Out of the Ashes
My husband killed himself three weeks ago.
I enter into a room now and people look at me with sympathy. They think, "there is that poor woman whose husband killed himself and left her with three babies."
I don't love sympathy. It makes me feel weak to receive it.
I would much rather enter into a room and have people look at me with respect. I would like them to think, "there is that woman who found her husband hanging in the basement, cried for hours in a crisis ward, and then went home to her babies to take care of them. There is the woman who has spent the last three weeks picking up 14,000 pieces of shattered glass and meticulously gluing them back together. There is the woman who has slept no more than four and a half hours a night but has still managed to remember to pack her children's lunches and backpacks for camp, get everyone fed and dressed, fill out endless paperwork, fight with the bank, switch over all the bills to her name, make endless appointments and phone calls... all without screaming or losing her mind."
That is what I would like them to think.
My husband left me with three babies: Ember is 6, Oren is 4 and Erez is 18 months old. He loved them so much but was too consumed by his mental illness to stay alive for them. I don't get it. It makes me want to scream. But I don't scream. I pack lunch bags and make sure teeth are brushed and run baths and listen to my children grieve their loss and give them long hugs and tell them I am here for them.
This is my new life. I am 41 and a widow and a mother of three. I am grateful for your sympathy, but I am hoping for your respect.
I enter into a room now and people look at me with sympathy. They think, "there is that poor woman whose husband killed himself and left her with three babies."
I don't love sympathy. It makes me feel weak to receive it.
I would much rather enter into a room and have people look at me with respect. I would like them to think, "there is that woman who found her husband hanging in the basement, cried for hours in a crisis ward, and then went home to her babies to take care of them. There is the woman who has spent the last three weeks picking up 14,000 pieces of shattered glass and meticulously gluing them back together. There is the woman who has slept no more than four and a half hours a night but has still managed to remember to pack her children's lunches and backpacks for camp, get everyone fed and dressed, fill out endless paperwork, fight with the bank, switch over all the bills to her name, make endless appointments and phone calls... all without screaming or losing her mind."
That is what I would like them to think.
My husband left me with three babies: Ember is 6, Oren is 4 and Erez is 18 months old. He loved them so much but was too consumed by his mental illness to stay alive for them. I don't get it. It makes me want to scream. But I don't scream. I pack lunch bags and make sure teeth are brushed and run baths and listen to my children grieve their loss and give them long hugs and tell them I am here for them.
This is my new life. I am 41 and a widow and a mother of three. I am grateful for your sympathy, but I am hoping for your respect.
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