I found myself this morning in a folder in my email that holds emails related to Willie. Emails that start Feb 1st 2012, the day he died. Not sure why but I ended up there. At a totally inappropriate time. Work day, mid morning, not a great time to open and look at them. Was actually looking a receipt for a work related expense and voila, the area of my life that I have been pushing away for the last few months is front and center. Again.
But today, instead of backing away as fast as I can, I stop and I start to read. The email that was a copy and paste of the posts his friends made on his Facebook page the day after died. Posts I would never have seen had they not be sent to me. Emails of details of a celebration of life for him. Emails sent to his therapists, letting them know that he was dead and we wouldn’t be making any future appointments. Emails that I don’t even remember writing or answering. Communications that are empty and cold and so blatantly devoid of connection for the most part.
Emails that bring it all back so quickly. Words that even now I read and feel like shaking my head and screaming. That feeling still just as real – the feeling that this is not real. That it is some sort of nightmare. That there is no way that he could be dead, that life could actually be this way. That there is no way that this could have happened.
3 and a half years and I still get blind-sided by the shock every now and then. I can go along like life is ok and like I’m adjusting and adapting and moving forward and then a little thing can trigger a response inside of me that sends me reeling back. Back to moments that feel both detached and intimately embedded at the same time. There’s the anger that wells up and threatens to consume me. Anger that is usually meticulously managed and mostly denied but sometimes it becomes too much. It’s gotten loose again lately and is running here and there in my mind. Partnered with shock and denial and barely controlled these days.
3 and a half years and I still want to grab him and scream at him – ask him why he had to take that final step and end his life. Yell at him that I hate him for it – explain to him that even though I understand his “why” it doesn’t make the pain any less. Wanting to hold him and tell him I’m sorry that I couldn’t make it ok.
So many months and years passed and I hate the anger. Hate the hurt and the pain and the grief that never seems to lessen. Hate that it sits and rests, waiting for my resolve to keep it down to loosen so it can rear up again. Hating that it always does.