Monday, April 13, 2015


The beautiful weather seems full of promise. I want so much to believe that great things are ahead and I am leaving all the fear and heartache behind in the wintertime. 

I went for a 3 mile run today after work, legs pumping, feet pounding, breath moving, brain thinking. My mind works out all the knots inside of it while I run. I can go from contemplative to triumphant to introspective to concerned to hopeful to determined in a matter of minutes. I like to feel the sun hit my back, my face, my arms. I like to feel heaviness is leaving me... knowing I'm becoming lighter just by running out my thoughts.

There's something I want to say.

Something I haven't ever said here.

And I'm a little bit afraid. But I just want to get it out.

I'm a lot less anxious now that Rick is gone.

I don't want to feel guilty for saying that. I will not feel guilty for saying that. 

The last year of Rick's life (spring 2013 - spring 2014) was a painful one. For him...but also for me. I have spent the last year not only coming to terms with his death, but with his suicide. And I have spent the last year not only healing from that loss, but healing from the pain I experienced while he was still alive. 

Last Tuesday, in my post This House, I wrote:

"I gave up a lot while I lived in this house. I gave in a lot while I lived in this house. I cried a lot in this house."

And I meant before Rick died. And so, every day... in spite of all I have lost, as awful as it may sound to an outsider, I feel relieved. 

I was a caretaker, I was a helper, I was a wife of a man with depression and chronic pain, I was a witness to addiction, I was an easer of pain, I was his life support, I was Rick's anchor to the earth. 

But now...after the trauma, the shock, the pain, and the transition... I can fly.


  1. I'm proud of you for writing this post, Arielle. It doesn't sound awful at all and you shouldn't feel guilty for your honesty. It makes a lot of sense to me that, despite what you have lost in Rick, there would also be relief. As someone who has loved someone with addiction and depression, I know it is hard (understatement), and along with the love comes a lot of pain and stress and anxiety and often neglect of self-care b/c you have to give up so much to constantly be there for your partner. I think it's really brave of you to be able to say that your marriage wasn't perfect, that there was pain in it, and that you have freedom now that you hadn't experienced when Rick was alive. Doesn't sound "horrible"- it sounds human. I am glad to see you finding freedom and happiness after all of the pain. You deserve to fly.

  2. I so get this. Only those of us who have loved and were married to someone who is mentally know what this is. Thank you for saying what I feel everyday.


Help me feel less alone.