Tag Archives: suicide

Tattoos and Suicide Series: The break(ing) of me

So I have been running and not taking a break. I have been struggling my way through explosive meltdowns, tantrums, blackout rages, and frustration.  I felt it this week. I was there. Lost in the hole in my heart and in my head. Wanting something, anything to fill the void. I was hurting but I had and still have NO idea why. I am the one who always finds the sunshine. But right now. I just don’t know how much more I can take before I break myself. I tried to leave. I packed all my stuff. And I started to walk away. Because not only am I now dealing with this pain, his pain and my own, I am losing my shit on our son. He deserves the very best me and lately all he has is the worst. I am really trying and I knew the road ahead would be tough. But still, I could not have been prepared for the rollercoaster this has been. I have days where I walk on eggshells, I can’t really TALK to him anymore. Because he can’r remember anything, and he stresses out so easily.

And in all of this, I am losing myself. I know this because of an injury my son recently got. He fell and hit his head. It was an ER worthy injury. I prepared to be mommy and do it all when a little voice said to me “I want dad instead please” and my heart shattered into a million pieces. I was so happy he has accepted our new routine. I work 35 to 40 hours a week at 3 jobs to keep us going right now, KP does all the homeschooling and most of the parenting) But him not wanting me, and him being more afraid of how I would react about him not wearing his helmet than his injured head made me see I am on a spiral I need to get in check.

About every 4 or 5 years I have a break. A serious fuck it all snap out. Usually I know it is coming, and usually I can plan and prepare for it. Usually I can see the warning signs. But once, I couldn’t. On that day, my ex came home to hear shattering glass, and he followed the trail of broken plates, cups, mugs, and pottery on a trail to the basement. It was flecked with ketchup, and he thought it was blood. I never was allowed to buy glass ketchup bottles again. I had broken every single piece of glassware in the house. It was everywhere. I was sitting at the bottom of the basement steps staring at nothing. I had no idea what had happened. I was just. There. I don’t remember much about that day. It was one of the few times my ex did something decent. He cleaned me up, cleaned the glass, bought us all new plastic dishes. I worry now, watching my husband. Seeing his black outs. Feeling his anger when he can’t stop the mood swing. I do not worry he will hurt us. Thanks to the nerve disease, he has no strength to do so. But I do worry terribly about what will happen if I snap back.

I have a child now. I have too much to be thankful for. But I feel like I am being come at in a million directions. I feel like I have no control over this situation, and even though I seemingly live my life like a humming bird, I do in fact have a rhyme and reason. I do think things through and plan and manage. But I can not control this. And that scares the hell out of me. Meds help. But he is still so unstable. I also worry one day I will find him gone. He says he is no longer suicidal, Hurricane needs him. Great. But what about the days he feels like a burden since he can’t contribute to the house? What about the days he can not even get out of bed?  I am tired of being scared. And tired of being so wrapped up in my worries for him that my son is getting the heat.

I hit my break today with Hurricane. He got mouthy about me asking him to change his shirt because what he had on was not ok for being out today. He snapped at me and eye rolled, the whole 9 yards. So I told him he could stay with his dad and he lost it. Grabbed me and sobbed like he would never see me again. I wanted to and needed to stick to my guns. But I saw this broken little face. Who I could read was saying he needed me. The old me. The fun me. I just need to figure out how to be super wife and take care of my husband while also being super mom again. I just hope I can make my cape big enough to do both.

Advertisements

Tattoos and Suicide Series VI: Mental Health is a fickle bitch

When you love someone who has issues with their mental health, some days can be a long hard battle. When you also struggle with your own demons it can make it more of a challenge. I am solar powered. I suffer hard when the weather changes, and the last few months of cold and yuck were taking a huge toll on me. I have been feeling horribly unmotivated and I have been struggling to find and keep my inner peace and keep my cool. I seem to have gotten into a roll of being awesome at work and a total bitch at home, or awesome at home and so off my game at times my boss has sent me home. Twice. So today I woke up blessed to an amazing weather day. I had prayed for a break and a resolution, and woke up to sun on my face.

My husband was sort of…out of it, but I figured he was just tired. He asked us to go out for a big family breakfast road trip, which we have not done in ages. I was thrilled he was motivated! After the ride south and fat bellies, he stayed home while we all hit church. I had a great day with the kiddos in my program, they were all so awesome today, and well behaved!  I felt like the day could not get any better. I started to feel recharged. I made plans to clean my van while the boy broke in his new scooter he got for his birthday. It shoots fire, so what 8 year old wouldn’t be itching to break it in? But when I came home, it hit me. I went to talk to my husband and he was just…there. He was really out of it. He was moody, non communicative. Monosyllables. I could see he had been crying at some point. But as always he didn’t know what was wrong and didn’t want to or could not talk about it.

Heaven forbid he talk to his fucking wife about what is on his mind. I wish he would talk to me. Even if it made no sense. I do listen when I need to, and it is never a burden. Damn him. It makes me feel like he has no faith in me or trust. I know the reality is he does not want to burden me. But I married him for better or worse. Fucking talk to me!

He went and took a nap, so I went about my day, chalked it up to being tired. Got done with the van and watching the boy and having a good rebuilding day with him. Hurricane and I had a tough week. Hubby was awake and just rocking in his recliner. Eyes glazed over, still looking like hell. I asked if he had taken his pills. He then told me he had been out of them for a few days. After a call to the doctors office, and a call back from Dr. Giggles, came the battle. Here take these pills. Yes you need to take them. Because Dr. Giggles said to. Yes I called her. Because it’s been 3 days and I wanted to know how to dose you. Yes you DO need to eat. NO you are not getting fat. No, you do not need to get under 200 again, when you were that thin everyone thought you had cancer or AIDS. Yes you will. Ok now here take this one. YES the fucking yellow one again. (BREATHE MOM-T) Here honey, yes you do need the yellow one again now that you ate. Trust me. Thank you.

Seriously? I love the man but he is nearly 40 fucking years old and he can not remember to tell me to refill the damn pill box? I can not remember to do it on top of everything fucking else and 3 damn jobs. I guess I have to set an alarm on my cell so I can keep on top of this. If he had not pulled the suicide thing I wouldn’t HAVE to control his pills and keep them under count and key. But his dumb ass tried to OD before the BIG attempt and the madness started. Fuck you didn’t take your pills. And this is somehow my fault. Because even though I hear him in his sleep talking to his dad, telling him he hopes I know how much I am appreciated, how he does not know how I am doing it all, working my ass off at 1 part time and 1 might as well be full time but being paid for part time good thing I love it, job, and home schooling our son, keeping on top of most of the housework, he no longer can manage his own meds, that is my fault.

So, magic pills on board, and a small power nap later, he came back to us. He told me he felt weird and wondered if he had an episode, asked why he was so tired. I told him the yellow pills make him tired, and he had to take 2 of them today.

But now I worry about myself. Selfish bitch that I am. But how will this affect me tomorrow? All the calls, stress, pacing, pulling my hair out while talking in the calm therapist voice and trying to get him to do what he is SUPPOSED to do without it being an argument or me being a bitch. My IBD is going to kick up into high gear tomorrow. Fun time ahead. What? Why am I on the couch being lazy? Well, my stomach flares intensify when I am stressed. Why would I be stressed? Fucking wonder why.

Someone told me the other day, well his legs don’t work but he is still fine, he should get a desk job. Why are you applying for aid?  But he couldn’t. He is surviving day to day with this, because of his routine. Breakfast the same daily, watching the same shows while he eats, play the video game for a bit, run the vacuum, help Hurricane with homework, daily nap, working on his cards. It has to be the same, and changes have to be his idea or it throws the whole universe into a tail spin. He has to have some control. He can not control his legs anymore, really. He can not control his racing thoughts. He has finally started writing again. He let me read some of it. It was hard to swallow. His pain and his sadness come from years of scars he held in. One reason I let Hurricane explode out his anger and boil over with tears. I want him to deal with emotions and not be wearing the scars in  30 years.

Maybe. He will someday be there. But unless you LIVE with it, don’t judge it. Don’t pretend you know what is really going in here. Mental illness and health can be a powerful and painful experience. Don’t think I have not heard the quiet whispers behind my back that this is maybe on me. He was fine, and it was me that made him the way he is. These issues were bubbling long before I came around. I hear whispers that I am making too big a deal and trying to make myself a martyr. Until we moved in here even my AMIL (Awesome Mother In Law) had no idea how hard things were at home. She came to me last week and apologized. She has now seen some of the mood swings and the scary “black out” moments where he is totally not there and I am on the verge of calling 911.

Yes, I am lucky as hell to have her. But the comments about how it must be nice to live with someone who is taking care of 70 percent of the bills and the mortgage payment, how it must have taken SO much stress off of me? Yeah. No. Because every day we wake up not sure WHAT mood he will be in, how my IBD/Crohn’s is going to be affecting me, and how we are going to power through the day. But I never ask for help from friends or family, because I don’t need it. It’s my cross to bear, with a lot of help from God. I have recently exploded into my faith. Because it’s coming back to me. I am facing demons I have been running from for a long time.

I am seeing the strength in my corner. And seeing who I can count on vs. who I need to cut loose. I don’t like how things are. I could take a new job, be better off financially and more stable in other areas of my life. But money will not replace time. Time is what we need. Money will help. And it WILL come through soon. But every moment I am away from them already is pain. My husband tells me his secrets in his sleep. He told me his worries. He misses me when I am at work. He hates that I have to be the one to work and to be away from home. He knows I have days I love my job and others I want to walk away. He wishes he could see me more. He understands my time is being monopolized by Hurricane and home school in the mornings, and by work at night and when I get home I am just wiped out. But he misses me. I am working on that.

We are still struggling along. Suicide “survivors” is what I was labeled as. What we really are is suicide zombies. Day to day getting by. I hold a lot together on the inside, few of my closest friends know who I “really” am outside of this little internet world, and have told me my facade is much like in the movie MirrorMask. Which is why I identify with it so much. I have an ideal in my mind but allow the darkness to consume me. All while trying to be the light for two people who need me more than I ever thought would be possible. It’s like yin and yang, only in a spin that makes it all gray.


Tattoos and Suicide IV: At least his pain would have ended?

SInce the suicide attempt my husband has  been battling. Battling his inner demons. Battling doctors. Battling me. And NOW, battling a mysterious degenerative nerve condition, which has moved him into a walker or wheelchair, because he does not trust his legs will not give out on him.

Last night, when he thought I was asleep, I heard him talking to our cat. I kept laying and listening, because through it all, he has not talked much to anyone about his feelings and thoughts but his 2 best friends and his doctor.  The cat is his biggest confidante. The cat even talks back. His focus has been on trying to figure out how to be super dad while he can barely walk. How to not feel totally useless when I am working 3 jobs to keep us on our feet.  He feels useless, and often times, though he thinks deep down its just the medications making him feel so helpless and lost again (we are on option 7 for the nerve issues of 143 we can try and the major side effect with almost all is worsening depression), he starts to wish November or late Decembers attempts  had been a success. Because now he is feeling so much physical pain in addition to the emotional. And he wonders if it is karma.

He once used to make jokes about “old people” shaking with their walkers. And larger people in wheelchairs “simply because they were fat” or “damn cripples” would get a laugh with his buddies. So is it karma? He wonders if it is revenge on him for his former hatred. He knows I keep telling him I can not live without him, and I would rather have a broken him than no him at all, but he wonders if I really do mean it and thinks I and our son deserve, and need, someone who can care for us, play with our son, and be a “real” husband and father. It is then I “wake up” I reach, as though it is an unconscious movement, for his hand, which is twitching a bit from the nerves.

I roll over and snuggle into his chest and tell him I love him and how thankful I am he is still in my life. Because in spite of it all, I really could not live and move on without him. And I make small talk about how awesome it was for one of his best friends to give Hurricane some lessons in baseball that day, and how lucky we are to have some amazing friends and family who can help our son learn the things I am too busy to teach him since Daddy is laid up for a bit. I remind him there are going to be rough days but  there are 136 more meds to try. That we are together and through it all we will come out on top, because we are standing together and are strong in each other. And I keep hoping, one day, he will really hear those words and believe them.


Tattoos and Suicide: Vent – Meds Suck

I have determined anti-depressants are a life saving enemy. I understand and agree, they need to be given. I have noticed a change from life ending to simple melancholy. But the side effects are craptastic. That’s all I got tonight. Its been a long day. ❤


Tattoos and Suicide Part III: Who is more angry, him or me?

I left my house tonight after hours of fighting. I am tired of the fighting. And being so angry. And feeling totally alone while surrounded with support. I am tired of fights he will not remember in the morning! I am totally surrounded by an amazing network of friends and family. But lately as I have shouldered burden after burden, the fight is one I am starting to think I do not want anymore. I am starting to feel tired. Tired of having all my ducks in a row and then missing my big shot, tired of fighting for someone who often seems like he no longer wants to fight for himself, and tired of fighting for myself and getting lost in the shuffle.
Its been such a long tough road. We just had our anniversary, and my surgery is in less than a week now. I have been wanting, needing, wishing, to feel more support. But instead I am being put under more pressure to be the strong one. So many people tell me I have it in me. But there are nights like tonight, where I sit in my car, alone in a Starbucks parking lot so I have net access, and feeling like I had no choice but to walk away, I want to just run. It took every ounce of my being to not hit the road and not look back. I know this is all part of the process, but damn it I am tired. I just want to scream back and not feel like my part in this does not matter sometimes. I love my family with all my heart, and I will fight til the end, but right now, I need to breathe. Just. Breathe. A little time and room to breathe. I just keep looking at that silver lining. Its gotta be there somewhere.

I spent a few days away from my Facebook world, focused on school, and tried to ignore the bigger issues at hand. I was sent a blessing in the form of a friend of my husbands who is helping me out, and I have been finally brave enough to reach out to those friends who have told me its ok to not always be a rock. But its not my nature. So instead, I will keep being angry because that is what is keeping me solid. I know its not the healthiest choice, but it will keep me going for now. And in a day or 2 I will let him know how I felt tonight when I walked out, how I almost didn’t come back. But how deep down after 10 years together, 8 married, I couldn’t walk away.  We have survived financial issues, foreclosure, deaths, suicide, and more.  Even the pissed off parts of me are parts of him. And life is not the same without it.


Tattoo and Suicide, Part II: More than just you

This is part 2 of a series I am writing in regards to my husbands attempt at suicide and how it has impacted our family. Part one can be found by following this link: https://momtroversial.wordpress.com/2013/01/24/the-tattoo-that-saved-a-life/ Thanks for reading, and for the support.

On this journey of healing for King Pig, so much has changed. A suicide attempt. I still can not recover from this. I admit it. I partially place blame on myself. How did I miss the signs? How did he hide this from me? His WIFE? His partner and best friend? Life has literally been uprooted and stood on end. Every expression he makes now may have a hidden meaning. Every day I have to leave him alone to go to interviews or to work I worry and wait and worry some more. Outpatient is complete and now we are down to bi weekly visits to a doctor. But I worry. Is that enough? Are the medicines really working or is he putting on a show? He hid it from me for so long. His turmoil. His pain. I can not let it go. I am scared to leave the healing in his hands. But deep down I know it is HIS hands that must heal himself. His and the hands of God that reminded him what he has to live for. But now, the doubts. The questioning. WHY is he still here? I can  not figure this out. My brain won’t slow down. His won’t either. But that is part of what got him here.

Me: Can I get you anything?
KP: Nope, I am just feeling a little tired.

Twenty minutes later… he is starting blankly at the TV and makes a funny face.

What’s wrong honey?
Nothing! Why?
You made a face…
So, I made a face. Whats the big deal?
Well you looked like you wanted to say something. Whats going on in your head right now?
Nothing! Can’t I just make a face?

Its been such a struggle for us, and to top it off now, he is having some medical issues. He is not going to be returning to work.  Now what? How do we adjust? How will we make it? Why is he looking so sad today? I caught him the other night in a very truthful mood. He told me sometimes he still wishes the suicide had worked. He feels like with his new disability he is more a burden. I wish I could help him see how much he means to me and how much I really and truly need him.

One thing about all this that is interesting. Our marriage has gotten stronger. He finally sees all I did and still do for our family. He admits when he misses me. He admits if I was not around, he would be lost in how to handle some of the simple stuff.  But he also loathes the fact I have to do so much. The fact I sometimes need to be reminded to manage all his medications because the doctors suggested it would be best if I kept them all under lock and key and monitor how many we have of OTC stuff I leave out. He hates the way the therapist looks at him when he gets really worked up over something because she touches a nerve, how I can be such a bitch because I am tired as hell all the time, and how I practically treat him like a child.

I hate not knowing if I can leave him alone. I hate worrying every time he gets home late that he stopped to “finish the job” and wondering how I am going to make it if he is not here with me. I hate knowing I almost lost a part of me and feeling like I am somehow a little to blame, for not pushing it further and making him talk about his feelings. I hate knowing he does not trust anyone enough to just let go and let it all out. Because he is scared he will end up “locked away” again.

I love knowing he is now around to raise my son and I am heartbroken and yet relieved when my baby boy says he wants daddy to kiss his boo-boo better instead, but I could at least get a band-aid out for daddy. I am missing my old life of comfort and facebook and lunches with friends and part time work, and playing all day with my boy and sometimes loathing endless doctors appointments. And in the middle of it all I have a tumor. Which could be cancer. Joy. What could possibly be next?


The tattoo that saved a life… Tattoos and Suicide Part I

For every bad thing ever said about a tattoo, I always defended the form of self expression. And from this day forward will never tolerate hearing any malice towards the art form or those who perform it. All because of this.  A tattoo saved my husbands life.  A simple tat. Just a name, just an arm. And it saved his life.

Long time followers of my Facebook page are aware, we are personal friends with some amazing tattoo artists. A family run operation, our friends Shane, Samm, Vicki, and Athena run Thurmont Tattoo, located in Thurmont, Maryland. When they were local to us, we would have them over for dinner, have home tattoo sessions, stop by the shop just to say hello. We still call them to celebrate our family triumphs, our tragedies  and our best and worst moments. Over the years, they became not only our ink artists, but friends, and now they feel like a part of our family. They are perceptive, warm, loving, and amazing. And they gave my husband the tattoo that saved his life…

My story… After work, two weeks ago. 

13 missed calls? How did I get 13 missed calls? What on earth could be wrong? From her cell phone? Oh lord. She is in the hospital again. Oh god, maybe it is my husband. His breathing is not much better since he got the bronchitis. He was supposed to start his night shift again.  Please god let him have made it to work alright. Calling her. Straight to voicemail. Why? Try again. Straight to voicemail again.  Ok. Call his work. He called out sick. Maybe the bronchitis got worse. They tell me his mom called and said something about the hospital. Ok, so he is in the hospital. Call my roommate to see if he can watch Hurricane. Mid call. Call waiting. Oh god it is mom. Let him be ok. 

Hello? Mom? What’s going on? At the Emergency Room? Why? But? He did what? Wait? WHAT? How? No mom, I am not ok hearing this. Well I will be. Will they let me see him? He is where? I mean WHICH emergency room?  But how? And he called you? OK I am on the way.

Suicide. He attempted suicide? But why? How could I have missed the signs? How is he doing? How will we recover as a family? What will this do to our family unit? Is he going to be ok? How did I miss it? He seemed fine. Tired. Stressed. But he just recently started to see a therapist. She put him on a medication. Maybe the medicine is making him worse. I hear that can happen. He is supposed to be getting better.  It could be nothing. Sure. That is it. The medicine. It has made him worse.  Oh lord, if our son had found him. If he had been successful. How DARE HE? Our SON would have been the first one to find him. I would have let him take the keys and run ahead of me into the house to see Daddy when I saw the truck home. That prick! I wonder…How did he try? Why? How did I miss the signs? His mom couldn’t let me talk to him. Oh god, I hope he is ok. Please, lord. Let him be ok. I can’t…Oh my. I almost lost my husband. Oh lord PLEASE not my husband.  Thank god he called his mom. Why didn’t he call me? Let me check my phone. Ok he did try to call me. Why didn’t I have my phone on me?  Why wasn’t this a day where I left it in my pocket?  I hope he is going to be ok. Oh lord. Please give me strength. Please let him be ok. Please. Let him be. Just let him be. Let him be strong and alive. Let him be safe. Let him be in my arms. I am going to punch him. Our son…that prick! But he is alive. Thank you lord, he is still alive. He was not successful. Oh god. How did I miss this? How? 

Drop off the kid. Get my laptop because I know hospital TV sucks, he might be bored.  Plus my page and my internet friends are my escape. My safe spot… Pull the roommate aside. Fill him in. I gotta get to the hospital. Call his two best friends. They are brothers to him. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN HE TOLD YOU HE TRIED THIS ALREADY LAST MONTH!?!?!?!?!?!?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!??????? And I am just now hearing about this? FUCK BRO CODE. Fuck him saying he would see a shrink and then doing it. Yes, He WAS going to see a doctor. But still. How could you not tell me? This is fucking serious. YES you needed to tell me. I have to tell the doctors. This changes everything. He might not get to come home now.  OK. No time to fight about this. I will deal with you later.

REWIND: THREE YEARS 5 MONTHS – KING PIGZ STORY
Samm:  Listen, bro, I think you should get your son’s name down as part of the sleeve we are starting on your forearm instead of your back.
KP: Really? I was thinking I would put it on the shoulder as part of the back piece we are starting
Samm: I really think it needs to go on your arm. You should have the most important things in your life front and center. I really feel like this is a better idea.
KP: You are the expert, man.  Ok. Right there. Top side of my forearm. Let’s do this.  
(The tat ended up being Hurricane’s name down his forearm, and the birthday on his wrist like a bracelet)

FAST FORWARD-2 WEEKS AGO
King Pig stands in the kitchen. Holding a knife. He can’t take the pressure. He feels useless. Alone. Hopeless. He stands over the sink. Knife in hand. Tired of being in pain. Tired of feeling alone in a house and world full of people. Tired of feeling like no one cares. Tired of not understanding the fear that grips him on a daily basis, the thoughts that race through his head.  Tired of feeling like a burden because I am doing it all at home. He holds the knife in his right hand and reaches his left arm out over the sink.  Suddenly, while turning his arm over to get the correct angle on his wrist, he catches sight of the tattoo. The one he was going to have put on his back. There it was. Front and center. His son’s name stares up at him, in the same shade of deep red as the blood he was getting ready to spill. He stops. His son. He knows since losing his own father last year just how bad the pain is of losing a parent. His son. 5 years old. Would never recover from this. His wife. Me. He wonders how I will get by without him. He stumbles. He drops the knife into the sink. He hits the floor and fumbles to find his phone in his pocket. In tears, he tries to get someone on the phone. Anyone. First me. No answer. I am at work. Of course he can’t reach me. I am working. Teaching. My phone is in my bag while I am with my students. He panics. Considers grabbing the knife again. Runs his hand up and down his arm over his son’s name, there, in bright red ink. As red as the blood he was about to spill. He fumbles with his phone again. This time, he reaches his mother. He starts to cry. Through his tears she hears the words. Suicide. Pain. Help. She calls him from her cell on call waiting. She keeps her cool and keeps him on the phone. Talks to him the whole way down the highway to our house. She arrives. The normal 25 minute drive takes her 12 minutes. She begs him to get in the car. Tells him she will call the police if he doesn’t. He gets in the car. ER. She calls his doctor while she waits. No answer. They take him back. The frantic calls to me begin. But thank god he is alive.

A tattoo saved his life. The next several months will be filled with appointments. Pain. Healing. But a tattoo saved his life. And I will never. EVER. Be able to thank Samm enough. A simple conversation and decision. It saved his life. Thank you lord for bringing us to the shop for the first time 3 years ago. Thank you for your guidance and for inspiring Samm to make the choice he made. And thank you for keeping my husband on this earth. I would be lost without him. And I will forever be grateful for the tattoo, that saved his life.

Inked The first letter. Samm, no matter what happens in your life, please know this simple bit of ink, will have more impact than anyone could ever know. We love you.

Part II of this healing journey has been written and can be found here:
https://momtroversial.wordpress.com/2013/06/22/a-tattoo-and-suicide-more-than-just-you/


%d bloggers like this: