Layers of Paint

A letter to my little cottage on 14th Street:

Dear Home,

A friend of mine suggested I write this letter. She said when people get ready to sell their houses, writing a letter can help bring closure.   So here goes...

You should know that when my real estate agent pulled up to your curb, I hadn’t even stepped out of the car before telling her I’d take the house.  I knew you were the one.  She insisted I see the inside, though, before making a decision.  After stepping through the threshold of the doorway, I repeated “I’ll take it”.  She implored me to look at the entire house.  So, I walked through and eventually made my way into both bedrooms where I silently picked out my room which looked out into the fenced backyard, beautifully lined with oleanders blooming with pink flowers.  The yard was lush, green and boasted five grapefruit and two orange citrus trees, all with trunks that were painted pristine white.  I signed the contract within the hour.

As a kid, my mom and I moved around a lot.  The longest we ever stayed in one place was five years.  We’ve been together for fifteen years!  That’s the longest I’ve lived in one place my entire life.  This is also the only place that has ever felt like home.

You’ve seen me grow from a young and newly divorced woman who couldn’t even cook for herself into the mature adult that I am today...who still can’t cook for herself.  But, you know I make the effort ~ and, yes, a crock pot does so count.  

We’ve been through a lot during the years.  You received a fresh coat of paint on the walls after every storm that brewed in my life;  every layer, every color, was a witness to the tears, pain and struggle but with each new color came the promise of hope and a new beginning.

And, there were always new beginnings!  We’ve shared so much laughter, happiness and peace together.   I cherish the fond memories that were created in this very space; memories of all the pets, friends and loved ones that made this house a home.

And there were tragic times.  You and I would see my mom and Aaron draw their last breath in the bedrooms of this home.   

And, another layer of paint was added to your walls with each goodbye; a new color...the hope of yet another new beginning.

My dear home, I have added the last layer of paint.  

I never thought I’d leave here; I thought we’d be together forever.  But here I sit, writing a goodbye letter through the tears.  You’ve been so good to me; this home has seen so much laughter, love, contentment and peace.  I don’t want you to ever forget that.  I know I won’t.  You will always have a piece of my heart.  And, my wish and prayer is that whomever moves into this house will love it and cherish it as much as I have; that they will enjoy good health, happiness and make fond memories here.  

You no longer need to carry the weight of all your layers of paint with me here.  I am in search of new walls; a blank canvas on which to write my next chapter...a story that I hope is filled with hope and a new beginning.  

Forever Changed

When you lose someone to suicide, you’re called a “survivor”.  

I never even knew the phrase “survivor of suicide” existed prior to June 23rd of this year.   

I belong to an online support group and some put “survivor” next to their name like a post-nominal title.  Instead of seeing Jane Doe, PhD and John Smith, CPA like I’m used to seeing, I spot signature lines that read “Michelle Jones, Survivor”.   

Is that what I am? 

I’m not feelin‘ it.  

Frankly, I am not surviving Aaron’s suicide very well, at all.  It’s been a living hell.  

Destroyed by Suicide might be more like it.  Or crushed.  Or forever changed...

I can’t do a damn thing in my waking hours without having Aaron on my mind.  I’m either wishing he was with me, missing him more than I’m capable of explaining, replaying the horrific events of June 23rd, or, in moments of acceptance, I’m talking to him knowing he can see and hear me while being fully aware of the inequity of my not being able to hear or see him. 

My life and the lives of those who deeply love Aaron have been completely shaken, turned upside down and shattered into a million pieces.  Life still moves forward for everyone else, but for us we’re stuck in a time warp.  We’re stuck in a place where we can’t seem to move forward despite time whizzing by like the days are in some sort of sprint, like the end of the month is some sort of finish line.

Do suicidal people get online and become aware of the term “survivor of suicide” to describe those they’ll leave behind?  Because that term seems so....pleasant.  Like, “Oh, see?  They’ll survive without me!”  I’m used to the term “survivor” to describe people who have beat cancer.  That makes sense to me. They most likely felt broken and defeated at times by their diagnosis but they overcame.  They beat the odds!  They survived and are whole again.

I don’t feel I’ll ever feel whole again; how could I after this experience and after a loss this severe?  I’m completely broken.  I won’t always feel as broken as I am today but my heart will never be whole.  Yes, I will create a new normal.  I will carry on.  But I’ll do so carrying a void I will never be able to fill.  

I think “survivors of suicide” should describe the people who contemplate or attempt suicide and are still upright today with their hearts still beating; their family and friends still able to see them, hold them and tell them how much they are loved.  Those are the real survivors of suicide.  To describe those of us left behind as survivors?  I'm just not feelin' it.  

Signed,

Lisa Ruggiero, 

Forever Changed by Suicide

From the darkness....into the light

It was like being in the ocean, getting pummeled over and over again by massive, crushing waves.  I had no energy to try to stay afloat nor could I - the ocean was that relentless.  I couldn't breathe.  Each wave came with an undercurrent that pulled me under water.  I felt like I was drowning.  

This was my life after I witnessed my boyfriend take his own on June 23, 2016. 

On 6/23, everything that once provided me joy and comfort was stripped away.  My boyfriend, who I love more than anyone on the planet, was gone.  No "goodbye's".  No "I love you's".  Just gone and in the most sudden, violent and tragic way imaginable.  

My house became a crime scene.  The bedroom in which I peacefully slept for the past 15 years was the set for the horror flick that would play in my mind at every waking moment.  My dogs were whisked away to be boarded for an undetermined amount of time.  I was whisked away, too.  For seven nights, I altnernated staying with Aaron's family or with close friends who immediately took me under their wing.  I often times woke up disoriented.  I lived out of a grocery bag. I got dressed in the same clothing I wore the entire day prior.  I never did my hair; I don't even remember caring enough to look in the mirror.

The mornings were the worst but not in that split second where the cobwebs veiled my current reality.  Instead, it was the moment the cobwebs cleared that I was catapulted back to hell on earth. For a split second things seemed normal and then I'd grieve Aaron's death, as if for the first time, all over again.  It was unbearable.  When my eyes opened to reality in the morning, I would immediately wish it was nighttime so I could close them again.  I would only sleep for four hours a night but it was a blissful unconscious freedom.  The nights were short and the days were long, though.  And, I hated being awake - every waking moment felt like torture and mental anguish.

I wanted the pain to end.

And, I thought about suicide for 16 straight days after the incident.  The literature says this is normal, especially after losing someone you love in the same way.  But it felt far from normal to me.

When you're in a seemingly inescapable hell, you'll do anything to break free.  This knowledge is why I can't stay upset with Aaron.  I know his pain and torment reached a level much bigger than his ability to cope with the onslaught of his emotions.  My anger toward Aaron always quickly turns to compassion.

For me, a day wouldn't go by where I wouldn't beg God to take me Home.  When I wasn't negotiating with Him, I was thinking of my own exit strategy.  One day the thoughts were more intense than usual  - it was the first time I had been in my room since Aaron died and I had a major melt down.  My friend Tresea just happened to text me as I was lying in a broken wreck on the floor, in the same spot Aaron drew his last breath.  She asked me what I was doing and I texted back "In my room...I'm not doing well".  She came right over and held me for over 20 minutes while I broke down in tears.  I think she saved my life that morning.

But, those kinds of moments were fleeting and my thoughts to end it all were not.   I have other guns in the house.  I could do exactly what Aaron did and be with him and my mom.  Aaron went instantly... 

...Fast forward to today.  

It's been a month and four days since Aaron died and here I am authoring a new blog entry.  I get up and shower every morning.  I wear clean clothes.  I do my hair.  I get outdoors to meet people for lunch and dinner.  I weight train.  And, I even catch myself smiling and laughing at people's jokes.

So, what happened?

The grace of God happened.  I learned that grace can live in the space we call hesitiation.  When someone says "I hesitated", it often carries with it a negative connotation.  But that slight pause in my thoughts allowed grace and then logic to enter the picture.  

I'm done, I just can't take this anymore...

...but....what would that do to Aaron's parents? - I love them so much!  What would my dear friends think?; I love them so much, too!   How can I be so sure things won't get better?  

Those are the questions that reveal themselves in moments of grace and hesitation. Those moments that hang in the balance...those few seconds that make way for the important, logical questions to follow, I believe, keep more people alive than we'll ever know.  

Looking back, I fell prey to two very big lies: 1) that I wasn't strong enough to pull through and 2) that life wasn't worth living.   I knew I no longer wanted to fall prey.  It was crushing my spirit; Satan was winning the battle.  

So I did the only thing I could think to do.  

In the early morning of July 9th, when I had finally had enough, I reached for my Bible. I retrieved some index cards and a pen out of my desk and began feverishly writing down scripture verses to help me grow stronger.  On Face Book, I posted a picture of the first 5 index cards I wrote out and asked friends to comment with their favorite verses as well.  

Many friends commented with verses.  And, I ended up with an arsenal of scripture on which to meditate when I felt weak.  A dear friend of mine would later gift me with a small photo album which included more verses in addition to sentimental photos she retrieved from my Face Book page.  She left some pockets intentionally empty so I could insert my own index cards.  Today, I carry this everywhere I go.

By the afternoon of July 9th, I felt free from suicidal thoughts, though I worried if they would return.  They never did.  I haven't had a setback since.  Sure, I believe therapy helped.  

But, God saved my life.

The reason this Blog is called Pray To Not Fall Prey is to honor the struggle that I went through in the early days but more importantly to serve as a reminder that praying and reading scripture was the light that penentrated the dark days.  (John 1:5)

Matthew 26:41-42 ~ Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

He went away a second time and prayed, “My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done.”

God is bigger than our doubts. He is bigger than our struggles. He is bigger than our pain.  I went through 16 days of hell but I'm grateful for the experience because it has changed me for the better.  I know the road toward healing still stretches out for miles and miles and there will be more lows than highs. But, not always.  And, I am never alone.  My friends and family provided me strength when I felt weak and God carried me when I could no longer walk.  

He is a good, good Father. It's who He is.  

SaveSave

June 23, 2016

The 23rd is represented as a tiny square among 29 other squares in my day planner for the month of June.  I know in 2016, few people use day planners.  But I do.  And, I find myself staring at the June 22nd square as if trying to find some indication of the tragic event that would reveal itself the following day.  Yet the contents of that square only serve as a reminder for the Isagenix Headquarters tour ~ an event I was excited about for weeks prior. I had wished Aaron could join me but I knew he would be working his pool route.  That evening, though, I remember telling him in great detail about the tour; what a state-of-the-art building it is and about the Harley Davidson motorcycle that is on display in the lobby, literally smack dab in the middle of a water feature, its two tires and kickstand precariously placed on individual small cement pillars that elevate the entire motorcycle above the water.

The June 23rd square in my calendar is blank.  I clearly remember Aaron asking me that morning what my plans were for the day.  "I have training at 11 at Joe's.  I want to run by the post office and check the mail, and I need to go to the Vet to get a copy of Cinnamon's vaccination records...".  I continued explaining that the place I board the dogs didn't have her current records and we'd need those for when we boarded the dogs for the Tucson trip we had scheduled for July 9th and 10th.  I was seated on the couch drinking my coffee; he was standing in the living room directly in front of me.  All seemed normal.

I wish I would have asked him what his plans were for that day.  I assumed I already knew what they were - he'd go to work and return home to me.  But that's not what happened.   And, little did I know that my plans would be nothing like what I explained to Aaron that very morning.  No. Not only did my plans change for that day but I changed.  I knew I would never be the same person I was...for all the remaining squares on every day planner I'd ever own, I would be forever changed.

Aside from the detectives who interviewed me on Thursday morning, only my therapist and two other people know in grave detail what transpired on the 23rd.  I knew I needed to talk about it.  Lord knows my brain wouldn't stop playing the events over and over and over again in my minds eye.  I hoped saying it aloud might quiet the movie-loop that was playing in my head.  And, I was selective about who would be on the receiving end of such graphic detail.  I sought out friends who are stoic and strong enough in character to allow me to say what I needed to say.  And they listened intently, their eyes welling up with tears as my story drew to an end.

Yes, looking back, Aaron seemed a bit more agitated than usual that morning.  Aaron woke up like he did every morning but indeed he grew more agitated as the minutes passed.

But, I still never saw that coming.

Aaron woke up at 5:00 a.m, right on time like always.  He popped right out of bed like a champ and began his normal routine of getting dressed, loading up the truck with his pool equipment and supplies, downing his bowl of oatmeal and enjoying the cup of coffee I made him that morning.  By 6:15 he should have left the house to meet his dad.  By 6:41 Aaron took his own life.  I was standing right next to him.  He never said goodbye.  I never got a chance to tell him goodbye.  And, all those who love Aaron would never get that chance either.

I know Aaron is at peace and free from the bondage that caused him so much pain. But, knowing this doesn't at all diminish the sheer pain and grief that I feel at every waking moment.  My darkest days which lasted for the good part of two weeks, I believe, are finally behind me.   Now it's just a matter of choosing to breathe when I feel like I can't.  Pretending to be whole in this life while being shattered into a million pieces.  Trying to negotiate the days in spite of my heart having been ripped out of my chest.  So you can imagine what the darkest days were like...

I grieve.  I cry.  I mourn.  I'm in disbelief.  My emotions are a roller coaster.  And, from where I sit now, I don't know how I'll ever feel better.  It doesn't seem possible.  Yet I know it is.  But, I have to choose healing over and over again.  I have to choose to fight for it.  I have to choose to overcome, and I have to choose the light over the darkness.  And, I do.  I choose life.

John 8:12  ~ When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”