I don't know why people think, or expect, everyone will feel the exact same way in the circumstance of death.
The short answer is no.
And now, the long.
I can't feel sorry that the death of my husband signified, for me, the end of the worst year of my life and a less-than-desirable life prior. That the immediate feeling was that of relief. Rest. Calm. Peace. How can anyone be labeled for feelings? They occur beyond our control. What is constantly overlooked is the fact that feelings must stem from somewhere.
Call me crazy, but multiple court visits and restraining orders paired with death threats towards myself, our children, my mother and other fun promises such as "I will tie you up in the basement and rape you if it's the only way I can be with you." don't exactly lead to a feeling of God noooo why?! Come back to me!!! Being the cause of my first-ever gun pointed at my face...also not helping.
Tons of "fun" memories, like the emotional degradation of every single potentially-positive career move being ruined by the implication that I advance in life, never based on talent and ability, but simply because, apparently, anyone who likes my work is simply trying to fuck me. "You only made that song into rotation because they want to fuck you," "He only wants to collaborate with you to get in your pants." Let us not forget, I'm still expected to spit out a Good job, baby! for him when he advances. Far more often then not, I'm quietly behind the advance.
C.E.O. Boss. Leader. Pick a synonym. Always expected to "know your place." Yes, I may have slaved away for 16 hours straight on a music video, but damn it if he's not going to write Produced and Directed by KAGE on the credits. Yes, I may have established certain connections to get us shows opening for Wu-Tang among other locally known acts, but damn if he wouldn't boast about his wonderful ability to network.
What utterly mind-fucks the shit out of me, is the expectation to immortalize and glorify someone with infidelities toward you. I guess I'm a bitch for not being comfortable attending annual events where I get to chat-it-up with just one of the females he took his ring off for. Or having no desire to attend such an event where I amchastised for running late one of 3 days of funeral services because I was busy trying to put the final touches on, render and burn his commemorative video which everyone loved so much...ridiculous.Horrible me. Ha.
I suppose the crazy title may stem from calling bullshit when he plead to a judge that "...she held me down and stomped my head in." Yup, I'm crazy. Not the 6 foot tall 245 pound man who claims his 5foot 4 inch 110 pound wife is somehow more powerful than him. My bruises, with photo, are imaginary and his imaginary-bruises are real. What a load of fuckery.
The thing that is really, REALLY sad in all of this: the people who are holding his memory so dear are the ones he hated the most.
That guy who got a commemorative tattoo? I won't tell him that the person he pays tribute to spoke regularly about how much of a pathetic, useless, piece of shit he was if he didn't give him money to fund his own dream. I believe "Pussy-bitch" was his behind-the-back name. That girl who has his sticker on her car? I won't tell her how much he spoke of her making him sick to his stomach and that she was lucky she always had weed or he wouldn't keep her around. Her behind-the-back name was "Rich bitch." I could absolutely create a list of insanely terrible things said about everyone he was "close" to; "Fat Bitch," "Dumb Bitch," "Nasty Whore," "Fat Fuck," "Clown," "Fucking Loser." Those are just a few of his friends. The worst is of his own flesh and blood. I once wrote him a very detailed letter spelling out the reasons he should stop speaking so negatively of the ones that will actually reach out and help him when he doesn't even deserve it, but I couldn't give it to him because during my attempt to ease into handing it over I got scared. I wasn't trying to have on of those pushed into a balled-up trembling and crying wreck type of nights. Not that night. I used to tell him "You're the one who's supposed to protect me from people, not the one I need protection from."
Sitting next to someone for years-on-end listening to the phony conversations, then to the real thoughts after the phone call is over, doesn't make it easy to see them as likable. It's sick
One of the sickest things about this man, was that he had a list; an actual, factual, physical list of the names of all the people which he intended to murder prior to his death. In his last 2 weeks of life he spoke on his disappointment that he didn't think he had enough time to carry the list out.
Oh, and if you haven't gathered, he knew he was dying. He didn't want to share with anyone, particularly his family, that he had a limited time left because he said he didn't want them to act "all weird and different." Fair enough. Some people may not have known outright, but they knew something was different. A lot of comments about the fact that he was being nice to them; and such events struck them as strange. A few people noticed it was strange how, the day before his death, he decided to take a family trip to Historic DC. His own 'bestie' commented on recalling the thought of it being strange, because "KAGE doesn't do that sort of stuff." Yeah, I know
If you know your time is running out and your primary thought is Oh no! I need more time to murder all of these people! You're fucking twisted. Some of these people have bought tickets to his annual Bull Roast, some just rubbed him the wrong way, some pissed him off more than a decade ago.
I would go into any amount of gruesome detail for those who really wanted to know. But ignorance is simple and most seem happy making simple assumptions and pointing ignorant fingers.
In the end, I still, with the help of my mother, lifted him from the place he had fallen, scraped the vomit from his mouth, held down his convulsing body and breathed my own breath into his lungs. Together, we resuscitated him after every bout of tachycardia for nearly half an hour straight while waiting for paramedics. I remained completely composed so that I could fill the EMT's in on his condition (Idiopathic Hypertrophic Sub-aortic Stenosis) accompanied by a Mitral-valve prolapse and proceed to break it down so they knew what it meant for his heart.
Never once did either of us complain of the physical pain and strain we had put on our bodies to make such attempts. Never thinking he had just told us a week prior he had a loaded gun and was headed over to put a bullet straight in our foreheads. Never thinking, 5 months prior, he threatened to take the life of myself and my children, her child and grandchildren, by setting our home on fire and hoping we burn to death.
Oh what a cold-hearted crazy bitch I am.
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