Category Archives: suicide

Chapter III: Life Beyond Mr. Wonderful – The Horrible, Beautiful Gift

Posted in Chapter III: Life After Suicide, Family History, Genealogy, suicide by

To this day, almost twenty-three months after Rob’s suicide, I still can’t fathom the horror of it. It’s unimaginable yet I re-imagine it regularly. It’s unspeakable but I want to talk about it. It’s unthinkable yet here I am…

In 2003 one of my employees killed himself. He chose to end his life by carbon monoxide poisoning in his parents’ garage the Friday before Mother’s Day. His coworkers and friends were devastated. I worked with this incredibly talented, thoughtful artist for years so I felt like I knew him, but I wouldn’t say that I knew him well. He was much younger and much cooler than I was, and I was his boss, so I’m sure he had some strong opinions of me that varied from one day to the next. But I was wrecked by his death. It was months of grieving the loss of him, the sadness over his final act. At the time I remember thinking, If I’m this affected, I cannot imagine how obliterated his parents, his sister, his girlfriend, his close friends are.

Rob’s horrific death feels surreal. And it feels a million miles away. My life has moved on. My life will continue to distance itself from that life that I had with him, and away from his memory. It is what it is; I can’t hold on to him and move forward at the same time. It doesn’t diminish his life, our marriage, our love for each other, or his great big heart. It just allows me to continue living, which is what he wanted. And it’s what I want.

20140426_171257-1I knew even right after he died that I wasn’t going to stay in my grief forever. I knew that I couldn’t allow his death to be the end of my story, or serve as the downward catalyst for my life. It had to make me better. My life had to get better. I had to do whatever I could to make it true. I had to stuff my grief deep down inside; thanks to an incredible therapist I was able to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Sounds simple. It really was, but that’s not to say that I wasn’t a wreck or hell to deal with. I’m me after all…

I call his illness and ultimately his death a horrible, beautiful gift that I’ve been given. It’s a gift I never, ever wanted and one that I wouldn’t choose for me or wish upon anyone else. The gift is that I know what’s important now. For the most part, I no longer am affected by the mundane irritations of life. He taught me some of that when we were together, but when he got sick and I only wanted him well and happy and home with me, everything else melted away. No one’s opinions mattered, none of the disagreements with others mattered, and I knew without reservation that relationships were important, people were important.

I feel free in some respects. To repeat, I would NEVER choose this path. I would bring him back in an instant and go back to sweating the small stuff if it meant he’d still be walking among us, sharing his incredible humor and intellect. But I’ve got to leave the past behind. I can’t think about what I would do if I could. I have to think about what I will do, what I can do.

But of course I miss him. I always will. The way he kissed me at every stoplight, the way he held my car door open for me, the way he knew what I was hungry for without me having to tell him, the way he called me “babydoll,” the way he tucked me in every night, just the way he loved me.

He was my biggest cheerleader. He knew I could do anything. And I believe it too.

 

Chapter III: Life Beyond Mr. Wonderful – Love Lessons Learned

Posted in Chapter III: Life After Suicide, Family History, Genealogy, suicide by

*NOTE: I wrote this several months ago but chose not to publish it. Now, seven months later, and in an even better head space, I feel free to share. It’s been edited slightly from its original form but the meat is the same: love that is anything but unconditional is not love. Be good to each other, friends.

I’ve been asked to write about what’s happening as the first-year anniversary of my husband’s death approaches. I think I would have anyway, but finding a pathway to rational or non-whiny thoughts doesn’t come easily since Rob left my side.

As November 7th approaches I am reminded of how life changed in an instant and how, even though I hate it, I have somehow managed to move forward when all I wanted to do was to stand still AKA lie down and die. Don’t misunderstand me, I never thought of “joining” Rob in death, but it took a hot moment to remember that he wasn’t the only reason I have for living. And as a non-religious person, I am acutely aware that he’s gone. Gone-gone, not waiting for me in another life. He’s ceased to exist, turned to ash and sitting in a box on the table next to me. The only parts of him that still remain are what we all remember of him, what we choose to share in an effort to keep his memory alive and physical items that I continue to sift through.

People ask me if I can “feel” him around me. And even though I do speak to him as if he’s still here from time to time, the answer is always a quick and decisive “No.” Rob died on November 7, 2017. He put a gun to his head and ended his pain, his life, his existence.

In his medicated stupor, he believed that he had done irreparable harm to me and my life and he wanted to spare me any more pain. I still remember the look of despair he displayed when his parents told him that I was no longer a welcome member of their family. The blow-up between his mother and me had occurred while Rob was experiencing a psychotic break. It wasn’t until Rob returned home that he became aware of the drama they had caused by attempting to control his medical situation from a half-dozen states away. The additional stress, pain and accusations they served up while I was doing my level best to care for him in his most dire time of need would have been unbearable had it not been for my focus on him, and the support of my family and friends. And at the end of it all, when they told him that they would not “help” him if he continued to be married to me, Rob cried. And I was dumbfounded, exhausted and further heartbroken on his behalf. NOTHING that he or I ever did was good enough to satiate their desire to judge, to berate, to belittle, to shittify and to generally pour pissiness on our lives.

It was all done with the “best intentions” you know. They would pose their questions about our lives from a position of genuine care or concern, but then turn any information we gave them around after they added their own ignorant spin on things. For example, Rob was a consultant. His work life before meeting me was one where he worked six months out of the year and took the other six off; his income allowed it and his lifestyle as a confirmed bachelor worked well in that realm. And then he met me and wanted to stay put, didn’t want to be on the road six months of the year. So he tried to work “regular” jobs with a salary and two weeks off a year and set office hours on-site. He tried time and again but it didn’t suit him. So he would leave a “regular” job for another contract and hit the road over and over. Their position? “You can’t hold a job.” I knew he was struggling to figure out how to work his career in our new life. I knew the pain he felt at knowing his parents would consider him a failure yet again.

When I would try to bridge the gap between their judgment and his hurt, I was met with hateful nastiness. They scoffed when I would tear up. They flat-out refused to discuss anything other than why they were disappointed in his career, me, his weight, his day-to-day decisions, his everything. He told me in the beginning, “I always knew my mother would behave this way,” referring to her attitude towards me. “It has nothing to do with you, babydoll,” he’d say.

I grew up with both sets of my parents’ parents holding court at every family event. They attended each others’ holiday gatherings, and they genuinely loved and cared about my parents. Both of them.

I just always thought that’s the way it was; you join a family and you love them and they love you. Considering I had done nothing but love Rob since the day we met, I just couldn’t understand what else they thought was important to expect of me.

Over the course of Rob’s and my marriage, I tried on several occasions to take the high road, go the extra mile, communicate with them more, etc. But none of it made a difference in the end. When Rob got sick and I pleaded with his mom to get on a plane to be with him, she said she wouldn’t be taking advice from me because I was no “mother of the year.” I remember her saying that as clear as day and at that exact moment I thought, “Good God, she doesn’t even know me.” Aside from loving Rob, if there’s one thing in this world I’m great at it is being a mom. Her ignorant comment was a gift to me; it freed me from feeling any more need to be accepted or understood by her.

I told his mother that day that I felt sorry for Rob. Her response was, “So do I, because he has to be married to you.”

So where does that leave me now that Rob’s gone? One year on, what does any of this mean? In hindsight, what can be learned from this relative to his parents?

Well, I guess it means that none of it means anything. It means that parents are without a son, a wife is without her husband, a young man is without his step-father and many people are left without a friend. And all for what? Because he couldn’t be controlled? Because he represented their failure to parent? Because he didn’t represent their values? (Ironic but I might talk about that another day.)

I’m reminded of a conversation Rob had with the intake professionals at Tri-County Health here in Kansas City right after his breakdown. When asked about what he wanted from his parents that he didn’t feel like he got, he responded, “Acceptance.”

So in continuing my life, I will take the knowledge that to love someone is to accept them. No conditions, no expectations.

Many of my friends have asked, begged, demanded, pleaded for Rob’s parents’ contact information in the wake of his death. God love them, they want to stick up for Rob, for me, for Jesse, for all of us who loved him and knew him. But I won’t give in. The last thing I’ve wanted to do is to add to their grief even though I love the idea of someone championing us. The fact is that the McNeeces would never listen. As much as I think a normal parent would feel guilt and shame, I don’t think they’re capable.

You know, they didn’t even attend Rob’s celebration of life here. So many people came to show their love for him and support for me; they missed out on so much by skipping it. They chose instead to have their own “family-only” ceremony on the East Coast and they didn’t invite me. I arranged to have some of his ashes sent to them because I felt it was the right thing to do but…

Isn’t it all so sad?

UPDATE TO Chapter III: Life Beyond Mr. Wonderful – Exposing Twitter Trolls and Class-A A-holes

Posted in Chapter III: Life After Suicide, Family History, suicide, Uncategorized by

When my husband died, I felt like my brain died too.

Rob had a photographic memory, and vast capacity for storing it all.

Since his death, I’ve been in a fog. They say it could last a year, two years, who knows. I just know that my brainpower isn’t what it once was, even before Rob came into my life almost 14 years ago.

I’ve kept his computer on and his tabs up, basically as he had them the day he killed himself. As a matter of fact, I’ve kept much of his office the same. I can’t bear to change it completely for fear that the memories associated with the layout will leave me. Isn’t that strange?

But I digress. The point is that I’m not quite there yet, and I would guess that I can look forward to a lifetime of stumbling upon tidbits of Rob, thankful for the reminders but also sad for what was lost.

I came across one such item last week that sparked my interest.

This was a conversation he and I had on August 28, 2017. I had completely forgotten about it.

Louise Mensch was duped, my husband called her out on it and she attacked him.

everything just came together btw. i love you https://twitter.com/akula_51/status/xxx It did? i do believe so https://twitter.com/akula_51/status/xxx the sources feeding info to louise and her crew – which was driving a whole bunch of trumprussia – were driven by – get this – a hoaxer. Hell yeah. And you brought it to her attention? i figured out it was a hoax a while back and she attacked me yeah (thumbs up) i have tweets of her accusing me of being an active agent of russian intelligence

So now I know why she was so vicious towards him. He called her on bad intel. Isn’t that ironic, considering her “intel” after Rob died? You know, the bit about everyone else being to blame for his suicide but her?

What a world.

 

 

Chapter III: Life After Mr. Wonderful: Reflecting on What I Couldn’t Make Up For (His Parents)

Posted in Chapter III: Life After Suicide, Genealogy, suicide, Uncategorized by

It’s been over seven months. My Mr. Wonderful exited this world on November 7, 2017 and I have been in a semi-productive, semi-coherent, semi-realistic state since. I wish I could explain my thought process and where I’m at in my grief, but I really just can’t. I simply exist.

I remember. I continue. I grieve.

Almost nothing about my life since my husband killed himself is the same. There are moments, moments when I recognize my actions as those uniquely mine, when I remember who I was before I met him. And there are moments when I reflect upon who I’ve become, who is very different from the person I was when he and I first met.

I like to think, and believe it to be true, that the person Rob fell in love with back in 2004 is more closely aligned with who I am today, more so than the person I was after we met and up until his death. This truth makes me sad and proud at the same time because it reminds me of what I’m capable of but also what I lost for so many years.

I am and always have been comfortable with the idea that my situation is largely dependent upon me. I never could and would not rely on someone else to make my future. Hence, when I was a single mother at 24 I went back to college and busted my ass to make sure that a) I met my own criteria for success and b) my young son saw me do it.

After college I had a great career, one I earned with hard work and brain power. I had moved away from my hometown, which allowed me to earn my reputation (good or bad) on  my own merit instead of my family name. In my new surroundings and in my position I had risen to a role many would envy. It was at this point I decided that I was ready to meet my match.

And within a month I met Rob.

“From 35,000 feet I see a woman who  made her own way and is raising a great kid,” I remember Rob saying soon after we met. Full of confidence, I knew he was right. And I knew I was worthy of him.

And then life happened. I married him. I loved him without end. He traveled. I wanted to prove that his needs were paramount (something not easy when raising a son who deserved everything I had to give), and I made it work. When my son spent every other weekend at his dad’s house, I devoted my time to my husband, who traveled for work almost exclusively. Eventually I left my job, because (and I remember saying this time and again to friends who were curious), “When it comes to my career or my marriage, I choose my marriage.”

Conversely, I remember my mother reminding me that my future was my responsibility. “Take care of yourself, honey,” she said, “Make sure you’re protected.” I scoffed. “His future is my future,” I remember thinking.

Aside from my undying love and devotion, I felt like I could give Rob a sense of family, which was something he never had. His mother had lost her parents early and she didn’t get along with her mother-in-law. Their relationship was so contentious that Rob didn’t see his father’s mother for many years preceding her death in 2003. As a matter of fact, Rob nor Rob’s mother attended the funeral. This rift was fallout from Rob’s parents’ split and eventual reconciliation. His father’s mother was critical of his mother and when his parents got back together, she was out. Rob assumed it was a condition of their reconciliation. His father was an alcoholic and his mother put her foot down on many things. She’s been in charge ever since and God help us all for it.

So Rob never had the warm and cuddly grandmother figure that I was blessed with. And he never grew up with the understanding that family, even when they make you insanely crazy with hurt, are always there. At least in my case, I could always count on them, even if I was a giant shit (which I was on occasion). When he and I got together, I thought I could provide this kind of love and acceptance to Rob, but what I didn’t understand was that because of how he was raised, and by the people he was raised by, he wasn’t equipped to understand that level of love and understanding. In his world, if someone, even family, hurt you or made you uncomfortable, you excised them.

It always perplexed me, how Rob was so great at loving me and being an unconditional support for me, but he was unable to accept my family in the same way. This doesn’t apply to my son; Rob was so proud of him and never let an opportunity pass to brag about him. I loved him for that. But beyond my son and me (and our dogs), Rob couldn’t conceive of unconditional love.

Sadly enough, he never felt like he had that from his own parents.

I tried to discuss this with them on Rob’s and my last visit to their home a year before he died. They would hear nothing of it.

As a matter of fact, Rob’s mother used my emotional/teary state during that conversation as a means to berate me some time later. “Oh yeah, boo hoo,” she said, remembering my attempt at a conversation gone awry. I guess she thought my emotions relative to her son’s pain was a reason she could make fun of me. It broke my heart many times over. Her poor son.

In reviewing just what I’ve laid out here I am reminded of what allowing negativity into your life can do to even the most grateful soul. It stings. It infects. It remains.

I love my husband. I always will. But when I think about the negativity his parents brought into our lives, even from thousands of miles away, I am grateful to never have to see or hear from their sad and bitter asses again. Rob would be happy for me. He knew his parents were shitty people; we discussed it more times than either of us would have cared to admit. He tried so hard to distance himself but felt a sense of responsibility to continue trying to be the son they wanted. It was never going to happen.

When his parents told him, just weeks before he killed himself, that they wanted him to move “home” with them and that he wouldn’t ever have to work again or have any responsibilities BUT NOT IF HE CONTINUED TO BE MARRIED TO ME, it broke him to his core. He cried like I’ve never seen him cry before.

And we only ever loved each other. Without measure.

Never, in a million years, did I ever expect that when I found the love of my life – my first and only love at 34 years old – that his parents would hate me so completely and mercilessly. Why? When I only ever loved their son?

Did they expect me to fix him?