350 Yards

After everything, I have discovered that the darkness ends if you are willing to stop asking, "WHY ME?" Five years ago, my life ended. Everything I had ever known was gone. I struggled to do things I had learned by Kindergarten: brushing my teeth, combing my hair, dressing myself, and even tying my shoes.

All of the hopes and dreams I had carried for forty-three years vanished in an instant: the beautiful property we had, the Multigenerational Forever Home we were building, driving to work with a cup of coffee beside me, the windows down, hair blowing in the breeze, listening to Sirius XM's Lithium.

What followed was seemingly impenetrable darkness as if I had fallen down a deep well with no means of determining which way was up or down, let alone the ability to escape. I was angry, so angry at Life for dealing me a shitty hand.

I became resentful of my husband for being able to work in the yard or take a shower without clutching handrails and standing upon anti-slip mats. I glared at my daughter because she could cook in the kitchen I had designed using a recipe book I had handwritten and even illustrated. I heard my son-in-law playing with the grandson I had barely had a chance to bond with and I hated him for it. Nothing was fair.

All of the things that made me feel like a vital part of Life vanished and it made me feel empty, useless, and broken. That searing rage built and built each day, stirred up by the constant little reminders of what I could no longer do, of who I no longer was. Inevitably, I attempted to numb it with alcohol. However, alcohol did not make me numb - it added an accelerant to an already blazing fire.

I screamed at those who dared to remain. I had always sworn I would never frighten a child. I terrified my grandchildren. In a blind rage, I bashed my face into the shower tile, blacking both eyes. I cut my skin. I told myself that I was never going to be the victim of domestic violence again... and I wasn't. Instead, I was the abuser. I tortured what was left of myself, as well as my family.

I was no survivor. Could the people who called me a victim have been right? I know this: I was a monster.

All I could see were the things I had lost. I was so furious, devastated, and miserable; I never considered what they lost: a wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend, a lover, a grandmother, a breadwinner.

When my family finally left me the Hell alone, I was indignant. How dare they leave a disabled person alone? What kind of people would do such a thing? Obviously, they were cruel and ungrateful.

Once alone, I would sit in my bedroom and listen to my family carry on without me. It was devastating . Listening to the conversation and laughter made me consider if it would really affect anything if I truly ceased to be. The more I dwelled on this, the darker it got. I found myself researching non-painful ways to end my life. I read extensively on the pros and cons of each method.

At Christmas, I scared the Hell out of myself with this obsessive line of thought and spent several hours on the phone with a hotline for suicide. Over the two or three months following that, something happened, something shifted. I could continue to believe my family was better off without me or I could try to work through my own crap.

It was not some big breakthrough in therapy or the right combination of prescription meds. It wasn't a brilliant epiphany. It happened incrementally. It started with saying, "Yes," to a dinner at my parents to wish my nephew well as he departed for the USAF.

It wasn't fancy. I didn't drink so much wine that I was struck with a EUREKA moment. It was in the eyes of my 86 year old father who I had not seen in six months despite them living only 350 yards away. It was in the smiles and hugs of my grandchildren because I showed up rather than holed up.

I have continued to not just show up but be present. There are days where that self-deprecating voice tells me that my husband's glance was clearly him waiting for me to retreat back into the dark because of the slightest bump in the road. I admit there have been tempting moments – if anything, it sure would show them!

The thing is, I don't really care about being right anymore. I don't mine the past in search of answers. I stopped keeping score on what is fair and what isn't. I no longer awaken each day and simply try to exist. I'm tired of merely existing, I want to actually live.

Living looks different now than I imagined it would at forty-three. It's not the grand dreams I carried before - the property, the career, the effortless movement through my days. It's smaller, quieter, and harder-won. It's watching my grandson discover something new and being there to see it, even if I can't chase him across the yard. It’s seeing the triumph in my granddaughter’s face as she traverses the monkey bars. It's cooking alongside my daughter in that kitchen we designed, even if my hands move slower and I occasionally need to sit on a stool. It's my husband reaching for my hand without words, a gesture that says he sees me - not the broken version I feared I'd become, but me, still here, still trying.

It's admitting when I'm struggling instead of retreating into rage. It's asking for help without feeling like I'm admitting defeat. It's recognizing that some days I will only manage to brush my teeth and get dressed, and that has to be enough. Because I showed up. Because I'm still here.

This is how you survive: one dinner, just simply showing up and, making one choice at a time. The well is still there. Some days, I can feel its pull, that familiar darkness whispering that it would be easier to just let go. But so is the light. And I keep choosing the light.