My husband came home for lunch in April (six or seven months ago) and shot himself in the head. No warning, no signs, no nothing. I sold the house immediately. Every time I entered that front door, I became hysterical. Suicide is different. I've already learned that. I had a plethora of friends; after all, he was a big deal attorney and I was an author. All those "friends" except for five people have left my life.
I am currently living with a friend. I pay the rent and he makes sure I don't kill myself and that I eat at least once a day. I've lost 30 pounds. I scream in my sleep, and I talk in my sleep and I cry in my sleep. You're blessed to have restful slumbers.
I've tried a myriad of drugs (under the care of both medical doctors and shrinks) and yet they only stave off the inevitable pain.
I can't even write coherently, but I know this much: Suicide is different. It changes everything. Pre-April, I thought we had the good life. Now I am living in hell. I understand about being a bag lady. I often think about disappearing and becoming one of the homeless. I feel like that's where I belong now; living under a bridge with a few of my favorite things.
