On May 17, 2011, my husband lost his long battle with depression. Like a cancer, my husband's illness consumed him. It's progression was like any other illness except that it was his mind that was effected. Although his body was perfectly healthy, in just a few short months, his illness changed him physically. He lost weight. He aged. He was not himself. He acted in ways and spoke in ways that were not like him. The illness completely took over and in the last couple of months, I believe that all we saw were pieces of the real him that came in and out. My beautiful husband...
This was the day that I had feared for the past thirteen years. This was the day that caused me to think and speak and act in ways so that I would never have to live it. This was the day that I had entrusted to pure faith and hoped that it would never arrive. This was the day that a father, a husband, a son, a brother, and a friend was lost. This was the day that my husband took his own life.
For the past year, I have kept this story very close to me. It is a story in which I do believe the whole story needs to be told. When people have asked me how my husband died, I have answered by telling them that he had been sick, which is absolutely true. However, it is more complicated than that. My fear in telling people that my husband died by suicide is that he will be defined by this one act. As unfathomable and as powerful and as heartbreaking as this one act was, there was a man who had lived a life of 35 years before this final act. That is why I feel that I need to tell more. I feel the need to share his life... He had a wonderful life, a life full of experiences that added to his uniqueness and character. He was a good man, he was a generous person, he was kind and caring, he was dedicated and loyal, he was smart and witty. He had also been a wonderful and loving husband and father. He was such a wonderful father. He lit up my son just as much as my son lit up his world. To watch them together was my bliss. They were my family, my everything.
I am not bitter. I am not angry. I am deeply saddened. More than anything, I am aware of how blessed I have been. This is all because I could look at him and see him for the true man that he was without the sickness, and that man was remarkable.
This was the day that I had feared for the past thirteen years. This was the day that caused me to think and speak and act in ways so that I would never have to live it. This was the day that I had entrusted to pure faith and hoped that it would never arrive. This was the day that a father, a husband, a son, a brother, and a friend was lost. This was the day that my husband took his own life.
For the past year, I have kept this story very close to me. It is a story in which I do believe the whole story needs to be told. When people have asked me how my husband died, I have answered by telling them that he had been sick, which is absolutely true. However, it is more complicated than that. My fear in telling people that my husband died by suicide is that he will be defined by this one act. As unfathomable and as powerful and as heartbreaking as this one act was, there was a man who had lived a life of 35 years before this final act. That is why I feel that I need to tell more. I feel the need to share his life... He had a wonderful life, a life full of experiences that added to his uniqueness and character. He was a good man, he was a generous person, he was kind and caring, he was dedicated and loyal, he was smart and witty. He had also been a wonderful and loving husband and father. He was such a wonderful father. He lit up my son just as much as my son lit up his world. To watch them together was my bliss. They were my family, my everything.
I am not bitter. I am not angry. I am deeply saddened. More than anything, I am aware of how blessed I have been. This is all because I could look at him and see him for the true man that he was without the sickness, and that man was remarkable.
I'm thinking of you my friend and I'm here.
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