Over the past two weeks, some mild advances, while in the psych unit for the family meeting, one sister (ironically the closest emotionally) was exceptionally insistent concerning my use of some medicinal herbs (Kava Kava, Klip dagga, blue lilly). There was no discussion possible. So to try for family unity (and face it, I wanted out) I offered her a 90 day moratorium to consult more with my docs before using anymore, there was NO compromise on her part.
Then she insisted that my wifes belongings, decor, etc. needed to go so that I could remake the house into mine, and that I would feel better having my own space. So yesterday, two guys showed up to unload the garage. As each piece went into their truck, i had some warm memories, of where we got each door, the loving afternoons fishing garage sales, our delite at finding a special curio or keepsake. But their was NO sense or relief, a sense that something gathered with great that it represented pride and effort, had now been discarded as garbage. And once that thought takes hold, what does it say for the time, devotion, joy and love gathering them?
So last night was a restless night, up every hour, begging my wife's photo for forgiveness for a wrong that can never be made right. And the rage, seething rage at my sister(and my self for listening to her). And she's bi-polar, my suicidal episode jacked with her mental state, and in fact, her doc prefers no contact between us until she is stable.
And I'm to the point that I don't give a fuck. I feel love and concern for my sisters, and family, but its been 19 months since my wife died, and my first suicidal idea came before her body left the house That's over 500 days (besides one active attempt). I challenge anyone to do 500 anything for me-
push-ups, laps in a pools, situps. Really, what does your body have left? Vacancy and a hollow stare.
Don't worry, there with be nothing take place tonight (maybe not ever), but there is nothing in the world that interests me, and I still wish every day that the police officer had not failed his job.
Then she insisted that my wifes belongings, decor, etc. needed to go so that I could remake the house into mine, and that I would feel better having my own space. So yesterday, two guys showed up to unload the garage. As each piece went into their truck, i had some warm memories, of where we got each door, the loving afternoons fishing garage sales, our delite at finding a special curio or keepsake. But their was NO sense or relief, a sense that something gathered with great that it represented pride and effort, had now been discarded as garbage. And once that thought takes hold, what does it say for the time, devotion, joy and love gathering them?
So last night was a restless night, up every hour, begging my wife's photo for forgiveness for a wrong that can never be made right. And the rage, seething rage at my sister(and my self for listening to her). And she's bi-polar, my suicidal episode jacked with her mental state, and in fact, her doc prefers no contact between us until she is stable.
And I'm to the point that I don't give a fuck. I feel love and concern for my sisters, and family, but its been 19 months since my wife died, and my first suicidal idea came before her body left the house That's over 500 days (besides one active attempt). I challenge anyone to do 500 anything for me-
push-ups, laps in a pools, situps. Really, what does your body have left? Vacancy and a hollow stare.
Don't worry, there with be nothing take place tonight (maybe not ever), but there is nothing in the world that interests me, and I still wish every day that the police officer had not failed his job.
Last edited by a moderator: