You’re Stupid And I Hate You.

by Lori Dwyer on January 31, 2013 · 23 comments

I write posts like this… then I hesitate. I toss and turn things over, tumbling like rough rocks in my mind until they’re smooth and their edges don’t draw blood.

I tumble and test the weight of the memory of a dead person and what it means to respect that. I struggle with the bulk of adding to a stigma that already heavily clouds suicide and men’s mental health.

I guess I recognize that while I have this voice, read by many… the man who used to be my husband has none. And that is certainly not entirely fair.

But then I balance that against an email I received, from a women whose husband survived his own suited attempt, asking– would I have been angry with Tony, had he lived? And the answer is… of course. I’m furious with him, and he died. Had he lived and that anger been less tempered by guilt… he would have been lucky had I not killed him myself.

And I shuffle that email up against the very justified, very real anger my children will probably feel toward their father one day. And how I want them to know that’s OK– the light and the dark can coexist. You can love somebody and hate them, too.

And somehow that all gets too confusing and I think f*ck it, I’ll just tell the truth.

Because if this blog is never anything but the story of a suicide’s aftermath, then let it be the whole story. With every emotion labelled ‘okay’.

And eventually, logically… I have to hate him.


For Tony…

You’re stupid and I hate you and I miss you still and I wish you were here. Not for me… I’m OK, for the first time in a long time.

But for your son. For your little boy who starts school this week who needed you and loved you and misses you still. Who looked at your picture on his bedroom wall today and told you I love you Daddy, I miss you!” and then insisted I do the same. Because he felt your absence far more than I did in this school preparation we’ve been doing he last few days. I wonder if he can picture in his mind, the way I can in mine, exactly how you would acted and what you would have said.

I don’t know if I hope he can conjure a mental image of you like that… or not. If it’s going to hurt him more or less as he grows older, remembering you.

Your daughter (my daughter…) doesn’t remember you, not at all. And again, I’m stuck between an emotional rock and a hard place. And not just for my sweet precious fairy girl, but, in some twisted way, for you too.

Because part of me, the part that’s viciously angry and is finally screaming with a mother’s instinct at how you hurt my babies, how dare you… That part of me hopes, spitefully, that wherever you might be you are watching this, regretting what you’ve missed out on, wincing in pain every time you hear the phrase My Daddy died. That it hurts you to watch them grow them up without a father as much as it hurts me.

I think decided, long ago, that dead people don’t feel anything at all. Because I loved you once, very much. And I don’t like to think of you, of anyone, hurting like that.

But you should be here, and my God I am so f*cking furious that if you were here I’d scream and punch and kick at you until I finally made it hurt. Because what happens this morning– my son walking into his first day of school with just his mum, when most kids have two parents by their side… it’s the height of disgusting unfairness.

And right now I don’t blame the universe.

I. Blame. You.

I don’t know what else to write, what else to say to you… as if you’re listening at all. It’s a psychologically accepted fact, Charlie the shrink tells me, that you continue to have a relationship with a dead person. It’s just that its one sided.

Every so often, I talk to you, the way I have done all along. But now it’s different… it always seems to be about the kids. The tone of it is lighter… I rarely cry at you anymore. I was starting to think to that, maybe, myself and the memory of you… we could be friends.

Except for the fact that right now, I can’t f*cking stand you. I think of what you did and its not about me, not right now. It’s about my son and his big wide blue eyes and the look on his face when he sees another kid playing with their father.

Right now… I just hate you for that.


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{ 23 comments… read them below or add one }

Marie February 3, 2013 at 11:32 am

I think in a way you do give him a voice. Because there are people reading this who may be considering what he did. Through you, Tony can say to them “Don’t do what I did. Look what I did to the people left behind.” I’ve heard suicidal people nearly always feel like everyone is better off without them. You can show them that is not true. Maybe someone will rethink it after reading your blog. Maybe somebody already has.


Lori Dwyer February 6, 2013 at 12:42 pm

Marie- this comment has been going round and round in my head the last few days. You’ve given me a whole other perspective- thank you xx


Elise February 1, 2013 at 1:30 am

You would do a disservice not to tell it all. So proud of you


Lori Dwyer February 2, 2013 at 11:08 pm

Thank you Elise- sometimes, I feel that way, too xx


Kimberlee f January 31, 2013 at 7:38 pm

Beautifully honest Lori.
Thank you for sharing. You are so right…
All emotions are okay…
Love to you and the kids


Lori Dwyer February 2, 2013 at 11:07 pm

Thanks Kimberlee xx


Notwhatiexpected January 31, 2013 at 5:01 pm

My husband attempted suicide a few years back…10 days before our first daughter was due. I was travelling to the hospital not knowing whether he was alive, and yet mentally planning his funeral. When I got there and he was ok, I managed to feel a whole lot in the matter of around an hour. The most powerful of those emotions was hate. Of course I was heartbroken, fearful, guilty, terrified…and just plain murderously enraged. Enraged by the thought that he felt it was better to leave me all alone to raise our child, to be alone, forever. For months following I spent quiet hours alone in my mind staring at my newborn daughter just wondering ‘what if?’. I had to pick up the pieces of our business, our marriage and try to find a relic of our old lives…the before. It was about 2 years after that day that I found your blog. On that day, I sobbed, I screamed, I realised you knew the reality of my ‘what if’. Reading the more recent blogs, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t happy for you that you have reached ‘anger’. You deserve to feel any and every emotion whole heartedly. I hope you find a path to a happier existence via the anger. I had to break myself in order to rebuild, much the same as my husband. I may not ‘know’ you but I ‘feel’ you, more now than ever. Keep feeling, good, bad and ugly you will find the right pieces to make your puzzle. I wish you nothing but clarity in a world of happiness with your two babies.


Carin January 31, 2013 at 7:45 pm

Wow notwhatiexpected. You have courage. You are much further on in your journey than me, but our stories sound somewhat similar. It’s hard being the one who didn’t try to kill themselves too. Few people get that. But you pulled through, courageously it seems. I admire you.


Lori Dwyer February 2, 2013 at 11:01 pm

What Carin said- i think she got it perfectly xx


Notwhatiexpected February 4, 2013 at 9:42 pm

Thank you. It’s 3 years down the road and I have to agree that people don’t understand my journey and how it’s changed me. I’m happy in the knowledge that my husband and I were strong enough in our relationship to survive that day and the fallout. I’m proud to say I fought to get through to him in the aftermath. I’m proud that I was brave enough to yell and scream and feel everything I needed to feel in order to help him, as well as myself. I hope for you both, and anyone else reading your blog Lori, that we can all take a little piece from each other to help ourselves.


Dorothy @ Singular Insanity January 31, 2013 at 4:29 pm

So understand how you feel.

I remember when Sam started school last year, I was so sad and so furious that his father has caused him to start school with just a mum, while Ben got to have us both there.

Your anger is totally justified and healthy, the guild would make your grief unbearable otherwise.


Lori Dwyer February 2, 2013 at 11:07 pm

It’s weird isn’t it? I kind of knew the anger was coming… but never expected it to be this intense. xx


Kirsty Forbes January 31, 2013 at 1:46 pm

I totally understand Lori. How could you NOT hate him. Or be angry at him at the very least. And not for you so much, but for your children. Surely he must of known what him killing himself was going to do? No? Surely it entered his mind that it would absolutely devastate those he left behind no?

Huge hugs to you. And huge hugs to your little man on his first week of school. I’m sure he totally rocked it :)


Lori Dwyer February 2, 2013 at 11:06 pm

That he did, K- rocked it is exactly the right expression ;) x


Sharon @ Funken Wagnel January 31, 2013 at 12:17 pm

You have every right to be angry. He chose to have kids with you and the deal was that you’d raise them together. That isn’t how it played out, and how could you not be pissed off? It’s a tough gig.

And whether or not his actions were caused by mental illness, yes, the mentally ill are required to be accountable for their actions too. The fact that he doesn’t have to face any accountability wherever he is right now, would be the part that would really eat at me. The not being able to stand in front of that person and it express it, to monitor their face for remorse, which is so badly needed.

No remorse would help where he is. Nothing could make this right. But the good thing is that your anger is directed squarely in the right place for now. As unhealthy as it probably feels inside, it’s probably the healthiest and most rational way to feel.


Lori Dwyer February 2, 2013 at 11:04 pm

You always leave the most awesome comments Sharon- thank you xx


Carin January 31, 2013 at 10:18 am

I hold your hand in hate.
I squeeze your fingers tightly.
My palms sweat furiously with yours.
I seethe and I taste bile and I grind my teeth until they chip with you.
I know I can’t move past hate until I’ve hated the hardest I could ever hate.
I need to hate now.
I don’t know if I will ever be able to stop.
Everyone tells me that hate is a misguided form of love, and that it’s indifference I need to aim for.
Don’t talk to me about love.
Love didn’t even turn back for a fleeting second.
For now, I just hate.
And I thank you.


Lori Dwyer January 31, 2013 at 11:21 am

Carin, that was… beautiful. Can I republish it in a post? I’ll email you :) x


Carin January 31, 2013 at 11:30 am

Already emailed you. X


spagsy January 31, 2013 at 10:18 am

You know I was told the same thing in grief counselling. That you still have a relationship, it is just one sided. (refer to email for the rest of this…)

More importantly don’t stop telling his story and giving you both a voice. People need to hear it.
XX rah rah


Lori Dwyer January 31, 2013 at 11:20 am

Thanks Spags xxxxx


Woah Molly January 31, 2013 at 9:17 am

You do everyone a service by telling the truth. People don’t just feel one way about things – they feel a million little different ways about everything. Emotions and relationships and memories aren’t simple. If more people talked about it, fewer people would feel guilty about how they feel. So keep on talking about it, always.



Lori Dwyer January 31, 2013 at 11:21 am

And that’s what I needed to hear- you rock Mollykins :) x


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