Well, hello.
I'm still here.
And gearing up to do some writing.
In fact, I've decided to rewrite the story of staying up all night, waiting to tell my children their father was dead by his own hand, and submit it to a magazine that I've read religiously for years.
When I look back at the various "Capital T" traumas in my life I would have to say that this was the worst of them all. And that's saying something considering my timeline.
We are approaching the 2nd "anniversary" since Shawn's death...funny that...I've always thought it is so strange to use the word "anniversary" to describe the calendar date on which something terrible or tragic happened. To me "anniversary" always seemed like it should commemorate something happy and joyous.
Of course you could always just call the day of Shawn's death, "Jennifer's Birthday" if that is any easier.
While talking with her Grandpa Jack (my Mom's husband of 25+ years who is like a father to me), Lily retold a dream she had of her Father. In the dream her Father was there and was crying and said, "I'm so sorry. Will you forgive me?". This was very powerful for Jack because he had told the adults in the family that as he was playing guitar at the funeral he was overcome with this powerful sense of Shawn saying the same thing..."I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."
Grandpa Jack is not a religious person, nor is he a particularly "new agey" type - he just felt this overwhelming sense that Shawn was very sorry and that we should forgive him.
I thought about this a lot since hearing of Lily's dream (which she had not yet shared with me).
I have felt Shawn's presence a few times. I did feel him with me the night he died as I counted the hours until I could wake the children. I railed at him and ordered him AWAY - that he had NO RIGHT!
I've never had a sense of him saying, "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me." - it is always more of a sense of him enjoying the children via me which sometimes I allow to flow and other times I shut off.
I wondered tonight, "How would I feel if I DID feel or sense this sentiment of, 'I'm so sorry. Please forgive me'".
I realized that maybe I haven't heard this thought - if it were even possible for a deceased person to convey this sort of thing - because I don't want to hear it. I don't want to forgive him. I am angry and I don't feel like he just gets off that easy to say, "I'm so sorry." and then be forgiven.
I don't hate him for what he did. I understand that he was in extreme pain.
It's just that sorry sometimes doesn't cut it.
When I last saw my therapist many moons ago we talked about my feeling (at that time) that maybe Shawn had thought, in some sick way, that killing himself on my birthday was a gift to me. Because, of course, some things were better after his death. I could make parenting decisions without the conflict between us that had become par for the course (and didn't seem to be getting any better despite my repeated attempts to ignore inflammatory remarks and pleading to move past the anger because it would be harmful to the kids). I no longer had to worry from month-to-month if he would be paying child-support or if he would be asking for yet another reduction. Now the Government sends me a check each month.
Maybe like some other suicidal people Shawn convinced himself we were all better off without him.
And then my therapist pointed out this...when was the last time Shawn had shown ANY gesture of kindness or compassion towards me?
I had to admit that the last time I could remember was before Lily was even born.
Add in the fact that his suicide note to Amber was filled with vitriol and blaming and that he could not have possibly been thinking rationally enough to decide, "Oh, she won't have to fight me on everything and she will get Social Security" and we know the answer.
It was not gift to me - it was a punishment.
I still wanted to believe that, even in his death, that Shawn had ultimately cared about and loved me when really all that was left was this empty shell of a man with hate where his soul had once been.
So, yes, I don't think I'm ready to just say, "That's okay.".
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