Troubles In My Marriage — Rewritten
I’ve never believed any marriage is perfect, and mine certainly wasn’t. This wasn’t my first marriage, but I truly believed it would be my last. I had just finished a long six-month deployment aboard the USS REAGAN when my husband, Thomas, told me he wasn’t sure he wanted to be married anymore. Hearing that was like being punched in the chest. I felt like he was giving up on us, and I wasn’t ready to let go. We argued, talked about custody, and discussed every possible outcome if we stayed together. Emotions were constantly running high.
After one particularly deep conversation, I agreed to certain things I hoped might save our marriage, and I asked for one small thing in return. Since coming home, Thomas had gone camping with his friends every weekend — and I was never invited, because they didn’t like me anymore. I simply asked if he would talk to them and see whether I could join sometime. When I followed up, he told me he had no intention of asking. At that moment, something inside me finally broke. I realized I couldn’t fight alone anymore. I accepted we were heading toward divorce, and I emotionally detached just to survive.
Ironically, right after I let go, Thomas suddenly started acting the way I had always hoped he would. It left me confused and exhausted. The weekend of June 9–10, 2018, he wasn’t sure whether he’d go camping because of the weather. June 8th — my stepdad’s birthday — already had me feeling fragile, as he had passed away ten years earlier. Thomas had just bought a truck and asked me to follow him home in his car. Later that night, we started drinking.
After a few drinks, I invited two friends over to hang out and play darts. Eventually, more friends came, and we moved to the hot tub. Thomas wasn’t happy and decided to sleep downstairs while our bedroom was upstairs. My last clear memory was taking another shot in the hot tub — then suddenly waking up in chaos. I looked at Thomas. He turned toward me, raised his hand, and then came the blast. My ears rang with pain and he fell. For a moment, I honestly thought it had to be a horrible joke.
Later, I learned I had tried to do CPR, though I don’t remember. Two friends were still there; one called 911. It felt like seconds before police filled the house. At 12:05 a.m. on June 9, my husband was pronounced dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. One friend had been grazed on the back of the neck by a bullet. There were bullet holes in the ceiling, the window near our bed, the wall — and the final shot that ended his life. The only one I truly remember is the last.
Standing later in the bedroom, seeing the path I had taken that night, I realized several bullets could have been meant for me. I don’t believe Thomas woke up that day planning to die. I believe alcohol clouded his mind and led to a devastating decision he could never take back.
In the days after, I went to the home of the friends he was supposed to camp with. The look on one friend’s face — as if asking, What did you do? — will stay with me forever.
The first year after his death is mostly a blur. I was off work for eight weeks and stayed with my mom in Wisconsin. When I returned to Washington, I had nowhere else to go, so I lived in the house where it happened. I tried counseling, but anger overwhelmed me, so I convinced myself I could heal alone. I jogged, journaled, and drank — but nothing helped. Eventually, in early 2019, I returned to counseling and was diagnosed with PTSD, depression, and anxiety. The process began to medically retire me from the Navy. After 16 and a half years of service, I retired in September 2020 and moved south, hoping for peace.
My youngest child — the one I shared with Thomas — returned from spending summer with his family. One night, she sat beside me and quietly asked, “Did you kill my daddy?” That moment shattered me in an entirely different way.
Year two was filled with anger. Angry that I had been lied to. Angry that I wasn’t enough, that our family wasn’t enough. Angry at the people who blamed me. One of his sisters stopped talking to me the day I told her he died. I wasn’t asked to stand with family at the funeral. At the memorial luncheon on base, his family sat on one side of the room while I sat with mine. Only a couple of people chose to sit with me. I was also grieving the loss of my military career, cut short by three and a half years.
Eventually, I traveled to Boston for the Home Base Program, where I joined a group specifically for Gold Star widows of suicide. Eight women — different ages, different marriages, different timelines — but the same aching loss. Some had been married only a short while, one over thirty years. One woman had lost her husband twenty-seven years earlier. We realized we shared something painful: many of us had been blamed, treated like suspects instead of grieving spouses. Talking openly reminded me that wanting a divorce doesn’t erase love, no matter what others think.
Being in Boston changed me. On the first day, someone gently asked whether I had witnessed it or been told later. I had never asked myself that question. I carried so much guilt, confusion, and disbelief. Today, I know — almost completely — that it wasn’t my fault. Still, there’s that remaining one percent of doubt that whispers otherwise.
Recently, while dropping my youngest at her grandmother’s house, I glanced at the calendar. On June 9, someone had written, The day Thomas was killed. I still don’t know how to process seeing it in ink like that.
Since leaving the Navy, I tried working again but had to quit after a month when my anxiety spiked. My psychiatrist adjusted my medication, and I focused instead on healing at home. I keep busy with workouts, yard work, and journaling. I’ve lost 50 pounds and feel physically stronger than ever — even though, without help with the house or kids, I’m often exhausted emotionally and physically.
Some days joy feels hard to find, even in small moments, but I’m trying. I encourage my kids to eat healthier and exercise with me. I still talk with the women from Boston, who understand in ways others never will. I’m a work in progress — still healing, still learning, and still moving forward, one day at a time.
