So, I’m sure you noticed yesterday’s blog had a lot of raw emotion. I’m not going to apologize for any of it, because it was real. That kind of emotional purging—call it angst or call it blog vomit—is sometimes necessary. It’s what I was feeling, and I’ve been sugarcoating too much for too long. Time to stop that.

I’ve been careful with my words, especially when it came to opinions about him. A lot of that caution came out of respect for his family. They didn’t deserve what happened. They’re genuinely kind people who did the best they could with someone who turned out very different from his brothers. And last night, that respect bubbled up into another round of thoughts I’m still chewing on.

After his suicide, my guilt wasn’t about our fights or even the state of our relationship—it was about not stopping it. About not knowing. Like I was supposed to be psychic, see it coming, and step in. And the truth is, had I known, I would’ve done something. I had the clinical training to assess risk, to see the signs. But I didn’t see them. The fear that his family would blame me hung over me like a storm cloud. It turns out they didn’t. Still, the fear stuck.

In therapy—especially early on—that guilt became the main topic. That, and the unanswerable question: why? Why did he do it? I still don’t have a clue, and trying to chase that answer is like banging my head against a wall until I get a migraine.

Here’s something I haven’t said much publicly: I was already planning to divorce him. The papers were set to be filed that very week. He didn’t know—not formally. My attorney advised me to hold back due to safety concerns, and I agreed. So yeah, he was going to get one hell of a surprise—or maybe not. I think he knew it was coming. Our relationship was hanging by a thread.

I do feel a little bad that he never got to hear it officially. But at the same time, I’ve learned since then that I need to take care of myself. And sometimes that means not giving people every ounce of closure they want. I had already started grieving the end of our marriage, grieving the loss of a dream I once thought we shared. His death spared me the legal drain of divorce, but not the emotional wreckage.

One of the final straws, honestly, was the money. In the last year of his life, he emptied our safety net to fuel his addiction. I was scrambling to keep the lights on, the mortgage paid, the basics covered. That financial betrayal was his final act of abuse. I had reached my limit.

I’ve written a lot about “change” lately, but I know I’ve softened it—watered it down to make it more palatable. The truth is, the changes weren’t neatly packaged. They weren’t singular moments. They were small, jagged shifts that added up over time, each one a tiny crack in the dam until it burst.

So where does that leave me now?

Same path. Still walking. The next part of my story hasn’t been written yet, and it won’t be until it unfolds. I still hope for healing and peace, but I’m not naive about what that really looks like. I’m learning to live with unfinished sentences, with memory lapses and thought detours, with the constant sense that I’ve forgotten something important.

It’s messy. It’s real. And like everything else—it’s a work in progress.

No matter how hard you work, remember to work hard for your dog and your mom.