Some days I feel like I’m the one who’s psychotic. Like I’ve snapped. Like there is a part of who is still standing in my back lane way, screaming for help, holding my daughter, repeating “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead” over and over again.
And all this is an illusion. This woman, who I do not know, protected her children and did what needed to be done and is still doing it. I don’t know her. The Lori I know, the Lori you all knew, she might be stuck there forever. Holding her daughter. terrified. Unable to stop screaming.
I know there has been question, amongst those people I know In Real Life, and those I don’t, about whether I should be writing here, or not. How much I should say. How much I should keep to myself. Just how real and graphic this blog will get.
I don’t care.
I’m not ashamed of the events that have happened, as difficult as they are to deal with. And I’m not going to stay silent. This is real. This is shit. This is my life. And I don’t care who knows how bad it. I know it might scare people, and make some people uncomfortable. I don’t really care.
As I said, this is real.
This is the direct after math of a suicide.
This is what happens when a strong, loving, amazing, caring, sweet family man bottles up too much stuff, and won’t ask for help.
This is the aftermath of a psychosis. A real live one. No fooling around.
And none of this pain, this hurt, this ugliness has been tempered by time. It’s all fresh and vivid and horrible colorful.
And I’m writing because I have to. I’m not sure what else to do with all this pain and rage and fucked-up-ed-ness.
At least here, the hurt it can cause is minimal. I may not explode, and say things I do not mean, if I’m pouring them out here instead.
And it hurts. To see this place, this blog, which has always been all of me, go from what it was to what it is now. From purple and stupidness and writing about my ridiculous sex life, to a constant litany of pain. Of hurt. Of too much information.
But I write. Because I have to. And because putting it out there, sharing it, it makes it so much less dark. Fuck, it still hurts.
But I won’t let this be a dirty secret. There is nothing to feel shame about here.