A letter to Susan

If I were to write a letter today, I would write one to Susan Truitt. I don't know Susan, but I know about her. She's a local artist who lives on Lansing Island, a gated enclave of 'well to do' folks, with her husband and sons.


I learned this about Susan through the news media, when her husband, a local Dr., attempted to murder her by assaulting and hitting her repeatedly on the head and face, with a hammer.  She survived that violence, was able to testify at his bond hearing, and is now a widow because her husband later killed himself, in a local hotel room.


Why, pray tell, would I want to write a letter to Susan?


My reason for writing is because I know how she feels. I can relate.


My late husband didn't have a hammer in his hand, instead he held a Saturday night special, a 25 caliber hand gun. My attacker confronted me face to face, while Susan's attacked her from behind. Or so I've garnered from all the articles I've read.


The shock, utter horror, the sheer terror of realizing this person with whom you've lived with, kissed, hugged, had his babies, cooked for, cleaned for, cared for...okay, disagreed with, argued with - all the things you do with someone you're married to. And one day, THAT day, he hates you so much, that he want to destroy you, er me.


This is an experience no amount of time or therapy will erase. Forever etched in my mind is the rage, the unadulterated hatred, that I saw in his eyes. It's said that the 'eyes are the window of the soul', and I glimpsed an anger so toxic, so dark and reckless.........it was as if the devil himself were standing there preparing to devour me.  (I don't care who you are, THAT is some scary shit!)


If I were to write a letter to Susan, I would tell her to please grieve her losses. Miriam Greenspan states, "grief is one of the most powerful emotional forces there is - powerful enough to shatter the self we've carefully constructed."
Not only has Susan lost her husband, physically, but also the man she thought she knew.


For a period of time she also lost her privacy, as the whole world stopped and turned to look at her and her life and family. I don't know why tragedy does this to folks, but it does.


The weight of the peering, judging world was more than I could cope with. I cracked. I felt as if my soul was exposed to each and every person I met. At that time in my life I was lugging around an enormous amount of guilt and shame from unresolved incest and strapped to that was dysfunctional issues too numerous to chronicle. In a nutshell: my soul wasn't a pretty sight, it was downright F'UGLY. (excuse my French, but it was fuckin' ugly)


If I were to write a letter to Susan, I would tell her that it will get easier, to live that is.  Take your time and give yourself permission to feel whatever you're feeling and do it without fear, without shame or doubt or condemnation.


It was NOT YOUR FAULT.


You will NEVER 'get over it', but you will get through it.


You will NEVER 'get back to normal', what's happened is too profound. What you will get is a new awareness of yourself, of your family, friends,  and community, of the world, and perhaps even of God.


You'll find joy in the pink glow of dawn's early light, in the ripple of the flowing river.  You'll find gratitude in the budding of flowers and trees on a crisp Spring day and also in the dried and crumpled leaves and petals blowing in an Autumn wind. And happiness, you'll find happiness in the smile of your grandchildren and of the last glimmer of life in the eyes of someone you have loved.


This is what I would write, if I were to write a letter to Susan.