UNthankful

It was thanksgiving 2014, the first since his suicide and I was not thankful for anything other than Bacardi151, and also Bacardi151.  I realize it makes me a bad mother for not saying that I was thankful for my kids, but the truth is that my kids' presence was exasperating my guilt and keeping me from my one true passion in life which was drunk dancing followed by an even drunker hook up.  Yes I was grateful that my kids were alive and healthy and blah blah blah...yes I was aware that life

Widowhood and the Sex Buffet

Last spring I happened to be in a jacuzzi with three men and a bottle of whiskey. You know, just a typical weekend in Widow-ville for Yours Truly. As whiskey-laced conversations often go, ours became deeper with each pour. A discussion of friends these men had lost to suicide arose and I asked them all how their friend's widows were coping. This lead to a discussion on grief-sex. "I could never have sex with someone who had just lost their husband," said Number One. "I'd feel too much like I

Was my Husband's Suicide a Choice?

"You have high markers for bipolar, and depression," said our marriage counselor to my husband John after looking over his paperwork, "but I can't formally diagnose you or prescribe meds; your need to go to a psychiatrist for that." John crossed his arms, leaned back onto the therapists' sofa and snorted in that familiar way that told me that he and his pride would not be making an appointment with a psychiatrist. Men don't see psychiatrists. Men, suck it up. In this way, my husband chose

Three Things Every Widow/Widower Needs You to Say to Them

“Well he never believed in God so now that he’s dead, I guess he knows the truth,” said the religious man. And so began the litany of awkward, insensitive, and of course ‘well-meaning’ condolence comments in reference to my husband’s suicide, that I would have to endure in addition to the constant vomiting and perpetual shaking of my hands for the next year. Four days later it would be, “Well I can always take you out to dinner next weekend; I clean up nice” as another religious man rubbed my

13 Ways Widows are like Toddlers

I will not tell you to keep your chins up. I will not try to convince you that there are worse things than being a widow. I will not tell you to count your blessings. I will not tell you to pray instead of drink. I will not tell you that you should focus on all of the other people in your life who love you. I will not tell you to focus on the love you and your spouse shared while they were alive. And I will not remind you of how amazing it is to have the capacity to still be in love with a

How to Drop the Widow Bomb in 3 Easy-to-Follow Steps

***The Widow Bomb: The precise moment someone realizes you are widowed; the beginning of said person’s rude, insensitive and/or awkward treatment of you; the end of your relationship with said person. Step 1: The Build First and foremost on dates, act like you are normal. I know this can be difficult while existing in the Widow Hood, but with a little bit of alcohol and a quick chant at the foot of your Beyonce altar, anything is possible. The detonation of the widow bomb is all about the

Why Flowers are NOT on my Widow Registry

My third favorite “F” word is flowers, my second favorite “F” word is food, and I’ll let you guess what my first favorite “F” word is. Speaking of f***ed, I think all of us widows can agree on the fact that our early postmortem memory bank is well, f***ed.  I have no memory of making funeral arrangements (“funeral” is now my least favorite “F” word), no idea if the kids even brushed their teeth that first year, and I truly have no clue why I woke up one morning during that first July of my

Choices and Cheese Burgers: How We Spent the One Year Anniversary of His Suicide

I had to make a lot of choices during the first year following my husband John’s suicide.  Choices I was ill-equipped to make considering the fact that in those early days, my shock-saturated brain kept making me leave the house with two completely different types of sandals on my feet. Decisions such as, sell the house or keep it? roll John’s retirement fund into my Roth IRA or cash it out to pay off his debt? and the routine middle-of-the-night panic attack I affectionately named the, “how

Dear John,

Next month I will be writing a letter to my late husband on the three year anniversary of his suicide. The last two anniversaries have been laced with anger. I wonder what this year will hold.  Year 1: March 23, 2015 Dear John,  I have been told this year that I haven't been grieving you properly. I wear make-up and cute dresses and I (gasp!) smile. Apparently I'm supposed to be wearing a black veil the rest of my life. Fuck that. I look better in pink. One year ago today, you took your