No Tears in Tampa...

Well here I am at Camp Widow in beautiful Tampa. Today I attended round table discussions on 'being widowed by suicide', 'being widowed without the chance to have children' and 'signs and synchronicity'.  I met some wonderful, inspiring people and told my story a couple of times.  And I didn't cry once.

This last point is making me feel VERY uncomfortable.  How come I'm not a teary hot mess right now?  While I participated in these sessions and engaged with others, I was able to talk about my grief almost calmly, as if I had made my peace with it.  As if this is all something that happened to me a lifetime ago.  Or as if I was telling someone else's story.  

Right now I'm trying not to judge the way I'm feeling or force myself to 'be' a certain way, but I can't help but wonder ... where is the pain?  Am I heading towards a bad grief crash?  Surely it's coming.  I mean, it always comes, doesn't it.

I arrived in Tampa on Thursday night, fresh from a wonderful week in New York and firmly in holiday mode.  I'd wandered around the city that I had planned to explore with my husband, seeing the sights that he'd spoken about from his previous trips and wishing he were by my side.  But I had fun.  The ache for him felt almost... compartmentalised. As if my brain had packaged up my grief in to a neat little box and stored it on a shelf in the back of my mind so that it didn't mess up my holiday.  

It's still there, I can touch it but it's almost like I'm opting to let it sit there for now, rather than bringing it down and unpacking it again.  I know I have to at some point.  One thing is for certain, that grief can't be left in that box on the shelf.  It needs to be aired and sorted through regularly so that it doesn't fester and get stale. 

The box may come tumbling down this evening at the welcome reception (I'm writing this quickly in my room before I head out again).  It may burst open during a workshop or presentation tomorrow or the flood gates might come undone on the flight home to Australia, when my brain starts to slow and think about returning to the life I have there without him.  Who knows.  

For now, I am trying to enjoy the moment of peace and the company of the wonderful people here at Camp Widow.  

If you're here and we haven't met yet, please find me and say hello.  I'm the tall one with the accent. 

500 Days of Missing You

As of today, my husband has been dead for 500 days. That just sounds so utterly ridiculous to me.  500 days.  It might as well be an eternity.  During those first few weeks, each day felt like a marathon.  It was the greatest challenge to make it through every. single. day.  

I'd lay in bed at night with a heart heavy and a broken spirit, exhausted from feeling every second of time that had passed without him here. The days were long and sad. And now there's been 500 of them.

Here, in my 17th month of missing him, the days are definitely easier. There is still great pain and sadness at his loss but - I guess like an athlete who's body becomes conditioned to their sport - I move through them easier.

I have been thinking a lot this week about the passing of time and how it's softened the edges of the agony I feel at being separated from him.  Since his death, I have grown in ways that I can't even identify and measure.  The weeks and months have a tendency to blur and it's easy to believe that I have not changed or healed at all.  Until something prompts me to look back at a certain point in time - then comes the lightbulb moment. 

For example, my feelings towards Christmas are very different to last year.  I am actually looking forward to this holiday period.  I have been enjoying searching for gifts for my family and friends, I bought a tree and have find myself humming along to Christmas carols.

This afternoon, I'm having seven close friends over for drinks, we're doing a secret santa gift exchange, I've made them all gift baskets of fudge and rocky road and have even put together a music playlist for the party!  

I was speaking to Dan's parents during the week about this strange sense of excitement I've been feeling and was so happy to hear his mum say that she's been looking forward to Christmas too.  

We all wish Dan was here, it won't be the same without him and my mind still wanders regularly to how wonderful things would be if he hadn't of died and we were making these plans together.   I'll probably still cry myself to sleep on Christmas eve with Mariah Carey's 'All I Want For Christmas Is You' on repeat.

But while last year, Christmas was something to endure - a challenge to overcome that I would have gladly ignored if possible - this year there is joy in my heart and gratitude for the family and friends who fill my life with love.

My Little Seedling of Hope

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The weather is warming up here in sunny Queensland, Australia, with Spring in full swing and Summer just around the corner.  Last weekend I popped over to visit my sister and her family, who live a few streets away, and they'd just enjoyed their very first swim in their brand new backyard pool.

The sun was getting ready to set, casting its golden glow over the sky.  My brother-in-law was cooking a BBQ, with a beer in hand and the football on in the background while my three nephews were running around to dry off from their swim.  My sister and I sat amongst it all enjoying a glass of wine. And I felt happy.

Of course I wished Dan was there, the ache for him is ever-present, but in that moment, surrounded by people I love and looking up at a bright blue sky I was content and my heart was at peace.

I said to my sister, "I can't wait for Summer, we are going to have so many fun weekend like this" and she said, "me too... can you believe we're actually looking forward to Summer?  I can't even remember a single thing about last Summer, let alone enjoying any of it.  I am so happy to hear you say that you're looking forward to something, this is really big."

I hadn't even realised until she pointed it out but it WAS really big.  I couldn't believe I was actually feeling genuine excitement about something so minor as the weather.  This time last year, Dan had only been gone for two months and life was still a numb blur.  I have a vague recollection that Summer occurred but no tangible memories of actually doing anything - let alone enjoying anything.  One year ago, I didn't think it would be possible to ever feel 'joy' again.

After dinner I went back home to my quiet, empty house, climbed in to my big, cold bed and had my routine chat with Dan about my day.  I cried for him and yearned for him - as usual. But I felt a sense that there was more to come for me.  I felt hope.  Even though my heart is broken because he isn't here, I was somehow still looking forward to wearing out my welcome in my sister and brother-in-law's new swimming pool this Summer.

It's so hard to describe how my grief can co-exist with this growing sense of remembering what it feels like to be genuinely happy.  Not complete, but happy. Maybe, in the way I felt before he was part of my world.  I will ALWAYS wish Dan was here.  Every happy moment, every sunny day, every celebration and every achievement will ALWAYS be less sweet because of his absence.   My heart will always ache for him, even when it's singing. Oh, how it yearns for him.  It's magnetic, this pull, to be close to him.  This impossible pull - to hold him, hear his laugh, kiss his lips, rest my head on his chest and breathe him in.  Missing him is such agony.  I have accepted that this will be a life-long pain and I still have those days where the grief is so intense that even leaving the house is just not an option. But a very small seedling of hope has sprouted somewhere inside me.

I think it was planted there during my time at Camp Widow West in July, and somehow, since then, enough light has seeped through the tears to give it life.  I'm doing my best to protect and nurture it - it's still very fragile and nowhere near sturdy enough to withstand strong winds or stormy rains.  But maybe a nice, quiet Queensland Summer will be the perfect conditions for letting my little seedling of hope grow stronger.

Waiting for the Crash

So last week I put it out there that I’d been feeling happy and ‘doing ok’.  I seriously didn’t realise how scary that would feel, as if I was tempting the universe.  As the weekend came and went, I found myself full of anticipation and it took a while to work out what I was waiting for.   Then I realised, I was waiting for the crash. 

I know it’s coming.  It may not be today, or this week, or even for another couple of weeks, but I know for a fact that it will come again and I’ll feel foolish for my cockiness.  I know this, because there’s a proven track record.  The grief always seems to build and build and then surge into a wave that drags me under again.  Sometimes it’s dramatic and I find myself mid-meltdown in public, scrambling for a safe place to take cover while I try to keep my head above the tidal wave.  Other times it sneaks up on my when I’m not looking – I’ll wake up one morning and it’s back, just smothering me in its heavy cloak of misery.   

Gee, what a pessimist, huh!?  Here I am feeling pretty good, but rather than just soaking it up, I’m fighting this internal dialogue: ‘Hey lady, who do you think you are!  Don’t you remember that your husband died!?  HELLOOOOO!!  Who are you kidding, pretending that you’re not only coping – but actually finding some enjoyment in this world?  Pfft, good luck with that, enjoy your DENIAL, fool!’  Yeah, my niggling negative voice is harsh.

There it is… denial.  That’s what I’m worried about.  Am I really doing ok at the moment or am I just in a temporary state of denial where I’m subconsciously pretending that Dan isn’t really dead, he’s just gone away for a while.  Is it possible that I’ve just blocked out the horror of his suicide because it’s just too painful to deal with?  Maybe I’m not actually taking steps forward by feeling happy in my life, but rather, I’m regressing into a shock-like state where my brain is just having a holiday from the trauma? 

How exhausting it is to be constantly questioning and judging myself. When did I lost my confidence in my ability to know my own heart?  Why can't I just trust myself?  I think a big part of it is that I didn’t see Dan’s death coming.  I was so happy in my newly-wed glow, so secure in our love, so excited for our future together, so confident that Dan’s treatment was on the right track, so sure that he’d talk to me if he didn’t feel ok.  Now I look at that person and just think – you were so naive.  It’s always there – I missed the signs, I let him down, I failed him.  Will I ever trust myself again?  Will I ever let myself off the hook for not seeing how much he was struggling

  

I really hope so.  I know it’s not my fault and I didn’t cause his death, but I can’t imagine ever not wishing that I’d been able to save him. I will miss him forever.

Hope for Hope

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This week, I completed the camp widow survey (see it here)

There was one question that made me think.. made me wonder. Without spilling the details of the survey and question, here’s what my answer was…

I hope to have hope again. The hope for hope, brings me hope.

I realized, I still have a long ways to go in my quest for hope. I realized it’s a little sad that I all I have is to hope for hope.

But I do.

I hope for hope.

Because hope makes me hope for a better for tomorrow.

Makes me hope for a less grief stricken life.

Hope that one day I will “get over it”, “move on” or “forget about it”, in the words of the none experienced.

Hoping for hope, keeps me going. Keeps me pushing. Keeps me from giving up.

Because hope matters.

And if all you can do is hope for hope that is enough.

Soaring spirits (If you are unfamiliar with them, see them here), brings me hope.

They keep me strong.

They have picked me up, wiped my tears, and told me, that one day.. it will be okay. Not “I accept it - okay” but kind of like “this isn't going to kill me after all, and that’s okay.”

I was talking to Michele this week and she said something to the effect of “I am grateful for the courageous honesty you show week after week on WV. You are a widowed rock star.”

I’ll be honest, I don’t feel like a widowed rock star (really, what is that?)

I have struggled… wondering if my blog helps and supports anyone. Or if it’s just me spilling my emotions every week to the written land of never never. I have had writers block like no other. I have scrapped the bottom of my soul barrel, trying to put my struggles into words. Trying to make my struggles make sense to the outside world.

I have had a friend (that is really good at writing) take my written ball of shit, and turn it into writing that makes sense to everyone else. But I write every week, because I made a commitment. A commitment to share my experience and struggles every Sunday, no matter what… that commitment gives me hope. Because come Sunday, I know I have a job that needs to be done.

Having Michele believe in me, gives me hope. Hope that my experience can help someone, if even in a teeny, tiny way. Having someone believe in you, when you don’t believe in yourself, matters.

This life matters. Even in the most shitty of shitty situations… there is a reason to go on.

Even if I don’t know what that reason is (yet) I hope to figure out that reason.

Because well, hope matters.

3, 4, 7 and 14

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3, 4, 7 and 14.

My lucky numbers.

I am anxiously waiting for the New Year to begin. After all, my lucky numbers will be part of the New Year. 2013 and 2014.

I don’t know why, but I feel it in my bones. I know the next two years are going to be “better” then the last two years.

With the New Year, I am pushing forward. I am pushing to not be “idle” anymore.

For the first time since Seth’s death, I have goals, plans, and even started a bucket list.

Some of the goals are short term, some are long term. Some goals I will see in 2013, some I won’t see until 2014.

But I am excited.

I have goals! 

Who would have thought that 2 years after Seth’s death, I am just barely setting long term goals.

Who would have thought it would take me 2 years to see past tomorrow.

One of my goals is to work hard on myself and my grief. I am ready to push through and break out on the other side.

Part of me knows it’s because I’m stubborn. I am sick of being mentally exhausted, so my stubbornness has kicked in with “Let’s get this over with!”

But my brain keeps going there “The 3 year sadiversary is coming”. 

It’s not until July, and I’m already anxious about it. Maybe because I am learning my triggers, and looking 7 months out, I know the sadiversary is going to drop kick me to my knees – again.

I might fall flat on my face, again.

But I will get back up, again.

Life will still go on, I will learn more about myself and my grief, dust myself off, and tell myself “Let’s not do that again”.

When I was 6 weeks out of Seth’s death, I went to a support group. There I met another widow that was 4 weeks out. We instantly became best friends.

At one point, we talked about going to camp widow the following summer.

We both laughed and said “I will be over this by then!”

Silly me. Stubborn me. So naive.

Here I am 29 months later, still grasping for air. Still grieving. Still trying to get a grasp on life, and learn to roll with the punches.

Since Christmas I have found myself in a slippery slope of death and despair. Grasping at anything that will catch my fall.

I don’t want to hit rock bottom, again. I never want to hit the bottom again.

So stubborn me, has chosen to not hit bottom. To not let the depression sneak in again. Why? Because I deserve better then rock bottom. 

Been there, done that.

And I didn't even get a damn t-shirt to prove that I have hit rock bottom. And lived.

A lot of people have asked me how I have survived Seth’s suicide.

The only thing I can think of is “I’m too stubborn to give up”.

Really, what other choice do I have?

Cheers to the New Year!

I can feel it, it’s going to be a great year!

If it’s not a great year, it will still be better than 2012.

I have hope and faith for 2013.

Hope Bubble

It is December again.
It should be time to sink into the December blues of Christmas and New Year alone again.

...and now with added unemployment due to Newman's job cuts.

But I seem to be floating on a tiny bubble of hope instead.

I saw a psychic a few weeks ago. 
(Whether you believe in spirituality or not, in the end, she was cheaper than a psychologist and I felt much better afterwards.)
Perhaps because she told me to give myself permission to let go of the things beyond my control. 
Like another contract for next year..... I have worked my hardest all year and have to trust that all I have done will be enough to land a job somewhere. 
She also gave me hope that I will meet another man who I wont want to run screaming from.
Whether its fake or not, it feels nice to have hope.

...and I am enjoying things more than I otherwise would.

• Miss K got an academic award at school today.  I was overjoyed for her.
• Mum and Dad are buying another puppy that the kids will be able to play with all holidays - this thought fills me with child-like joy as I keep looking at the pictures of the puppy they are collecting this weekend.
• H has been delighting me with his own brand of humour.
• Both kids have had a great year at school.
• I get to see my friends through the holidays.

 Maybe it all is a big bubble that will pop any second now, but until it does, I'm going to relax and enjoy the feeling of peace.

Inner Voice

**Filling in for Amanda today...but she will be back next week!**

Decision making was never difficult for me. Options don't confuse me, and once I have made a choice I rarely question myself. I realize that many people engage in a mental wrestling match with every decision they make, and I have regularly been grateful that my mind and I generally agree pretty quickly. 

And then came widowhood.

One of the most disturbing aspects of widowhood for me was the about face I experienced in my decision making abilities. My previously certain mind betrayed me at every turn. When Phil died an avalanche of decisions that needed to be made immediately began, and then an on-going slide of questions to be answered by the last person standing continued. The first heart wrenching choices to be made included: whether or not to donate his organs (you have to make this one in less than 24 hours), burial vs. cremation, what type and how many memorial services to have, and will you be purchasing a monument Mrs. Hernandez? Once these choices were made I began to second guess each one asking myself repeatedly if I made the right choice.

The decision making process did not get any easier as the weeks and months passed. I discovered that I was entering the wrestling match of the uncertain on a daily basis without regard for the importance of the choice to be made. Was I doing this task correctly? Should I purchase the blue or the brown sheet set? Water the grass every other day or every third day? One minute option A seemed best, the next minute I was more inclined to go with option B. I found myself seeking advice on choices large or small; allowing myself to be swayed toward my adviser's way of thinking regardless of what my own instincts were telling me. Buy a new fence or fix the old? Sell Phil's truck or keep it? Get a gardener or teach the kids how to mow the lawn? Vacation or no vacation? The list went on and on....making a decision of any sort became a monumental effort. I lost confidence in myself, and began to believe that everyone else knew what I needed better than I did. Until one day when a well meaning friend stepped over the line regarding my privacy, and a little voice sounded inside my head..."He did not just do that!" Hearing the familiar sound of my own voice I realized in one mind blowing moment how much of my daily life I was allowing to be determined by what other people thought, felt, knew, said, or sometimes even ordered. The silence of my inner voice suddenly became deafening.

The truth is our inner voice still speaks while we are grieving, but sometimes we can't hear her/him over the din created by sorrow. The initial realization that we are no longer a part of a couple often begins an all-consuming tempest inside of us. But at the eye of the storm still rests the core of our being. That innermost self still knows what we need. When I first became aware that I was abdicating my right to run my own life, I asked myself the question...who are you? I didn't recognize the woman I saw in the mirror, because I allowed her voice to be silenced by grief.

When my inner voice finally spoke, the first thing she told me was that I would be okay. She spoke up when I tried to do too much, and pointed out when I needed a mental health day. When I wanted to quit, she reminded me that quitting wouldn't stop the pain. When I began to hear her again, she helped me choose between going out to dinner with friends and staying home to watch a movie. Myself helped me figure out how to manage the holiday season. She knew instinctively what I needed on the first anniversary of Phil's death, and all the ones that have come after. She consistently, and confidently, knows which choice is best for me. Sometimes I ignore her, and when I do I usually pay a price. But she loves me and she is proud of what I have done, and of who I am becoming. Only she knows the effort this has required. Finally I realized that her approval is what I need most. No one knows me better than I know myself. But I only discovered that fact when I was willing to trust my inner voice once again.

Uncommon Therapy

I've done common therapy ... 

The psychologist I saw for over a year was lovely to talk to, had some useful ideas and she confirmed my own suspicion that my mental health is worth bottling ..... but ultimately, this sadness will not lift easily and all the mindfulness and affirmations in the world won't fix it.

But thankfully, I've also stumbled into a form of uncommon* therapy....

...just before he died, Greg gave me my 40th birthday present..... a second hand DSLR Canon camera with three lenses.

....and just before he died I signed up to the 365Project which is a free website where the basic premise is that you take and upload a photo each day.

It took a while for me to return to this project after Greg died, and when I did it was with photos that simply documented our lives.

...and ever so slowly, my photos improved in both content and technique.

 I can now look back over the last 2 and a bit years and see that my photographs are increasingly full of colour and joy again..... possibly more colour and joy than I feel .... but proof that for at least part of every day, I have sought beauty around me and captured it in an image.

...and I am thankful for that.

*At no point should it replace quality professional therapy..... but if it can lift your eyes from the floor on even the darkest days, then it as therapy worth doing.