On November 13th, 2008, around noontime, my life changed forever. Losing the love of your life to depression-induced suicide is NOT the same as losing your loved one to a physical disease. It’s NOT. An ill person fights back, even if passively. A person who commits suicide has given up. Not only on himself, but also on his loved ones.
I know he was in terrible pain.
I know he was frightened by the prospects of having to deal with this abhorrent bipolar roller-coaster of formidable yet exhilarating highs and then the inevitable, devastating lows for the rest of his days.
As if that were not challenging enough, Cancer flippantly tossed itself into the equation, gnawing away at his back, pushing him over the edge.
But I also know that the fact that he gave up his fight for survival means that I – that WE – were not enough to love for, to fight tooth and nail to survive for. Is it selfish of me to think so? Maybe.
But it was selfish of him to leave.
He promised me; swore to me, he would never hurt himself.
Laurie used to ask me: “How much do you love me?”
My staple response was always: “Twice as much as yesterday, half as much as tomorrow.”
What happens when there are no more “tomorrows”?