At 6:49 p.m. on June 2, 2009, I received the phone call that would forever alter the course of my life. I will never forget Detective Trammer’s words. They reverberate somewhere deep in my soul still today.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “She’s dead.”
Nothing can prepare you to hear such a thing. No amount of experience. No amount of faith or trust. Not even God. Nothing.
One minute I was happily married to my soul mate. The next, she was gone. In that moment, I was stripped of all that mattered to me in life...
I received the Detective's phone call while at work. After that day, I never returned to my office again. I quit my job, unable to work. I lost my home shortly thereafter. Everything that held value to me in life was gone. Anything in which I found meaning was gone. It was all gone.
I was left with nothing…except myself and God…and in that, I have learned about love, mercy, grace, and surrender. I have learned about myself.
Since Shani’s death, I have written a number of short pieces about my experiences in working through grief and loss. I have written about Shani and our relationship together. I’ve been amazed at how much people have been touched by Shani’s life through the sharing of my story after her death. The feedback has been nothing short of inspirational for me.
Having the ability to connect with others in the middle of my own personal nightmare has certainly aided the healing process. It has also motivated me to write, which is why this blog even exists. In addition, a book is in the works, one that will share my story of healing while also recounting the spiritual journey on which Shani’s death sent me.
The book will document the one year time span from her death up to the first anniversary, but my healing is far from over. I still wake up on a daily basis experiencing the effects of severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, what is defined as complicated grief, and the struggles from a life of recovery.
I battle the effects of her murder in some way every single day. I may not be able to get out of bed in the morning, I might not be able to shake the vivid images in my mind at night, or I might break down in the middle of the afternoon for no apparent reason. I continue to press forward, but anxiety, depression, grief, anger, and rage are monsters waiting around every corner.
There are times when I want to drink myself into oblivion or disappear somewhere completely alone. There are days when I’d do anything to escape what has become my reality. I might sit on the back porch on a Sunday morning, hearing the echoes of gunshots from hunters off in the distance, and a wave of shock will cover me. I have come a long way, but my healing is far from complete. I recognize that improperly handling any of the extreme emotions I experience could easily kill me. It’s like walking a constant tight rope. It is terrifying and frustrating; yet at times, I've never felt so alive and connected.
I journal in some form or fashion almost every day and have done so since the morning after Shani’s memorial service on June 8, 2009. When I returned home from South Florida the morning after the murder (June 3), I went into the master bedroom of the Atlanta condo where we had lived for almost four years. I found her journal resting on her nightstand. A deep desire to connect with Shani on some level overwhelmed me. I wanted to find out what she might have been thinking, so I opened the journal, which is something I never would have done prior to her death.
The last entry she wrote was from June 1, the night before she died. It was also written on the very last page of the journal. It was finished; there was nowhere else to write. Symbolically speaking, the last chapter to my wife’s life was recorded on the last page of her journal.
Interestingly, on the counter in our kitchen was a brand new journal that had never been written in. I imagined she had recently purchased it, knowing she was nearing the end of her current journal. Shani had always talked about writing a book of her own, hoping to share her experience of healing from her own mother’s murder in order to help others who were dealing with loss and grief. I believe with all my heart that the journal on the counter was left for me, as if she knew, as if she was passing the baton to me so that I could share my experience, but also, through me, I could reveal her path to healing as well.
So, I figure if I am going to be journaling every day, while also writing a book, I might as well share my thoughts with others during the process. I imagine that my blog posts will mirror some of what I’ve written over the last year. If so, they will be filled with emotional highs and lows. Some entries will inspire, but some will be dark and eerie. At the very least, I hope what I write connects with you.
I told a friend recently the only thing that makes any sense in any of this is that my story can potentially help others. Without that belief and hope, I would have given up a long time ago.
Nobody should have to experience their wife being executed by her own son. Nobody should have to experience the media devouring you like a piece of meat. Nobody should have to experience their wife’s lifeless body laid out in front of them, pieced back together after being ripped to shreds by a 9 mm carbine rifle. Nobody should have to psychologically relive the brutal murder of their wife again and again and again, being robbed of the one sanctuary of peace we all should have…our sleep. Nobody should know what it is like to lose your mind. I do. I know what it is like to experience all of these things, and I am still alive, breathing, and fighting to grow, change, and heal.
I have walked through a true, living hell the past year, and with the help of an amazing support system of friends and family, I am still here. My situation is unique. My wife was murdered in cold blood by her own son. There was apparently no real motive. He simply called her, lured her to his apartment, and gunned her down.
There have been plenty of mornings where I wanted to die. It would have been easier to just let it all go, but I won’t allow myself to die from this. It will not destroy me. I can’t let it. It might break me down at times. I have had and will continue to have days when I can’t even get out of bed or find a reason to go on, but I will.
All I can share with you is my story because after all, our story is the only real thing that we own, and hopefully, in putting my thoughts out there on a regular basis, I will be able to connect with people more consistently.
Maybe you’ve experienced loss or grief of your own. Maybe a loved one has passed. Maybe you’ve lost a job, a relationship, or something else of significance to you. Maybe you’ve experienced a traumatic event that is causing you to have sleepless nights, or maybe you feel like you’re going crazy. Maybe you think the solutions to your problems are found in a bottle of alcohol or a handful of pills. Whatever your situation is, I hope my story can help.
In the last year, I have dealt with PTSD, grief, loss, and recovery in ways most people will never have to experience. They are issues that I will have to deal with for the rest of my life, and frankly, the ONLY purpose I can find in my life right now is in helping others. The only real truth I’ve found in my journey is that we’re all here to help one another.
In the end, I pray my story gives you hope.
