The same is true in real estate, but ultimately in real estate there is always an answer. Keep the faith, because unless you have one of the chosen few that just
What does it feel like to have a spouse or partner commit suicide?
TL:DR I know.
My husband committed suicide on January 27, 2007.
What I thought had been a happy, loving marriage went to hell in one short week.
I was working over an hour away on second shift and my husband, Eric worked day shift right in our town. I didn’t see him much. He was still at work when I left for my job every day and when I got home he was already asleep. He worked a lot of overtime on the weekends and I worked every other weekend. The rare days that we were off together it seemed like all he did was sleep but I rationalized that as him being exhausted from working so hard throughout the week. (We all know how good it feels to sleep all day every now and then.)
It was one of those rare days on January 21,2007, where the both of us were off. We’d hung out in our pajamas all day watching tv when Eric decided to drive to Lee’s Famous Recipe and get us lazy butts some dinner. It’d snowed about a foot but the chicken place was less than a mile away. I told him to drive safe and he took off.
I don’t really even know how long he’d been gone before I started to worry. I called his cell phone and he didn’t answer. Waited a little longer and tried again. No answer. I then realized he’d been gone for nearly 4 hours. I fully panicked. I called my best friend and my mother to go out looking for him while I called hospitals, police, jails. *Just so you know, none of them can tell you ANYTHING so it’s a complete waste of time.* Mom and my best friend were out looking for any signs of an accident between our house and Lee’s, Nothing. After another hour I decided I should go out looking, too. As I closed the front door behind me he pulled up. As grateful as I was that he was home safe I was incredibly PISSED. He walked up meekly, before I could start screaming. “I’m sorry. I went to a friends and smoked some speed. I knew you’d know just by looking at me so I tried to stay gone til it wore off.”
I WAS INFURIATED! Not only did I have mom and the best friend frantically searching for him, now I was going to have to tell them he was fine, he JUST went to a friends house to do hard drugs… that was all!
As soon as we got into the house I told him I would NOT live like that. I’m a nurse, for christs sake! WE don’t do stuff like that!
I told him I was going to spend the night at my moms til I could think about what we were going to do but he said he’d go to his grandma’s and stay the night. He left and I reluctantly called my mom to tell her the bad news. As I told her I remembered that the heat probably wasn’t on at his grandmothers. She’d died 6 months before and no one lived at her house. I was immediately sorry I’d let him go and called him to come home.
When he got home that night we laid in bed for hours just talking. We could survive this. He wasn’t an addict. We were going to be ok… I thought.
That Monday he went to work like normal. At about noon I got a call from a number 000-000-0000. I didn’t answer. Immediately after, the same number calling. I answered.
“We have your husband here at the Emergency Employee office. He told me to tell you to take all of his guns to Uncle Daves. He’s told us that he’s feeling homicidal and suicidal.”
WTF? I thought, “What a horrible way to get out of work early. Now they’re all going to think he’s crazy.” I did NOT take the guns to his uncles, though I did hide them throughout the house. When he got home we sat in silence until he finally said, “I’m afraid you’re going to leave me over using drugs.” I thought we’d already talked about that and it was over but… it wasn’t. We were up half the night talking and again, I thought everything was ok.
Tuesday he went to work as usual. I learned at his funeral that he’d told his boss he was sorry for the day before; that it was marital and everything was fine. He told her, “She kissed me before I took off to work and told me she loved me.”
Wednesday just as normal as every other day until I reached over in the middle of the night and felt him burning up. His temperature was 103.9. I woke him up just long enough to give him some tylenol. His temperature was 104.1 two hours later. Fed him some Motrin and waited up til I could call him off of work and get him a doctor appointment.
So, it was Thursday. We went to the doctors office at 11am. He still had a horrible fever and before the doctor could get in there he told me he was freezing. I hugged him, putting my coat around him for a minute and then told him we couldn’t keep him wrapped up like that since he had such a horrible fever. I didn’t know that was the last time ever I’d get to hug my husband.
The doctor came in and asked what the problem was. Eric immediately said, “I feel homicidal and suicidal.”
I felt my heart drop. I thought we were done with this. I was afraid they were going to lock him up. Now I wish they would have.
The doctor gave him a prescription for TAMAFLU, a 3 day doctor note for him to be off work and sent us on our way. He said he was hungry and we went to Bob Evans. I sat speachless at the table; looking at him wondering what he was thinking. I didn’t know WHAT to say. Eric finally broke the silence. “Do you think Kroger sells cow brains?”
“I don’t know. WHY?!?”
“Because I want to know what I’m getting into.”
I’m a psych nurse. I’ve dealt with every type of malingerer and manipulator. I’m so sorry now that I thought he was being one of the two.
“Eric, if this is your way of trying to FIX things you’re very wrong.”
He ate his food and we left silently. When we got home he got out of the car and started walking towards the railroad tracks. “I just want to go on a walk. I won’t be long.”
I let him go. Thursday, January 25, 2007 was the last time I saw my husband.
He walked to his cousins house. Called me and told me he didn’t realize he’d walked so far away and that he’d have her bring him home in a little bit. Cindy, his cousin, was nothing but pure white trash. She did drugs, sold drugs, sold her body, every nasty horrible thing you can think of, Cindy did. Daily.
Several hours later, after I’d called repeatedly and he wouldn’t answer he called me. He was a very different Eric than I’d ever known. He called me a fatass. Told me I was ugly. Said he was proud of the ex who’d abused me for years because I deserved it. He told me he was sick of me trying to keep him away from his family- people who he’d nearly daily wished death upon. I knew he was ONLY saying those things to make me mad. I decided then and there that I would NOT call him again. He’d be ashamed of himself when he came home… and he’d have to come home on Sunday night because he’d NEVER miss work. That’s how I consoled myself. I didn’t call again.
Friday night/ Saturday morning- Eric called me finally. He was his normal nice self. He asked if I still had a dentist appointment and when I said I did he told me that I needed to make sure I went; reminded me of how important it is to take care of my teeth. I knew this was drugs talking but at least he wasn’t being mean anymore. I asked him to come on home and suddenly, as if someone had busted him being nice to me, he screamed, “FUCK YOU BITCH!” and hung up. Those were the last words I got to hear from my husband. “FUCK YOU BITCH!”
Saturday night at 8pm I heard a knock on the door. I answered it to 6 or 7 cops standing on my front porch. They told me to put my dog away and the female cop said, “you aren’t in trouble.” I already knew. I KNEW what they were going to tell me. I did NOT put my dog up but went out on my icy porch barefoot.
One of them told me they’d found Eric’s body. He’d died at his cousins house.
If you watch true crime shows you’ll know what I’m talking about here. As I stood on that porch with the news I’d just gotten I wondered why there were so many cops on my porch. I wondered if I was acting the way a woman who’s been told her husband is dead SHOULD act. I wondered if they’d suspected me of anything. All I said was, “OK.” And I walked back into the house. THEN I destroyed nearly EVERYTHING in my house. I later received his suicide note. He’d apologized and said he was addicted to drugs and had been for a very long time. He said he couldn’t keep hurting me like this so he was going to take care of everything himself. Suicide certainly hurt me far worse that him being on drugs. I’m so sorry he didn’t know that.
From January 27, 2007 well into 2008 I have nearly NO memory of. I remember tiny parts, like going to identify his body. I remember parts of his funeral. I remember tons of people being there right after it happened but then there was no one. Those people who say, “You can call me for anything.” don’t really MEAN that. They get on with their lives as you just live. Isolated. Crazy with grief. I was completely convince that I was going to die soon. I felt old. I KNEW I would die any day. Even my own best friend abandoned me and I later learned that she’d told people that I drove Eric to his grave. In 07 I started drinking… HEAVILY. From the moment I woke up til the moment I passed out- drunk. I’d quit my job. Quit bathing. Pretty much quit eating. I’d given our beloved dogs away, burnt hole in my arms with cigarettes on purpose, punched walls so many times I still have scars. I WANTED to die. I didn’t care if the things I did put me at risk for dying. I saw no way that I could continue living. I had not a friend in the world. Even psychiatrist friends flat out told me, “Bianca, I don’t know anything I can do to help you.”
And then, just one day in 2008 I decided enough was enough. I stopped drinking completely. That right there was the biggest step in my recovery. Each day got more and more tolerable. I got a job. I found new friends. I found some of my old friends. Life wasn’t so horrible.
I think of Eric every single day. About half of the time, when I think of him I cry. The other half I think about the good parts of us. I still have tons of his things that I’ll never use but I simply CANNOT get rid of, ever.
He died when he was 30 years old. I was 32. I was way too young to have had to live through that. Life gave me it’s worst and I survived through it. I didn’t survive PRETTY but I did survive.
*I’d like to add in here that on January 27, 2012 I remarried- the fifth anniversary of Eric’s death. I took that sting out of that horrible day. It’s no longer a date to dread. It’s a date for memories. Both good and bad.