It's been almost 18 months since you died.
Wouldn't it be something if people who committed suicide could see what things were really like after they were gone and then make a decision. But I guess we have no "Ghosts of Christmas Future" in our lives to show us these things.
I've reached a point where I can accept, and possibly even understand, that you saw no other possible future other than death. This hasn't stopped me from scripting what you might have been able to do differently.
Remember how the morning after our wedding you woke up and told me you wanted to pack all of our belongings into our VW Bus and live on the road? It wasn't too late for you to have done that. Sure, your parents would have been horrified. Your kids would have missed you. But you could have done it.
And can I tell you, Shawn, that it's these memories that I miss the most.
Because I have no one to share them with.
These were OUR memories. No one else lived this life we had built together and there is no one left to remember them with me.
We did amazing things together, Shawn.
You were my youth.
Do you remembering sitting at our tiny red kitchen table and deciding, together, to pack up everything we owned into a U-Haul and move 1,500 miles to a city where we had no jobs, no place to live and didn't know a single person? And it took us only 3 weeks from when we decided to do it to when we were actually there with jobs and an apartment! Do you remember how sick I was? Do you remember that campsite in New Mexico? Do you remember how the VW broke down at the first light after we got off the exit in Phoenix? Can you believe we did all that and it was no big deal?
And what about all the other things we did? Together.
Remember how I told you to wait on the big adventure and that we would make it happen? And we did. We put everything we owned in storage and took our old VW and three dogs as we traveled through every state west of the Mississippi looking for a place to start a family and a business.
Do you remember all that I do about those three months? Who else is there that remembers these things with me?
Do you remember Goosenecks State Reserve in Utah and how it was FAR better than the overcrowded Grand Canyon? Do you remember how hard it was to leave Durango and all the people we met there? Do you remember the world's nastiest bathroom (as mutually agreed upon for years) near Crested Butte? What about Salida? That heavenly place of streams, flowers and butterflies. Do you remember when we found Fort Collins and almost didn't leave because it felt like home? Do you remember being covered with sap and sand in Moab and having to drive to the edge of the Colorado River where we dunked ourselves and the dogs and then hopped in the van to escape that hellish place as quickly as possible? Do you remember that military jet that zoomed out of nowhere in Nevada and made the ground rumble? Remember how I came flying out of the tent into your arms, sure that the earth was about to open up beneath me? And then there was Eugene, OR, where we thought we would find what we were looking for and, instead, found it just didn't "feel right". And Minneapolis where you got so sick you had to be hospitalized. And Greg and Michelle's wedding reception that we went straight to when you were released from the hospital. And visiting your Grandpa in Oklahoma - which was surprisingly mountainous and beautiful. And what about all the little things on that trip? Little flashes in time that became part of who I was?
Can we just spend some time now talking about these memories? Because I don't have anyone to share them with now.
And you let me down, Shawn.
You broke the deal.
We moved to Fort Collins. We started that business that had been your lifelong dream. We had two beautiful children.
And you got angry. Or maybe you always were but it was easier to handle when we were young and free of the big responsibilities of life.
You scared me, Shawn.
You were gone, Shawn.
Your essence had escaped.
You no longer took joy from hiking. Or animals. Or bikes. Or your children. The happiness you showed was hollow - most especially for you.
And so now here I am raising our kids without you. That wasn't part of the dream.
Lily has struggled. Part of me feels like you never really knew her and so you didn't realize how much she would be hurt. I know how much you loved her - that's not the issue. But I think you were so checked out emotionally by the time she was born that you couldn't see what a sensitive child she is and you couldn't fathom the pain you would cause her. I think part of her struggle is because she has only a few memories of fleeting connections with you. Why do you think she cries and cries about the fact that you only took her to one "Daddy-Daughter Dance" and talks about that night as if it was magical. My wish for her is that someday she will find a way to reconcile the good memories of you along with the ones of you being angry and checked out.
Lennon is doing okay. I know he misses you. He has a little shrine in his room with some of your ashes, your favorite hat (with those white sunglasses I hated perched on top), a special rock, a Livestrong bracelet like you always wore, and a feather. He is missing out on all the things you would have taught him.
I'm okay, too. It is different for me because we had been divorced for 4 years before you died. I did a lot of grieving for the loss of you before you were even gone. The hard part was that I always believed you would find a way to rediscover yourself and that we would be friends again. I thought I would be able to talk to you and share these memories and laugh and laugh.
Jennifer
1 comment:
You're at a good places when you can remember the good. And sharing those memories with the kids will give them stories to pass on to their own kids about who Shawn was beyond the anger.
Lori
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