Next month I will be writing a letter to my late husband on the three year anniversary of his suicide. The last two anniversaries have been laced with anger. I wonder what this year will hold.

Year 1:

March 23, 2015

Dear John,

I have been told this year that I haven't been grieving you properly. I wear make-up and cute dresses and I (gasp!) smile. Apparently I'm supposed to be wearing a black veil the rest of my life.

Fuck that. I look better in pink.

One year ago today, you took your life, but I refuse to let you take mine and the kids'. So if grieving you with anger, and laughter, and pink dresses has made me the target of others judgments, so be it. I know better. I know I have grieved you with tears as well.

I have cried fat tears. The ones that sit in my eyes and cloud my vision before they fall, while I'm watching the slow spinning of the ceiling fan in the silence of the bedroom we once shared.

I have cried furious tears. The ones that stream from my eyes and fill the frown lines on my face, while I'm smashing your shit with a hammer.

I have cried gentle tears. The ones that leak from my eyes without warning, while I'm driving to the gas station on a random Tuesday afternoon and our song plays on the radio.

I have cried hysterical tears. The ones that only come when it's dark, while I'm alone on the cold bathroom floor begging God to take me from this earth.

I have cried for you. But not today.

Today I will not mourn you even though I realize it would be the appropriate thing to do. As you know, I've never been very good at following the rules of propriety. And also, I'm not 'there' yet. 'There' in that magical land where all your sins have been erased so I can remember you fondly like everyone else seems to do. I knew you far too well for such blind idolatry.

The only sadness I will have today is for your family, and your true friends, the ones who never saw anything but the best of you.

As for my kids and I, we have had enough sad days this year, and we will surely have more to come. Grieving my kids' future has been an especially hard pill to swallow. Future days where they are supposed to be experiencing uncomplicated joy like their weddings and graduations. Days marked with unofficial rights of passages and their new babies. Days you chose not to be a part of but will inevitably be included in through the lingering sting of your abandonment.

So today we will not mourn. We will celebrate the new life we've made for ourselves and the miracle of us not only surviving these past 12 months, but thriving in the mess you left us.

I loved you, I hated you, and I feared you. I no longer fear you, but the other two remain.

With Sincerity,
Michelle MILLER

Year 2:

March 23, 2016

Dear John,
And so we made a home there, the kids and I, inside of the grief because we did not have a choice. And here we are two years later.

Time does not heal. Anger does not subside, and neither does love. And despite all the things you took from us 730 days ago, we are still here, still intact, and still able to experience joy. Today I feel proud of that and proud of so many other things.

Proud of myself because I stopped apologizing for who the grief has turned me into, proud of the few people who have stuck by me because I am so very difficult to understand, and proud mostly of my babies who still dare to bond with new people even though their experience with life so far has suggested that they not.

I will not mourn you today, so many other days have been devoted to the act of mourning. Instead I will celebrate mine and the kids’ resilience and it will involve pancakes; lots of pancakes, because pancakes and anger are the only way to make it through days like this.

With Sincerity,
Michelle Miller

Dear John,

Michelle Miller

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