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The collection of stories and the journal prompts that were essential to moving beyond the tragedy of my husband’s suicide, through my twisted and confused state of mind, through forgiveness and into a book, One Side of Suicide: Experience moving from surviving to thriving, to help other survivors. As you know, survivors are at increased risk of taking their own lives.
Scenes of our last encounter seared into my mind’s eye. Nick sat cross-legged on the curb, police officers dotted the yard, and neighbors watched with babies in their arms. They used to honk and wave at him fixing our car, building patio furniture, or seeding the lawn. But that day they just stared. I rolled away with our children: Ross, Elizabeth, Lauren, and our dog, KD.
“I think we should leave KD home to keep Daddy company,” insisted Ross. KD had slept with Ross for six solid years. It was the most generous gift he had to offer... his dog to watch over his dad. I locked my eyes on the road and drove on. Hours later we pulled into an Econo Lodge. The five of us squeezed together on one king sized bed.
Finally safe I dialed my parents. Dad answered on the first ring. “You’re alive,” he cracked.
I left Nick, who I loved, feared, and resented. We would bury him two short weeks later.
I woke up to the sleeping sounds of our children and thought about the day before that brought us to the motel. Nick’s jaw locked tight when I read his apology card. My shoulders stiffened. I no longer cared how sorry he was. The marriage was over. I watched the muscles in his cheeks ripple as he ground his teeth together. He gathered up the children, his three and the little ones in my day care. I picked the baby up and held her on my lap.
“Come on curly top,” he said. “Everyone stay in the playroom and don’t come out,” he ordered. Nick had never laid a violent hand on his children.
“What should I do?” my mind raced.
Nick paced, “You’re so cold. We have three kids. I hate your guts.” The room echoed hatred off of the four thin walls. The baby sucked her bottle and I laid her in the large wooden playpen in the family room. I turned to the patio doors with Nick’s breath on the back of my neck.
“Say something. Hit me,” he rasped. Two neighbors were stretched out on a quilt on the other side of the fence we shared. I’m not alone.
Nick’s stifled rage saturated the wet July air. His step was brisk as he waved at them.
Ross popped his head out the door and asked, “Can we come out now, Daddy?”
“No.” Nick marched his worried son back to isolation.
I moved quickly to the fence. “If you see anything bad call the police.” They sipped their tea, talked, and sat... stationed on their blanket.
Nick returned, “Come inside. Now!” I shook my head and rooted myself in the lawn. He moved close and wrapped my hair around one hand and cupped the other one over my mouth.
“Go inside, damn it.” I followed him to hell like an unwilling dog on a short leash. My brain throbbed with raw, sudden pain as he ripped out a handful of hair. That was my neighbor’s cue and she dialed the police. Nick dragged me indoors and across the living room floor.
Why had we succumbed to such violent sickness? Fear can kill a person just as tragically as a bullet or a belt or a bump on the brain. I hated myself for being afraid. I hated him for all the threats. I scrambled up onto the sofa next to the window. The screen checked the blue-white sky. I wished I could run, but drew my bare legs up in front of me. He picked on my left thigh and started pounding one blow after the other with his rock hard fist... if my leg broke I would be stuck.
“I’m not afraid to die. We’re already living in hell,” he ranted.
Ross showed up one more time with big, green saucer eyes. “Daddy?”
Nick turned and shouted questions. “Am I hurting her? Am I doing anything wrong? What’s wrong?” Ross just stared and shook his head from side to side. Next, it bobbed slightly up and down. His son was silent.
An arrow of sunlight sneaked through the living room door. Some little someone had left it ajar again. I darted outside. Nick, a few paces behind shoved me to the ground just as the police pulled to a stop. My dear friend Marsha cared for my daycare children as I packed Ross, Elizabeth, Lauren, and the dog in our little hatchback.
Daily a plan to permanently separate from Nick developed and died inside of my mind. Another friend, Suzanne rescued me from my confusion, desperation, and indecision. She knew I would go back to him eventually if he found me, coerced me, seduced me. Suzanne blessed me with friendship and unconditional love. She confided in me that she too had been on the receiving end of emotional abuse and planned to leave her husband. The difference between us was power and insight. Suzanne prepared a safe haven for herself and purchased a lovely brick home in a quiet neighborhood. It stood empty as she waited for a safe, appropriate time to leave her spouse.
The children and I moved in the very next day and left no forwarding address or telephone number with anyone. Suzanne called my parents and told them we were being well cared for and not to worry.
Memories plagued the nights in our hideout. “You’ll be sorry. I hope you find someone more like your own self to drive you crazy!” His rage bellowed inside of my head as I tucked Ross, Elizabeth, and Lauren into their temporary beds.
Nick learned quickly that no one knew where we were. He lost contact with the only true security he had known in a long time. His family vanished overnight. (Hindsight kicked me around for years after his death each time I thought about the pain he must have felt.)
(Nick had plane tickets and was on a flight to Florida!?) A week or so passed and I loaded the children back up to return to our home to collect clothes and connect with friends while he was away. The house was empty, but the light burned next to his chair. Where was he? The radio sang in an empty house. I discovered the truth behind his absence scratched on white notepaper scattered across grandma’s old canning table. He was thirty-two years old and signed his last words, “No Need, Nick.” He had drawn a circle with two dots for eyes, no nose, a straight line for a mouth next to his name. No smile, no frown, no expression. My friend pieced the puzzle together and sent her husband out in search of his body. Nick’s garage reeked with the smell of his remains, which were slumped over the steering wheel of his Camaro. He had stretched an air compressor hose from the exhaust pipe through the driver’s window and clamped it into place.
People die on battlefields fighting in the name of peace, in their own beds desperately gasping for a miracle cure, while others take their own lives before they know whom they truly are. Suicide is a wretched waste.
I was tempted to tell our children that their daddy died in a car accident. My denial and isolation began as I tried to rescue them before the lightning bolt of their daddy’s suicide could hit them. Did I want to protect us from the stigma attached to a survivor of suicide or pretend that his death occurred under more common circumstances? The masquerade could never last. I wondered about the outcome when time revealed we had lived a lie. Children instinctively know when there is more to a story. Grownups lower their voices while children lock their eyes to their lips, brows, and body language. My fingers caressed his last words folded into a square in my pocket. I couldn’t lie to our children. The car accident detour would have rationed out filthy guilt over a precious lifetime.
My mind raced for explanations of his absence. Denial was truly a buffer and played tricks with my eyes. The suntan lotion sitting with the lid half opened jolted my mind about half a click, but I passed it by. I checked the patio, the bedroom, the bathroom and expected to find him alive... rinsing his hands, eyes twinkling; a bad joke. I wanted to scream with delight to our little ones, “Here he is; it’s OK; everything’s fine!”
The trauma hadn’t blistered but it had started to sting. Ross and Elizabeth looked up to me for answers. A friend held Lauren and cried,“What could I have done; why hadn’t I known; was I to blame?” I wanted to fly away, but had to stand on hated truth. He died on purpose. Once the truth was out, it could not be retrieved or reinvented. A lie would be an agreement to live in shame. A survivor of suicide doesn’t need to deal with any more shame. Shame kills too.
I went cold in the midst of a sticky, summer eve. Carbon monoxide poisoning. I looked into three sets of innocent eyes; one green like mine, another brown like grandma’s, and another blue like his.
“Daddy killed himself with car smoke. He died in the garage.” He left an eight-year-old son, a five-year-old daughter, and a one-year-old daughter. We watched the ambulance open up and swallow their daddy all zipped up in a man-sized plastic bag.
Policemen questioned me until my head split. “Was your husband depressed, under medication? Was he angry?” The questions asked at the scene pierced my numb brain. “Was he allergic to anything?” "Was he allergic?" "Could he still have a pulse?" The officers finally left me alone.
Our minister arrived with his wife, my psychotherapist. She counseled me on several occasions during the short separation. We held hands in our neighbor’s house on the hill overlooking ours. Together we formed a circle. No beginning, no end, we bowed our heads.
“We hold Nick in everlasting love.” Everyone held his or her own prayer that night.
The children and I spent the night with my parents. Questions continued to torture my mind. Parents have a multitude of decisions regarding the rearing of children. We love our children and want to shelter them from life’s injustices. I have never regretted telling them the truth even though Ross responded with, “I should have helped him. I should have taken him to a doctor.” Children, responsible for their parents? I thought it was the other way around. Children are willing to fall heir to their parents’ mistakes. My son felt he could have provided the missing link, a trip to the doctor, and prevented his father’s suicide. But, his dad had refused both counseling and Alcoholics Anonymous. “I don’t need counseling, and I don’t have a drinking problem!”
I regret my abrupt disposal of snapshots. I trashed a photo album overflowing with Harley Davidson adventures and late adolescence. I loved riding along the coastal highway with my arms hugging his warm, trim waist... summer tanning our backs. The wind whipped his sun-bleached hair and wrapped it around the molding of his candy-apple red helmet. We were invincible and soared like eagles with the spirit of companionship beneath our wings. He was gone. I wanted him to roll his fingers around the handle grips and ride again.
That was 1987. Ross, Elizabeth, and Lauren are adults who continue to love their dad and struggle with his choice to die. We each love you as we share a common bond. They say time heals, and yes it does, if you process over the time. I hope this encourages you to communicate, write, love yourself, and heal. You deserve it. I love you. ~Dee Burt