OK. Apparently my blog has become a shit fight. A place where I'm blamed, I'm judged. If you don't know what I'm talking about, please, feel free to read back through the comments on the last post.
Seriously. I'm not sure where to start.
For the people in Real Life who are reading my blog- if you don't like, as I've said before, please fuck off.
I know, a lot of you already have.
I was wondering why all Tony's 'friends' had deserted his wife and kids.
It's because I blogged.
I told the truth.
My truth.
That post, you know the one.
And I've dared to air my feelings here, on my blog.
It is, apparently, disrespectful. I'm tarnishing Tony's name for life.
I think he accomplished that himself.
Anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis knows how much I adored my Man. Look it up, if you haven't read it. I've said, on here, the whole time, that the person who did this was not Tony, was not the man I love.
Not that it matters. Because I'm aware the general consensus is that this is my fault.
And partly, I'm sure it is.
I'm no angel.
I yelled at my husband. I probably spent too much money. I was emotional and irrational and blah blah blah.
Believe me, whatever you're thinking about me, I've thought it about myself a dozen times over. And there are probably God knows how many people online, who agree with you. They are just not as vocal as my supporters.
Do you think, I don't think- couldn't I have done something? Couldn't I have stopped him? Should I have been a better wife, a better person?
Probably. I could have been better. We all could, all of us, in everything, could probably be better. But Tony loved me, mostly, just the way I was.
I'm OK with judgment. Do you think I would put all this out there, if I wasn't? I know I'm going to be judged, whether I'm blogging or not. As least here, I can Speak. My. Truth.
And I warned you all, it's ugly. Not nice. You knew what was coming.
I dunno... am I supposed to keep this horror to myself, to protect the memory of a dead man? When I've balanced it, over and over and over again, with what an awesome bloke he was...?
As for riding the sympathy train (I only wish I knew who you people were so I can make sure you don't come anywhere my kids. Thanks for using their names- had you noticed at all that I don't really do that here? Duh.) (Trust no one.), I don't blog for sympathy. I never have.
I blog for me. Because I have to deal with this somehow. And writing is what I do. And, generally, here I tell my truth. I never said it would be rational, or censored. This is my head space. Suck it up. I know, it's a not a nice place to be at the moment. Welcome to my life.
My truth.
I guess my readers should know, save any confusion, no, I wasn't in the ICU with my husband for the first 24 hours he was there. True.
I was fucking pissed off with him. Understandably. And I was so traumatised that I actually don't remember most of that night. I do remember the first thing I did the next morning was go the church, find a priest to visit Tony.
Because I remembered, when a family member of his was in her last few days, he said the Lord's Prayer for her, and said she found it comforting.
I couldn't be there, mentally, for my husband.
But without even realising it, I sent him the next best comfort I could. A priest. Seeing as his mum and sister, better comfort than me, where already there. (Why would he have wanted me there, anyway, if this was all my fault, and he hated me so much..?)
Also, it's been about 5 weeks since Tony died. I haven't spent most nights at my house. I have been here, almost every day, just.. being here. In the house where my husband hung himself. The one he's not ever coming home to again. (Blame me...?)
And, as I've said over and over again, right here on the blog, I have been- am- disconnected from my children. I haven't been their primary care giver.
I'm in a fog of grief. I'm disconnected from everyone. I should be holding my children tight and never letting them go.
And I guess, in a perfect world, I should.
But hey, in a perfect world this never would have happened in the first place.
In reality, my kids are very young. And very resilient. I will admit, I am- was, because I am home now, full time, no nights off until my children are back in an acceptable routine- of the opinion that my kids would be OK, for another, say, two weeks. With grandparents and aunties and uncles and friends. With mum (that'd be me) still there, every day. But able to go.
To walk. To swim. To go to Centrelink, the solicitors, the bleeping mechanic and all the other nitty gritty crap that must be done. To sleep on friend's lounges and watch stupid YouTube clips.
Hell, I even went out last weekend. To a hotel. And went out dancing. Shock, horror.
And- wait for it- one of the friend's lounges who I've been sleeping on is a male. And, just for the record, I'm not sleeping with him. For drugs. Neither am I a lesbian. And I didn't cheat on my husband. Or leave him broke and financially stressed out. Nor did I abuse him, any more than what I got. I know, I know, that doesn't make it OK. But people in glass houses, and all that crap. (And yes, readers, these are actual bona fide rumors I have heard.)
So. Anyway. Just so we are all on the same page here. I have been with my kids, most days- bar a few there in the beginning when I was a fucking wreck, and the weekend I went away, and, just cover my butt, there might have been a few other days as well when I wasn't there as much as I should be- but have I been their full time mother and carer? No.
Have I been going out, gallivanting, sleeping around? No. I'm just trying to fucking survive.
Am I on drugs? Hey, quite fucking possibly. In fact, yes. A shitload of anti-anxiety meds during the day, and some kick arse sleeping pills at night. Even if I was wiping myself out every night after my kids went to bed- can you blame me?
Of course you can. Because that is not what a good mother would do.
Seriously, I guess it all comes down to this- he loved me. I loved him. We were best friends, soul mates. I couldn't have stopped this anymore than anyone else could. The truth sucks, I know. It hurts, and it's ugly, and it's not the Tony we all know and love.
But it's fucking reality. My reality. I'm not ashamed of it, and I won't bring my kids up to be ashamed of it. This is life. It sucks.
But it's real. And my tolerance for bullshit is zero. From me, and everyone else. I am not fucking perfect. Maybe I did contribute to this. Maybe I was a bad wife, am a bad mother.
My fucking reality.
And I'll write about it if I want to.
Comments are off for this one, guys. If you have something to say, at least stand behind it and put your name to it?