A Weight Lifted

"I want to tell you something, but I'm afraid". These are the words I said to my grief-counselor last Monday, when I saw her for my weekly session. For the past 2 years, she has been the one person that I have bared my soul to and opened my wounds to, over and over and over again. But this was different. This was something I was terrified to say out loud, because once I said it out loud - that would mean it was out there in the universe, it was no longer just thoughts inside my head, and I would now have to be accountable for it. These are all the things I said to her when she asked me why I was afraid.

"I realized something about myself", I continued, taking a leap and hoping she would be there to catch me. "I made a connection between my weight and my constant struggle with my body image- and everything else in my life - including the morning he died, and all the days before that morning , and why I cannot let go of all the guilt that I feel about not being able to say goodbye to him. It wasn't so much about saying goodbye as it was about saying 'I'm so sorry that I didn't do better in our marriage. I didn't work harder so that you wouldn't have to hold down 2 jobs and be exhausted. I was so happy and so lazy and so complacent, that I just sat back and let you take care of me, because you did it so well. I am so very sorry. '

My counselor said something that she has said to me many, many times before - because it never seems to sink into me. I never seem to want to accept it, or let myself off the hook. I have this inner-need to punish myself, and I don't know why. She said the familiar words that I have heard her say before with such love and warmth: "You didn't kill him, Kelley. You didn't kill your husband. You are not the reason he had a heart attack and collapsed. It would have happened wherever he was in his life at that time, and you have to know that he was with you and he was incredibly happy being with you. It was what he wanted. You have to stop making yourself responsible for something you could not control."

 I couldn't even look her in the eye. What she was saying made logical sense, but I still felt like a murderer. I still felt like my actions and my lack of actions had somehow been the indirect link that made my sweet husband die. I should have been working two jobs, too. Why was I allowing him to exhaust himself that way? I should have gone to more auditions and tried harder to get acting work. That was the reason he packed up his cushy life in Florida and moved it to New Jersey with me, so that I could pursue my dreams of being a performer and comedian. I should have gone to the gym all those times that I got in my car and said I was going to the gym, instead of parking at a McDonalds parking lot and stuffing my face with french fries while listening to comedy radio to waste enough time to equal "a good workout." What kind of sick person sits in their car just to avoid going to the gym? What kind of wife does that to the husband she loves so much?

As I rushed all the words out to my counselor, she cheered me on like a sports coach. "You're doing so great. Keep talking", she said. My eyes were red and I was sobbing suddenly with the next few sentences. It was the first time I had said them out loud to anyone.

"Why did he die? Why was it him and not me? I was the one who was so overweight and out of shape. I was the one who ate like crap and never exercised and was so lazy. Not him. He played tennis, he rode his bike, he kept in shape, he was a paramedic and helped people everyday. It's not fair that he died, when it should have been me that died. Not him. I feel so guilty for living. I feel so guilty that I'm alive and that his death STILL hasn't made me lose weight and get healthy. I STILL cant motivate myself to do it. I just keep gaining more and living in denial about it. What the hell is wrong with me? Why couldn't I see this before?"

"You're seeing it now. This is so huge. Just saying it out loud is such a big deal. Now you can really, actually, start to move forward and start to process some of these feelings. There's a lot of healing in all the things you just made the choice to say today. You chose to open this door. Congratulations. Im very proud of you."

I told her I felt so much better just having said it out loud to someone. And I did. But I also felt a lot of shame and hurt and grief. There is so much shame in talking about your own weight with someone else. Talking about your lack of control over what you eat and don't eat. Talking about your zero desire to exercise, and your ability to come up with creative excuses NOT to work out. The whole thing feels so violating, and I hate it when anyone else comments on my eating habits or weight. Even when they are trying to help or when it comes from a caring place, it always feels like they are breathing down my neck and I want to push them far away. I need to start dealing with this weight issue though, and I need to do it silently, amongst myself, and my husband, who never deserved to die. And I need to somehow believe that I did not kill him, and that I still deserve to live - even though I am broken.