Jilly D.

There are still no words….

In Anniversary and memorials, Pictures and memories on September 15, 2011 at 4:38 am

Madly, deeply, truly in love. From the minute he laid eyes on me — the snowflakes on his eyelashes, the orange snowpants, welding cap, moustache and beard — he captured my soul. I gave him everything he ever wanted and more. He gave me his heart.

Sammy Minor Warren (Dec 6, 1951-Sept 15, 2009).

There are still no words to explain what happened, or why, two years ago. There is Sam’s story and he’s not here to tell it or explain himself. And if he were here, I know what he’d say.

“None of your business.” But then Sam would go on and without shame and much embellishment tell a good story.

I know Sam thought he was doing a heroic thing — some Sylvester Stallone manly man Hari Kari thing; an honor killing.  Sam wasn’t one to use a lot of words. Actions spoke louder. He took full responsibility for ending his life and it spoke volumes to those who had let him down.

He never said goodbye to me. His suicide blindsided me. He had me convinced we’d spend the winter in Louisiana because he couldn’t live through another cold winter. After the first two winters together in a small cabin, he could never get warm enough with snow on the ground. I wanted to believe this was a good sign in our relationship. With all of the ups and downs and then a miserable cold wet summer our planning towards a sunny adventure is one way he kept the romance in our dinner and pillow conversations. The night before he killed himself, we made passionate love and I slept in his arms entangled between his legs and feet. I felt certain in my bones we’d make it through anything together.

Sam knew me well enough to know I am too weak to inflict pain and injury on myself. He ripped my heart out when he died and I didn’t want to live. But I felt his tremendous personal courage in taking his own life because I didn’t have it in me to end my pain and suffering as he did his own.  The grief of suicide crippled me for a long time. Mourning feels like an unwelcome spiritual rehabilitation program. But in my weaknesses I have found other strengths, and one of those is writing.

Sam encouraged my efforts at writing. I know when he died he felt certain the memoir I’d written about him would soon be published. He dictated the last unwritten chapter of this true to life story and I can’t write that part yet. Sam was such a unique character and his story worth telling, that I continue to work on it. Good things take time.

For me it’s a book of our memories of twelve enchanted years before September 15th, 2009. He changed my life. I’ll keep working on writing the story of Sam Warren that might change your life too.



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