Suicide, What Is Left? Part I

An odd thing happened back in January – January 18th to be exact. A fellow blogger, Real Live Lesbian, started publishing her very personal story regarding her suicide attempt [Click HERE to read it]. The date was significant – it was the 18th anniversary of the day I decided to let my husband of only 4 months, complete his suicide attempt. After 2 days in the ICU, and confirmation that he was brain dead, I gave the doctors authorization to “pull the plug.” No 24 year old wife should ever have to make such decisions.

This story has haunted me since it began and has had significant impact on the woman I've become. This is not a happily-ever-after story, but it is one I need to make real by finally putting it into my own words. This series of posts will be made out of selfishness – an attempt to clear my mind of some of the guilt that holds me back from living the life I deserve. There will likely be parts of this story that many of you find extremely disturbing, and I may even lose a few of you in the process, but I need to do this for my own sanity.

I've got to start at the beginning – where it all started for me. You may learn some things about me that you don't like – you may find that we have some history in common. I just ask that you read with an open mind and realize that I was a well educated, bright young woman who stepped into this life quite accidentally, but didn't get out of it unscathed. This is the other side of the story – what happens to the people that suicide leaves behind.

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It was the summer of 1988. I was 23 years old, living in San Diego, working for a construction company as a bookkeeper, and trying to find my way in life after recently ending a 2 year marriage that was filled with emotional abuse and infidelity. “A” worked for the same construction company. He was a laborer who came into the office frequently, always friendly and always smiling. He invited me to a party, and although my shyness almost got the best of me, I decided to go. It was at this party that I was introduced to something that would rule my life for the next 18 months – crystal methamphetamine. It would be a love-hate relationship.

My infatuation with “A”, and with crystal meth, was almost immediate. They both gave me a wonderful feeling – a sense that I could accomplish anything. Within 2 months, “A” and I, and “A”'s younger brother, moved in to an apartment together. Our lives were filled work and drugs – we worked to pay for the drugs and we used the drugs to stay awake and “focused” so that we could work. Although “A” had many qualities that I adored, it was the drugs that held us together.

Then the world started to come down on us. Both “A” and I were fired from the construction company due to our drug use, and our drug use kept us from securing new jobs. We began pawning everything we owned to get money for drugs. Bills were not paid – rent was not paid – but we always had drugs. One day though, as usually happens to addicts, we came to a place where we had nothing left to pawn, we had a 3-day eviction notice posted on our front door, and the repo man was looking for our only vehicle. It seemed we had hit that proverbial “rock bottom” and we decided it was best to take what little we had left and move to Minnesota (the childhood home of “A” and his brother). There, we could have a fresh start – away from the drugs – and we could start our life together clean and sober. It was a plan that would eventually take us to an even lower “rock bottom”