Sunday, July 26, 2020

An open letter to my friend Coward

Dear Coward,

It's been nearly two months since you wrote the comment in which you said horrible things to me and about me, and it's time to break it down and explain to you exactly the damage you've done. Don't worry: there'll be no cursing or screaming; I'll exhibit as much "grace" as I can.

First of all, the reason why so many people jumped all over you when I posted about it on Facebook is this: you violated the rules enumerated in the Ring Theory. Perhaps you actually thought you occupied the center circle of the ring; perhaps you simply didn't care that you don't. 

But the thing is, you're not in the center circle: I am. And that doesn't mean that I love Doug more than you do, or that he loved me more than he loved you; it simply means that I am the person most impacted by his death, and there can be no disputing that. Whatever his relationship with you, of however many years, I was his wife. I was his partner for the last four years and change. He and I chose to live out our lives as loving partners. If it had come to it, I would have changed his diapers and he would've changed mine - and even if it had come to that, I still would've thought he was the handsomest, sexiest man in the world. So, yeah: I'm in the center circle, just as Doug would have been in the center circle if I'd been the one who died.

And in accordance with the Ring Theory, you dump/vent OUT and comfort IN. You didn't do that. Now, you could say that my "get a grip!" friend didn't do that either, but here's the difference: "Get a grip" was shouted in a heated moment in a telephone call, when both I and the person in question were in a full-on panic because I was reliving Doug's last half-hour but imagining my son there instead. But you? You didn't have to write that comment. If you felt I was somehow neglecting you, you could have reached out to me, calmly, to talk about how you felt. But instead, you took the time to sit down, and think about it, and publicly and anonymously say horrible things to me under the guise of worrying about me. Worry, dear Coward, does not lend itself to that sort of cruelty. At any point, you could have thought, "you know, maybe this isn't the best way to handle this situation." But you didn't.

Now, on the off chance that you actually were worried about me - which, again, I doubt, as evidence indicates otherwise - did you really think that you had cause to be that worried? I mean, if you were so panic-stricken with concern, is a comment on a blog post really the best way to act on that worry? I don't write about anything here that I don't also discuss at great length with both my therapist and my grief counselor (both of whom are licensed and trained professionals, which I'm guessing that you, Coward, are not). Neither of them has expressed any concern about my openly-stated desire to die, so clearly neither of them thinks I'm actually a danger to myself or anyone else. Or was it that you just didn't want to hear about it anymore? Because if that's the case, that's easy: stop reading what I write.

Let's talk about what you did to me: for several weeks, I didn't really talk to anyone except for my grief counselor and therapist; because I didn't know who you were, I didn't trust anyone to listen without judgement. So I grieved almost totally alone in every sense. And my anger boiled out of control, where it remained until I finally found a way to deal with it constructively just a few short days ago. 

Even after those first few weeks, I remained withdrawn. I still barely talk to most of my friends about what's going on with my internal life, because I feel like I'm burdening them if I do. I feel more alone than ever. I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Coward, that only my therapist, grief counselor, and sister know: the closest I've come to hurting myself since Doug died? It was when I read your comment: I had to physically fight the urge to go into the kitchen, grab my chef's knife, and slit my wrists. And I know the right way to do it to bleed out, so we're not talking about making a dramatic gesture here. So, congratulations - you actually managed to temporarily make me genuinely suicidal. Thank goodness I have my therapist's cell phone number.

I've still been hesitant to express my feelings fully, even almost two months out. I'm getting better at it, especially now that I've found an outlet for my anger. And I'm done holding back. You see, I'm not writing this blog for you, Coward. Nor am I writing it for my family and friends (although they're welcome to read it and comment on it here and on Facebook, and I'm thrilled that they do). No, I'm writing this blog for exactly two audiences:
  • I'm writing it for myself, so that I have a record of what this time has been like. Assuming I get to a point where I'm able to and want to really live again, I'll have this to look at the next time a disaster rocks me on my heels, to prove that I can come back from anything.
  • Mostly, though, I'm writing it for other widows and widowers who may find it down the road: I've heard from some folks in this awful club who've gotten joy back into their lives, and I cannot believe that they were ever as destroyed as I am, because it seems absolutely impossible to recover from this. By keeping all this emotional vomit for posterity, I have date-stamped evidence that I can show to a new widow/er to say, "See? I was exactly where you are, and I made it." (Of course, this is assuming that I will "make it," which is definitely not guaranteed.)
In closing, Coward, you nearly silenced me for two months, but no more. My writing is good for me; it may someday be good for other people as well. So I'm done giving you free rent in my mind. For what it's worth, I do have a sneaking suspicion as to your identity - I've narrowed it down to a very small group of possibilities. I hope you'll be enough of an adult to come forward and own what you've done. Sadly, I don't expect that you will, which says much about you - and none of what it says is good.

At any rate, this is most likely the last time I'll address you, Coward. I don't hate you anymore - you're not worth that much effort.  I wish you the peace that you've denied me since June 7; beyond that, I hope not to think about you at all.

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