Writing his obituary got rid of my writer’s block.

It’s been just about seven months since my husband took his own life. In month four I stopped counting the weeks. By month six I wasn’t spending the 22nd of the month in silent anguish. Throughout, I was leaning into therapy and learning how to find words for the emotions I was feeling, trying to soothe myself with healthy behaviors but, I’m realizing now that my greatest coping device was finishing my book. 

My husband was a distraction. He had some severe mental health issues and it was only after his death that I learned just how severe they were. His addiction was a distraction. It fluctuated between active addiction and tenuous sobriety more often than I realized. Once again, only after his death did I realize the extent of just how bad it had become. My husband was an enigma. Just months ago I learned so many things about him that were not in line with what I knew when we were married — possibly a whole book’s worth.

When he killed himself I wrote a brutally honest obituary. That obituary was hard to write, hard to share, and very healing all at the same time. Weirdly, though, that obituary is the only reason I finished my book. It reminded me that I can write vulnerably, that I can discuss trauma frankly, and that my story of living with a man that was suffering from PTSD could feed my story of my letters from my grandmother’s suitors.  Each of these men lost parts of themselves in the war. How could they not? Hacksaw Ridge, liberating Dachau, bombing Hitler’s fuel fields, working in field hospitals — these are places that sanity has to fight to survive.

My book is inspired by my grandmother and it is fueled by my husband’s suicide. It’s terrifying to put something that vulnerable out into the universe, something that has fueled my creativity, soothed my emotions, and provided me purpose as I travel through this hell of a year.