That Firey Pit of Hell

“You are free to choose, but you are not free from the consequences of your choice ~ Unknown

I am a widow by suicide. My husband, Pete took his life the night of 05/02/09. I found him the next morning. He had been dead at least twelve hours. It was not a pretty sight. He hung himself from the back of my bedroom door. When I found him he was in full rigor and his face was completely blue. I will never forget that morning mostly because when I’m really stressed I have flashbacks to that day. I can vividly recall the ambient temperature of the house, the smell of his dead body, the color of his face and the rope wrapped tightly around his neck.

We had been fighting the day he did it. In the morning we had gone around to the utility companies switching them into his name from mine. We were preparing for life apart. You see, I had left him after one too many murder/suicide threats. At the time I was living at my mom and dad’s townhouse. I had moved out after Pete had made a threat to me in front of my mother’s son. He dragged me out of the house after Pete had passed out. Pete was a mess after I left and fully convinced that I had someone else. He told everyone that I was cheating on him. That was not the case. However, everyone believed him despite the fact that he had a girlfriend that he was parading around in public. After his death someone actually had the nerve to ask me what I was going to do about Sandy, his girlfriend, because she was so upset. Taking care of her was not my responsibility. I could barely take care of myself and I had virtually no one. I used to have a ton of friends. Only a couple of them gave me the time of day afterwards. I guess it takes something like this to get people to show their true colors. Almost everyone blamed me for his death. I didn’t do it; it was his choice to take his life. I understand that he was just dying to be free from a lifetime of pain. He choose to end his own life. He made that choice. I and his family and friends had to live with the consequences.

I tried to get him help. I set him up with a counselor and a psychiatrist. They put him on a bunch of medication and told him he needed to work on his drinking problem. His drinking was a big thing that tore us apart. You see, he was never home. He was never there for me. I had to go to the bar to spend any time with him. He was a drinker and a social butterfly. He did not drink at home. He was a social drinker, everyday. After work he would go to the bar and I would call him around nine o’clock every night to remind him that it was late and he had to work in the morning. He would always say,“I’ll just finish this beer and then I’ll be right home.” That was my cue to go to bed; he wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours. I barely saw him unless I went to the bar. Not exactly a healthy relationship.

In fact, it was very unhealthy. It was abusive and isolating. He had me convinced that someone was going to abduct me so I went only to work and the grocery store and of course the bar. He had me afraid to leave the house. He had such a fear of losing me that he had scared me into not leaving the house. He would often go out without me. I later found out that he had cheated on me many times. So, he was a cheater and beater. It took me a couple of years of therapy to get my head straight and convince myself that nobody was going to kidnap me from the grocery store parking lot and to deprogram my abused self. I had been with him for so many years that I was convinced that I deserved it all.

That’s not to say that Pete wasn’t a good guy. He was handsome and funny and everybody loved him. He never met a stranger. He was the life of the party. He could be so much fun until we got back home again. Then it would start the belittling, the bickering and inevitably the physical fight. I didn’t stand much of a chance he was a full foot taller than me and out weighed my by a good eighty pounds. I had little or no defense. One time he fractured my skull by banging it on the tile floor. It had not always been this way. He became physically abusive after we moved to Florida. I left him to save my own life; either he or I was going to take it. I admit that most of the time I was suicidal too. I was seeing a counselor and doctor for my own mental illness but, no amount of medicine can cure situational depression. I had to choose to stay alive. I choose to stay alive because of what my death would do to my parents and friends. When you commit suicide the collateral damage leaves a pretty wide debris path. You are left wondering why and what could I have done differently. In Pete’s case, I should have just called the cops or his counselor and had him committed but, I’m pretty sure he would have eventually done it sooner or later. This wasn’t our first time at this rodeo.

So, at the age of 39 I became a widow. At the age of 40 I learned to live again. It took a lot of teaching on my counselor’s part. I will always be in debt to Laura, my therapist. She carried me through my grief. She helped me find my voice again. She helped me not be afraid. She helped me to find myself. She taught me how to stop blaming myself and to love myself again. It was a difficult journey; one that I walked virtually alone. I hate to say that I am better for the experience but in some ways I am. They say you never know how strong you are until being strong is all you have left. I am a total bad ass.

If you or someone you know is thinking of harming themselves please get them help. Call 211 for local resources or call the national suicide hotline at 1-800-273-TALK.