Living with "After" Shock

Something I feel many people don't understand about losing your partner is that there are many, many subsequent losses. It's something all of you understand, or will come to. Like aftershock from an earthquake, they continue to shake our foundation for YEARS after the initial tragedy. It can be the smallest things, like the first time you have to take out the trash or eat alone. Or the really big things like first holidays without them or moving from the place you called home together. But it's also the joyful things, like landing a new job or winning an award, making new friends or dating someone new. Every single event or change in your life from the moment they die is another loss - another layer of having to come to terms with the fact that they aren't here and aren't coming back. Another small step of letting go in order to move forward. Not letting go of them, but letting go of what would have been to make room for what is and will be.

I've had several such tremors recently. One of which was attending a professional development workshop for artists. This workshop was kind of a big deal. I had to submit a portfolio of my artwork along with an artist statement to even be considered. They only chose 22 people to be part of the workshop. And I was chosen. So last weekend, I hauled myself the hour and a half to Austin - not knowing what to expect. I was nervous, but excited. The workshop was great. It was lead by two very well established business women from NYC - one who works with artists and creative companies of all sizes on strategic and business planning, and the other a successful artist who now helps other artists all over the country through this workshop series. As I sat there, I felt full of excitement. And promise. And possibility. It was just the opportunity for helping me take the next steps of building this new career and life in my "after" life.

As the day unfolded, I began to see more clearly for the first time that this path will require me to grow into a person I am not yet. To learn how to approach galleries, curators, museums, magazines, etc. To learn how to speak professionally about my work and how that must differ depending on the setting and person. And if I ever hope to do speaking engagements about art and grief - I will need to develop my almost non-existent public speaking skills too. 


What I didn't expect though, is the aftershock.

So there before me, in this class, lay the outline of just how much change and growth will potentially happen if I step fully into this path ahead. Suddenly, I began feeling this backward pull - this resistance. Of course resistance to anything new is natural, but this was more than just the typical fears of being out of my comfort zone. It was the fear of stepping more fully OUT OF the life he and I shared together and the person I was when I was with him. It means stepping into becoming a woman he did not yet know me to be. 

I felt backed up against a wall… not wanting to make those steps, not feeling ready to walk away yet from the remnants of our life together. And at the same time, wanting what that future could be with a deep burn inside me… knowing that this path will be the best way I can honor myself and him.

Such a mix of emotions. Wanting to go full speed ahead, but not wanting to let go. Even though I still feel just as connected to him as I have, I still fear that letting go more will somehow mean I will lose him more. Nothing has proven this logic - yet still, it's quite a real fear. Will I always have this fear? Every step forward - will it test my ability to trust that he will remain with me just as strongly no matter where I go and what I do? Perhaps. Or maybe it will get easier to trust over time. For now, I'm just taking it all in, paying attention, trying to learn what I can from it… and trying to be as brave as I am able to be. And also, as gentle as possible with myself. I don't have to rush, or push too far ahead too fast. I can take things on as I feel strong enough, bit by bit. Or as my fiancé used to say… "how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time". It always made me smile. Remembering today to be okay with where I am at, and to trust that he will be with me fully as I move more fully into a new life.

Fitting Two Worlds Together

"It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good"

Don't we ALL wish it was that simple??
Since coming home from my trip to Hawaii a few weeks ago, things have been rough. I wrote a post here trying to glean some of the positives from everything as of late - but really what I think I need to talk about is how freaking scary even the good new things can be. I went on that trip just to go visit a friend and see a new place… I never imagined that the girl I was when I left would not be the same girl I was when I returned. But that is what has happened. Since coming home, it is as if I landed back in my reality and realized in a very real way that I am a different person. And part of me is SO NOT okay with that.

Logically yes, I am a different person than I was when my fiancé was alive. The day he died I became a different person… and every day since. But I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the moment you look back and realize that you are REALLY a new person. When you actually see that you have new hobbies and new friends and a new career and life direction and BAM - it hits you suddenly. And the scary and heart wrenching part of that realization is the feeling that maybe, just maybe, if he and I were to meet now, or in a few more years from now, that we might not actually be the best match for each other. I don't even know how to entertain that thought in my brain… the same brain that knows this man to be the only one I ever wanted to spend my life with.

And I cannot even express to you HOW difficult it is to even TYPE those words publicly. My throat is tensing up with anxiety just to acknowledge this outwardly. Because he was and is my best friend… and I cannot tell you what a betrayal it feels like to say that. But there it is. This feeling that has been eating at me without my really being able to understand what was going on until today. His death has changed me. And in that, I have become this new person with new interests and new needs. I'm making new friends who never knew him - and for the first time in two years this doesn't feel so horrible. I'm going on trips for myself, and putting my all into my photography and building a business of my own as an artist and writer. I'm at the gym five days a week now (which is unheard of for me) and in the best shape of my life. My entire life is different from what it was when he was alive… and just after hitting the two-year mark it's as if I am realizing it somehow for the first time. And it almost comes as a shock, as if it snuck up on me. I really liked who I was when I was with him… but the person that he has helped create me to be since he died is someone I love SO much more deeply and fiercely. Because I've had to fight so hard for her.

It's all just so confusing. Because he is the reason for it all - he changed the entire course of my life in big ways. And so he is still so completely involved and a part of everything in that way. Yet that also means that his role in my life is different now. When we set out on this part of our journey, we began different paths, side by side, but not together as we were. Still I love him. Still I am in love with him. Still he is my best friend. And I still cry all the time because of how much I miss him. But somehow, in a way I cannot quite put into words, his role is different. New. Just as I am new and my role for him I suppose is different now too. And I don't really know how to fit all of this together. I've spent the past two years in hibernation, growing, changing, but not really making a lot of forward movement. But as that changes, as I do begin to lean into a new life, how does it all fit together? My answer right now is that I don't really know. I don't know what to do with all of it. I mean really, what DO you do with that? Other than share it with others - so you feel less crazy - so you feel more safe and okay with the fact that it's scary for you. That's all I know to do with it, so that's what I'm doing here. Thanks for listening.

Fear

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I'm heading into the run of second anniversaries that begin in February and run for about 4 months - his surgery; the complications hitting and the roller-coaster of his illness; him dying.   Something I'm acutely aware of.

In my journey, the big anniversary for me is the March "complications hitting" anniversary.  That's the day from which my life was never going to be the same again.   Ian's death itself changed the tone of "never going to be the same".

And right now, year three and beyond looks scarier than the first two.

Throughout this journey, I've never been worried about "surviving". 

But this week, fear of the future's suddenly risen to the surface. 

It's always been there, I guess, but has come into sharp relief this week.

Fear of being alone.

Fear John will grow up, and then toss me to the wind.

Fear I won't re-partner in the future; find someone for simple companionship.

Fear something will happen to either John or I.

Fear of the next 40-50 years that stretch out before me.

Scary

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Everything is so damn scary for me these days. Just speaking up and saying what I think feels like too much of a risk. It's as though my confidence died with Dave.

I know I'm courageous only because I can see now that I acted many times since Dave died despite nearly crippling fear. But I don't feel courageous. I feel so scared that I want to curl up in a ball and hide from the world.

It's the acting even when you're scared out of your gourd that means you're courageous. This is something that took a long time to sink in for me. It's still sinking in. In fact, it doesn't register until someone else tells me. It's as though my own brain can't do the math (Fear + Acting anyway = Courageous) unless I'm reminded by an outside source. And even then my brain goes right back to telling me all about my fear.

My therapist said that I'm holding the fear right up in front of my face so I can't see around me. Good stuff might be out there, but I don't see it because all I can see is the fear. I try to picture myself setting the fear down in my lap long enough to look around. It is NOT EASY.

In an attempt to help this sink in for me and really examine how I've been gutsy and brave lately, I'm going to start thinking and talking about my achievements more. I downplay. Always downplaying. And then I forget those accomplishments as my brain goes straight for the fears and the doubts instead.

I'll start here, knowing that you lovely people won't think of it as bragging but as a way to survive and triumph over negative thinking and paralyzing fear. Also, I'd love to hear about your accomplishments in the comments. Don't leave me hangin'!

1. Recently, while at a nearby cafe, I told the owner I could make her blackboard menu for her. I've now become a blackboard artist. A 4' x 8' blackboard is in my house while I work on it. I love working on it. I'm good at it. I was worried I wouldn't be able to do it.

2. I'm scared at a primal level to love anyone again and yet I continue to confront this fear daily by reaching out to people, including the man I'm dating, to be vulnerable. I can't do it without mouth-drying, hand-shaking, stomach-churning fear, but I'm doing it anyway because what's the point of living if you're not opening your heart, right? Sheesh.

3. I just made an appointment to talk to a career advisor at Portland State University so I can decide what I want to do when I go back to school. Which I'm going to do. I've deliberated over it for so long. Time to stop deliberating and just do it. Here we go.

I suppose the hard part about really seeing my courage is that before Dave died, I don't think these 3 accomplishments would have come with so much fear. Some part of me thought that brave equals no fear. So my brain thinks I used to be brave and now I'm not. Where did I get that? When did my brain decide that brave means no fear? I guess it's our society, isn't it?

It's cool to be confident and brazen and fearless and it's a little shameful to be terrified and shaky and blundering. But then again, how brave is it to do something you're not afraid to do? Not really brave at all.

Okay. In that case, I'm brave. And so are all of you.

Fear

I suffer from fear.

A lot of it I think is normal for what I've been through.

Fear of being alone for the rest of my days. Fear of having my heart broken. Fear of falling in love and having him die. Fear that something terrible will happen to someone I love and I’ll have to start this grief process all over again. Fear that I am getting a little to comfortable with being alone and getting set in my ways.

While a lot of these fears I have no control over. They are there. They are a part of the new me.

But there is one fear that I haven’t been able to accept.

My ultimate fear is.. Snowbird Ski Resort.

The place where my husband decided to end his life.

The place I have constantly avoided for three very long years.

I’ve realized my fear of a place holds me back. It holds me back from enjoying the amazing activities that the resort has to offer.

Every year we would go to OctoberFest that is held at Snowbird. We always went as a family.

I haven’t been since that life shattering day back in 2010.

When I saw OctoberFest was here, I decided it was time to face my fear.

It was time to get over it and enjoy the resort for what it is. A happy place. A fun place. Not the place my husband died at. Afterall, the resort didn’t kill my husband. He killed himself.

Last weekend I gathered up my friends and family.. off to OctoberFest we went. Off to Snowbird.

I had a great time at OctoberFest. I didn’t think much about my husband’s death.

Until I decided to face my ultimate fear.. take the tram to the top of Snowbird.

The same route my husband took. The same tram I identified my husband through surveillance cameras on.

Once we made it to the top I was happy. I was proud of myself. I was facing my fear instead of hiding from it.

At the top of Snowbird. My husband died on the other side of the ridge behind me.

I had a pretty bad meltdown at the top, but I was happy to put this fear behind me.

I can now stop avoiding Snowbird and appreciate it for the beauty it holds.

The Good Times Are Better Forgotten

Source - a facebook friend

In two months and 8 days, I will be forced into the 3 year anniversary. I have been treading lightly, trying to come to terms with the 3 year, and well.. I haven’t accepted these terms.

I never signed on a dotted line. I never accepted “You are widowed, sign here”, some crappy contract I got stuck with. I didn't sign up for some service, that would throw me into the widowed club, yet, I’m stuck with it.

There are times (like today) that I think “Holy shit, I am widowed!” Then comes the “I didn't sign up for this shit, it was Seth’s decision to leave this world, not mine, he should have to live in this hell, NOT ME!!”

Yes, I’m a tad angry. Every year before the anniversary, I start falling into the anger stage... And it’s here, sitting next to me, slowly swirling my hair, and saying oh so softly “Let’s be angry, it will be fun!”

What the anger stage doesn't realize is I hate it. The anger stage scares the crap out of me every time. There is nothing worse than being stuck in this hell, and pissed off at the whole world around you.

I can finally see that every year I fall into the anger stage shortly before the anniversary.

Stupid anger and stupid widowhood.

Did I mention I’m a tad angry?

Yes, just a tad. My really angry posts don’t get posted here, because let’s just say, that are above and beyond R rated.

Lately I have been flooded with good memories of my life with Seth. Up until this point, I had very little good memories with Seth.. at least, I couldn't remember them because of my pain and widow brain. The memories are slowly starting to leak in.. and I’ll find myself smiling at myself at the most unacceptable times. Some days it’s almost easier to not remember the good times. Remembering the good times makes it hurt worse. Makes me miss him more. Slaps me with “look what you lost, ha!” And gives me a case of the “I wish.” I wish this wasn't my life. I wish this wasn't my husband’s life. I wish that tomorrow I will wake up and this will all be gone. I wish there was a magic pill to wipe away the pain and anguish.

So it’s almost easier to remember the bad times then it is to remember the good times.

The good times hurt.. hurt really bad. Looking back at the times gone by, leave me confused, hurt and feeling alone. I have been tip toeing into the past, for very short time spans, but trying to allow the good memories back into this poor brain of mine. (I’m starting to wonder when this brain of mine will have enough of my crap and leave me.)

I've been thinking about the upcoming 3 year anniversary and I am honestly really scared. I have realized with each anniversary, birthday and holiday, I step into the events in sheer fear..

Fear because I don’t know how I’m going to handle it.. and fear that there will be one last grief breakdown that I won’t be able to get up from. What if this is the one that makes me snap and I never recover?

I think because I have fallen into the deep hole of hell and depression before, I am afraid of going there again.. if I go there again, I doubt I will reemerge. I doubt I will recover.   

But I realized the fear of upcoming events, is actually a good thing.

That means I am fully aware how bad this is going to hurt. I am fully aware that I might need 4 days in bed, or a bottle of wine. I am fully aware that I am walking into a trap. And I am fully aware that the lining between life and that black hole of hell is really thin. One miss step and I could be in the hole.

It means, that I finally have self awareness. Awareness of what I’m walking into, and caring enough about myself to fear what this anniversary could bring.

I’m sure come the 3 year anniversary,  I will be able to give you a whole list of what I've learned.

But for now I have learned the good times hurt and it’s okay to care enough about myself to know (and be prepared) for what is coming up.

Courage

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I've misunderstood courage my whole life until now. I thought courage meant lack of fear. Or at least less fear. I thought that my fears made me weak and that I'd be courageous the day I conquered fear.

I had an image in my mind of an incredibly confident superhero when I thought of courage. Something like Super Woman and Oprah all mixed up into one badass poster woman for "BRAVE" - hands on hips and clear eyes full of confidence and determination. I didn't realize that courage is being terrified and acting anyway.

In fact, courage looks like someone who's sweating, shaking, and gasping through the hardest things life throws her way.
It looks like someone who gets up every morning and makes breakfast for his kid even though he's now alone in raising her and even though he's exhausted.
It looks like someone who's heart has been shattered but opens once again anyway to let someone new inside even though it feels like leaping into the unpredictable currents of the air, hoping to be carried and not dropped.
It's staring someone in the eyes and saying "I love you" even though you might not hear it back and feeling your heart stutter in anticipated terror.

It doesn't feel brave. It feels exhausting, reckless, terrifying and unpredictable. And it's undeniably courage. There's so much everyday courage happening all around us. So many people surviving the death of their spouse, their child, their future. Rebuilding, picking up the pieces, on their knees begging for the next right step. Begging for their pain to ease, to see their loved one in their dreams.

That's courage. 
And if that's courage, then I'm courageous, even though I never feel brave at all. What's also missing from the equation is what I thought went along with courage - exhilaration. I don't feel exhilarated, I feel scared and exhausted. I want to feel the exhilaration of knowing that I've been brave enough to let someone new into my heart. I want to feel the thrill of surviving and finding happiness on the other side of the deep dark valley I was in.
But I'm not quite there yet. I'm still so scared all the time. Guarded and vigilant for more heartbreak coming my way.

I know that that mindset can kill my chances of happiness now and that future tripping* does me no good, but this is what my brain does. I can fight it and I do. But sometimes I just wish I didn't have to fight it so much. I wish I could relax into faith and imagine only great things happening. Or at the very least just stop projecting into the future at all. I wish I could stop scanning for signs that heartbreak is coming my way again.

I wish I could fully believe, as my therapist does, that more good stuff is headed my way because I've suffered enough already.

And then I realize that this is me. This is how my brain works, and rightly so. I have suffered greatly. But, I'm doing my best to not let it guide me. I can have these thoughts but not act on them. I can do what scares me. I can love again. I can have compassion for myself even though I struggle with this fear and this mind-habit of preparing for disaster. I can allow for the idea that I'm worthy and loveable even though this is how my brain works. I can entertain the idea that it's not that I'm inherently leave-able, it's just that the life I've been given has included lots of abandonment by death and that doesn't mean that everyone else I love will leave me.

I can admit that I am courageous, resilient, and worthy.
I can admit that I do deserve good stuff.
I can understand that while the universe takes away, it gives too. It can be incredibly generous.

Maybe it's my turn for some of that generosity.


*What my old therapist used to call worrying about the bad things that might happen.

Tiny Quiet Plea

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On January 21st I found out about a man who'd lost his wife, making his daughter the same age I was when my mom died. I wrote about it here.

Since then, I reached out to him and we have found in each other something I believe is more than worth the fear it's causing me to let down my guard and care about someone again.

I have seen him father his daughter with love and deep respect. I have seen him do everything in his power to make sure she feels loved and safe. I have seen her loving him. I'm not yet sure I have words to explain how this has made me feel. I'll have to work on that. To say that this alternate ending to my childhood has been healing is an understatement but it's all I can come up with right now.

I have been able to tell him everything about myself. The grieving, deeply wounded parts of me I've hidden from others. The weakest me, that I hide from myself. It's all been out there for him to see. Instead of running from that, he's come forward through it with me. It hasn't phased him.

I don't have a clue what the future will bring. I'm terrified to hope for great even when I have it right in my arms. But I'll tell you one thing I know for sure.

I asked for this. Down deep, in the part of me I keep hidden from almost everyone, I asked to meet these two people before I knew they existed. I know that sounds woo woo. It does even to me. But I did. I said a tiny, quiet plea that I almost couldn't admit I wished for. I wanted to find them and I did.

I didn't know what they'd look like or what their names would be. I didn't know where they'd live or how I'd ever find them. But I wanted to. And I did. I hope I enrich their lives as much as they do mine.

I realized today, when he asked me to come color eggs with the two of them, that each time I get to participate in some childhood ritual that I missed out on, I'm healing a loss I never really got to claim.
I don't usually tell people that there were no birthday parties, Easter celebrations, Christmas festivities or Halloween fun at my house growing up. And because I never had kids of my own, the rest of my adult life continued the same way. This is the first time I get to be an integral part of those things I missed out on.

It's terrifying to have hope. That's the funny thing. When it's abstract hope, like the vague notion that things won't always be as bad as they can get, it's helpful and comforting. But when it's hope that something you have suddenly in front of you won't go away, it's terrifying. Unless you've been through tragedy it's hard to understand how terrifying joy can be. A fragile, mending heart doesn't feel capable of handling any more pain and when there's joy there's potential loss and pain.

Before I met these two people I had little left to lose and that was liberating. It was an absence of joy and it was a loneliness, but it was also the absence of the feeling that I had so much to lose. When I met them, I felt I had two choices, to continue to be lonely but free of potential pain, or to reach out and risk pain. There is within me, some source of utter fearlessness that can be easily drowned out by the fearful part of my brain trying to protect my heart. That crazy, fearless me knows that I have to push through the fear or forever live without closeness with others. That part of me hasn't allowed me to push this potential happiness away out of fear. However, I live each moment of this with the fear.
But it's possible to feel both fearful and brave. It's possible to be scared shitless and show up anyway. So that's my plan. Show up despite the fear. Live despite the knowledge of the pain that life can bring.

It makes my heart race and chest constrict just typing this, but at least I'm showing up.
And because I am, I get to color Easter eggs with them, a ritual so many might take for granted, but I never could.

Fear of Loss

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Fate handed me the early death of both my parents. These traumas have given my brain a pattern. The pattern is to assume that more bad things will happen. It's a brain that's attuned to signs of more death and loss. Eventually I realized that this trait held me apart from those I loved and caused me a ridiculous amount of anxiety, so I got to work on it.

I was working diligently on that facet of my brain with my therapist when Dave got sick and died, so my brain REALLY latched on to that pattern then. It was as if fate proved my progress a waste of time. I was learning to believe that not every illness led to death and then Dave's illness led to death. SEE! My brain said. I told you!

At this point now, alone, meaning without a life partner or a kid, I am free of such fear. I'll be scared shitless if one of my friends gets very sick, sure, but the person I was most bound to on this planet already got sick and died, so I don't have to fear that happening again. But that is predicated on the fact that I'll always be alone and that doesn't seem acceptable either. One is terrifying and the other is incredibly sad.

I understand now that the rest of my life will be a series of decisions. Each time I decide I can choose based on fear or love. Choosing based on fear means my life becomes small. Safe from more pain, but also devoid of love, adventure and meaning. Choosing love means I will have much to fear. I will think that my (imagined) beloved’s headache is a tumor and that he will not recover every time he gets the flu. If I were to one day have a child of my own, I will worry that every cough, sneeze, barf, or fever means that the end is near. But when I look at my two choices, how can I choose to forego getting and giving love? That would be another sort of death. My own. I’d be alive but not living.

Lately my mantra has been “fear makes terrible decisions”. I chant it to myself every time I feel my defenses slide down over my heart to protect me from imagined pain.When those defenses begin to shield me, I close up my life, smaller and smaller, until I'm very safe and very alone. So I fight it. If I even think fear is involved in a decision, I try to do the opposite it's telling me to do. I don't always succeed and sometimes the fear is overwhelming, but I try.

I remind myself of the regrets of the dying as often as possible. Fear based decisions seem to lead a person right to a list of those exact regrets. I don't want to regret.

But, there’s a very tired, broken, raw part of me that wants so desperately to stop being afraid. To have nothing left to lose. It wants to not let love in so that it’s free of potential loss. It wants a break from feeling anything at all. It wants someone to hold her and rock her and tell her she's okay, she's okay, she's okay.

The Choice

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I was telling my therapist all about the process I went through to decide to sell our house, quit my job and move to Portland after Dave died.

I told her about the epic snowstorm that buried me in 2 feet of snow on Dave's birthday and left me without power for two days and without contact with another human for four days.

I told her about putting the house on the market and getting an offer and selling it in less than a month. I told her about the day I woke up and had the thought "I'm going to move to Portland!"

Then I told her about finding my current home. I told her that the realtor didn't have my condo on her radar at all. We happened to drive by and I saw a for sale sign. I bought it days later.

I am in unit 1. My next door neighbor in unit 2 was widowed in her 50s. The professor who lives in unit 3 was widowed in September after his wife's battle with cancer. Three widowed people in a row.

When I told her this part, her eyes filled with tears. She said she was suddenly struck by what I'd been through and overcome. She said it gave her hope for herself and all her patients. I've never thought of it that way. That makes it sound heroic. It hasn't felt heroic. It's felt desperate.

All this time, I've felt desperate. I've made decisions I had to make to do the best I could for myself even though my compass was gone. I've leaped into the unknown with what I can see now was nothing but hope.

It was hard to see it as hope then because I was terrorized by fear and doubt. Other than having one clear moment when I formulated my plan to move to Portland, I didn't once feel absolutely certain or at peace about any of these decisions. They were all terrifying for me. I had doubts that kept me up at night, and turned my stomach. I deliberated and tortured myself over ever single decision I've had to make since my partner in life died.

I had to finally get a little more comfortable with the idea that the world wouldn't end if I screwed up. The worst had already happened so from that point on, I could get through selling our house, moving and starting a new life. Even if it all turned out to be a mistake, it wouldn't have been as bad as hearing the doctors tell me that they'd done all they could but hadn't been able to save my soul mate.

And yet...It's probably a product of my combined losses, not just Dave's, but I still expect more to go wrong, even as I grow more comfortable with change and making decisions on my own. I still expect what I have left (my cats, my home, my friends) to be simply gone if I don't keep my eye on them. I halfway expect a fire to take it all away from me if I'm not looking, or tragedy of another sort I haven't even thought of yet to come my way.

Logically I understand that nothing could be as bad as Dave's death, but my heart feels precariously patched together right now. I could survive more loss, yes, but would I want to? Would all hope be lost at that point? Would I have anything left in me with which to soldier on?

I have had hope all along. It's what drove me to jump into a new life when I was terrified to leave the old one behind. It's what keeps me going now. My wish is that hope is strong enough to withstand anything that comes its way.

Life isn't extra gentle with me now just because my husband died. The universe doesn't give a shit. It just keeps churning away, with its joy and sorrow, good and evil. I hope (ha!) like hell I have enough in me to sustain whatever else comes my way.

I'm not naive enough to say things (even to myself) like "everything will be okay," anymore. I have to learn to live with the light of hope and the darkness of potential tragedy. Holding them both together takes work. It's like trying to process things like school shootings. How does life go on after something that horrific? I don't know, but it does.

I suppose it's what we do in the face of all the horror. We reach out because we don't give up hope DESPITE the sorrow. It's all we can do. We make things better when we can. We hold onto each other when we can't. We breathe. We take leaps of faith. We don't give up.

I can't close up shop yet and hide away from everything because it might hurt more. That would be the real tragedy. Tragedy on top of tragedy. Dave couldn't help leaving. He would have stayed if he could have. I have a choice though. I can give up or I can keep hoping and fully living with all the risks it entails.

I'd better not squander that choice.

Who Am I Now?

A logo my student made for our class. We were called 4D for Fourth grade and Deitz.

Until Dave died, I was a teacher for a living. I've been teaching or working in daycare since I was 19. It's all I know. It was my identity. I felt pride when people asked me what I did for a living and I got to respond with teach.

I didn't realize it consciously then, but with distance I can now see that I felt as though I had worth because I had a full time job with good pay and good benefits. I felt like I had a place in the world because I was a professional. Despite the fact that the job was causing me incredible anxiety and stress, I think I felt like a whole person because I worked a "real" job. 

After Dave died, I couldn't go back to work. I mean, I guess I could have if I'd absolutely had to, but I was incredibly lucky to have a principal who told me I didn't have to come back to work unless I wanted to. I took the last month of school off immediately after Dave died and then school let out for the summer. I assumed all along that I'd be back to work the following fall.

When August approached, though, I made the wrenching decision not to return to the classroom. I just couldn't imagine bringing those kids what they needed - a whole, loving, available me -  when I was so busy doing the draining work of grieving. I couldn't quite bring myself to go back. I wasn't able to pull it together in time.

I felt like a failure, and I missed my students terribly, but I also knew it was an essential act of self preservation. I took a year's leave of absence and figured I'd decide then if I wanted to come back to teaching.

When the time came again to decide, I realized it wasn't right for me to return to teaching and I resigned from my position. Again, it was wrenching because once I sent off that letter of resignation, the last trace of my identity was gone.

Wife no longer. Teacher no longer.

With both identities stripped from me, I have felt completely adrift.

It's true that teaching was becoming more stressful than fulfilling the last few years I taught. I was suffering from regular migraines and was sick to my stomach most mornings before work. The stress had finally taken its toll and I was fully burnt out. I know in my gut that staying on would not have been healthy for me even if Dave hadn't died.

On the other hand, if I'm no longer a fourth grade teacher, who am I?

So much of our identities are wrapped up in our jobs. When people ask me what I do now, I feel shameful when I answer "I'm not sure".

I could tell them the truth, that my full time job since Dave died is healing and rebuilding a life from the ground up. I could tell them that my job has been to say goodbye to the best friend I ever had, tear myself from the life we once lived, sell our lovely house, move, buy a new house, build a new community of friends around me, work on my self-image, delve more deeply into my inner me than I've ever attempted before, find a new therapist, try dating again, attend Camp Widow three times, run a 5K, write for two blogs, travel, walk dogs, and train to be a professional dog trainer.

I could say all that, but I don't.

Instead I demure and make excuses. I say things like "I'm in between careers" or "I'm not sure" or "I might go back to school, I haven't decided yet" and I desperately try to change the subject.

When I think of the fact that I no longer have my job, I feel a panicky catch in my throat and my heart starts pounding. I feel my mouth go dry with a nameless dread.

Who am I? What do I do? What's my career? What do I want to do? I have no clear answers for those questions and have the most challenging time learning to give myself some grace for not knowing yet.

I know logically that I am doing my best and that I'm not a lazy, unmotivated person. I understand that with part of my mind, but there is a deeply ingrained part of my brain that fights that and whispers worries to me when I let my guard down for a second. It wonders if I'll ever be motivated to really do anything wholeheartedly again. It wonders if I'm cut out to work full time again at all. It wonders if there's anything out there I really want to do badly enough to work hard for it. It wonders if the part of me that's able to function out there in the work world died with Dave.

It's been 15 months and I'm still not working full time and I feel so badly about this.

However, I picture myself several years in the future wishing I hadn't wasted a second of this period of my life bemoaning my lack of a job or feeling guilty about it.

The future me would say "Heal. Have fun. Live. Stop worrying. You've suffered enough." and I can logically see that she's absolutely right, but the present me is so scared. So incredibly scared.

I'm all I have now. I don't have Dave to depend on. When I was a part of a committed partnership there was a buffer. A cushion. If I fell flat, failed, lost my job, decided to change careers, got hurt or sick, Dave would  be there to cushion the blow, both financially and emotionally. We'd weather the storm together. We'd cling to each other when the winds picked up and thrashed us around this crazy life we sailed through.

I'm all I've got now. Yes, I have incredible support from friends and have no clue how I'd survive without their loving presence, but I have to support myself financially and emotionally now.

It's up to me and it often feels daunting. I know that many widowed people have it much worse than me. They have kids to support and bills they can't pay. I'm extremely lucky in many ways.
And...
I'm still scared. I still feel adrift. 
I still have a difficult time giving myself some grace.

I thought I'd gotten to a really good place with this until the other day when my fridge, oven and AC unit all began to malfunction at once. The AC unit leaked water slowly out into the hallway, damaging the wood trim and drywall. Home owners insurance covered the damage done, but not the repairs to the AC unit. The oven and fridge need new parts to work properly and insurance and the home warranty I purchased didn't cover either.

Something about the three appliances all crapping out on my at once, sent me into a tailspin of fear. How will I do this all alone? Why isn't he here to help me? How will I keep myself financially and emotionally safe when emergencies come my way? The questions crowded my mind and filled me with dread.

The questions aren't helpful because the answers are simple and obvious.

You just will.
Because he died.
You'll figure it out.

And yet knowing the answers doesn't make the fear abate.

I just have to keep working at it until my brain starts to learn to take a different path. A path of confidence, hope and pride. It's going to take hard work. Maybe that will be my full time job for a while, training my brain to be confident, hopeful and feel pride.

I have to be my own biggest fan, cheerleader and supporter but it'll take hard work. I've never done that before. It's my first time trying.

It will take practice and perseverance because I'm a baby at this, learning from the ground up.

The biggest source of comfort for me now is knowing that so many of you who are traveling this road with me will know this fear and will be learning this right along with me.

I am grateful beyond words for this. I feel stronger when I know that I'm not the only one feeling this way. I'm not alone in this journey and neither are you. We're doing it alongside each other and we can support each other in ways no one else can. I thank the heavens above for this and for you, my courageous fellow widowed people.

Dear Me

source

Writing has been a lifeline since Dave died.

Once I started my personal blog, writing every morning right after I awoke became a ritual I depended on. Writing was how I figured out how I felt. Verbalizing it made it tangible and sometimes uncovered feelings I hadn't realized I'd had.

I realized that by writing on a blog I'd become for other people the kind of lifeline that I'd depended on in the beginning and that was healing too.

To get even more healing out of this writing magic, I found a women's memoir writing group in my new city and began sharing my writing in a circle of supportive, talented women. I didn't think writing could bring me more gifts than it already had, but the gifts just multiplied.

Now, I host a women's writing group in my home every week and it brings me so much fulfillment.
Last week, the prompt was - What would your older self write to your present self in a letter? I wrote to this prompt as though I was actually channeling an older me. I didn't have to think. The words flowed out of me without restraint. The result was self-love I didn't know I possessed.

I feel like sharing it with you here because of all the writing I've done since Dave died, this one felt the most powerful and healing. Maybe you might like to try it yourself. I think it will surprise you. I certainly didn't expect it to be as illuminating as it was.

Dear younger me:

I want you to listen carefully. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what you look like or smell like or sound like or dress like. 

It matters how much you love. 

But don’t love just anyone, honey. Love someone who makes you better than you would be without him or her. Love someone who makes you laugh until you pee. Love someone who thrills you and teaches you and honors you. Love someone who shares him or herself with you without hesitation. 

Don’t waste your time with the people who don’t love you back or who hurt you even though they love you. You can love them from afar but don’t let them stop you from living fully. Don’t let anyone get in your way. 

You know all those times you worried about what you said and how it might be the final straw that would turn that person away from you? Remember all those times you thought people would see right through your facade right down to the dark, selfish, ignorant, judgey, small and petty you? 

Oh, honey, don’t you know by now? You are worthy regardless. Every part of you and every cell of you is worthy and wonderful and the reason you sometimes feel so critical of others is because it’s YOU you’re so critical of. It’s just your own self-hate directed outward. Love yourself and and you’ll see good stuff in everyone else too. 

We’re all connected. The tiny 82 year old lady next door whose husband died when she was 50, the man in unit number 3 whose wife is clearly in the end stages of cancer or some other horrible disease. The gorgeous Greek guy who owns the restaurant on the corner and twinkles those blue eyes at you and makes you nervous and forget how to talk. The crazy hairstylist who channels old Chinese men. The beautiful, multifaceted women who come to your house to write each week. We find each other and we need each other and we’re all connected. We’re all worthy, faults and all. 

 

Remember what your beloved friend said to you? He said “I love you, bat-shit crazy and all”. 

That’s what I’m talking about, darling. That.

Remember to take good care of yourself, sweet pea. You have been through so much and your job now is to learn to give yourself what you need. The naps, the massages, the time to sit and think and cry. The chance to travel and meet new people and breathe and stop racing around trying to be better better better. 

If you can learn to give yourself that, you will make this loss a little less awful because something beautiful has arisen from its ashes. When you do, once again, find your days filled with work and possibly even a family, you might have the mindset of self-care a little more programmed in if you work on it now. 

Give yourself a chance honey. You deserve it. 

No one can take better care of you than you. Even if some wonderful man is worthy of your love and you find him, he can’t give you everything you need. You’ll need to pull from other sources to get all your needs met. The biggest source of all, the best source, hon, is you. 

 

Also, don’t go around so scared to lose. It’s something that will keep on happening. You can live in fear of it or not, and it’ll keep on happening. So then you’ve got loss and fear. Why have both? 

Live as fearlessly as you can. Walk right into the inevitable loss. There’s a whole lot of beauty along that road. And the loss? Well, you’ll survive it. Of course you will.

You’ll be very scared. Just remember to act anyway. Each time you do something that scares you, you’ll be a little stronger. You’ll build that courage muscle. Just treat yourself after you’ve done it. It’s a lot of work. I know it is. 

I know your core and I know you’ll be just fine. Just let in the love and light and do what scares you. Live and live and live until you fade away. You only have this one chance. Don’t ever forget that sweetheart.

Wall - Part 2

Last week, I wrote about seeing Roger Waters perform “The Wall” live at Wrigley Field.  A concept album released by Pink Floyd in the 1970s, Waters now is out on tour complete with a three-story wall that is built through the course of the concert.  While I kinda understood what “The Wall” was about, I really bought tickets to see rock and roll history at Wrigley Field.  I had no idea that this show – and now listening to the album over and over – would question and reflect on how I was mourning the loss of Lisa. 

Heading in to see this show, I would say I know about five songs from off the album. Never once did I equate any of them to my situation. Yet, it’s a 39 second lead-in track that made me stop and think how I was living my life. The title of this track is called “Empty Spaces” and these are the only words in it.

What shall we use to fill the empty spaces
Where we used to talk?
How should I fill the final places?
How should I complete the wall?

Empty spaces.  That’s what I was left with after Lisa died.  Plenty of empty spaces… Where we used to talk...  Before seeing this show, I never looked at it that way; wasn’t able to pinpoint the problem.  I had empty spaces that needed filling.  My time, conversations, memories trips, etc... These were going to have to be filled up.  How would I fill those empty spaces, what choices would I make, positive or destructive?

What moves me the most about this album is the concept of:  All in all it's just another brick in the wall.

I wish it were as simple as Lisa died and I built a wall around myself.  A wall built so quickly that it probably is not that stable and could be knocked down fairly easily.  But my wall was built brick by brick; placing each one to block another outside emotion from my vision.  Friends stopped talking to me?  Fine - more bricks on top of my wall - seems like the best way to deal with that loss of friendship.  But then came the day that those very friends started coming around trying communicate. I didn’t even want to reach back out to them, too many bricks blocking my feelings. These bricks I made with anger.  Mad my friends needed time to deal with what to do with me and the loss of my wife.  I lost perspective of the importance of human contact, I couldn’t see over my wall.

The wall was too high, as you can see.
No matter how he tried, he could not break free.
And the worms ate into his brain

My wall started the year Lisa and her mother were both dying of cancer in 2008 (Deena would pass away in April, Lisa in July).  Deena’s first ex-husband, who I never met, got wind of what was happening and flew in from Florida. “Are we happy with the doctors?” being one of the first comments he made to me. “We? Who are we?  I’m happy with the doctors”, I thought to myself, immediately throwing bricks on the ground to get something up fast. 

After 20 plus years of being out of sight, he was looking to integrate himself into the family. My daughters were still very young and they thought grandpa was Deena’s second ex-husband.  When I informed ex # 1 that now would not be the time to tell the girls “Oh by the way, this surprise visit is by your biological grandfather. Any other life changes I can throw your way?”   He was not happy and later hit me with, “Well, you’re the one blocking my grandchildren from me.”  I knew then the only way to get through handling the aspects of a mother-in-law and wife dying at the same time, in the same house (we moved in with Lisa’s mom 5 years prior to help with her cancer) was to turn off some of my emotions.

I knew there was a train of pain coming down the tracks.  If I was going to deal with this and survive, part of my personality would have to go away.  I had to keep moving, I had kids who were losing their mother, had a new baby coming less than three months away, and a wife who would die a few months after that.  I would have to change my personality to handle this; I would have to start building a wall if I was going to function.

Hello, is there anybody in there?

Come on, now, I hear you're feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain
And get you on your feet again.

I can't explain, you would not understand
This is not how I am.
I have become comfortably numb 

 (Love that line from above, I can't explain, you would not understand. This is not how I am.)

Once Lisa passed, I was dealing with loss and trying to rejoin “normal” life activities. I felt like the kid at a prom without a date.  It amazes me how many adverse feelings we feel that can be traced to the simplest emotion, fear.  I was scared out of my mind about everything.  Can I keep going?  Can I raise my kids?  Can I live with myself for all the decisions I made during Lisa’s death?  So many questions about the future…

Mother, do you think they'll like this song?
Mother, do you think they'll try to break my balls?

Questions for which I didn’t know the answer, so the question that seemed like the best idea…

Mother, should I build the wall?

I specifically remember having that conversation with myself. I told myself that my life is simply one of function now.  I need to live for my children and I need to forget improving my life.  There is too much pain, too many memories, too many questions (fears) for me to try and live a fulfilling life.  No need to make new friends, no need to take classes to learn something new, no need to form new relationships.  The world can be a hurtful all-you-can-eat buffet and I’ve already had multiple plates of food.  I can function, but I will be miserable.  I even read up on Abraham Lincoln who was successful and yet led a miserable life.   Yes, this was a great idea!  I figured out how I was going to live my life…

Goodbye cruel world,
I'm leaving you today.
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
Goodbye, all you people,
There's nothing you can say
To make me change my mind.
Goodbye.

I found it easy to use the wall as a crutch and I was quick to put anyone or anything that seemed like a threat for me to experience feelings of an almost human nature. This will not do.

So up against my wall they would go…

There's one in the spotlight, he don't look right to me,
Get him up against the wall.
There's one smoking a joint!
And another with spots!
If I had my way,
I'd have all of you shot!

I’ve written in one of my previous blogs about the time period where I hated myself, beating myself up for not being a “good enough” parent or person.  I didn’t know it at the time, but my isolation was starting to wear on me, I was behind a wall and the worms (mental decay) were working its magic.

Sitting in a bunker here behind my wall
Waiting for the worms to come.
In perfect isolation here behind my wall
Waiting for the worms to come.

At some point I had enough and knew I was living an emotionally unhealthy lifestyle.  A mindset that is not sustainable.  This understanding might have helped me knock down a couple of bricks, but not enough for me to fully engage.  With my new realization came the fears and regrets of moving forward.  Did I lose my opportunity to move on?  Have I pushed away too many people?  Can I really start over at age 42 or am I too late…

There must be some mistake
I didn't mean to let them
Take away my soul.
Am I too old, is it too late?,
Will I remember the song?
The show must go on.

These thoughts held me back from fully committing to making a positive choice.  Do I really want to lose my best excuses for trying (trying) to get back into the world?  I know it didn’t mean I’m over the grief, but it meant I’d be vulnerable to getting hurt again.  It’s not an easy fence to straddle.  So there I sat at Wrigley Field, as one of the final songs called, “The Trail” blared in front of me.

The evidence before the court is incontrovertible
There's no need for the jury to retire.

Since, my friend, you have revealed your deepest fear
I sentence you to be exposed before your peers.
Tear down the wall!
Tear down the wall!

The judge is right.  No need for the jury to retire.  The wall has to come down.  It doesn’t work.  No matter how angry you are, how put-out you feel, how wronged you believe you’ve been treated, how maddening it is to watch happily married people, how pissed you are at what people say to you, how nobody else understands what you are dealing with… building a wall doesn’t work.  Sooner or later, the worms will come and mental isolation will take its toll.

For Pink, one of the first bricks he builds is when his dad dies overseas fighting in the war.  He wrote these lyrics and even though they might mean something different for him, when I heard them, it meant something else for me.  What Roger Waters sang was…

Daddy's flown across the ocean
Leaving just a memory.

Daddy, what d'ya leave behind for me?
All in all it was just a brick in the wall

What I heard was…

Lisa's gone to the great beyond
Leaving just a memory.

Lisa, what d'ya leave behind for me?

I sat up all night thinking of what Lisa left behind for me.  Not only three beautiful girls, but she left me with all the tools to keep going out there and putting myself in position to get hurt again with friends, family, and new relationships.  She wanted me to keep living, she wanted to me to keep failing and trying again.

It’s a very difficult and hurtful world out there and we are given plenty of bricks to build walls around ourselves.  I think I’ll take mine and make a patio to throw a party.  I’ll build a fireplace in the middle, a bar off to the right, seats in a circle, and no walls.  That way, people can enter from all sides.

Hey you, don't tell me there's no hope at all.
Together we stand, divided we fall.

Not meant to be doing this alone

photo from here

My son needs to have an endoscopy done under general anaesthetic next week.

I have not told the small boy yet.

It's a relatively minor procedure as these things go, but the thought of my little 7 year old man being probed and prodded whilst knocked out terrifies me.

The specialist who is doing this exploratory procedure will hopefully have some answers to help the boy who has had reflux since he was a baby.... reflux that has grown worse over the past two years and which sees him vomit several times a day, or constantly need to spit out mouthfuls of semi-digested food.

It could be a reaction to grief. It could be an allergy. It could be cancer. It could be habit.

... but the surgery was not deemed "urgent" so I think the paediatric gastroenterologist is leaning toward allergy and is ruling out other causes.

That worry aside, I have another worry ..... my parents are going interstate the following day (my brother's wife is sick and they need to help them).

Which means that if there are complications .... we are on our own.

There should be two parents around to organise the logistics of getting one child to hospital by 6:30am and the other to school by 8am.

There should be two parents to share the worry and talk it through out of earshot of the small boy and his sister.

There should be two parents who can hug each other tight and mutter that everything will be fine.

....and there should be two parents who can make this child feel protected, safe and OK about going to hospital

I am not meant to be doing this alone....

Another Ugly Four Letter Word

Everyone: Carl. Carl: Everyone. So there, now you've met. The last few weeks have been full of big changes for us. We've bought a new home, he moved into my house for a few weeks during the remodel of the new house, and now we've moved into our house together. The wedding is still a few months away, but well into the planning stages. Holy cow we have a lot going on!

I've had a tough few weeks - work has been crazy (as usual) and with the move, my personal life has been hectic as well. I think the busy-ness has kept me from really listening to my inner voice, and in the rare moments of quiet I find myself feeling oddly emotional and trying to find the source. I'd call it sad because I sometimes cry, but I finally realized a few days ago that it isn't sadness at all. At first I wondered if it was grief and some new unexplained wave of agony over Daniel. But it's not. I've found myself touching Carl's chest after he's asleep, making sure he's real. I sometimes get weepy watching him quietly breathe and I've been trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. After some soul searching and probing at the hurt spot I realized something shocking. It isn't sadness from grief, although it's related; this weird emotional state I'm in is fear: gut wrenching, heart stopping fear.

I know I don't have to explain to you what the fear is about. Some of you are probably trying to figure out why I'm doing this at all. I've stepped back into the land of not knowing. You know, that place we were before our spouses died? That place where you had no idea what was around the corner? Only this time? This time I know that death is out there. This time I'm not going to say "til death us do part" and smile an innocent smile - imagining our matching rocking chairs well into our 90's...

This time, this time I'm not sure I won't burst into tears, knowing in excruciating detail the meaning of the words. This time I know what I'm saying and how painful the disolution of a marriage can be. I'll still hopefully imagine the rocking chairs (yes, I still have hope or I wouldn't be doing this would I???), but I have a less happy alternate ending in my head too. I don't like the thought of it, but it is there nonetheless.

I've made Carl promise that I get to die first. In good humor he has accepted this challenge - and reassured me that he's always felt he'll live to be 90.

He'd better!

(so funny, in previewing this before I posted I realized that CARL is also a four-letter word - just for clarity - FEAR is the word I'm referencing. HA!)

Not Alone

There was a real chance that Maggie would have died that first night we were in the hospital back on January 6, 2007. Despite our dreams, our plans, our love and our forever-together commitment, I’d truly be alone. As she slept soundly in a cozy, drug-induced haze, I felt like it was me against all the evil in the world… and the evil was winning. I felt the most alone I had ever felt in my life. While I watched her chest slowly sink and rise with each laborious breath, my mind raced with terrible, terrible thoughts and I feared I was never going to speak to or kiss my sweet wife again. It was the longest, loneliest night of my life.

That low point was reset 850 days later on May 4, 2009 and has been reset even lower many times since then. Despite being surrounded by caring friends and a loving family, I’ve felt more alone than I ever felt possible. I walked alone on this path. The Highlander of widowhood, I was the only one.

I’ve spent my days since that day being embarrassed and ashamed, that I no longer fit with society. Because of no fault of mine, I was tossed out of the mainstream and into another world. Worse, few people knew how to talk to me. Even fewer knew how to relate. And no one – no one – understood.

Weekend before last I attended Widow Camp. I was terrified and, frankly, a little bit angry. I didn’t need to hang out with another bunch of bitter, hopeless old women bitching about being a widow, nor did I have the patience to listen to their pining for husbands long gone. And I sure didn’t deserve this widower/death/restarting crap.

I sat just outside the doors of the Friday evening social wondering what the hell I did to deserve this and how the hell I was going to get myself out of this inescapable situation. Then, an angel with a charming smile named Susan told me how the people at previous Widow Camps had affected her and that she was confident that I would never regret walking through those doors.

So through the doors I walked, with my heart pounding, my palms sweating and with a serious case of regret jack-hammering my confidence. But then I met AnneMarie… then Matt… then Chris, Brooke Tiffany, Nikki, Roy, Cassie and so many others. They looked just like many other strangers I’d met before. However, when I answered “830 days” they didn’t cringe. When I said “Her name was Maggie” they didn’t look at their shoes. The word “cancer” didn’t shut down the conversation. Instead, they shared their stories, comfortably, freely, openly. Amazingly, even my dead spouse humor was met with equally appalling (and very welcome) humor. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. For the first time in more than two years, I was with people who didn’t question, critique, or condemn but instead collegialised. For the first time in 830 days, I was not alone.

I am not alone.

i need more dreams

Written 6 months after Jeff's death...

A few weeks ago, I had a dream that I was standing on a bridge looking toward the sea where a fishing boat was coming. I started calling out to it. I was calling Jeff's name. As it came closer, I could see Jeff standing on the bow waving to me. He jumped off the boat as it was about to go under the bridge and swam to me on the shore. He was laughing. He held me so close and I cried as he had me in his arms. I felt safe. I felt comfort. I felt protected. Most of all, I felt Jeff's love. I didn't want the dream to end. I was disappointed to wake and find that my life is what it now is. I need another one of those dreams. I need Jeff.

I am so lonely and lost. There are only two times in your life when you will comforted through the night when things are hard and scary. As a child, you have your parents to murmur in your ear through the nightmares. As you grow up, you must learn to comfort yourself. Then you find the person who changes your life. You wake from scary dreams or can't sleep with worry and you can turn to the person who loves you most and be comforted. I would do anything to feel Jeff's giant arm draped over my hip in the night and feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. To have him whisper in the darkness, "It's okay. I'm here, Snuggles." and pull me closer.

Instead, I wake to two little ones who look to me for assurance wrapped over me. I disentangle myself and wander through the dark house to find....nothing but more darkness. It washes over me and I want to scream. I feel like passing out or throwing up. I lay on the floor or sit with my head between my knees so that if I do faint I won't wake the kids with the thud of my body hitting the floor. No one would know. No one would come. No one could take away this pain. No one but Jeff. I want him back. I want him. I need him. I am so very lost.

Would it be weird to ask a friend to sleep in my bed with me? Just to be there when I wake. To reassure me that one day it will be okay? To hold my hand when it gets too much?

I just want some comfort. Some peace. Some sleep. And maybe if I sleep, Jeff will meet me on the other side and laugh while I cry in his arms.