Eleven Years

Eleven years ago, on this day, you walked out the door and never came back.

When I started writing my story about what happened; your suicide; and the kids and my journey through grief and adversity, I thought it’d be a reasonably short and easy process. I was telling a story I lived through. How hard can that be? Well, much more difficult than I’d imagined.

I’ve written the book now, and am in the long and arduous process of editing it, getting feedback, and thinking about what to do with it next. I dug into emotional places I never imagined I’d access. This year, on the eleventh anniversary of your death, I’m carrying less baggage. I’m able to view your suicide through a different lens, and I’m looking forward to being able to share that with the kids, my family, and my friends.

They say time heals all wounds. I don’t think that’s true. But, I’m incredibly happy now, happier than I’ve ever been. In some ways, this is because of what you gave me. You gave me the strength and self-reliance I was forced to find after you died. The intense need to experience joy after wallowing in the pits of despair and bereavement. The freedom to live without constant fear, assured I could deal with whatever presented.

Thank you.