Invisible Ink

~*~*~

I was supposed to be on a vacation day today. I had big plans. I was scheduled to head in to the city to get the tattoo I talked about in THIS POST. The vacation day was approved. The preliminary art work was emailed to me.

I canceled the appointment early this morning.

There were a few things that factored into this decision. Timing (things are extremely hectic at work with two audits on the table, and I am currently behind on work completion expectations) and money (I had a bit of a financial glitch this month thanks to the Social Security Administration) were certainly concerns, but more than that, I wasn't ready emotionally.

Every single time I come face-to-face with Alan's suicide, some other unresolved issue slaps me right up along side the head. I think I'm in a good place with it - I've moved beyond the stigma and the grief - then WHOMP!

I asked the artist for a yellow ribbon (the Suicide Prevention variety) as part of Alan's name - his birth and death dates - and some of her AMAZING Mehndi style artwork to fill in the gaps.

She gave me EXACTLY what I asked for.

What could possibly be the problem?

I knew this ink would elicit questions, most often from strangers. Who is Alan? How did he die?

I should be an ambassador for suicide prevention. I should be willing and able to share my story, even with strangers. You'd think after 20 fucking years it would be like reciting my grocery list.

But it isn't.

Yes, I've shared the story on this blog, but I can still count - on one hand - the number of people I've looked in the eye and spoken to about it. And I still have fingers left on that hand for counting.

I should be stronger, braver, more willing to share.

But I'm not.

~*~*~

Expiration Dates

~*~*~

For the past 20 years, the 4th of July has been far more than just a celebration of U.S. Independence. My husband Alan - who died by suicide - was born on July 4th. A day filled with celebration, fireworks and brats on the grill became a day overshadowed by grief.

I thought I should be over it. I mean everything has an expiration date, right? Milk, eggs, over-the-counter medicines - there is a time we need to be done with them - throw them out. Seems like grief should have an expiration date too - an acceptable shelf life of say ... 6-12 months? And then it should be trashed, lest you be willing to hear that you are wallowing in self-pity, playing the victim or being a martyr.

Maybe it's just that we all - at some level - fear facing such a loss. Giving ourselves 6-12 months is merely a hope that it won't take longer than that to recover. After all, this won’t happen to us, but if it does it will only be bad for a short, finite amount of time. Then the grief expiration date kicks in and all is magically well. *sprinkles sparkly fairy dust here*

I've heard time and time again that I should "get over it" - that 20 years is far too long to hold on to grief - and so I shove it below the surface where people don't notice. I don't talk about it, and people don't ask ... and it festers.

20 years after losing Alan, I still think of him, and sometimes that makes me sad, puts me in a funk, or makes me cry. The reality is I'll never be "over" it, nor should I be. I love Alan, and his suicide produced a significant change in my life. It doesn't mean that I can’t lead a happy life, it just means that on some days, like the 4th of July, being happy - not pretending to be happy - still takes a lot of hard work.

Like my love for Alan, grief doesn't have an expiration date.

~*~*~