The Story of Erin’s Death

Since I’ve started working on this website, I’ve put a lot of thought into the type of things I want to put up on it. Specifically, things dealing with Erin’s death. The main reason I created this was to honor her memory. I wanted tell the story of this wonderful person that touched so many lives in such a special way. But there’s another part of her story; a dark and painful side. So I’ve been torn about whether to include that part of the story here.

On one hand, I want this to be a place where we can remember the joy and love that Erin brought all of us – a place where we can celebrate her and her memory – and I’m afraid that sharing details about her death will somehow taint or diminish the ability of this website to allow us to share and enjoy those happy thoughts. On the other hand, I want Erin’s truth, her whole truth, to be known and attempted to be understood. She died in a dark room, alone and drowning in sad, painful, destructive and, in many cases, irrational thoughts and feelings. It feels wrong to me to allow that part of the story to remain in the dark. It feels dishonest and disrespectful to her.

Of course, there’s also the consideration of what her wishes would have been – probably the most important consideration to me and something into which I’ve put a lot of thought. Would she want some of these details to be known? Would she want people to feel the pain of knowing of her own suffering? Or, would she rather people focus on the positive things? These questions are difficult for me to be able to answer. It feels like a huge burden to try to answer on her behalf, but I feel that I know Erin better than I know myself. One thing I know is that she could be, at times, brutally honest. She had an integrity which demanded awareness and dedication to truth and she was at times harsh in her insistence for honesty. Another thing I know is that she believed in sharing her own feelings and thoughts in order to help others who might be going through or feeling the same thing. No matter how embarrassing, painful, or uncomfortable, she was willing to lay herself bare in order to help someone understand or find comfort.

I think, ultimately, she would want the truth of her death to be known, if only so that people could understand and maybe learn from her story. In addition to what she would want, there’s also what I feel she deserves. She deserves to have her story known. So I’m going to share some details. I will warn you that a lot of this will be very hard to hear. If you’re at all unsure of whether you want to read it, please do not read further. I don’t want to cause any more pain than what her death has already caused. Also, there is a lot of writing that follows so I would recommend that, if you do decide to read on, do it when you have some time and are in a safe, comfortable place. Please have someone you can reach out to if you need some emotional support.

WARNING: Only read further if you are absolutely sure you can handle painful details about Erin’s death.

Suicide is a uniquely painful kind of death, both for the victim and for those that love them. I could never profess to truly understand that of the victim. I think endlessly about the pain and overwhelming hopelessness that Erin must have been feeling that night, but I still doubt that I can really imagine how it must have been for her. However, I can speak to what suicide causes for those that love the victim. The feelings of remorse and regret that I wasn’t there for her in her time of need; the thought of her sitting there by herself, feeling those things, feeling so alone. Wishing I could go back and convince her how much we loved her and how much we wanted her to stay. The questions and the need to understand. The anger, both at myself and, yes, at her. And, for me, the guilt. I know that many feel this guilt when they’ve lost someone to suicide. It’s natural and understandable. We wish that we’d done more. We feel that we’ve failed them. All of these things on top of the already impossibly painful and devastating fact that we’ve lost this person forever. It’s not really a topic which I’m a talented enough writer to fully explore, so I’m going to more-or-less stick to the facts.

I’ll start by saying that Erin was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder a while before her suicide. It’s something from which I believe she suffered for all, or at least most, of her adult life. I’m not an expert and truthfully don’t fully trust the mental health system, however I’ve read a couple books about BPD since Erin’s death and it seems to me to fit pretty well. There are 9 criteria for diagnosis and someone only has to have 5 of them to be diagnosed. In my opinion, she exhibited all 9 of them. This disorder had many effects on her life, such as leading to eating disorders, her alcoholism, her inability sometimes to cope with emotions, and the effects it had on her relationships with people. Again, I’m not an expert, but it seems to, at least in part, go back to her childhood when she wasn’t given unconditional love by her parents. Her mother was emotionally unstable, suffered from drug addiction, and ended up committing suicide when Erin was in her early 20s. Her father was an emotionally and physically abusive alcoholic who drank himself to death some years later.

In talking about her BPD, I don’t want you to think that I blame her BPD for our relationship problems. I, myself, have my own issues, and they were just as responsible for our problems… actually, more so. The therapist I saw for a while after Erin’s death said I’m codependent (what she called “Self Love Deficit Disorder”). I could write pages and pages about how each of our respective set of issues, so similar in many fundamental ways but so different in terms of how they manifested, interacted to poison our relationship. However, for now, suffice it to say that our relationship had developed some very serious issues. It more-or-less boils down to proving that old cliche about how “you can’t love someone else if you don’t love yourself.” She was afraid of abandonment and my cold, detached way of dealing with my emotions caused her to feel distant, judged and constantly afraid of losing my love. I took responsibility for her feelings and happiness and tried to be her caretaker, so her erratic emotions scared the shit out of me and made me feel like I had to walk on eggshells and like I was failing her.

For 12 years, the power of our intense love for each other allowed us to simply white-knuckle it and push through these issues. However, over time, it became damaging, not just to our relationship but to ourselves. I became convinced that I wasn’t good for her and that she would be better off without me, at least for a while. I was holding her back and hurting her recovery. She was going to therapy, going to 12-step meetings, and was truly working on bettering herself. However, the baggage and scars of our years and years of fights and emotional turmoil were weighing down on her. This beautiful thing that we had, this tremendous and powerful love, had become distorted and was no longer healthy for either of us. So, during a fight, I told her that we needed to split up. It wasn’t the first time divorce had been discussed; it had been brought up by both of us in the past. In fact, she had once walked out on me and said she wasn’t coming back, spending that night at a hotel. I’ve packed my bags before, too, but never actually left. However, I think this was the most serious instance where divorce had come up – not because the fight, itself, was worse, but simply because this sort of thing is bound to increase in intensity over time as the baggage builds up.

The fight – our final fight, as it would turn out – started Christmas night. We had just celebrated our 6-year wedding anniversary the day before and were enjoying a quiet dinner at a local Chinese restaurant, which was kind of a Christmas tradition for us when we weren’t with family. I don’t even remember what started it, but it doesn’t really matter because it was the same fight we’d been having for years: neither of us thought we were any good for the other, we both hated ourselves, I was too emotionally distant, she was too emotionally erratic, etc. We talked for hours and hours, concluding with me bringing up divorce. I slept on the couch that night. For most of the next day, we barely talked or even looked at each other. When we finally did resume the conversation of the night before, I was cold and distant in many ways, believing that I had to show resolve in some stupid form of “tough love.” It was also partly just me trying to force myself to see it through. I didn’t want to lose her – I loved her so fucking much, I felt like I needed her and couldn’t live without her – but I felt it was the right thing to do. So many times over the years, things had gotten bad and we just powered through it, but I’d come to believe that we were hurting each other, and our love for each other, by holding on. I thought we needed to work on ourselves separately before we could be happy together. I’ve thought a lot about it since that night and I still don’t know whether I would have been able to stick to my resolution to save her from myself. I’d tried it before and had never been able to actually follow through with it. I just loved her so fucking much and wanted to believe that we could work it out.

Eventually, she went into the bedroom and I stayed on the couch in the living room. I decided to go to the gym and when I went to get my headphones out of the bedroom, the door was locked. She let me in and while I was getting them I noticed her reaching under the bed. I asked her what she was doing and she pulled out a bottle of scotch, the only alcohol left in the apartment since she’d gotten sober 7 months ago and we’d poured everything else down the sink. It was a gift I’d gotten years ago and had been up on a closet shelf in a case. I noticed a blister-pack of DayQuil on the bed and asked her, “should I be worried?” She responded, “I just want to get fucked up.” I didn’t know what to say. We were fighting and talking about divorce; I felt like I needed to give her space and that I shouldn’t try to lecture her or control her. I walked out of the apartment and didn’t say a goddamn thing… just went to the gym.

When I came back from the gym, the door was locked again. I got it open with the file part of a set of fingernail clippers. She was curled up in the fetal position and looked like she was asleep. The bottle of scotch was on the bedside table, about 3 or 4 shots gone. I stood there in the doorway looking at her for a few moments, then I shut the door and went to the couch in the living room, where I slept that night. When I woke up the next morning, she wasn’t around and I just sat on the couch for a little while, listening. When I didn’t hear any sounds from the bedroom after a while, I went and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so I opened the door and that’s when I found her. She was no longer curled up, now she was completely straight and on her back. I’ll spare you a detailed description of what had now become just “her body,” but other people I’ve told have said it’s consistent with her having seized. The medical examiner found lethal levels of 4 drugs in her system: venlafaxine (Effexor, her anti-depressant), dextromethorphan (decongestant from DayQuil), pyrilamine (Midol) and acetaminophen (Tylenol and also present in DayQuil and Midol Extra Strength). The medical examiner told me that there was enough of each individual drug in her system to be able to kill her on its own.

I’ve written a story about those two nights and the morning I found her. I never really intended for this story to be read by anyone, it was more just a need to try to get down on paper what I had been feeling. I don’t think it has any important facts about her death that this blog post doesn’t, so there’s no need for you to read it if you don’t want. I’ve been told by the two people that I have shared it with that it’s hard to read and “sticks with you,” so I would recommend not reading it if you’re having a hard time with your feelings about Erin’s death. You can find it here:

One/Thing

While I sat in the living room as the police and the medical examiner were in the bedroom, I heard the medical examiner say to someone that there was a note. I heard her say that it was 20 pages, and she began reading it out loud, “Dear Aaron, I’m sorry. This is no one’s fault but my own…” before she stopped, seeming to realize (or be told) that I could hear her. The police took the note and it was 3 months before I was able to get it from them; 3 months during which I called the medical examiner and the police constantly and even ended up in a shouting match with the head detective in the lobby of the police station, after which I drove over to the courthouse to try to get a court order. Eventually the toxicology results came back, it was ruled a suicide, and they gave me the letter. As I read it, sobbing uncontrollably in the police station parking lot, I found out that it wasn’t actually a 20-page letter, but 20 different letters. She had re-started the letter over and over again. Each letter was addressed to me, some only a few lines long and some a full page or more.

As I mentioned before, I’m torn over whether to share these letters with people. On one hand it’s a personal letter addressed to me, probably the most personal letter she ever wrote me. However, again, to me the importance of telling her story takes priority. I think deep down, she would agree with me that it should be seen. If she knew how much we were suffering from her loss, how troubling the questions are, how much we want to understand what she was feeling and why she did it, she would understand and agree with me sharing it. I must admit that my guilt is somewhat driving my decision, as well. After all, I’m the one who sat there in the other room as she died, alone and scared and in pain. Don’t misunderstand, this isn’t a confession or an attempt to unburden myself; actually, it’s an attempt to do a little justice, what little justice I’m able to do. It just doesn’t seem right to keep this secret, to allow her to stay in that dark room, suffering in silence with no one knowing her pain. I have to let her voice be heard, her story told. All of it. At one point in her letters, she says that she doesn’t care what I tell people, that “a one sentence shitty legacy makes sense.” Well she deserves more than that. She deserves for people to know the truth.

For me, the letters are extremely hard to read. She was always an amazing writer and her feelings and pain come across very clearly in her letters. In them, she talks about feeling broken and damaged beyond repair. She talks about not knowing how to live her life or to love “the right way.” She says that she’s “a creature of love who does not know how to give it correctly.” The letters get more and more pained and somewhat irrational as they go on. Of course, she was in an irrational state of mind as she wrote them; just the fact that she was taking her own life will attest to that. But also, she had just taken a large amount of pills and alcohol and that was surely affecting her state of mind.

If you want to read the letters, I understand, but I will warn you that you may not find the closure that you’re looking for. How I wish, so much, to be able to respond to these letters. To tell her how much she means to me and to so many others. To tell her that she hasn’t failed and that we can figure it out. That she is loved and she is wanted and needed, that she IS a source of happiness and joy and makes my life better and I would give anything to keep her in it. Maybe it’s better to have a letter, to have her final say, but the “closure” that I thought it would bring is really just more pain; the pain of not being able to respond, or comfort, or reassure. The questions answered do not compare with the questions raised. And it’s just so damn hard to hear the pain and turmoil she was feeling while not being able to do anything about it… while knowing that there will never be anything you can do.

I’ve decided not to post the letters on this website. Not just to protect her privacy but to protect you. But if you want to read the letters, just reach out to me and I’ll send you a link.

So there it is. Even after writing all of this, I’m not sure I’ve done the right thing. I’ve waited a long time to share these details and maybe I should have always kept them a secret. I’m also very afraid that I wasn’t able to tell this story in the right way; to do her and her memory justice. Also, I’m sorry to have caused you any more pain than you were already feeling. I know how much it hurts. As I’ve said, I don’t want this to be about me, some confessional or catharsis. I want it to be about telling Erin’s story, and it just didn’t feel right to keep this part of the story a secret. Now you know what she was feeling when she made her decision; what was going on at the time. You know my part in it, what I did, and worse, what I didn’t do. I know that she made her own decision, and it was based on much more than the possibility of losing me. At the same time, I have to own my part; how I failed her. Even just thinking about that night, how can I forgive myself for not going into that room and checking on her more – trying to wake her up. Or for just walking out and going to the gym when I found out she was drinking and taking DayQuil. But more than just that night… you don’t know, couldn’t possibly know, the depth of my failure because you couldn’t possibly know, nor could I explain, about the 12 years leading up to this. I should have tried harder, but what I basically did was give up on her.

Or all the time before that, the pain and disappointment and fear she experienced in her younger years. None of us, myself included, can really understand Erin’s pain and the death it caused. But one thing is sure: she is no longer suffering. As much as I wish she was still here, that she could have seen a way through it, that I could have supported her more to help her see it, that she could have known how valuable she was and how much we loved her, as much as I wish all of those things, there’s no chance for any of them. Even though it’s possible that if things had been different, she may have been able to eventually find true happiness and contentment, the fact is that she is no longer feeling the pain and turmoil that drove her to make that final decision. I know I will never forgive myself for letting her down like I did, but at least I know that I can never let her down again. All I can do, now, is try to learn from her and honor her memory and love in any way I can find to do so.

I want to apologize again for any pain what I’ve written and shared here may have caused you. If you want to talk to me about it, please do not hesitate to reach out. I absolutely mean that. Don’t feel like it’s a sensitive topic for me and you’d be hurting me in any way in bringing it up; I think about it constantly and talking about it with someone will not increase my pain in any way. Even if you just have questions about what happened with Erin. However, I of course understand if I’m not the person you want to talk to about it, so please reach out to someone else you can talk to. There are support groups for survivors of suicide, many of which can be found on the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention website’s directory:

https://afsp.org/find-support/ive-lost-someone/find-a-support-group/

If you’re thinking about suicide yourself at all, please reach out for help. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255, online chat here:

http://chat.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/GetHelp/LifelineChat.aspx

And there are more online resources at https://www.save.org/find-help/

As I said, please feel free to reach out to me if you need to talk or anything.