaughters. Wanting to kill myself is long past now, except for a few moments in the dark before dawn.
This is a ramble, but have decided to let the ramble stand. This is purely an expression of pain. I see no moral, no story, nothing. It is just part of acceptance. I may never write again, I may tomorrow. I just do not know.