On June 9th, it will be a year since my husband died. I haven't been able to journal about it or talk to the head shrinkers (no offence) so I really need to work some things out about it and this seemed like the best place. This may be a long post.
We met 13 years ago and a week later he moved in. Fourteen months later we were married. He didn't have a job at the time, or a car and had just been crashing at one place or another. He had been a cop for 14 years. Shortly before we met he had come upon a terrible accident and helped pull three people from a burning car. He was awarded the Medal of Valor but his career was basically over. His PTSD was so severe that he would wake up screaming, thinking he was on fire. He would get into the shower to put the fire out and one time pushed the air conditioner out the window, trying to escape the flames he saw in his mind. Sirens and fire works would set him off and once he was off the force he felt as if his life was over and he had no identity.
I knew he liked to drink. A lot. But it took me a couple of years to understand that he was an alcoholic. We partied a lot. At bars, at home, and there were always a lot of people around. And there was the meth.
And I finally understood that had been going on for a long time as well.
He was always the life of the party until we were alone. He was verbally abusive to me and I came to understand he was a pathalogical liar and lied to me, and everyone else, constantly. He admitted to me one day that as a cop, he rarely turned in the money or drugs that were confisticated during an arrest.
In our fourth year, the physical abuse began. The first time he hit me he knocked me into a wall six feet away. He was in a blackout, which happened a lot when he drank, but his reasoning was that if he didn't remember it, it didn't really happen.
They put him on meds and in therepy and he recieved his retirement pay.
I didn't find out until after he died that he had bought a 12K Rolex that was stolen the next day. And three months later we were evicted.
I should have gotten out then, but I loved him so.
We moved from CA to CO and I thought the meth had stopped but the drinking got worse and worse. He became a broken, miserable man and told me there was nothing I could do to make him happy. We could never put any money aside because if he wasn't drunk, he was trying to figure out a way to get drunk.
The verbal and physical abuse continued and our marriage was basically celibate, and totally celibate the last four years we were together.
At his core, he was a good man and he liked helping others. And there were good times. But they became fewer and farther between.
He had cut me off from my friends long ago and since I didn't drive I was totally dependent on him.
My beloved little cat, Bear, died of cancer and we were both devastated.
And my feelings began to change. My love was fading and I began to think about leaving.
Two years before he died, I went to him one night and told him I was really scared. Suicide was on my mind all the time and I asked him for help. His reply? "Well, you're always talking about it-why don't you just go ahead and do it?" And then he told me I looked like Jabba the Hut.
I felt as if I'd hit a concrete wall at sixty miles an hour. My heart curled up into a crushed little ball and I felt my love for him just drain away.
A week later I bought a small mattress and moved into my office.
A year later he was drunk and came after me with a knife. He spent 26 days in jail. When he got out he was put on probation for 2 years with frequet random testing. Failing even one test meant going back to jail for two years.
He not oly joined AA, he became the poster boy for AA referred to the Bible constantly. He was nice to me for a few weeks, then things went back to normal. Being ignored, being snapped at, being treated like s**t.
Six months later he walked into his bedroom. I ran in because he sounded distressed. He fell over the bed and I put my arms around him and asked if he wanted an ambulance. He had a siezure that lasted maybe thirty seconds. Ad then he was gone. He had died in my arms.
I knew his wishes and after two days on life support I told them to turn off the machines. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. But he wanted to be a donor. And so he died with honor. He made other peoples lives infinately better with that gift, and in my mind, he died a hero.

So goodbye, my friend. I miss you so. I pray that you are at peace now.
And I will try my damndest to remember the good times.

Thanks for listening.