It has been a while since I’ve written anything. The truth is I haven’t had anything to write; I’ve felt empty, drained, and tired…so tired. I go to work, I go to the therapist, I go out and do things with friends, hell, I even started laughing when someone says something funny, yet there’s still a detached part of me that is standing there, observing all of these normal things that I do, not fully understanding HOW I’m able to do all these normal things when my heart aches so much it’s hard to breathe, when all I truly want to do is curl into a ball in bed and never do another damn normal thing again, when I no longer FEEL life is worth living.
I recently found out that according to the medical examiner, it will be another month if not longer before the investigation is complete, that some things are still not adding up, that they are doing God knows what else. Another month. I just keep hearing that. Another month. I cannot put into words how much that frustrates me. It has already been 71 days in this hell, with no answers as to why my best friend and the person I planned to spend the rest of my life with, is dead. I know the how: a bullet through the neck. I don’t know the why or the circumstances. In these 71 days, I haven’t made any progress or movement as far as dealing with this goes…I’m still stuck in March. I need to know what the police think happened that night; I need to read scientific evidence and facts; I need an explanation, or at least their best educated guess. I’m just…existing…until the other shoe drops now.
I can’t begin to explain how difficult it is to not KNOW what happened, to have 71 days of not knowing. I am 23 years old, and instead of being happy and celebrating that I graduated college and got a dream job, planning a future, buying all of the things I never had enough money to buy while in school, decorating the house, do you know what I do? I sit there, and I relive the night I came home and found my husband of 5 weeks dead in his computer chair, with a haunting bruise and what looked like a cut on his throat (who knew, in real life, bullet wounds don’t look like they do in the movies…the things we learn, eh?). I relive taking the gun from his lap, dragging him down to the floor as per the 911 operator’s instructions, kneeling by him, unzipping his jacket, doing chest compressions, watching as blood started coming out of his neck and mouth, seeing his half opened eyes look at nothing. I relive the police officers dragging me outside to the front yard, falling to my knees, seeing his blood all over the sleeves of my new white sweater, the officer asking me questions, so many questions. The next 4 hours are a blur, the only significant parts I remember are them putting crime scene tape around the house, and then the sheriff saying, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Brandon is no longer with us.” I remember sitting there, watching them take my best friend out of the front door in a black body bag and put him in the back of a van, slamming the doors shut.
So while reliving that night over and over, I sit there, and I try to make sense of what could have possibly happened. I spent weeks thinking and analyzing the possibility of this being a homicide, of someone doing this to my Brandon. I thought up various scenarios, and most of them had merit. After playing that out, my mind went to what if this was a suicide? So I spent more weeks rolling that around in my mind, convincing myself why it’s possible, why it’s not (I have lists). I spent even more weeks thinking about the possibility of this just being an accident. So that is what I have been doing for the past 71 days. Yesterday, I sat on the corner of the bed, with his favorite revolver in my hands, looking at a bullet, wondering how something so small, so very small, can destroy so much. I wondered if he felt any pain, or if it was quick. I wondered what he was thinking in his final moments. Did he look at the gun, much like I was now? Did he look into the barrel? Did it just go off on accident? Did someone push it up to his neck?
Now, today, I just don’t have anything left; I’m spent. I’ve thought out all the possible scenarios; I’ve exhausted myself doing so. I just kept thinking, soon, soon they’ll finish the investigation and then I’ll know, that then, finally, I’ll be able to start making sense of all of this, as much as possible, and maybe I can take a step forward, to start accepting. Now, they say it will be another month, if not longer. I’m not even angry anymore; I just don’t have the energy. I’m just…done. I have no idea how I’m going to survive another month of not knowing, of having all these thoughts circle around in my mind like vultures. I need to know. No one seems to understand that not knowing is slowly destroying me. I see myself fall apart little by little, every day. The guessing I’ve been doing is draining me; I’m not sleeping well, I’m drinking more, I started smoking, my hands shake all the time. I don’t see the point in being alive. I keep hoping that something just kills me, whether it is another car, a train every time I drive over the tracks, or just…something. I don’t want to live anymore…how sad is it to say that, and mean it, at 23?