Adjusting to Life After My Husband’s Suicide

Four months after leaving my husband, I received a call that changed my life forever. In the subsequent years, I had to learn how to rebuild my life from within.

The heat on that Easter was unbearable. As I reclined in an inflatable kiddie pool in my dried-up yard in California’s Inland Empire, the warm rays of the sun flickered through the palm trees. The garden hose bubbled like a fountain as it filled the pool.

My dreams extended far into the future. I envisioned a large adobe home surrounded by a desert full of saguaros and cactus, with kids trudging to the kitchen, complaining about breakfast, and the smell of espresso from a new moka pot filling the air. I saw myself in a tenured position for which I had tirelessly worked.

My aspirations vanished by lunchtime.

The day ended with me face down, my head buried in the dusty grey carpet, my whole being shattered. That day is now seared into my memory as the incomprehensible turning point of my life; when my world - and self - was irrevocably changed.

That day, I learned that my estranged husband Stanton, who I had left just four months prior, had ended his life.

This story recounts how his death reshaped mine.

Stanton

An illustration depicts a woman floating in a children’s paddling pool with a brown garden fence behind her.

Though Stanton isn’t the central figure of this story, his presence is essential to it.

We used to jest about meeting through Craigslist. Before I moved from England to the US in the fall of 2013 to commence my PhD, I came across an ad by a sociology graduate student describing his residence that matched all my requirements. We spoke on the phone for over an hour, sharing grad school woes and chatting about supernatural creatures. The connection was instant and I decided to move in.

At times, you stumble upon someone with whom you share a profound, wordless understanding. This mutual comprehension defined my relationship with Stanton. We would sit on our porch or dangle our feet in the pool, holding long talks from dusk till dawn. We would concoct harmless social experiments and he would discuss his sociology idols while I shared my theories on earthquake predictions.

Our lives merged, creating the intersection of a Venn diagram. He joined me for karaoke at local bars and I participated in his Dungeons and Dragons games.

Our time together was seamless. He was magnetic and exceptionally bright, attracting students who lined up at his office - just to be entertained, I suspect. Unlike my past relationships, I never questioned our bond; I enjoyed the journey of our budding friendship.

When love appeared, it came fast and furious. Marrying my best friend seemed like the right choice.

On an impulse, a year after I moved in, we drove to Vegas and eloped at the Little White Wedding Chapel. He sported khakis and plaid while I wore casual salmon slacks and a tank top. Our wedding bands were sterling silver rings from a tourist shop.

We moved from our shared PhD house into a tree-lined apartment, spending nights curled up together on the sofa, fervently debating trivial topics while scrawling on a whiteboard. Nothing was off-limits; we were explorers of ideas.

Life was straightforward, our conversations endless, and happiness abundant.

‘As long as I have you’

An illustration depicts a woman sitting on the edge of a swimming pool with her legs in the water.

Stanton wasn’t someone who expressed emotions through tears or openly voiced concerns. Diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, he often joked about the side effects of his medication more than the anxiety itself.

Once in a while, he would let something slip. One sticky afternoon, after we walked home together, we sat on the sidewalk to share a cigarette. Out of nowhere, he mentioned he sometimes wished he would get hit by a bus - that way, his death wouldn’t be blamed on anyone. This disclosure was so blunt and unexpected, I almost dismissed it. I inaccurately thought he was merely echoing frustrations with life's daily grind.

He reassured me that he would never do something like that to his family. Reflecting now, I wish I had probed more deeply, had recognized the warning signs.

Hindsight can be merciless.

Shortly after our marriage, actor Robin Williams died by suicide. Given Stanton’s comedic nature hiding his pain behind laughter, this news struck me deeply.

One evening, while watching Good Will Hunting, I asked Stanton to promise he’d never do what Robin Williams did.

“Never, as long as I have you,” he said.

The characters in the room

Stanton’s depression and anxiety always felt like additional characters in our home. Initially like passive wallflowers, they eventually filled the apartment. His dissertation work declined and he lost his funding due to incomplete PhD progress. University therapists seemed unequipped to handle his mental health struggles.

Stanton’s declining mental state directed all his energy and focus toward me – his chauffeur, dog walker, and chef, fulfilling my every culinary fancy. While the material support was wonderful, emotionally, it became overwhelming. My wedding vow to stand by him "through thick and thin" took on a daunting new significance. I felt as if I became his only reason to live.

The evening I chose to leave, we sat on the curb of our apartment, mocking its over-watered lawn. A moment later, he admitted, “Nothing makes me happy anymore.”

“Doesn’t marveling at the cosmos, imagining endless possibilities – does none of that move you? Can't you see beauty?” I asked.

“No,” he responded with finality. “I find no beauty anywhere except in you.”

I couldn't sleep that night. I was convinced that remaining might offer Stanton a false sense of identity and purpose. Leaving seemed the tough love he needed to rediscover himself, to find meaning beyond our relationship.

I convinced myself it was the best decision for both of us, though in reality, I might have been evading what I couldn't handle. Dressing my incapacity as a necessary lesson, I took off.

Stanton helped load my boxes into my car the next day. Even as we hugged, the disappointment on his face was unmistakable.

The drive felt like an escape. The rushed nature of it all, the need to rip off the band-aid, now haunts me.

I'd give anything to have spent more time before parting.

Intuition is clearest in hindsight

I relocated to a small garden house across town, determined to stay on my path. My ambition for a brighter future continued. I even started a new relationship soon after, which led me to that kiddie pool on Easter.

Stanton had been trying to reconnect for weeks. He wanted to see the dogs and talk, but I was hesitant, wanting to affirm our separate spaces. We finally met at a park near my new house. He appeared more anxious than ever, his hands trembling.

For the first time, he cried.

Later, I told the new boyfriend and Stanton’s sister-in-law that I feared he might end his life. The uneasy feeling persisted. While I recalled his offhand remarks about suicide, I couldn’t fully grasp the possibility of him doing it.

Intuition can be cruel indeed.

A week later, Stanton’s brother asked for friends’ phone numbers because Stanton hadn’t shown up for Easter brunch. I immediately sensed the worst. Instantly, my calm evaporated, replaced by panic and anxiety.

Scouring through Stanton’s final messages, I found, “After meeting at the park, you will only hear from me in letters.” He meant it. Among the letters he left were heartfelt notes for me, his friends, family, and even one meant to be read at his memorial service. He didn’t blame anyone except the pain of being deserted by the person who knew him best.

I don’t recall who delivered the dreadful news. Details blurred into a series of scenes: a friend finding his car, police wellness checks, and Stanton’s mother's anguish outside the apartment.

I collapsed to the floor. Time seemed to halt.

The emotional chaos paralyzed me. There were tears and an overwhelming sense of being struck by invisible forces. People call it shock for a reason—it’s incapacitating and unimaginable.

Amidst the turmoil, I realized an awful truth: Stanton opened up to me, and then I left. Some questions remain forever unanswered.

Honnê – tatemae

The aftermath of a suicide, like any trauma, presents a new reality that doesn’t match the preceding one. Following Stanton’s death, everything felt heavier. Each morning was a burdensome confrontation with the dark truth and confusion surrounding his demise.

My thoughts were a relentless cycle: blaming myself, feeling shame, contemplating Stanton’s death’s finality, and circling back to self-blame.

The endless loop sapped my strength. Guilt gnawed at my stomach while shame crushed my chest. My soul was visibly wounded with each interaction.

The only constant was seismology, my field of study. It tethered me to some semblance of normality. My colleagues joked science was simple compared to life’s complexities.

I needed to teach that semester to maintain my funding, so I was thrust back into the world. This distraction kept me somewhat grounded, leading to the longest and most damaging performance of my life.

Suicide often leads to searching for cause and effect, painting partners of the deceased as the obvious scapegoats. This role further isolated me. I felt judged and ostracized, viewed through a distorted lens.

Caffeine became my solace, and frequent Starbucks stops became routine. Puzzled by my frustration at baristas for casual greetings, I realized my reality clashed with their simple inquiries. My life felt distant from such mundane normalcy.

Avoiding people became my norm, using bathrooms far from my office. One encounter with a former close friend from my PhD days epitomized this – she fled in tears upon seeing me. My presence alone had this effect.

Years later in Switzerland, a colleague introduced me to the Japanese concept of honnê (true inner feelings) and tatemae (public facade). Western society implicitly understands these ideas but rarely names them.

Cultural norms often dictate taming honnê and embracing tatemae. Revealing disturbing truths can isolate us, leaving unresolved issues.

Sarcasm and tension envelope discussions about suicide, exacerbated by stigma and judgment. I used to view it similarly—sympathy tinged with discomfort.

Two years after Stanton’s death, my mother convinced me to join a “survivors of suicide” support group. Reluctantly, I attended, and that sterile room became an unlikely haven. It was a space for radical honesty and openness.

We openly explored the pervasive guilt, the anger towards the deceased, and learned to accept complex grief. The group normalized discussing suicide, dissolving some of my shame.

Compassion grew within me for the others and, theoretically, for myself. Honoring Stanton’s memory often involved struggling with blame and preservation.

The support group was the first step towards harmonizing my internal and external selves. Weekly, I felt liberated, enabled to drop my facade and exist in genuine moments of vulnerability.

Resolving to align my internal world with my external interactions became a fundamental goal, eventually allowing me to accept Stanton’s death into my life fully.

One morning, about eight months post-Stanton’s death, the burden of silence became unbearable. I ventured into the office, feigned normalcy with a simple greeting, reinforcing my masquerade as a functional, unaffected individual.

To stave off discomfort, I locked away my broken parts, throwing away the key.

Rooted in hell

A year and a half later, I pursued postdoctoral work across Europe—Paris, Zurich, Rome, and the Côte d’Azur. Outwardly, my life seemed aspirational yet internally, turmoil reigned. Despite picturesque surroundings, the cacophony persisted nightly.

My internal world was chaotic; crossing between professional spheres felt like forced conformity. Xanax temporarily soothed the disconnect between my emotional expression needs and scientific rigor.

On the fifth anniversary of Stanton’s death, alone during lockdown in Rome, I stood with my dogs overlooking the Forum of Augustus. There, the dissonance between my inner and outer worlds peaked. The comforting thought of jumping from the edge emerged.

Carl Jung’s words echoed: “No tree, it is said, can grow to Heaven unless its roots reach down to Hell.” Though merely beginning, I’d come to understand those roots reaching into the abyss.

Temet nosce (know thyself)

One curfew night, I faced the majesty of the Pantheon unobstructed, caught in the vastness of existence. Beneath its dome, surrounded by history’s messiness and my fragmented self, I felt unexpected harmony.

Over time, these moments of harmony emerged during solitude. Revisiting Stanton’s favorite Kierkegaard quote, it felt like a sign to shift my perspective and see myself first.

Acknowledging I was living a life not truly mine, I decided to discard the societal script and authentically write my own—from scratch.

My journey began by facing places of fear within me, learning weightlessness and strength stemmed from self-awareness.

Golden thread

I didn’t have a clear vision for the first pages of my new life, so I opted to live day by day.

Amid the easing pandemic, I left Rome for Thailand, seeking simplicity. Quitting my job, I ventured without plans, immersing myself in a community detached from luxury, living truthfully.

In this pocket of authenticity, sharing myself in honesty, I mended shattered fragments with golden threads, embracing my uniqueness.

Henry Miller succinctly stated: “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of looking at things.” What started as my life’s turning point became a gateway to redefining my existence—recognizing permanent stability as an illusion, allowing my truth to guide me.

After six months, I moved to Portugal, embracing life as an explorer, discovering Stanton’s wish for me to “live for us both.” His passing, in an unexpected way, led me to find myself.

Through Stanton’s suicide, I learned that while we cannot foresee life’s challenges, we can cultivate resilience from within.

If you or someone you know is at risk of suicide, these organisations may help: