Suicide Grief is Complicated Grief

Well. Here I am on the other side of Thanksgiving. Many wonderful things have happened to me in the past week. I met someone. (I met someone!) My Lane kids and I celebrated Oscar’s birthday in a natural flow. It was truly a joy-filled day, which feels so good. I love that I was able to celebrate Oscar and all of the things that made him so incredible, so special, and not be completely overwhelmed by grief. Thanksgiving was unconventional and very chill (this was due to me being so focused on exercising healthy boundaries in all of my relationships this year). We had a day filled with meeting our new dog (who is also a suicide loss survivor- I am sure I will talk more about her at a later time) and eating fried chicken for dinner before I spent a few hours in the later evening with my new love interest on a very unique first date. We vibe on so many different levels, even the really deep ones. It is a new feeling to be truly seen by a man who is interested in me romantically. I have hope for this budding new relationship, but I am also scared. Scared because I don’t have a track record of positive outcomes in this arena for various reasons, not the least of which is grief. Which leads me to last night.

Through a set of circumstances and motivation that was of purest intent, I found myself listening to live music at a bar. It was so much fun to see all of the people up dancing and having a good time, so many smiles. I found myself smiling and bopping around in my seat, which was enough for two different older gentlemen to ask me to dance. I accepted, mostly because I wanted to allow a full experience of the environment, but also to get closer to the stage in order to see the musicians with increased clarity. I danced two or three times with the younger of the two gentlemen to the point that he wanted to start a conversation. He started that conversation by asking my age. Then he told me he was fifty-two. 52. That’s how old Nick would have been if he were still alive. The gentleman asked if he could sit with me and I politely declined, telling him I was with someone. (Working those healthy boundaries again!) We had a bit more conversation. He told me he doesn’t ever go out, but he did tonight because when he got home from having drinks downtown with friends he didn’t want to be home alone, that he lives just around the corner, but he never comes here and he should come here more often. Then he sat back in his seat, which was just in front of me. And I couldn’t help but watch him drink beer after beer after beer. I did what I could energetically to surround myself in a shielding bubble and send whatever energy-sucking tentacles he had sunk into me back to him, but it was too late.

My world began crumbling into a wave of grief. Nick would have been fifty-two if he were still alive. I haven’t quite learned how to negotiate my Nick-sized grief. Our relationship was so incredibly dysfunctional and he was abusive. Terribly abusive. I have just begun working through that in therapy. I feel like sometimes with the grief that I feel as a suicide loss survivor I cannot help but feel a glimpse of the pain that my loved one was feeling when they died. And that really hurts. That is hard to allow. It is very difficult for other people to be around, as well, when I am feeling that way.

There is so much in that environment- the bar- that I haven’t really dealt with, as well. I haven’t been to a bar since before Oscar died in 2015 and even then I was going to the Green Lady Lounge to listen to jazz, which is a much different environment. Nick’s natural environment was the bar. I remember when we first met he was a regular at the Manette Saloon. Everyone knew him. Everyone called him “Nicky the Mayor”. The mayor of Manette. That was the little neighborhood we lived in East Bremerton, right down on the water there. Looking back, hindsight being what it is, that should have been a red flag for me- that he was a regular at the local bar, but his charm and his smile and his eyes outweighed any red flags you could throw at me. Even the shower of red flags that happened the night before we got married was not enough. There was something in Nick Lane that wrapped itself up tight around my heart and my soul. I fell deeply and madly in love with him.

Our first date was a drive to the ocean. He used to tell me that he could see how incredible I was and he knew he would have to plan something really really special to get my undivided attention. We had such a whirlwind romance. He sucked me right into his orbit. He was so smart. I used to tell him he had a sexy brain. Our good times didn’t last long. His true colors came out the night before our wedding. Then the next thirteen years of my life were spent trying to figure out how to get out. We had three beautiful children during that time. I’ve talked before about how each pregnancy I had hope would be catalyst enough for him to change, to quit using and get healthy with me. It was never enough. He only had glimpses of recovery after our divorce. The pain of the grief that he carried was too much for him and he died of suicide just last year. Just last year. That first wave of holidays was tolerated on a wave of adrenaline and shock. This year it is settling in.

So this is the grief that I carry that is Nick-size. This grief doesn’t feel like an old friend yet. This grief feels like unresolved business mixed with deep disappointment and the only truly madly deeply romantic love I have known to this point in my life mixed with the stark realization that it was a farce. Truly madly deeply romantic love does not verbally, emotionally and sexually abuse you. This grief that I carry surrounding Nick is forever complicated. If I have learned anything about grief the past four years I have learned that the only way to accept it is to allow it. Pain like this is hard to allow. Especially this time of year when we are supposed to be joyous and happy, always looking on the bright side. I wish it could be different, but it isn’t. This is my journey. And I will honor it to the best of my ability. I will keep talking and I will keep sharing. I will continue to have the conversation that no one wants to have, the one about suicide.

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