I’ve been trying so fucking hard not to internalise this.
To keep some form of rational, sane thinking (not your fault, could have walked, divorce is always an option).
I think I give up.
This is all my fault.
Me. Solely me. I’m the reason he did this, I’m the reason he died. Because I am a very bad person. And, yep, a bit of a psycho. And I spent too much of his money, stressed him out, and I yelled at him. Called him names. Not the day this happened, but certainly previously.
I gave as good as I got.
I shouldn’t have.
All. My. Fault. Tony had been telling me that for months before this happened. Everything was All. My. Fault.
And I’m guessing he told everyone else that too.
After all, what is wrong with the truth?
OK? So here we go. I am responsible for my husband’s suicide. This happened because of me. Most of the people who knew Tony, for longer and better than what I do, they hold this belief.
And Tony, my husband, I’m sure he held this belief.
So, logically, that adds up..?
Me. I’m fucked. I’m wrong and slightly insane and quite screwed up. Always have been. That’s just me. I don’t really try to pretend I’m normal.
So, where does that leave us?
A little family even more fractured than before. With their daddy dead, and mummy the cause. Forever wrapped in that knowledge.
Unfortunately, I don’t think suicide is an option here. I’ve seen the aftermath it leaves behind.
I wouldn’t do that to my kids, to the handful of people who truly love and care for me.
So… I keep living. Just. For those kids. Just so they have one parent, fucked up or not.
What else do you want me to do? Just stop acting like a good person? OK. Done. I’m a fuck up. Most people who knew Tony, knew that.
Comments off again. I just don’t need them right now.