Life moves on.

My last post was a mess.

Sorry.

I won’t even go back and read it, but I think I talked about the prescribed Prozac.

I started them. I think I’m on day 11 with them.

I think they work. For the last week, no crying. No anxiety attacks.

The crying thing may be longer than a week. I just realized yesterday that I haven’t cried in a while.

I’m also not sleeping. At all. Seems to be a common side effect, but one I’m OK with at this time. 

Also, no ruminating. Thoughts come, but they don’t take over. It’s weird, and I know I’m in the beginning stages of this medication, but it seems to be working.

I welcome this break. That’s what it feels like, a break.

I’m accepting that what my dad did and the aftermath of it all was just a bit of a trauma and I was not handling it well. The nightmares have somewhat stopped, probably because I’m not sleeping, and when thoughts of him come around, I’m handling it a bit better.

I had a very rocky, difficult relationship with my father. It’s the guilt I seem to be struggling with.

I texted him Thursday before he did what he did on the following Saturday.

I know he got it. But I got busy and didn’t follow up. I kept telling myself I needed to call him and make sure he got the text, but it would be while I was driving, or out in the chicken coop… I just seemed to be busy when I thought I needed to call him instead.

I wonder constantly if I had, would he still have made that choice?

When I saw him in March, I noticed he was struggling with the phone. He didn’t seem to be grasping the new phone he had.

I don’t know. Silly thing to feel guilty about. But there it is.

Life with the husband is the same. But I just don’t seem to care. I also have this weird sense that he’s aware I have some options with that Kentucky house. He seems to be trying a bit more here and there.

But I also have this empty, numb feeling inside of me that it’s just too late now.

He and I got into a fight on day 2 of Prozac. He has always pushed that get on some kind of head meds.

Day 1-5 were horrible. Really bad headache, no sleeping, I felt ‘muddled’ and weird.

I asked him, “you have always pushed for me to be on something, I know what goes on in my head and how I feel inside, but what was I portraying on the outside to you for you to suggest I go on something?”

I really felt like this was a good question. I was genuinely curious. I was very calm when I asked. I was also feeling physically horrible on day 2 and was already thinking hell no, I’m not doing this.

Instead of talking to me and having some kind of adult conversation, he threw insults at me, compared me to my mother, called me abusive, (he can never give me examples of this ‘abuse’ though. Ever. I’ve asked.)

It was the mother comment that shook me. I realized, he does things like that to shut down a conversation.

I was 23. He was 24. We went down to Florida to see my mother. My mom was a drunk. It was the first time he met her and she was drunkenly telling a story about having her boat motor stolen.

She repeated the story several times.

Over the years, when he and I would fight, he would throw in a dig at me and say something along the lines of “you’re just going to be the trash you are and get your boat motor stolen”

It used to send me right over the edge.

He did it that night. He threw in the boat motor insult.

What the hell? I just looked at him. I realized, in some weird horror, that he would now have yet another one to throw at me with what my father did.

Why does he do that?

I pointed out what he was doing. I asked when he would sink to the lowest point ever and throw my father at me.

He looked shocked. “I wouldn’t!”

But he would.

He went on to say he felt I was attacking him with the question I asked him. I still do not know how that question could be viewed as an attack.

He does not make any sense to me and I believe I just don’t care anymore.

So I’m just waiting now. The estate is opened, and I believe I’m waiting as everything is processed. I’m new to all of it, but am starting to grasp what is ahead.

I will either keep the house… or sell the house.

And there will be some money then.

Stupid condoms. 🤬

I clearly seem to have lost complete control over myself at this point. I’m not thinking, I’m not thinking past doing dumb shit and knowing there will be consequences.

Maybe it’s mercury retrograde. Maybe it is.

Maybe I’m insane.

Maybe too much of what feels like all at once is just that, too much.

So I blow shit up and I’ll take a look at the rubble later.

I am not a go-to-the-doctors type of person. I’m a full blown idiot and the last time I went was 2015 when I had a surgery.

It was early November, like the first week. I had found out at the end of September that hootie the whorefish (lmao, don’t know where that came from) and Dingle Nut were talking.

He said, he swore, he promised, that I found out 10 days in and that he had not slept with her.

But even though I wanted so bad to believe him, I still asked for std test thing to be run at that early November appt.

In time, I learned the truth. He is such a low down lying liar face, so I will never know if this is true, but he told me after about two years past dday that they slept together for the first time in the middle of October that year.

So I wondered… did I get tested too early? Could there be something I don’t know about?

But since I seem to identify with an ostrich and just bury my head in the sand all the time, I never went back to a doctor.

I’m an idiot.

Anyway, I finally, after all this time decided it was time to go to a doctor. It’s my shoulder, I now know it’s a torn rotator cuff and I’m going to need all the steps taken for my insurance. First visit, X-ray, then mri, then probably surgery.

Blah blah blah fucking blah.

So I decided I will ask for another std run. Why not? I don’t know what Tidily Winks has been doing all this time, he fooled me once, right?

So I said to him last night, “I’m asking for another test panel to be run. If what you told me was true, I literally got tested just 2 weeks after you started boinking her.”

He stared at me.

“I know you said you wore condoms, maybe you did at the start, but I do not believe you continued the whole 8 months”

From December that year till they ended in April? I do believe he was passing something back and forth.

I KNOW I should not have waited this long. Head in the sand and all.

He went on to say he used condoms every single time. I said I’m not sure about that. He said I didn’t need the test then, don’t need one now.

I said, mmm, I’m going to be safe.

Then I said, because I’m an idiot, “who bought the condoms? Who was all prepared for the fun times?”

“She did.”

She supplied the condoms for over 8 months? Liar. He didn’t use them every time.

Does saying that make it just a little better in his eyes? Like it wasn’t serious or maybe because he was “protected” from her very over used vagina that it was better??! Pat him on the back? Did he think I would thank him?

I don’t know. I’m losing my shit right now.

…..

So I go to doctor today. I’m waaayyyy behind on everything and as I keep rudely advancing in age, I really need to stop my anti-doctor attitude.

I tell her. I tell her everything.

Not like therapist-ish… just answered questions as they came.

“Family history? Mom? “Alcoholic, blood clots caused major stroke. Strokes run in the females on her side.” Dad? ‘Well he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger a month ago.'”

She just looked at me. We talked for a minute.

Then she asked if there was anything I felt needed looking at besides my shoulder…

Husband. Affair. Worried test ran to early. No, he’s never gone and gotten tested tho I asked several times.

She ordered the test. She looked at me and just shook her head.

Then she asked about mental health. I was honest.

“I have anxiety attacks that are absolutely debilitating, worse this past month since my dad did what he did.” She had me describe them and agreed that’s what they are.

So she put me on a low dose of Prozac. I’m so pissed. I’m also very worried. I don’t know. But she said they will help and I have to see her monthly while on them. Also pretty much begged me to see a therapist.

I don’t know.

Anyway, my first visit to a doctors since 2015 was FUN TIMES.

I’m an idiot.

I’m so pissed at him. Them.

I’m hating her so much right now.

Im so angry at both of them.

So what do I do while I’m sitting there fuming over picturing her buying condoms and being so excited to use them with her married boyfriend (I don’t believe she bought them at all)

What do I do?

My dumb head in the sand, don’t want to ever rock the boat, always walking around with fake smile mask goes on to her TikTok and I just blast her.

She doesn’t have many videos, but I comment on what I can about her being a whore.

What the fuckety hell is wrong with me?

She hasn’t replied. But I’m sure she will in some way.

I guess I don’t care one bit of she knows I think of her and what I think of her. I don’t care.

Lord.

It’s no excuse. It’s not. But it’s a lot… those two numb nuts going at it with their happy ribbed for her pleasure condoms. My father. My torn shoulder. It’s just a lot I guess.

Every time I close my eyes I see them together. I can’t seem to put any of the tools I know to use in place.

Every time I close my eyes, I see what was left of my father on that floor. I bounce between the two.

My husband having sex with a whore and my father picking up a gun. I can’t sleep. I’m so angry. At both… my father, my husband, oh yeah, and her.

Calling her a whore on her TikTok didn’t even help. So that was dumb and a complete waste of my heart pounding right out of my chest.

I’m afraid to try the Prozac.

I have no idea where half the names I used tonight came from. But they made me smile a little. Hootie and the whorefish?! 🤣. Ahhh… and tidily wink?

Whew. Breathe. I feel a little better.

A feather

My sister keeps telling me she feels our dad around her all the time.

At the service, her and I were sitting next to each other and she told me she could feel him behind us with his arms around our shoulders.

I did not.

She says she wears one of his jackets and feels like it’s a hug from him.

I also took one, but I can’t even look at it, let alone wear it.

I took the Buick, she took the Escalade.

She says when she drives it that she feels him riding with her.

I’m still struggling to drive the Buick, let alone have him riding shotgun all ghostly next to me.

I actually love this for her. She is mid 40’s, and has never had a relationship with him. We left when she was 3. Through no fault of her own, there has been nothing between them all of these years.

So if she is getting him in death, at least she’s getting him.

But me? No. The spiritual path I walk, I actually did think I would receive some kind of sign from him.

But nothing.

It kind of makes me smile a little though. I have been there all these years. I did have a relationship with him. I’m the one that has been there all this time.

He knows I’m pissed. Angry. Heartbroken. Disappointed.

He knows not to come near me right now. So if he’s still hanging around, he’s keeping his distance from me.

I’m so broken right now. I’m standing on the edge of such change and so much unknown. I do not know what path I need to take. I do not know what to do. His death has opened up a possible new path. One that possibly leads me away from my marriage.

I may have come to a conclusion on a possible reason he did what he did, but in the end? He still took his own life. In the end, he still took his own life and I have to learn how to let go of the unbearable weight of guilt.

I was the daughter that was there through the years, I tried very hard to include him in every aspect of my life. But I wasn’t there for him in the end.

The guilt is so heavy. Some days it’s so heavy I can’t breathe.

But yesterday, I was walking along the creek to clear my head. It’s quiet down there, it’s very peaceful, I can usually get myself grounded and centered there.

I talked to him a little. I told him I was sorry. I asked again for the millionth time, “why?”.

I saw something catching some light in the sun. It was a feather.

A little silvery grey feather was just falling from the sky.

I caught it.

I wonder why I called…

It is my mother’s birthday today. I broke down and called her.

This could be some guilt happening due to my fathers actions. But in the end, I cried.

She had a massive stroke a few years ago. She doesn’t remember much about the present, but she does remember the past. She can cognitively think, but she has trouble talking. You can see behind her eyes she knows what she wants to say, but she can’t get the correct words out.

She sounded good on the phone. I told her “Mom? It’s Chris. Just calling to say happy birthday!” She giggled and promptly hung up.

🤣

So her and I spent the next 15 minutes trying to reconnect back. Finally it happened.

She was frustrated with her words but she tried to get out that she was very sorry about what my sister and I faced. She was very happy I called. She told me that she was having a nice day so far and then she wished me happy birthday. 🤣.

I knew what she was saying. She was just happy I called. I told her to call me whenever she wanted to and I would stay in touch with her.

I will. She did some fucked up things to me, and I think I can keep myself apart from that and just take a moment here and there to wish her well.

I did tell her I missed her. She said the same. But I wonder if I do? Do I? Probably not.

But saying the words made me tear up. Maybe on some sub level, I do.

Maybe losing one parent in such a way has me feeling a certain way about the other.

Anyway…

I’m doing a bit better from my last post. Man, I hit bottom that day. There’s no way out now but to go up, right? Who knows. I haven’t started the crawl up, but I’m at least sitting upright now.

I don’t really have anyone to talk to, because I know this is a lot. But I tested the friendship boundary a bit with my new friend person. She said, “I’m so intrigued. I know it was your father, and it feels awkward to ask, but how did he do it?”

Oh. My. God. THATS WHAT I NEED. Not the sensitive tip toeing, the awkward look aways, the clear uncomfortableness.

So I asked, feeling a bit awkward myself, what she was comfortable with.

She told me she was heavily into true crime, but also said she was a therapist. Before she had kids, that her profession was psychology and she was a family therapist.

She also said there was nothing I could say that would make her cringe.

::::Warning….Graphic suicide and blood talk about to happen::::::

So I told her. I was standing next to his car as we talked, that I can now absolutely drive and I am enjoying very much. I showed her marks on the car that happened the day he did it.

I spilled out the story I think I have pieced together of that day.

I feel in my bones that I have as much of his last minutes of his life as I will ever get.

It starts with life 360. I can see he went to the bank. I can see he went to see his parents at the cemetery.

Was he going to do it there? Maybe. Was what I think happened next an accident? Maybe.

I think he shot himself in the foot.

He has a carry permit and he often does carry. Even for town visits. Did he chamber a round to do it there and then shoot him self in the foot? Was the gun already chambered and he didn’t know? I will never know that part.

So he gets out at the cemetery to visit them and the shot happened.

I think in a pure panic and probably disbelief, he gets back into the car and heads home. Pulling into the driveway, he hits a retaining wall on the driver side, pulling into the garage under the house, he really bangs into the garage frame, messing up the passenger front end under the headlight.

He gets into the house and goes to his bedroom at the back of the house and kicks his shoes off all haphazardly.

This is incredibly unlike him. OCD has everything in his life in complete order.

What I saw when I entered his room that day to get away from the horror in the living room:

Blood. So much blood. Mainly entering and exiting back and forth from his carpeted bedroom into his bathroom. Very little blood in the bathroom, but it’s on the cabinet and wall and tub side.

But not on the floor.

On the carpet, I can see prints. My mind takes in that it’s a left footprint. Some of the spots on the carpet are absolutely soaked. There’s a lot happening to get that much soaked in. There’s one bloody flip flop neatly next to his slippers under a chair.

This makes no sense to me at all, that day, that first day standing there.

There’s a bloody sock tossed by the night stand, there’s a light trail of blood to the linen closet and back to the bathroom.

I call the coroner. “Did you see his back bedroom? What am I looking at?”

He says, “Yes. We saw that. It seems he had a sore on his foot that he was self treating.”

I accepted that, but as the days went on and the cleaning and piecing together happened, it really didn’t match a sore on his foot.

There was no signs of self treating anything. No bandages, no gauze, no medications… nothing.

There was also a light trail to the nightstand. Where he kept the gun he ended up using.

Theres a flip flop in the bedroom that was saturated in blood. But the flip flop in the living room was basically floating in a puddle of blood that did not connect with the um… main puddle of blood that ended his life. He still was bleeding from the foot. Heavy. It was a lot.

This does not look like a sore. This looks like a panicked injury.

I think he shot himself in the foot and tried to get control of the injury. The jeans he wore that day are in the hamper. On the right leg by the thigh, is a puddle of blood. Like he pulled the left foot up to examine.

There’s a soaked through handkerchief also in there.

In my anger that first day I was not putting what I was looking at in place. I threw the shoes away. I did not look at them. If I had? I think I would’ve seen a bullet hole in the left one.

I don’t know what went through his mind at that point. I’m sad he didn’t call 911. Or a neighbor. Or me.

Never in a million years would he hit the wall, the garage, the car. Damaging his car or Escalade would never sit well with him. This tells me it happened out and about before he got home. I did not see if there was any blood on the floor mats. Again, in a weird and angry reaction those first days in Kentucky, I tossed the floor mats. They were of his favorite football team and I didn’t want to look at them.

Shooting himself in the damn foot would embarrass him beyond comprehension.

The light trail of blood to the linen closet/cleaner, and the complete lack of blood in the bathroom tells me he may have tried to clean it up. That may have been the bloody handkerchief. There may also be a towel somewhere I didn’t see.

I think from that point, he went to the nightstand and switched magazines. Or did something in there that I will never understand, and then went into the living room.

On the side table next to the couch, there were bullets scattered. It felt unorganized and panicked. Nothing like him at all.

He then sat right there on the floor and made a decision that he would not be able to take back or second guess.

The flip flop he had on that foot? Was it the right one? The left one? I will never know now because I rage yelled at that too as I pulled it out of the puddle and threw it away. Either way, I think he used the flip flops to protect the floors as he went around his room and the house.

On the coffee table was a neat pile of bills. Credit card debt that is in the tens of thousands.

Was that left for me? Or was he just organizing the bills he needed to pay.

The note that was left? I no longer think it was a suicide note. I feel bad now for yelling.

Instead, I found the letter on his computer typed up in 2019. It does start out with, “I’m sorry this will be an inconvenience to you…”

He then lists all I need to do and the passwords to everything. So no matter how or when he passed, he felt it would be an inconvenience.

I’m actually thankful for that note now. It’s helped a lot.

So in a morbid nutshell, I think he was out and shot himself in the foot. I think he rushed home, felt like it was beyond him, and he chose another way out. I think his bills overwhelmed him, the isolation of covid and just his state of mind.

This is not the first time he has attempted suicide. This is just the first time he succeeded.

The sore on his foot? I don’t think so. I ridiculously looked at what the body looks like at 7 days just laying there.

The coroner could clearly see what took his life, maybe that foot just didn’t play a big role to him as it did me. They didn’t see the clothes in the hamper. They didn’t know him. Something happened that day.

They didn’t look at shoes and and know he liked to conceal and carry. They didn’t know this man was the definition of OCD. They didn’t even know when it happened, but I did because of that app.

I don’t know if he planned it that day and things went wrong? Or more than likely, he had an accident that he could not see a way out of. Maybe the accident gave him, in his mind, a solid reason to just go ahead and check out of this life at this time.

In the end, he still chose a way out that maybe on some level I can understand, in a way.

In the end, I had to clean up a big mess and there is about a year of still cleaning up after him ahead of me. In the end, he took himself away from me for the last time.

My friend that day asked me, “Why do you feel it’s important to piece together the events that may have happened before?”

It didn’t take but a second to answer.

“I need a possible reason.”

She said, “Does this reason sit well with you?”

I took a big deep breath and paused. Does it?

“It does.”

It really does. To see that much blood in his bedroom was absolutely strange and very odd. It didn’t match the living room. It just didn’t add up. Maybe I just needed a bit to make sense.

Now. When I go back home… holy crap, I wrote home… I may feel a little different.

Maybe.

Sorry, this was long. It needed to written out of my head, as I hope and pray it will release some of the images that I keep flashing back to. I keep replaying it over and over.

I said something to my husband. I told him I think he may have shot himself in the foot that day.

He nodded. He’s the one that pulled the carpet up in his room. There was very heavy bleeding that soaked through the carpet, the foam and down into the plywood. It was heavy.

So he nodded. “I thought the same.”

It’s real.

The internal battle is real. I’m doing it again, the push away. The “other people have it worse” the “It’s fine. Everything’s fine” fake smile.

But I want to scream. I want to scream.

I need to just admit to myself I’m not doing good. I’m so angry.

I’m so sad.

I’m so fucking sad.

It’s been three weeks. It’s been 2 since I’ve been home. I can’t sleep, the nightmares are bad. It’s like I smile all day, I do my life, I smile, I take care of my little zoo of animals, I smile, I try to go to gym. I make funny TikToks, I smile. I push everything away.

So it all hits when I close my eyes. What the room looked like. What was left of my father. The smell. The anger. The emotions. It replays the minute I close my eyes every single night.

I’m at a loss. I feel like maybe I shouldn’t do the push away and maybe just crawl into bed and let it hit?

I don’t know what to do. I have no idea how to handle this.

To top it off, I’m also hit with affair trigger season.

And I’m simply beyond pissed about that.

So, if I’m not fake smiling all over the place, or reliving the hell that was inside my grandparents house.

(It’s not his anymore in my mind. It’s theirs and he ruined it. )

Then I’m picturing the husband going to the whore. I’m picturing and imagining the start of their little love story. Was he nervous walking into her job?

Was he excited?

Did he go to actually start an affair?

Did he find her the most beautiful 6 foot Amazon whore he had ever seen?

When they exchanged numbers that day, did he know where it would all lead? Did he care? Did he hesitate at all?

Did he have trouble looking at me when he came home?

Did he begin the bullshit that is supposed to be cognitive dissonance that day?

I’m stuck on Facebook memories too.

I have a picture of him with our first cat 2 days after he went to her the first time. The day we went to get our new kitty, he had a “job” to look at. I’m guessing she was the job.

There’s a picture of him holding the cat after he got home. I stared at it, analyzing every inch of the picture to see some evidence that he had just begun cheating on me.

There’s silly pictures of me and the kids just being us. Our backyard was flooded from a rain, there was a gorgeous purple sunset and the oldest thought it would be funny to put the kayak in the giant puddle. I stare at that and remember where we were headed, and remember that husband was also missing in action that day and I was headed out with kids alone.

Seems he was quite busy those first days, weeks, months that the affair was in full bloom.

Part of me wants to hang on to the triggers of the affair. They feel familiar and almost comfortable, if that makes sense. I completely understand what the next 8 months will be like.

Because when I’m affair triggering, I’m not thinking of what my father did.

I went down to him Sunday night, in his office, where he always is lately, and said, “trigger season.” He nodded, “yep.”

“How about we have that long overdue talk that hasn’t happened yet and you help me take that off my shoulders. I have enough sitting on them right now.”

He pulled out some papers for work and got real busy with them.

I walked away.

Maybe I’m not saying the right things. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe he’s a dick.

I have a house in Kentucky now. A ruined house. But a house none the less.

I have a house in Kentucky.

My kids are older, my kids are not needing me right now. My kids are absolutely not needing me right now.

Could I stay there? I don’t know.

Could I?

Maybe a month? Just think things over? Just try to figure things out?

I won’t make any money off the sale. He owed A LOT and I would have to split the sale with my sister.

I don’t know if I could even stay there. But I’m not doing good here. I’m not doing good.

In 2018 I knew the triggers would get the best of me, so I got in my car and went to Kentucky to see him and just get away. So those memories are also showing from that time.

I have to say, whenever I feel overwhelmed, my heart and soul wants to go home. I just want to go home.

But he ruined it.

Can I stay there? I don’t know. I don’t know.

I’m just mumbling and ranting away right now. I don’t even know if I’m making sense. I’m just not doing good.

Maybe I’ll just have some wine.

Reactions around me

The awkward vibe coming off of people is, well, I guess awkward for both of us.

Them and me.

It started at the police station. This is a small town, a small Bible Belt town. Everyone… and I mean everyone, knows everybody.

I walked in and told them I was there for the keys they took and to sign off for the gun to disappear.

The lady behind the glass told me to “hold on, we’ll be right with you.”

A side door to the room opened and four…four… Police officers came through the door. They stood there looking at us. The one in front said, “Can we help you?”

I told them why we were there. That we were told by the coroner that they had the keys. I told them my Dads name.

The one in front did not shift. He was older and held his ground. The three behind him all shifted, looked down, and the energy wave that came from them was overwhelming awkward.

One had his arms crossed when he came through, but when I dropped Dads name, he looked to the side, visibly relaxed a little and dropped his arms. They could not make eye contact with me though.

Head officer told me they would be right back and they would see about the keys. My sister popped up with, “Is there a police report and can we have a copy?”

Head guy says “yes, be right back.” Then they collectively went back through the door.

They were uncomfortable. They saw Dad. They saw. Now that mans daughters are standing in there.

About 10 minutes later, a young, maybe 25 year old officer, came out to talk with us.

He was not awkward. He was very straight up and talked to us as though we were not that mans daughters.

He was graphic. He answered every question we had. We had graphic questions. He answered.

I welcomed that like ice tea on a hot day. It felt good to get the unanswered questions my sister and I had answered to the best that he could.

I looked at him though. He’s so young. I felt bad for him. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.” I said.

It was the only time his energy shifted and there was a second his eyes changed in a flash, was it sadness? Horror? And he pulled it back as fast as it washed over him.

He gave us the police report and let us know they did not have the keys and wished us well.

Side note: I am obsessed with the police report. I can’t seem to stop reading it. I think that might be weird, who knows.

We found out after another call to the coroner that they were actually the ones that had the keys. So off we go to the next town up to retrieve them.

We walked in and another coroner -not the one I kept calling like a stalker-came out to greet us, asking if he could help us.

I gave him my dads name and I might as well have shoved him in the chest the way he stepped back and eyes widened. I told him we were told they had his keys.

He looked at the ceiling and then out a window and hurriedly said he would go look.

Is it the circumstances? Is it that awkward to stand in front of someone that lost a family member by their own hands? Maybe.

Is it the condition the body is in? The funeral home by this time was really adamant about the condition.

He could not be embalmed. The smell was bad, even at the coroners. He could not be brought into the funeral home, the body would smell through the casket so no visitation even with a closed casket.

Basically, he had to be picked up from the corner, put into casket, put into ground at cemetery.

So this guy, and the two standing behind him, the energy shift from all was immediate and weird.

Now I’m home. A week now I’ve been home. A few people know how he passed.

They don’t even know what to say. I can tell it’s too much for them so I don’t reach out.

I don’t anyway in my life, not really. I just smile and make sure people around me are ok.

This is a lot. This is a lot to carry.

It’s so fucking heavy.

My husband has been great though. But I can tell it’s too much for him too.

When he got down there that Monday, he knew he had to fix what I did to the door. I kicked the fuck out of that door.

“Send me a picture of the door so I know what tools to bring.”

And he did. Door is fixed now. He also pulled up the laminate flooring in the living room and cut the carpet out of the dining room and bedroom. (That was a nightmare too, I know I’ll have to write that one out.)

Husband had his own moment when he pulled up the flooring. I could see it affect him and I tried to take it away from him. Immediately rushing for the gloves and bucket and telling him to get out of the house.

But my sister and I looked at each other and just smiled a sad smile. Because what was left under that flooring was absolutely nothing compared to what we tackled the day before they got there.

But even now he is awkward about it all. Just telling me to rest and I can feel he does not really want me to talk about it. I get it, I do. But it would be so nice to not feel that awkward vibe with him too. He is being very kind, but he also does the look away, the energy shift, the awkward vibe.

It’s so heavy. I can carry it. I think.

I think I can.

I know I can.

I miss him. I miss my dad. He was my first hero.

There was no one there. Just my sister and I. No one to celebrate his life in anyway. It was so sad.

Would it be different if it had been from a sickness? Time to let go and know it was coming? Would people around me be more empathetic instead of awkward? I don’t know.

I’m forever changed from this.

The car.

This is the first day I’ve been alone since last week. The house is quiet, even my new baby, Charlie my usually loud Amazon parrot, is being quiet and just watching me.

More of the story has come to light as the days have gone by. I think I have settled on the last moments and why he chose what he did, but that’s another entry and I need to breathe a little.

My son drove his car back. An older, but fully loaded Buick with a big old v8 engine. It was originally my grandmothers and when she passed it went to my Dad.

My son, a brand new ASEP graduate that works in a Buick dealership is head over heels over that car, but I can’t give it to him. Long story, but our kids have to buy their own vehicles. I have three kiddos, I can’t give him this one just cause it’s got a beast of an engine in it.

Anyway, according to my life 360 app, my father made a few stops the day he did it and by the fresh damage done to the car, it looks like that was the car he took to town.

He hit the retaining wall around the house and damaged the driver side. He hit the right side of the garage pulling in. There was an overwhelming panic feeling looking at the damage. By what I saw in his bedroom, the panic came from pain. By what I saw in the living room, the pain and panic was what pulled the trigger.

I’m supposed to take the car out today, alone, in the car. I’m so weirdly struggling with this.

I just need to get in.

I just need to start it and take it where I’m supposed to go.

I just need to get in.

I just need to get in.

….

….

Breathe Chrissy, you got this….

Thank God for this space.

Oh the roller coaster ride.

I got on the road Thursday morning after breakfast. It was weirdly sad to check out, the staff at the hotel nestled at the foot of the Appalachian mountains were kind and amazing.

Sister and I hugged tight and cried and parted ways. She was heading west, I was heading north.

But before I headed north, I went by the cemetery. With no one there to hear me, or cause me to hold it in, I went to say goodbye.

He’s buried right next to my grandparents, his parents.

I loved them with everything in me. They had so much pride in him. I wonder if he is with them now and how they feel.

I don’t know.

I knelt by his freshly closed grave and just asked why. Why? I don’t understand. It’s such a brutal way to go. Did you not think beyond the trigger?! Did you not know what you would leave behind? Did you not comprehend? Did you think I didn’t care about you?

Why not call me?? Ever?? It was always me to reach out to you. You never tried. I loved you so much.

Why didn’t you call??! Why didn’t you try?

I cleaned out his closet and clothes the day before to go to goodwill. He always wore a white tshirt under another shirt. I took a few. They smell of his cologne. When I got back in the car to leave, I reached for one and drove home with it on my lap.

I have no idea why.

I don’t think I’m as angry anymore. I don’t know what to do. I have no idea what to do.

I can’t sleep for nothing. Every time I close my eyes, I see the door swinging open. I can feel under my foot something I stepped on. I feel my throat closing. I wish I could pull back in the anger I felt at that moment though. The anger that fueled me through the day.

Because that anger was safe. That anger felt detached and it felt like glue that kept me together.

So without it, I’m falling apart. How do you deal with the self blame, the constant questions floating through thoughts? The triggers?

I saw a squirrel on the road today that sent me into a panic. Which is weird in itself, because I felt no panic on entering the house. Just anger.

It’s ok though, right? There’s no right or wrong way to feel, right?

I’m so lost.

I was so suicidal in the aftermath of the affair. I thank God I did not. I can’t imagine my children feeling the way I do right now. I feel forever changed.

Im a fucking mess.

I am hanging in there.

I didn’t sleep Friday night. Maybe got 20 mins. I looked in the mirror at one point and didn’t even recognize myself. Eyes were swollen, red and bloodshot.

I needed to go, but had to wait for 9 am for the car rental place to open.

Husband asked me if I let my sister know. I said, no, I hadn’t and planned on telling her that morning. I waited till about 7:30am to call her.

I told her. I told her how.

I told her I would be there around 9pm and getting a room. She said she would be there. She told me there was no way I was going into that house alone.

On the way I called the coroner back. I asked some uncomfortable questions.

“When did you find him?” Friday afternoon, late.

“How did you know he was there?” Neighbors said it was unusual for them to not see him. So police did a well check and broke through front door.

“Is the door secure now? Can I get in?” Yes

“Where was he found?” In the living room in front of the TV on the floor.

“Is there blood?” Yes.

“What about the smell?” I long lost my smell, but the police said it was pungent.

He went on to tell me they had his keys and I would need to request at the police station for the return of the gun.

Um, no. They can destroy it. Or whatever they do.

So Sunday morning, we eat some continental breakfast, gather our courage and head to the house.

I already had a key, and it would turn the door knob lock, but the damage to the bolt lock from the police entering caused that not to turn.

I had to kick the door in.

I have to remember to thank my kick boxing instructor for what I did to that door. I’m pretty badass.

The door swung open and there it was. The smell knocked me back, the sight was a gut punch beyond comprehension.

I had to open windows. As I ran around house fighting with old windows to open, I was yelling and cussing and doing all the things that made no sense.

But I guess it’s what I had to do.

I pulled a comforter off of his bed and covered the horror.

I had words coming out of me that don’t even exist. My poor sister must’ve thought I had lost my mind. She didn’t look much better than I did though.

I was there for initial paperwork. I knew where it would be, and sat down to go through it.

He left a note. In the paperwork.

The note infuriated me. “I’m sorry this will be an inconvenience for you” was the first line.

As I read it, I looked up into the living room, glanced at the comforter, knew the horror underneath it and just belted out, “A fucking inconvenience?! Are you fucking kidding me?!” My sister smiled. Shook her head. Her and I don’t know each other at all, I left at 14, she was 9. But she’s about to get to know me, as I am her.

Because there is no bond created like two sisters that have to face and clean up parts of their father.

I found what I needed, called the funeral home and set up an appointment. She could meet us there in 10 minutes.

She tried to be gentle with us, telling us he could not be embalmed. No suit to be worn, they could not get it on him if they tried. She was extremely sorry for what we were about to face for clean up. She actually gave us some chemicals to break down the mess and some advice for smell and cleanup.

We did paperwork. We talked prices and insurances.

We left, ate lunch and went to Walmart for box fans for the windows and mops and bleach and whatever we could find to delay us from going back.

But we did. I was not going to let my little sister do the worst of it. She was in the back of the house and I started. I’ve never been so angry. Ever.

And ripped apart inside.

And sad.

But I yelled at what was left behind, letting him know how pissed I was. How angry. No daughter should ever have to do this.

She came out and helped, but I wouldn’t let her do much, she held bag. I had to run outside a couple times heaving.

But we did it.

Monday found us back at it. We removed everything that could hold the smell. Curtains, cushions, everything.

My husband and middle child arrived late Monday.

Tuesday, we are back at it and dividing what we want in the house. We spent 12 hours or more a day there, cleaning and talking and swearing and laughing and not doing good but leaning into what we are facing.

Wednesday, we buried him. We cried. A lot. Surprised we cried as we did and began to realize that the anger was fading and sadness and empathy for him was settling in.

I am not as angry. I’m sure the coming days will bring a roller coaster of emotions, but nothing like what I went through on Sunday.

I haven’t slept much, I close my eyes and immediately I’m back to the door swinging open from the kick.

I hope that lessens as time goes on.

My sister wanted to see him. It was heavily advised not to. If she did, she would have to sign a waiver. She was determined.

Since they could not deny her right, she signed off and so did I. I could not let her go in alone, even though I did not want to see him.

When we signed the waiver, the director looked at her with actual tears. He said, “I have seen a lot, and I’m asking you for your sake not to view him. Your last image of him should not be this.”

He went on with kind words and practically begging. But she signed. So did I.

As we drove off towards the coroners, she said she had no doubts at all until now. As we drove I stayed silent as she talked herself through what she wanted.

She told me to turn around, so I happily did. I would be there for her, but I think it would’ve almost destroyed me.

After a long day today, we came back to hotel and got in the pool. Took showers and crawled into bed. I leave soon. I’ve got to go home, Im burned out from this place, this town, this hotel, that house.

Im burned out from him.

It’s 3am as I write this. I have a long drive today and I still can’t sleep.

I think I needed to write some of this week out of my head.

What am I going to do?

I realize this is the only place in my life I can go.

This anonymous place.

Is it sad? That out of everywhere I could turn, it’s here that I crave when I feel myself falling apart. This is my safe place.

I got a call tonight while I was standing in line at a restaurant. I saw the area code.

I knew.

I swallowed. I felt my heart pound. I ordered my food.

I sat down with my son and said, “I got a call while we were in line from Kentucky.”

He said, “It’s probably spam.” I shook my head. No.

Somethings wrong.

Everything feels wrong. I picked up my phone and searched the number that called. It was a cell phone from my Dads town.

I loaded up my life 360 that I share with the kids and my Dad. He likes to see us and where we go. It’s weird, but it makes him happy.

It said his phone was off since Sunday.

I finished eating and headed out the door. I got to the truck, hit return call on the number.

A man answered. I said, “Hello, I’m just returning a call that was made from this number.”

He said,”Hi, is this my name” I said yes.

He said I regret to tell you…

I cut him off. “My dad?”

He said, “yes. I’m sorry to tell you he has passed.”

I choked. I didn’t think I would have the reaction that I did, but all that food I ate was choking me.

I think I said no a few times. My son took the phone from me and spoke to him.

I opened the door and just fell into the parking lot.

I understood somewhere in my head that this man told my son that he went down a list of numbers to call and reached my husband. He told my husband and my son let me know that he was on his way to the parking lot where I was.

He pulled up and held me. There was no way I could drive home, so my son drove me home and we followed my husband.

After I could calm down and breathe a little, my husband wanted to call the coroner back with questions. I’m 9 hours away, we have questions.

So I scribbled out what I thought I might need to know, and handed it to my husband. He was going to call for me. I was going back and forth between hysterical crying and calm. Also teeth chattering and nausea.

I left and went out with the chickens while he called. When I came back in, his energy was… well? Indescribable. It was not good and I don’t know if he was angry or freaked out, or what.

One of my questions was where when and how.

Coroner told him.

About 7 days ago at his house and it was self inflicted.

They have the gun he used.

………

Hang on….

…………

Ok….

……..

I’m leaving in the morning to go.

I’m staying at a hotel, I can’t stay there.

…..

But I have to go in. For paperwork.

It happened in the living room. I don’t even know what im doing.

…..

Im going alone. Husband can’t go until Tuesday. How do I do this?

..

I