A puss in love.

Steven was way hotter than Lane and Tough, and he could do this dance like it was his job. This video makes me want to bawl my eyes out. I wanted to watch this movie the night before Steven died, but he said no (this is one of his absolute favorite movies). I think its because Lane dies.

"OMG I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU IN FOREVER!"

I've written a lot about how amazing my husband was. What I have neglected to mention is that I'm pretty amazing myself. This is why we made a dynamic couple. I've worked full time since I was 16. Ok, no big deal. I continued to work all the way through college, saved my money, spent wisely, and made good decisions. I graduated college without debt. Steven drove me to my graduation at EIU. I remember going up in his silver truck and changing my clothes in the parking lot. I also remember him texting me from the bleachers as we sat and listened to those boring speakers talk about how to be successful (we already knew how, so we didn't really care what they had to say).

My 5 year class reunion is tonight. I have a hard time summarizing my last five years. I graduated college without debt, I landed my dream job within 3 months of graduating, and I got married. I watched a business grow from the ground up, I learned how to be an adult, and we built a house. I remember talking to Steven about going to the class reunion, a subject I approached carefully. I had to make it sound like his idea and convince him that he would get something out of it. His only response was, "I'm not payin no fucking $13 a plate for Niemergs. We'll go out to eat before we go." Then, he thought for a good hour about ways to make me look good at the reunion. What vehicle should we arrive in? Maybe we could borrow an escalade from Northside! I suggested taking the big green jeep (if you haven't seen it, it looks pretty badass). He was also sold on the fact that its a BYOB event. Then he had to decide which bottle of liquor to take. It couldn't just be any old bottle of whiskey or any old brand of beer. No, it had to be something high dollar and classy! I tried to ground him in reality, but he insisted that his goal was to impress everybody and make me look like the best, most successful person at the reunion. Steven took an otherwise annoying event and turned it in to an opportunity to show off how proud he was of me.

Now, I'm going to this reunion as a widow. But I'm still not payin no $13 for a plate of Niemergs.

They say she just went crazy screamin' out his name.

With all the insane rumors floating around, I can't help but get angry. I'm not going in to detail about them, because I feel that would only promote the idea. All I can say is that if you didn't hear it from me, its probably not true. My husband is dead. My husband was a hard-working, honest, and wonderful person. If what you heard doesn't fit what I just said, then it isn't true.

My most immediate fear is facing the stigma of a suicide survivor. What do people think of those left behind? Granted, most of my fears are irrational but that is the brain's way of protecting us and preparing us to handle a reality. Here's my list of fears along with how I am rationalizing them.

1. People think I missed something or didn't do enough.

I've already covered it, but it will do myself good to cover it again since I'm still being asked the same question. There was nothing odd or off about Steven that morning. I saw no red flags. Nothing about that morning said to me "I'm going to commit suicide today." Period. What do people expect me to say?? "Ya, I totally saw this coming but I decided to just sweep it under the rug and ignore it." You're dumb. The night before, I picked up a pizza for supper, I made him a bowl of ice cream, I cuddled with him in bed, and I told him I was so glad to have him home. What more was I supposed to do?

2. People think I wasn't worth it for him to stay here.

False. Actually, this is the complete opposite of the truth. He did this to protect me and his family. I don't know from what or why, but he did this so I wouldn't have to suffer what he was already suffering. He did this so I wouldn't worry. Flawed, yes. But so much of this scenario is wrong and confusing that its hard to separate what was logical and what was 'messed up' in his head.

3. People are walking on egg shells around me.

Stop. I can't go in public without at least one person giving me a quick glance that says 'there's that girl' or 'that's the one we were talking about'. Naturally people are concerned, but this goes beyond concerned. This is almost a behind-the-back maneuver. I walked in to Walmart to pick up some hair mousse, and I couldn't walk out without someone staring at me. I can't do anything 'normal'.

4. People think I'm suicidal.

False. However, I need people to understand the difference between wanting to die and wanting to be with Steven. I don't want to die. I'm afraid of death. If I die, then I have no control over what is happening. That's an issue for me. But I do long to be with Steven, to hear Steven, and to feel Steven. That is no longer possible. In this same category, people assume that I'm depressed/crying/upset at all times. It makes me sad that some people can't accept my genuine laughter or smile without questioning whether I'm just putting up a front. Trust me. I'm an open book. I couldn't fake it if I tried.

5. People think I have all the answers.

This kind of goes with #1. I should have known my husband better. I should have been able to read him. I should have been able to tell he as struggling or upset. As I've stated in a previous post, Steven bullshit for a living. He made money by manipulating people in to believing something he told them was true. He was an expert at what he did. Trust me, if I would have known any of this was happening, I would have given an arm to keep him here and not left him alone that day. But we all know he would have convinced me somehow to leave the house. His mind was set. If I lived my days in the 'coulda woulda shoulda' state of mind, I wouldn't have started this blog. I wouldn't be figuring out a new way to live my life. I would be stuck in one spot still trying to blame myself and feeling guilty. That's where things get dangerous.

Miss Cheyenne

On a random Saturday afternoon while getting a pedicure with friends, Steven texted me to say he had found an ad in the paper for puppies. He called them and told them we would be over that evening to look. The man said, "Well, the puppies in the ad are all gone. ...But we do have one left. We aren't sure we want to sell her, because her markings are like none we've ever seen, and we might want to breed her." Steven, true to character, pitched them an idea: "Well, can we come by and see her? Then when we get there, we can decide if you really want to get rid of her or not." And we were off.

Long story short, they put the dog in my lap, she licked my face, and she fell asleep. We had to pay extra for her, but I didn't care. Neither did Steven. He was always happy to give me anything I wanted (not that I ever asked for much...). Steven pretended to not like Cheyenne. He called her 'lucifer' or 'lucy' for short. However, there were several times I'd call his phone needing help removing her ticks and he would make a special trip home. He took her on her first trip to the vet, and she rode on his shoulder the whole way to town. When he made steaks on the grill, he'd make sure Cheyenne got to be outside with him sniffing around the grill. She got to ride in the big green jeep before I did. She loved riding on the lawn mower with him sitting under his legs. Every night, she sat on the back of the couch waiting to hear his truck pull down the lane. When she saw/heard him coming, she'd jump off and put her nose to the garage door waiting for him to walk in.

At some point during my 5hr driving escapade on 8/9, I stopped by my house to see if there was anything missing (a change of clothes, passports, etc.). The only thing changed from when I left that morning was a few half-eaten dog treats on the floor. After I left that morning, and before he left, he took time to play with Cheyenne. I don't know how long he played with her, but various toys on the floor suggest it was more than a few tosses of her ball. I don't know why that means so much to me, but it crosses my mind a lot.

The first time I took Cheyenne back to my house, she rushed in the door with her nose to the floor. She sniffed all the way through the living room, on to his recliner, in to 'her' bathroom, in to my bedroom, in to his shower (her favorite place to visit in the morning), and on to the bed. There, she sniffed until she found his pillows and blanket and laid down. I couldn't get her to move for several minutes. Finally, we shifted to the living room. I took the recliner, and she took her usual post atop the couch gazing out the window. I was heartbroken. She perked up at the sound of any vehicle driving down the road (although she could always tell if it was Steven's truck coming down the lane by the sound). When it wasn't his truck or bike, she'd plop her head down again.

We entered her picture in to the photo contest at the fair. She won one of the first place ribbons.  He was so freakin proud of that. He told everybody. Steven always won or was the best at what ever he did. It only made sense that he also had the perfect dog (even when he called her Lucifer). She's always been very protective of me. Any time Steven came to give me a hug or leaned down to kiss me, she'd bolt between us trying to figure out what was going on. I don't know if its because she wanted attention or because she didn't want to share me. Right now, she's sleeping between/on my feet. Look at how BEAUTIFUL this dog is.

Sorry, wrong widow.

It has always boggled my mind how much people bitch about what they have. I'm complete guilty of bitching, but I've never been ungrateful. I'll bitch about being on crisis call, or having to buy a new mirror for my vehicle, or when my dog shreds a box of kleenexs on my carpet. Never have I ever bitched about my life. Even now, after all of this nonsense and nightmare, I'm still tickled that I've had this life with him for 5 years. I was thinking about guilt and regret today. There's a lot of cliches floating among the grieving community: "I wish I would have said 'I Love You' more often." "I wish I could have told them how I felt." "I wish I could go back and change xyz about our relationship." "I wish I would have showed him more love." Nope. Not this kid.

I'm not guilty of any of those. I told him every day that I loved him. Always in the morning, sometimes at 2:37pm just because. Always during Monday morning staff meeting at work. Sometimes in a facebook message. Sometimes I wrote it on the refrigerator. I always told him that I was happy and that it was because of him. I always told him that I couldn't wait to come home that evening so I could cook supper. I always told him that I couldn't wait for him to come home just so I could see him. Hell, I spent my evenings in a gun shop being ignored by 90% of the customers just so I could have that time with him. I made sure that he knew his efforts to please me didn't go unnoticed. He was so proud to make me happy, and I was glad to let him because I knew that is what made him tick. Every night when he came home, he greeted me with, "How was my beautiful wife's day?" or "What did my beautiful wife cook me for supper?" Knowing that I was so happy all of the time (no joke, we were always happy together) is what made him proud to be Steven Habing. We dressed up like pirates to go to Buffett Bash together, and I covered this guy in temp tattoos and made him wear a fake earring and an eye patch. Why? Because it made me "happy happy happy!!"

Several different realities.

I'm a logical person. In every situation I encounter, I perceive the problem as a puzzle. I gather the pieces I need to put together in order to make a whole picture that makes sense. Its my 8-5 job. Unfortunately, this is something my brain is having a hard time handling as well. My brain already has pieces about me  from my past. They included Steven, our marriage, our plans for the future, and our life together. That puzzle was already growing pre-8/9/13. My brain had a good grasp on what pieces it needed in order to complete or grow the puzzle. Reality is throwing new puzzle pieces at my brain, and none of them fit the puzzle its already started. So, in order to make sense of this, its starting a separate puzzle.

This may not seem like such a big deal. Consider this. If my life is supposed to be one big flowing, growing puzzle, then why are there two puzzles going? My brain can't handle these and doesn't know how to put these two puzzles together. In a sense, I'm shifting constantly between two different schools of thought. I can't exist in both of these 'worlds' at the same time. I long to stay with the past where my puzzle was growing (you know, the brain doesn't like change. we are creatures of habit). However, my reality is making decisions about my future. The brain wants to complete the other puzzle before starting a new one, and that just isn't possible.

I think eventually the puzzles in my mind will settle their differences and merge for the good of all involved. Compare this to the twix commercial where they try to initiate a merger between the left twix and the right twix. Clearly, both sides are better off together. Neither is willing to settle, so they are stuck in two separate factories. Its a constant battle in my mind as my thoughts try to filter in to the right categories. Eventually, the puzzles will have to merge for me to move forward with my life. That isn't today, and it probably won't be tomorrow.

Signs

On my way back to work on my lunch hour, I was having a hard time communicating. It bothers me that I can't shoot Steven a text over lunch to see how his work is going. I thought 'This is driving me crazy that I can't talk to you like I used to. I wish you could talk to me.' At the end of my thought, the song changed on the radio. Cue Conway.

Nerd alert.

The brain is a fantastic mechanism that works to protect us. For example, in a car accident that results in traumatic brain injury, the brain will block out the memory of the accident and often hours before. This allows our body to focus on the biological need to heal instead of the emotional questions of "what if". I don't remember the last thing I said to Steven. I just remember leaving the house. The only specific words I remember from that morning were in bed. We took time to lie in bed awake instead of rushing the morning. He asked me how I slept, and I said, "Good. I'm just really happy you're here with me," and he said, "I'm really happy too." I think that's all I'm supposed to remember. It helps keep the feelings of guilt and regret at bay. Because I don't remember what was said, its hard for me to question whether I could have picked up on a little signal or phrase. I'm also comforted by the fact that that morning seemed so insignificant to me that my brain didn't find it important to remember. Again, no guilt or regrets because my brain would have remembered something so significant (its trained to do that).

A problem I'm having with the brain is that it tries to sort and make sense of the stimuli it receives. It puts information in to categories (schema) based upon previous experiences (example: when I smell chocolate chip cookies, I think of my mom baking in her kitchen). This is necessary for survival. Without the defense mechanism, we would spend our days relearning how to take a shower, brush teeth, and get dressed. The problem I have is that my brain has no place to put all of this experience because its so new and unique. My brain is trying to filter this experience and put this information in to categories, but there is no category. I have no schema built for "widow". My brain is having to create a whole new schema while simultaneously trying to process and sort the information that doesn't have anywhere to go. Confusing? Yup.

Are you lonely like I'm lonely?

Good thing I packed my angry eyes. I'm just pissed today. I woke up (WIDE AWAKE) in an allergy sneezing fit at 2am, so I got up to take something for it. Then, at 4am I woke up again with a massive charlie horse in my calf. It lasted for a good 20 minutes off and on. I cried and cried. On top of that, it was a reminder that I no longer have that security of someone lying next to me to help me stretch out a charlie horse or to get me some allergy pills when I can't stop sneezing or to look out the window and see what the bump outside was. That pisses me off. I almost feel as if I have the right to have someone there with me. I was dedicated to being a wife. Why should I be suffering? I didn't do anything wrong. Neither did he.

I don't have hobbies or many friends that I go out with. I'm not a loner, but the last 5 years have been pretty unique. 2008-2012 I was in college and working full time so I could graduate college without a student loan (Steven told me very early on that he would never marry someone with a ton of school debt). When I wasn't working or studying, I was with Steven. My 21st birthday was no big feat. Steven took me to a few bars. That was it. He was so proud of me when I graduated. After that, we were in the middle of planning a wedding.  That became my hobby. Then the wedding. Then the wedding aftermath (cards, decorations, sorting, etc). Then it was just us. I never wanted for anything, and I never had to worry about anything. He took care of me, and I made sure he was happy doing it. That was our life. I had no need for a hobby or a 'getaway' from him for a weekend. I suppose my hobby was tagging along to Menards at 8pm, cooking, cleaning, and just being a wife. Now I'm stuck. I don't have that hobby of being a wife anymore. I work, this is true. Now I feel like I don't have my escape from work life. I feel completely robbed of my life. Not only is Steven not here, but I feel like a completely different person without him. Its a horrible feeling. I feel like I have nothing to talk about anymore. It was always a funny story about the weekend, or a comment he had made about my cooking, or some grand plan he had to make more money. I don't have him to do those things anymore. I feel blank and boring.

Who picks out their own cemetery plot at 23 years old? This gal. Within 24 hours of learning that I'm a widow, I was already having to make decisions about my future. How messed up is that? Not only had I hardly accepted the fact that my husband was dead, I now had be realistic about the fact that I may remarry. Where would I be buried? Next to Steven? Between Steven and a potential future spouse? What if I have kids? What if I don't remarry but don't buy a plot for myself? Which cemetery should I pick? Is that where I would want to be? What if a future spouse has family plots? Do I even get to choose where I am laid to rest?

In this moment, I am angry with Steven for not letting me be his wife and help him with what ever he felt he couldn't handle. I am angry with Steven for believing that leaving me and his family was the answer. I am angry that Steven's thinking was so flawed and tainted that he believed this to be the only way to protect me and his family. I'm angry. What you gonna do about it?

These are my angry eyes!

Remember the movie Toy Story? There's a scene when Mrs. Potato Head is packing up body parts for Mr. Potato Head to take on a trip. She says something to the affect of "...and I'm packing your angry eyes just in case." That is how my brain is sorting out the plethora of emotions I experience in any given minute. Sometimes I have a lot of control over what emotion I want to 'put on' and other times the angry eyes just come out on their own. I don't mean to sound like I'm hiding or being insincere about the emotions, or that I'm hiding behind a fake smile. I just have that control over which ones I'm comfortable experiencing in that minute. The song I posted is my angry song lately. Its for when I'm angry at Steven for making the flawed decision to leave me.

Steven never lets me stay angry for long. Even when he was alive, I would get so mad at him because he wouldn't just let me be angry. He's still doing it now. Something always happens. For example, I had a very deep and detailed conversation with a friend. I was feeling uncomfortable, angry, and unsure. I got in my Jeep to drive away, and immediately when I started the car the song "The Ride" by David Allan Coe came on (Steven's favorite song). It was almost in sync with me starting my vehicle. In the last weeks, I don't think I've ever heard this song so many times on the radio. I heard it again tonight while talking to him. I was getting angry and frustrated. Seconds later, The Ride came on. I smiled ear to ear and "cranked that shit up". It was embarrassing how loud I was singing. Listen!

Part of my anger comes from the fact that I was deceived. If you know me at all, you know that this pisses me off in any situation. I don't like to be mislead or made to look stupid. That's the feeling I get when people ask me, "Did you notice anything different?" or "Did he give you any kind of sign that he was upset?" The answer is simply no. I had no indication, forewarning, or even and inkling. He hid these things from me so I wouldn't worry. HELLO?! The man bullshits for a living. He made an art out of it, and good money (see previous post). I can see him at the pearly gates giving St. Peter his sales pitch about why he should let him in.

I've been warning people about the 'anger'. Maybe I'm trying to say 'heads up. I'm going to be a bitch here directly.' Maybe I'm trying to warn them about their own emotions. My anger isn't always directed toward Steven or this unique situation. Sometimes, its directed toward the world. For 2.5 weeks, my world was at a standstill. I had no concept of time or day, only medication (sleeping) and no medication (awake). When I returned to work, it was almost shocking to see that those around me were in their normal routine. I think I was jealous. Why was everyone happy? I couldn't figure it out. Added to that, my 'normal old routine' of getting up and getting ready for work was already different that morning. That made me angry. Then I realized that not only was everyone 'normal' that day, they had been 'normal' for the last 2.5 weeks. I was angry. How could they? Why am I struggling still while everyone else goes about their day? Why can't I just have my normal work day back?

I suppose its time to settle some rumors. Listen carefully, and spread the word (Lord knows people are good at that). I am not repeating myself. I'm not pregnant nor was I ever pregnant. Pretty simple right? I thought so, until I started hearing this whisper of a rumor. Funny how no one but my dad thought to ask me personally. Added to that, I've got special words for the next person who thinks a negative thought or speaks a negative word about my husband. If you don't know what the hell you are talking about, keep your trap shut.

To medicate, or not to medicate. That is my question.

I have a serious issue with the idea of using medication as a crutch. Those that know me best know that I don't even keep tylenol in my purse for emergencies. I will literally wait until a headache turns to a migraine before thinking 'hmm maybe I should do something about this?' Its one of my faults. So on the evening of 8/9/13, the sheriff whispered to my dad (but not soft enough), "You should consider calling the doctor to get her something. She will need something to help her sleep." I don't know if it was because of the denial or just my stubbornness, but I remember looking at him through swollen bloodshot eyes thinking how crazy he was for suggesting that I medicate myself in order to cope with this. There were a few reasons. 1. I counsel people who use this excuse on a daily basis. For example, "I saw a balloon today. Can I see the psychiatrist? I think I need medication." 2. I'm proud (another fault). I'm strong enough to handle this without my judgement being clouded by some weird medication. 3. How does he know what I need? I have every right to be up crying for days if I choose to do so. That brings me to my first lesson I wish to add to my personal grief how-to manual. Let people give. It is not weak. It is not shameful. It is not humiliating.

When talking to my boss (who has experience coping with his own version of tragedy), the first thing he told me is to let people help. I remember thinking, 'I don't want people trying to clean my house,' 'I don't want people trying to take care of me,' 'I don't want people trying to help me 'move forward'. Again with the pride and stubbornness. Now I understand his advice in a different way: let people give. I was being selfish about my grieving (but I don't feel bad about it). Other people are grieving, and those people care about me. In our German-American culture here in the Effingham area, that means a lot of food. A lot of food here means a lot of love (look at the Lohman Christmas...). When I stopped to think about why people were coming out of the woodwork with flowers, food, gifts, money, cards, etc., I realized that this is their healing. I'm admitting that for a time, I became frustrated. Not with a single person but with people in general. I was frustrated that not only is my husband dead, but now I have a house full of shit that I can't take care of, a fridge full of food that is going to go bad, and a phone that won't stop ringing. I was frustrated that people were telling me every cliche' in the book. Using my logical thinking, I stepped back to look at the true meaning behind these actions. Food says: "Please take care of yourself. Let us help you take care of yourself." Flowers/plants say: "Please don't feel lonely. Look at this beauty that I'm trying to restore to your life." Cards say: "I don't know the right words or the right time, but I want to support you." Text/phone call says: "I'm struggling. Please let me know how you are so my own mind can have some peace." A cliche' says: "I have no idea what else to say, but I wanted to be here with something to say. Saying nothing was uncomfortable." Grief has many faces. If I don't let people give, their own grief journey won't be right.

Another interesting point shared by my supervisor, is that there is no how-to manual for how I'm supposed to react at any given moment. Sometimes I'm crying because I'm by myself. Sometimes I'm crying because I'm around people. Sometimes I'm pissed because I don't want to make any more decisions. Sometimes I'm pissed because I've run out of decisions to make. This confused me until he pointed out that no one is telling me that there's something wrong with how I'm reacting, but they have a difficult time matching my actions with my emotions. People get concerned that I'm not crying at any given moment, but then they are concerned when I start crying. Note to self: I can't please anybody, so I'm doing what I want, when I want it, and how I want to.

Even within the first 24 hours, I was frustrated because things weren't happening fast enough. I didn't have any answers, there were no plans made, and I was downright confused. No one, despite honorable efforts, was changing that about me. The first decision I remember making was to insist that John Monnet did the funeral. Steven would not be comfortable with a Catholic ceremony, and he was not involved with his family's church. John could tell the story. I prayed a lot. I knew there was no one else on the planet that could have satisfied. We met up just before the visitation to discuss a few details. He told me that he had been listening to a Kenny Chesney CD for the last several days and wanted to OK a song with me. He planned to use it as the theme for his sermon. I posted the link with this entry. Give it a listen. If I didn't let John give, I would not have this song practically memorized and playing over and over again in my mind when I have a difficult moment. I think I'm deeming this my theme song. I even named this blog after it! It carries so many meanings that are applicable to what I have already battled, what I am currently battling, and what my life will be when I continue to live with this battle. I am a storm when I'm upset. I'm a storm when I'm confused. I'm a storm when I'm feeling alone. But...I'm also a storm when I'm fighting, when I'm winning, and when I'm living.

Steven in a small, complicated nutshell.

Understanding where I am means understanding how I got here. I've never had to be an adult without Steven. We met when I was 18. This doesn't mean to say that I was not mature; I've always been mature for my age. Ask my mother. In all technical aspects, my adult life has developed with Steven. As I've stated, he accomplished everything he set out to do. Starting his own business, being the best in his business, being well-known and respected in the community, and making me happy. He never failed. To describe the extent of his success, let me state that we couldn't go anywhere in town without running in to at least three people he knew or did business with. Everyone knew my husband, and everyone respected my husband. The 600+ people that attended the visitation is a great testament to that fact. He was strong-willed. If his mind was made up, there was little anyone could say or do to change it. In the end, I feel this was his biggest 'fault'. I remember driving him home Thursday morning, and almost out of nowhere he said, "There's only two things you can call me that would piss me off beyond belief. Lazy and worthless."

Another thing I always found fascinating about Steven is that he was never afraid of death. From the beginning (within weeks of meeting), Steven would tell me that there is no use getting too involved. He noted several reasons: 1. He was not the type to get married. It just wasn't his thing, and it was not meant as an insult to me. 2. He was too stubborn. He didn't like people telling him what to do. 3. He wasn't going to live long anyways or He was going to die young. Throughout our five year relationship, he repeated #3 often. I would get irritated at the mere thought that he could have this idea. I would think, "why would he entertain such a morbid idea?", "why would he think that we aren't going to grow old together?", or "how can he say that out loud?" It was never a serious conversation about death, dying, or leaving me. Rather, he would spout it off in the middle of a goofy, ridiculous conversation about buying a new bike, jeep, truck, mower, watch, etc. Not on every occasion, but I would ask him why he kept telling me that. I remember his words vividly: "I gotta leave a good lookin' corpse!" In fact, the first time I was able to see him that Friday night, this was one of my first thoughts. That night, I thanked him for having enough sense during that messed up time to at least think of what he was leaving behind (after all, he knew his way around a gun). He certainly held up to his promise. A clean shaven, attractive, and lifeless shell that was not otherwise tainted but for one small bullet hole hidden by two bandages. It was up to me what he would wear for the services. Being as vain as he was, I knew he had to look sharp. Suits weren't his thing, so I did my best to dress him in wranglers (the only pair I could find that weren't caked in drywall mud, paint, grass stains, or concrete), my favorite dress shirt (dark blue with white stripes), a high dollar watch (you're welcome, Steven), a shell necklace, black boots, and his favorite expensive hat. I was also unaware that the deceased were required to be buried in socks and underwear. Luckily, he had just bought a whole package of new socks. There aren't a lot of things that top a pair of new stocks. He certainly went out in style, just like he would have wanted.

I remember when his grandpa Norman died. He texted me the news. I went to the shop, and there was Steven doing business as usual. Later after closing, I asked if he had planned to take time off and if he needed to talk/vent about anything. He seemed almost nonchalant about the whole ordeal. I was confused, so he explained that he wasn't bothered much by death and to keep his world at a standstill for any amount of time would be illogical. When I go about my days now, I try to keep this in mind. Not only would he want me working and doing my best at my job, he would want me being happy and keeping with my life that he started for me. He gave me one hell of a jump start in life, and now its my job to finish it.

I've prayed the last two and a half weeks that Steven's soul is in heaven. This was another interesting conversation we always had. I was a church-goer, he was a worker. It was very clear that Steven was never going to be the church-goer type. I knew this from the beginning. He didn't mind that I went to church and even asked about my experience on occasion. I would tell him often that he should have gone with me so he could see for himself (half way joking). Steven was convinced that between myself, my mom, and my grandma, he would go to heaven. In a sense, I took care of him spiritually while he provided for my worldly needs.

Steven was gone a lot. He often left around 7am to start/continue/finish the project of the week. Then, he wouldn't be home til around 9 that night (sometimes 10, sometimes 11, depending on how full the coolers were). If I was in the shop, I'd get irritated as I sat and watched 7 drunk rednecks walk in the door at 7:45pm with a cooler, bring Steven a beer, and settle in for the evening. I'd like to apologize now for the dirty looks and stares dealt to these guys on those late weekday nights. I'm glad you now have those memories to cherish. You knew the door was always open, but you also knew it came with a risk. Raise your hand if you ever walked in to Habing Guns while out road tripping and walked out having signed paperwork for a gun you didn't know you needed. Keep 'em raised if you were ever told "Need has nothing to do with it" or "Its easier to get forgiveness than permission." Don't feel bad. He used these on me too, mostly to convince me that covering the living room walls in duck prints was exactly what I wanted. That was Steven. Here, I'll quote Mitch Myers. "Steve, you could sell a dead cat and make it sound like a good idea!" to which he replied, "Well, it doesn't eat, it doesn't shed, and you don't have to shoot it."

Beginning from an End

8 months. This picture was taken on the happiest and most anticipated day of my life. December 7, 2012. Never have I ever done something that made me feel so whole and so right with the world. In the months to follow, I felt I had found my place in the universe, being Steven Habing's wife. Our life was amazing. I never wanted for anything, and I had the world by the tail. He had spoiled me since the day we met, July of 2008. I was a teenager just out of high school, and he was a hard working party animal just out of college. We were inseparable since. Everything he set out to do, he accomplished. He opened up a gun shop that fall, and it flourished. Most of my nights were spent behind the desk in awe as I watched him work his magic with customers. He was happy, and we were in love bad. While in college in the winter of 2010, we got engaged. We planned the wedding for 12/7/12, enough time for me to graduate and find a job (which I did). We honeymooned, we started a new chapter, we adjusted, and we loved every day.


8/9/13. This day, that life ended. I left the house that morning, and I did not hear from him for quite some time. I became concerned, and so were his parents. I drove for five hours looking for him, calling his phone, and looking in local bars to see if he was trying to unwind. He was discovered by a farmer in his truck with a single self-inflicted gunshot wound to his right temple. He died instantly and without pain. He was parked at an abandoned house out by interstate 70 west of Effingham. He had a beer in the cup holder, his wallet on the console with his driver's license visible to whomever stumbled upon him, and a note written to me on a notepad on the dashboard. The farmer notified the authorities around 4:30pm. He was pronounced dead at 5:40pm at the scene. I was notified that evening, but I don't recall the time. Before I left home to stay with my parents (I was getting upset and worried about not being able to find him), I had left a note on the front door explaining where I was going and how to find me. I left phone numbers for him to call upon his return. When my parents' door bell rang, my heart jumped thinking he had decided to come out of hiding. I was wrong. It was Sheriff John Monnet and my in-laws.

In one single moment, I have never felt so emotionally sick, betrayed, alone, deceived, hurt, lost, confused, angry, and ugly. I couldn't grasp the idea that he would leave me to handle all of these emotions on my own. He was my husband. The one that made me feel beautiful, confident, successful, and wonderful. Why was I now feeling the opposite? I considered our marriage vows: "For better or for worse." I felt betrayed that he was not holding up his part of that commitment. On top of all of these thoughts, I struggled with the fact that I am an Addictions Counselor and work on a crisis team. My job is to prevent suicide and to help those who are struggling with such thoughts. Why couldn't I do that for my own husband? Not just as a wife, but as a professional.

Rewind. 7/1/13. My husband arrives to his gun shop to find that it is on fire. Investigator reports state that lightning was the cause. Although it was not a total loss, this was certainly a devastating blow to our business. This sparked several investigations. Throughout that month, Steven began rebuilding/remodeling the business while periodically meeting with various people and organizations regarding this unfortunate situation. He had good and bad days as he continued to make decisions and get his business back in order. The week of his death, Steven told me that he would have things back up and running within the next week or so. I was under the impression that things were being smoothed out, and we would have our life back in order very soon. Little did I know, he was fighting his own battle with this stress alone. He hid these details from me so I wouldn't worry about him or our future (he knew me well).

We didn't have kids. That isn't what the blog is about. In search of support online, I struggled to find the support I was looking for. A 'young widow', according to various blog categories on the internet, refers to a woman aged 32-49 who is without husband and struggling to cope with single-motherhood on top of the grief of losing her husband. I don't fit there. I looked for survivors of suicide groups. These blogs discussed life-long struggles with mental illness, a failing relationship, divorce, affairs, and chronic-hidden depression. I didn't fit there either. Neither did Steven. I looked for support through spiritual books. They stressed the importance of moving on and following God's path he made for me. Although I believe that to be a spiritual truth, it did nothing for my 'here and now' attitude. I wasn't ready to move forward. I want to be stuck right here. I feel I have no other choice but to stay here in this moment until I can find peace to move forward. SO, I didn't fit in those books either. Maybe its my stubbornness, but I couldn't find a place to fit among blogs, support groups, and books. True to character, I'm doing it on my own and my way. Don't confuse this with isolation. I do this for a living; I know what isolation is and how detrimental it is to any recovery. I'm not isolating. I'm making my own way to grieve.