Hard to See the Light Now

New Year's balloons

Sometimes the darkness is too much for us to bear. We can’t turn on the lights, even though the switch is right there in front of us. In those moments, the darkness is a palpable thing, a beast that breathes hot on our necks and whispers in our ears. It lies, and demands that we believe it. We hear it, and it’s so close and so loud and so insistent that it drowns out everything else, as surely as the ocean overwhelms a grain of sand. Depression is an animal, sly and heavy, and once it has you in its sights it can be a relentless hunter. It wants you to surrender, to let the darkness close over your head and draw the breath from your body.

103 weeks ago today that dark beast came for my husband for the last time. He’d fought it for most of his life, weathering years of depression and anxiety. It nearly got him once before, when he was in his early twenties. A five dollar win on a scratch ticket saved him that time, because he’d given himself an out. If I win, I’ll live. When it came for him on December 21, 2012, he couldn’t fight it any more. He knew he could have called me, but on that day he didn’t. Maybe his cell phone was like that light switch, right next to him yet somehow out of his reach. Maybe he was just too tired to make that call, or maybe he believed the lies that depression told him and thought that the world would be better off without him, or that I would. I will never know, because he took the answers to those questions with him when he left.

I’ve written before about the huge fight Tony and I had two days before he died. In truth it really wasn’t a fight – it was a heartbreaking, awful discussion. He told me he didn’t love me anymore, and that he wanted a divorce. He’d mentioned wanting a separation when I was in the hospital, ready to be wheeled into the operating room for back surgery. We had talked about it since, and he’d agreed that we would work on our relationship. I wanted to believe him – I did believe him. What I think now is that he backed off because he didn’t want to hurt me, but the reason he was so decisive about it on the night of December 19th was that he knew what he was going to do. He was trying to prepare me, as if anything could.

The beast came for me that night. Tony and I had been talking for hours, and I felt hollow. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so defeated in my life. We were talked out, and as I was lying in the zero-gravity chair I had rented to sleep in while my back healed, it slithered up and sat on my chest. Depression told me that I was a failure. It told me I was ugly and unlovable, and that if Tony left me I would never, ever find anybody else to love me again. Not ever. I listened as it whispered that I was a terrible person, impatient with my husband, selfish to the core, and that his brokenness was all my fault. It held me like a lover that night, and I believed everything it said to me. I had a bottle of pain pills, very strong ones. After the surgery I was taking Tylenol, but as I lay there listening to that awful voice, the pill bottle popped into my head, and with it, the thought that it would be so easy to swallow those tiny pills and not have to think about how much I was hurting.

Somehow Tony sensed it, maybe because he was so close to the abyss himself. He asked me about the pills, and I told him that they were in my office. They weren’t – they were in my jewelry box. He pushed me, and I finally admitted that I had them in the apartment. He got a little panicky with me, which strikes me as almost funny in hindsight, and somehow that snapped me out of it. I pushed the beast off of me with gritted teeth, hauled myself up from the chair, and flushed the pills down the toilet.

I don’t think I really would have acted on those thoughts. I don’t think I was low enough to believe what depression tried to tell me that night, not really. It wasn’t the darkest night of the year, not for me. I didn’t sleep, but I went to work the next morning and I kept going.

Two days later, Tony was dead, and four days after that it was Christmas. I barely remember the holiday that year. I vaguely recall sitting on the sofa in my sister Laura’s house. I was in a horrible fog. I thought at the time it was just grief, but really it was a lot of different things. Grief, shock, depression, post-traumatic stress. I understand now that I was probably depressed for a significant chunk of my marriage. I have always been an optimistic person, but living with someone who is seriously depressed is difficult. It takes a toll. I cringe now when I remember some of the things I said to Tony. I tried to be as kind and loving as I could, but depression is not a bad mood. It’s not sadness, and I didn’t understand that. I don’t think Tony did either, not really. He wanted me to cheer him up, but that’s not the way depression works.

In the past two years, I have done a lot of reading about depression. Studies show that 6.7% of all Americans suffer from major depression, and those numbers are almost certainly underreported because of the shame and stigma surrounding mental illness. We make it so hard for people who need help to get it – both by marginalizing them and making them feel they should be able to snap out of it or just decide to be in a good mood; and by limiting coverage for necessary treatments such as therapy. If Tony had been willing to try therapy while we were together, only his first 8 visits to a therapist would have been covered, and then at a rate significantly lower than the rate for other medically-necessary treatments. That is a travesty.

Every single person is fighting a battle of some kind. Every one of us deals with emotions and disappointments. Some of us hide it well; others don’t. Mental illness is a big problem, and I can’t solve the way it is treated with a blog post. What I can do, though, is tell you that sometimes, a small gesture can go a long way. For someone who is running from that beast, living their lives in fear, a moment of kindness can be enough to help them keep going. With that in mind, I started a page on Facebook to help spread kindness. I mentioned here before that we would be performing acts of kindness on December 21st, the two year anniversary of Tony’s death. If you are on Facebook, please head over to Dispel the Darkness and like the page, and join us on the 21st. This is a dark and difficult time of year for many of us, but with your help, we can start to turn on the lights.

Hard to see the light now
Just don’t let it go
Things will turn out right now
We can make it so
Someone is on your side
No one is alone ~ Stephen Sondheim

If you are in a dark place and feel that there is no hope, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 (1-800-273-TALK), or for help outside the US, go here for a list of hotlines by country.

Click here to read my sister Laura’s blog post about the night Tony died, and about depression and the holidays.


Nothing Human Is Alien to Me

I’ve been thinking a lot about anger lately. It’s one of the most misunderstood human emotions. We have a tendency to get very judgmental about anger. A search for quotes about it revealed hundreds talking about how bad, unhealthy and useless anger is, and only a few talking about why we need it.

Anger saved my life. That’s not an exaggeration. After Tony died I felt like all I had were emotions. I know that’s not true, literally speaking. I had friends and family and a job and lots of other things, but I had a hard time seeing past my feelings. They were so overwhelming, so big. There were so many of them. I know people sometimes numb their emotions, but that never occurred to me. I don’t think I was capable of having that thought, because how do you numb a hurricane? How do you numb the end of the world? You can’t numb them, I couldn’t, and so I decided (insofar as I could make decisions at that time) to trust my feelings. To believe, in the midst of horrific pain, that I needed to feel the way I was feeling, whatever I was feeling.

A lot of what I felt was anger. Anger is one of the classic stages of grief and for me it was THE stage of grief for the first six months or so after Tony died. That’s not to say I didn’t feel denial or depression, because of course I did. But anger lived inside me, a constant companion, a burning coal in my chest and a raging brush fire that surrounded me. It attacked me from all directions. I was angry at Tony for leaving, for not calling me, for not being able to see that life was worth living. Furious at myself for not being a better wife, a better friend, a more understanding and empathetic person. For not being able to talk my husband into getting the help he needed. I was angry at my body because I thought that my back injury and surgery might have contributed to his unraveling. I raged against sleep because it brought dreams that taunted me with my own anger, and with Tony’s – dreams where he laughed in my face when I begged him not to hurt himself.

It was awful. I hated it. I needed it. Like I said, anger saved my life. I truly believe that if I’d tried to contain it – if I’d tried to suppress it or disperse it the way all the quotes about anger tell me I should – I would have died. I don’t mean physically, although I supposed that’s possible. I mean that it would have consumed me. It would have eaten me alive, trying to hold back that inferno. I had to let it rage and burn. The thing about fires is, no matter how catastrophic they are they burn themselves out. The biggest forest fire ends eventually, and from the charred landscape emerge tender green plants. New life.

That is what anger gave me. Without it, I would not be the person I am today – and as awful as it was to live with that anger for so long, I would not change it. I would not unfeel it if it meant having to relinquish what it taught me. I am glad it burned me. I needed to be burned. I was not a complete person before Tony died. I was afraid of my feelings, and I was afraid of who he was and who I was when I was with him. I was losing bits and pieces of myself every day without noticing. It wasn’t his fault, and it wasn’t really mine either – but it doesn’t need to be anybody’s fault to be true. I couldn’t see then how small I was becoming. You might think that something small would run a greater risk of being consumed in a fire, but the fire burned away my smallness and replaced it with something bigger. It opened me up and set me free.

I know some people who have lost loved ones to suicide have not experienced the kind of anger I did. That’s okay too. Each grieving experience is unique. There is no wrong way to grieve. What I know for myself, though, is that anger was my benefactor. It gave me so much more than it took.

Bitterness is like cancer.  It eats upon the host.  But anger is like fire.  It burns it all clean. ~ Maya Angelou


Let the World Burn Through You


The other day a writer friend of mine sent me a message asking me to read a short story he’d written. Before I read it, we chatted a bit – he’s a screenwriter, someone Tony and I met online but never in person. The conversation turned to screenwriting.  I told him I hadn’t done any since Tony died, and he told me there was a script he’d been wanting to write for a long time but hadn’t, yet.  We agreed that we’d encourage each other to write and submit our screenplays to the Austin Film Festival’s screenwriting contest next year, and reward ourselves with a trip to the festival to meet some other screenwriter friends.

Sounds easy, doesn’t it? I mean, I’ve been writing so much lately. Writing one little screenplay shouldn’t be that big a deal. That’s what I tell myself… so why do I feel almost panicked when I think about writing a feature on my own?

I’ve done a lot of thinking about that this past week. I’m not afraid of writing. I’ve written two novels. I wrote 30,000 words in the last five days. I know I’m a good writer, and I’m not afraid of hard work. That means it’s not any of those things causing the panic.

What it is, I think, is that I have never written a feature-length screenplay by myself. I’ve only done it with a partner. I’ve only done it with Tony. I’ve written short scripts on my own, but those were all very short. A maximum of five pages. That’s part of the panic – the knowledge that this is, in some ways, uncharted territory for me.

There’s something else, though. Tony was a very good writer, funny and with a real gift for giving every character a unique voice. He had this huge talent, but his self-esteem was low. His ego was so fragile. When we first started writing together, we used to outline the story and then write in shifts. We’d carve out chunks of time – a half an hour apiece – and one of us would sit at the computer and write as much as we could in that period. The deal we made before we started was that when one of us took over from the other, we would just read, not edit. It was meant to be a free-flowing thing, only Tony could never do that. Every single time, when I would go back into the room after he’d been writing, I would find that he’d made all kinds of little tweaks and changes to what I’d written. I know he didn’t mean it to have this effect, but it crushed me.

In 2006, Tony quit his job to write full time. I kept my job in finance. At first, I would get home from work and even though Tony had been writing all day, we would still write together. Gradually, though, his self-esteem grew more and more dependent on being able to do all of it himself. He felt a responsibility to be able to make our shared dream come true for both of us, and there was very little room for me in that equation. I hardly wrote at all. I was still part of the outlining process, and I edited and occasionally suggested changes. I called myself a screenwriter, but I wasn’t. I felt like a fraud.

It’s perhaps not surprising that I’m feeling more mired in grief than I have in a while. The second anniversary of Tony’s death is approaching. I am not as lost as I was at this time last year, but it is a melancholy time for me. I find myself crying more frequently than I have in months. I am dreaming about Tony again, which I haven’t done in a while. There are moments when I’ve been able to tell myself that the worst of the grieving is over, but what I’m realizing now is I still have a very long way to go. I have spent so much time grieving my husband that I’ve barely allowed myself to touch on the fact that I lost my writing partner too. Screenwriting was always our shared dream, and if it’s going to happen for me now it has to be my dream. Perhaps part of me doesn’t want it to be mine alone. I want to be able to continue to think of it as ours, but it can never be that.

These things, all taken together, explain my panicked feeling when I consider stepping back into screenwriting. There is some deep part of me that fears that I can’t do it, that I’m not a good enough SCREENwriter, to make it happen. That I squandered whatever gift I had for this form by taking a back seat to Tony all those years. I don’t want to think that I’ve lost screenwriting forever, so I’m pushing my fears down and moving forward. I have so many wonderful friends who are screenwriters – not just the friend whose challenge made me consider this step, but dozens of others who I know will cheer me on, give me notes, and remind me why I fell in love with screenwriting in the first place. They all have their own lives, with their own families and jobs and friends and writing. Yet I know they will make a space for me at the table. They’ve stuck with me, even as I’ve stayed away from the kind of writing that brought us together in the first place.

I’m going to do this. I’m going to take the Young Adult novel I wrote for NaNoWriMo last year and I’m going to turn it into a screenplay. It’s a story that deals with mental illness and suicide, so I have no doubt that I will cry and cry as I break the story down and build it back up again. I’m under no illusion that it will be easy, but I am putting a quote by Ray Bradbury above my desk and I’m going to push through it. It’s going to hurt, but I’m going to let the world burn through me. In the end, it’s what I was meant to do.


“Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper. ~ Ray Bradbury

Rhonda Elkins was 54 years old


I wish I didn’t have to write this post. I don’t want it to be true.

I met Rhonda on the Alliance of Hope forum shortly after I started this blog. She had lost her beloved daughter, Kaitlyn, to suicide in April of 2013. She was heartbroken. She had struggled with depression herself and her daughter’s death made that struggle harder.

She sent me a private message because she wanted to start a blog of her own. I directed her to WordPress and walked her through the process, and then I read the beautiful love letters she wrote to Kaitlyn.

I found out today that Rhonda ended her own life on August 29th.

This news is devastating. I did not know Rhonda well, but I understood her pain as much as it is ever possible to understand something so personal. When I read her posts on the forum, or her blog, I ached for her loss and wished that I could somehow bring Kaitlyn back to her. She was kind to me at a time when kindness was the only balm for my soul. In spite of her own suffering, she reached out to so many people on the forum with words of comfort and hope.

She leaves behind her husband and another daughter. I cannot begin to imagine what this must be like for them.

Her name was Rhonda Elkins. She was 54 years old.

Back in the middle of things

I’ve started and discarded three or four different blog posts in the past few days, unable to put my arms around what it’s been like for me, this past week. I know my experience is not unique, because I’ve talked to other suicide survivors and many of the things I am feeling appear to be universal. Yet, how to describe them?

Robin Williams’ death has put me in a very strange place. I know, logically, that I am here in Washington; it has been nearly 20 months since Tony died; I have come a long way since then. I know these things. They are true. Yet at the same time I am aware that I am here, in my apartment, I have also been there. That night.

I never really understood until I lost Tony what post-traumatic stress was. I had read descriptions, of course, and seen depictions on film. I knew that people described it as being back in the middle of the traumatic event itself. I somehow, though, thought that it was more like a nightmare than a reality. That PTSD was akin to a bad dream.

It’s not. It’s worse. When I heard the news about Robin Williams I was transported, with no chance to kick and scream my way out of it, back to that December evening. I’m not talking about a memory. I mean that it felt like I was there. I could feel – actually feel – the cold concrete steps beneath me. I could hear the glass in our bedroom window breaking. I could smell the air. I could see one police officer in front of me, my friend next to me. I could see the other police officer, the one who’d broken into the apartment, crouching next to me. I could hear those six horrible words that changed everything. I could hear the howl that came out of me, feel my friend’s hand clutching mine.

Over and over this week, I have revisited that day. I wish I could stop. I can sometimes pull myself out of it, a bit, by pressing my hands against my chest and reminding myself that I am not there. I feel like an open wound. Part of me is relieved that people are talking about mental illness and suicide in a way that seems to be… maybe… a little different. Part of me is devastated because there is still so much ignorance and judgment. I’ve been in a few conversations, in blog comments or Facebook status updates, that have just cracked me open. One was with a woman who insisted that suicide is a sin, and that people who die that way will be judged. She seemed pretty happy to judge them herself, all in the name of religion, of course. I wonder whether it’s actually healthy for me to talk to people like that, but then I think, if I don’t, who will? I don’t think I changed her mind, but at the same time when I come across ignorance like that, how can I stay silent?

I was hoping I would feel better this week, or at least MORE better than I do. I am still raw and hurting. I feel like I’ve been scraped all over, flayed open. I ache. Right after Tony died, I was in a fog. Here and now, the fog has dissipated and it can’t protect me. I have only the harsh glare of reality.

No room for ignorance or shame

no more shame

The discussions following Robin Williams’ suicide are both encouraging, in that people are actually talking about mental illness and suicide; and horrifying, in that there is still so much ignorance and misinformation out there.

I am talking about the Fox News anchor who called Robin Williams a coward, on the air.  I expect ignorance from Fox News, so perhaps I shouldn’t have gasped the way I did when I read that.  I did, though, because to me ignorance – especially wilful ignorance – will always be shocking.

I am talking about the many, many comments I have seen on Facebook and in news articles about his death calling him selfish.  It’s not that I don’t understand these sentiments.  I understand them all too well.  I spent the first six months after Tony died in a white-hot rage, and I acknowledge that I called him selfish and a lot of other things during that time.  It’s a natural reaction to suicide.  It feels like something that’s been done TO the survivors.  I get that, I truly do.  Yet that perception, as true as it feels to those left behind, is not helpful.  It only further stigmatizes people who already feel alone.

I might have blogged about this anyway – I probably would have – but then I saw a reference to another blog, and when I went looking for it, the breadth of ignorance did more than make me gasp.  It knocked the wind out of me and made me see red, all at once.

I am not going to link to the blog here, because the blogger in question – his name is Matt Walsh – would like that too much.  If you want to go look him up, feel free.  He’s an ignoramus, so be forewarned.

This is a small taste – and I apologize for the rank flavor, but I can’t rebut him without quoting at least a bit of what he wrote – of what he had to say about Robin Williams, and about suicide in general:

“The final refusal to see the worth in anything, or the beauty, or the reason, or the point, or the hope. The willingness to saddle your family with the pain and misery and anger that will now plague them for the rest of their lives.”

The ignorance and sanctimony are breathtaking, aren’t they?  Tony didn’t REFUSE to see the worth in anything, or the beauty.  He was not ABLE to see them, because his mental illness was so severe.  He did not do what he did to burden me with grief and sadness, he did it to end his own pain.  Although I never met him, I feel confident saying that the same is true of Robin Williams.  I think he fought his mental illnesses for a long time, and they just got to be too much for him.

Walsh goes on to say:

“It’s a tragic choice, truly, but it is a choice, and we have to remember that. Your suicide doesn’t happen to you; it doesn’t attack you like cancer or descend upon you like a tornado. It is a decision made by an individual. A bad decision. Always a bad decision.”

In the sense that ultimately, Tony was the instrument of his own death, I sort of understand what he’s saying here.  And yet, again, he’s wrong.  Suicide may not attack you like cancer, but depression does.  Bipolar disorder does.  Schizophrenia does.  So-called mental illnesses are diseases of the brain, a solid organ in our bodies.  In that sense, they are not different from cancer or diabetes or congestive heart failure.  The sad truth is that sometimes our bodies turn on us.  They are, in the end, vulnerable vessels, and susceptible to all kinds of intrusions and malfunctions.  The brain is no different.

Where mental illness DOES differ from cancer or the other diseases I mentioned is in the way it is perceived, and treated.  When a woman finds a lump in her breast, she is expected to go to the doctor.  If she has insurance, her insurance will cover that treatment, probably with few limitations.  She will certainly not be made to feel that her ailment is different from any other disease.  She will not be stigmatized for seeking treatment.  She will not be met with any suggestion that positive thinking or willpower will cure her.  She will find support everywhere: pink everything, walks for the cure, millions of dollars of research money and a whole month of heightened awareness, every single year.

A person suffering from any form of mental illness has none of those things.  He is lucky if even a portion of his treatment will be covered, and if it is, it may only be covered on an emergent basis.  If routine care – meaning psychiatric treatment or therapy — is covered, it is often covered at a reduced percentage and carries with it a stigma that lingers even in our post-Prozac world.  He may be told, by well-intentioned individuals, that he should just go for a walk every day, or focus on happy thoughts.  He may be told that the way he is feeling is HIS fault, which of course will do very little by way of empowering him to seek treatment.  If it’s his fault, after all, shouldn’t HE be able to fix it?  Alone?  In the end, if he takes his own life, he is more alone than at any other time.  Clearly, he was not able to fix it.

One final rancid tidbit from Mr. Walsh:

“Second, we can debate medication dosages and psychotherapy treatments, but, in the end, joy is the only thing that defeats depression.”

Right.  It’s just that easy. If only Tony could have rustled up some joy out of thin air, if only he could have silenced the voices in his head and the crushing weight of despair and just latched on to some ethereal passing JOY, then he’d still be here.  There are things I will never understand about Tony and why he did what he did, but I’ll tell you this: if he could have done that, he would have.  Period.  And so would Robin Williams.  And so would the one million people every single year who take their own lives.

Suicide is a tragedy, both for the person who takes his own life and for those he leaves behind.  It is preventable, but not with platitudes about joy and mind over matter.  It is preventable, sometimes, with treatment and awareness and medicine.  Not everyone who has cancer dies.  Not everyone who has suicidal thoughts dies, either.  I’ve mentioned this statistic before, but I will say it again because it bears repeating.  More people die of suicide in the United States every year than die in car accidents.  In 2011, the last year for which figures are available, 39,518 people in the United States took their own lives.  The total who died in automobile accidents in that same period is 32,479.  Over 700,000 people are treated in emergency rooms every year for self-inflicted injuries, and that’s in the United States alone.  The estimated number of suicides per year worldwide is over a million.  That number, as horrifying as it is, is probably low because of the stigma surrounding mental illness and suicide.  Even in the United States, some states – like Texas – don’t report figures on military suicide.

Here is what I ask.  Close your eyes, just for a minute, and try to imagine what would happen if insurers declared that they would no longer cover treatments for injuries received in car accidents.  What would happen if they announced that treatment for breast cancer would be reduced, that there would be caps on the number of chemo treatments that a patient could receive?  This is not a difficult question.  There would be howls of outrage, a genuine uprising as people all over the country cried out with one voice against the injustice of it.  Then ask yourself, where is the outrage over mental illness treatment?  Why are families teetering on the edge of bankruptcy to get a beloved child the treatment she needs?  Why are we telling our most fragile and scared people to just snap out of it?

Matt Walsh is an ass, but I’m actually weirdly grateful for his blog post, just as I was for Martha Beck’s glib comments about suicide last year.  Public ignorance is so much easier to battle.

Robin Williams was 63 years old

Robin Williams

I am heartbroken. Robin Williams is dead in an apparent suicide. I did not know him, but I have been a fan ever since his Mork & Mindy days. More recently, I greatly preferred him in dramatic roles: Good Will Hunting, Insomnia – roles where his frenetic tendencies were held in check, lending his characters a seething intensity that jumped from the screen.

Every time someone well known takes his own life, I wonder, will this be the one that finally gets people talking? People seem to be shocked, and mostly because Robin Williams was so funny. Comedy and tragedy are different sides of the same mask, though. Tony was funny too, often hilariously so. Laughter can be a disguise. Comedy can be a defense mechanism.

I know all too well some of the things his family and friends are feeling now. They are wondering how this could have happened, what they could or should have done differently, why he didn’t call someone in that final, desperate moment before he took the action that could not be undone. They are in that unmapped landscape, together, but alone. They are sad and furious at him at the same time, probably. They are reeling.

My heart goes out to them. I hope they find some of the resources I found – most especially The Alliance of Hope  because there, they can write about their experience in anonymity and get help from people who understand their pain.

Much will be said and written about this in the days and weeks to come, I am sure. I am hoping that somehow, this will be the suicide that makes people willing to talk about it in a larger context. Not just this man, this suicide, but all people – all suicides. One is too many.

His name is Robin Williams. He was 63 years old.

They Are Meant To Be Broken


Most of us have heard, and probably used, the term “walking on eggshells.” We use it to describe a delicate situation or a precarious one, usually when we’re dealing with someone with a short temper or a thin skin. Or a mental illness. I have used it frequently, here, to describe what it was like being married to Tony. Every day was an obstacle course as I tried not to crush the fragile eggshells of his ego and self- esteem beneath my too-loud voice, my too-emotional emotions, or whatever ‘too’ he felt was the culprit on a given day.

The thing is, it wasn’t just walking. It was talking too. Talking on eggshells sounds a little strange, but I don’t know how else to describe the feeling that every word that comes out of your mouth is a potential grenade. I got very good at it. I rarely said, flat-out, what I meant. I could do an elaborate verbal tap dance that would rival anything Ann Miller or Savion Glover could produce with their feet.

What I didn’t grasp, until recently, is that I am still doing it. I am still fighting it. I am still inclined to dance, even though I don’t have to any more. I realized it, finally, because I was upset with someone I really care about. I thought I had raised a particular issue very clearly, more than once, and he just wasn’t getting it. That’s what I thought.  But then, I took a minute and thought back on our conversations.  I went back and read what I had written to him, which I thought was SO CLEAR, and admitted to myself that it… wasn’t. I was tap dancing. I said a lot of words – I am wordy – but none of them were the precise, true problem I was having. I was dancing around it, shuffling, step-ball-changing all over the place, but I never actually hit my mark. I never actually said, “This is the problem, and this is what I think we can do about it.”

The realization hit me like a sucker punch. I AM A WORD PERSON. How could I have been so wrong about what I had written? Then it occurred to me. I was talking on eggshells. Talking around the problem but afraid to step directly on it for fear of breaking something. So afraid.

Here’s the thing about eggshells. They are MEANT to be broken, are they not? How else would the baby chicks get out? How else would we make a birthday cake, or breakfast in bed? HOW ELSE WOULD WE FERTILIZE THE DAMN ROSES? So what I did was, I walked up and crushed those eggshells. I stomped all over them, verbally speaking. I sent a message saying EXACTLY what I meant, because really, it’s not fair to expect anybody to read my mind. Half the time I don’t even know what the heck is going on in there! How could I expect this man, who hasn’t known me very long, to do that without an Aimee-to-English dictionary, a headlamp, and a month’s supply of food? Good grief.

You know what? It was terrifying. It was terrifying. It took every single ounce of courage I had to send that message, because I was so afraid that stating my needs, my wants, would anger him or cause him to reject me.

Reader. It didn’t. He heard me. He did what I asked him to do. I am stronger, and WE are stronger, because of it.

The moral: speak your truth. Stomp all over those freaking eggshells, because they are HOLDING YOU BACK. They were always meant to be broken. For women, especially, I think this is difficult. The newsflash for me is that directness does not equal selfishness, or rudeness or any other –ness. If someone doesn’t like it, THEY ARE NOT FOR YOU. YOU ARE NOT FOR THEM. You are a mighty, eggshell-crushing force of nature. You want someone who will get in there and stomp some damn eggshells with you. And then share the cake.

In the Bleak Midwinter, Long Ago

snowy road

One year ago tonight I spent my last night with Tony.  I didn’t know that, of course.  How could I?  He didn’t tell me, but I’m sure he knew.  I’m sure he knew because the two weeks preceding his last day were awful in so many ways, most of which I could only understand after he had died.

I haven’t written about this here before, but the day that Tony chose to end his life was one that he picked, I believe, close to a year before he actually did it.  I remember on New Year’s Eve, 2012, he said to me that the world was going to end on December 21st.  The movie 2012 had come out late in 2011, and was about the Mayan calendar.  When Tony said that to me, as he did many times over the course of 2012, I thought it was just because he was fascinated by the subject.  We had a screenplay idea that involved the leader of a doomsday cult, and we had talked about that subject quite a lot.  I didn’t think anything of it; but he did mention it frequently enough that I started to get impatient with him.  It seemed like an excuse for letting things go, not trying as hard to be happy, because hey, the world was going to end anyway and why bother?

I don’t remember him talking about it in the few weeks preceding his death.  What I remember is that he came into my hospital room right before I was going in for my back surgery, and told me that he wanted to separate.   I was on a very strong painkiller called Dilaudid, so my reaction wasn’t as strong as it might otherwise have been.  Nevertheless, I was upset.  A lot of times being married to Tony was very hard work, but I loved him and he was my husband, my friend and my writing partner.  I knew he was sick, but that didn’t stop me from loving him.  I could tell when he came in that he was upset.  I asked him what was wrong, and I’ll admit, I pushed him a little.  I could always tell when he was in a dark place.  He told me, dumped that on me right before they came in to take me to the operating room; and then said, “Well, you asked me!” when I pointed out that it maybe wasn’t the kindest thing in the world to lay that on me right before surgery.

When I got home from the hospital, he didn’t mention it and I didn’t bring it up.  After a few days, he brought it up again.  What I believe now is that telling me that was his way of trying to prepare me for what he was going to do.  He did love me, though, the best way he could; so when I got upset and talked to him about working on the relationship, about getting help, he backed down.  Then he brought it up again after a few days.  Those weeks were so hard for me.  I knew something was wrong, but in spite of his depression it never occurred to me for a second that he was planning his own death.

The last conversation we had about separation happened two days before he died, a Wednesday.  We had a horrible fight.  I remember feeling so desolate, so upset, so shattered.  I was up all night, crying all night.  No amount of concealer could hide my swollen eyes and face.  My coworker Sheri took one look at me when she walked in, and asked me what was wrong.  I confided in her.  She was shocked, because her impression of Tony was one of a loving husband who came in to my office over and over again while my back was hurt to keep me company and sometimes, to sit at my desk and type emails that I dictated to him so I could lie on the floor in a slightly more comfortable position.  She told me she was sure we would work it out, we were such a great couple.  I wanted to believe her, but I was so scared. 

That night, the night of the big fight, Tony tried to give me his video camera, the one I had bought him for Christmas several years earlier.  I didn’t know then that giving away treasured possessions is one of the warning signs of impending suicide.  I was hurt that he didn’t want to keep it.  I refused to take it.  The last thing he tried to give me, and I turned him down.  I had no way of knowing, and there’s no point in wishing that I could go back in time and recognize that as what it was.  Even if I had, even if I had pushed him to get help, chances are good that he would have refused as he did all along, every time I suggested it.

Our last night together was a Thursday.  I had been sleeping in a zero gravity chair I had rented, but that night – in retrospect, it seems like a premonition – I wanted to sleep in the bed with Tony.  I couldn’t sleep on the inside, against the wall, where I usually did, because I had to do a barrel roll to get out of bed safely.  We switched sides – he on the inside, I on the outside.  Through our marriage, even when things were difficult, one of my favorite moments of every day was when we went to sleep and I would curl into his side, my head on his shoulder, inhaling that particular smell that was his alone. 

I reached for him that night.  He pulled away.  As if that would hold my heart together when his was no longer beating, that I didn’t have that one last time to hold him close and listen to his breath and smell him and feel his warmth.

I grieve, but I am still so angry at him.  I know he was sick.  I know that he was in the grip of depression, a disease that lies; and I know that he had other forms of mental illness, too, ones that were never and never will be diagnosed.  What I’ve discovered is that a lot of people, even those who have lost someone to suicide, don’t want to talk about the anger.  We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead.  I don’t think of this as speaking ill of Tony.  What it is, is speaking truth about him; and he deserves that.  We all deserve it, because in the end, we are all just human.

One. Two. Two. One. One. Two.

December twenty-first is just another day, after all.  One day like any other since he died.  One more day on the calendar.  Just because it happens to be the one-year anniversary of the day he died doesn’t make it different than any other day.  My friend Angela, who also lost her partner to suicide last year, told me that last weekend while we were Skyping.  My brain, logical brain, knows she’s right.  I grieve every day.  I don’t make grieving reservations, grief comes when it wants to and overstays its welcome and never thinks about what I want. 

Why then, as the days proceed inexorably toward that one day, that one day plus one year, a three now disrupting the line of ones and twos that precede it, does my heart clench in dread?  Why does my stomach knot?  Why does it feel so big, that day that is just a string of numbers, just another day in a long line of them; a line that started before he did and will end after he did?  Why do I not want to get out of bed in the morning?  If it is just a day like any other, why do I want to wipe it from the calendar, crush it out of existence?

When he chose that date, he took the shortest day of the year and made it into the longest day of my life.  He took the three big sevens in our lives – our first date June 7, our first day in San Diego November 7, our wedding anniversary August 7 – added them to make 21 and subtracted himself to make zero.  Every day now is another step I do not want to take, another anniversary of some horror, whether I remember it or not.  Every day of the two weeks before he died was its own kind of nightmare.  He was unraveling and I.  I could not stop it.  I could not stop it.  I did not stop it.  He did.

It is coming.  I hate it already, and I haven’t even met it yet.  I can’t predict what it will be like, but it feels like my enemy, that day.  It is a thief that goes by no name, only numbers.

One. Two. Two. One. One. Three.