An American Tragedy

My husband is dead. On  January 14, 2013, he will have been gone six years. In some ways six years seems like a very long time, in other ways it feels like it happened just yesterday. I still love him. I always will. A lot happened with us, some of it was good~most of it could have been good, great even. But Tom was mentally ill~bi-polar disorder. He was a childhood sexual abuse victim. Those two things ruined his life. He was 57 years old when he died. And he died alone. He didn't have to.

When we first met and were getting to know each other, there were subtle signs. Signs that I either ignored or just didn't notice. And it was these signs that told a story I could not have comprehended until I lived through it, but by then it was too late.

Outwardly, Tom was the picture of success. He was a Captain on the Chelsea Fire Department. Chelsea is just outside of Boston. He was president of his union and had run unopposed for all the years he served. He was loved by the guys. He loved fighting for them and their contract with the city. But Tom felt that he had no identity without the fire department. No one ever knew that about him. They still don't. He exuded a quiet confidence, but it was just an illusion. He spent his life carefully crafting a mask that he wore for everyone, even me. But very soon I refused to accept it and within two days of his death he finally admitted to me that I had been right all along. He had cried and apologized over and over and over again for all the chaos he incorporated into our lives, the lies he told about me in an effort to keep hidden his horrible secret, and for the torture he put me through. These were the things that I had prayed daily for him to tell me. I wanted to help him, I wanted him to get help. I wanted him to get his past into perspective so that he could move forward and we could be happy. I would have done anything for him, I loved him so much. But he was too far gone. He was too afraid.

I am now editing a book I have written about he and I and what happened. It's called The Waterloo. Tom was my Waterloo. The horrors were epic. It is so painful to relive it. But I must do this. For him. For me. I want to get it all in perspective. Honor him. Champion us. Show the world just what I did for my love of this man.

Nowadays, I think of things I might have tried. And I wonder if it would have changed things. Saved us. Postponed his death until a more appropriate age. We both understand it all so much better now and I know that he is free from his pain and finally happy. But I am sad that it couldn't have happened while he was still here in this life. Such a tragedy.