Ambiguous loss. I finally found the word for it. A definition for the cluster f*ck of emotions that schizophrenia left me with after ripping away my fiancé and robbing my son of his daddy.
There is no death certificate and there was no funeral to attend. No finite moment of loss and yet here I lay, wide awake on a Sunday night, grieving the death of a man who is still very much alive. Alive but so, so far away. Unreachable.
To be honest, I spend most days wishing I could hate him the way that his schizophrenia has made him hate me. Paranoia has made him belive that I am the enemy, followed by a long list of bizarre accusations and many hateful words, all of which trample through my mind daily. I want to hold every awful and heartbreaking word against him. I want to be angry at him for creating this hell that he now doesn’t have to live in, to be resentful over the tens of thousands of dollars that he has cost me and my family. I want to be pissed off over having to pick up the pieces of our shattered life. I want to be all of those things and more but it isn’t long before a song will come on the radio or for the memories to flood in. The lump in my throat begins to swell and before I know it large hot tears are rolling down my face. I grab a tissue and wipe away the very same tears I cried so many times before as I was pleading with him to accept help, except for this time it’s not him that needs to do the accepting - it’s me. Accepting that healing can be done in the midst of the unresolved without love or hate in the heart.