Complex Joy

©Kelly Rae Roberts

I struggle tonight with what to write here. Not because I have no words for my pain... but because lately, I have been... happy. And I am struggling to write about that. Lately, my new life has become one I genuinely love. It may not be the life I had with him - but it is rich and full... and to be completely honest, it is actually far richer and more full than the life I had when he was part of it. I am a deeper, healthier, more open hearted person. I have deeper relationships with everyone I am close to now and have kicked the unworthy ones to the curb. My artistic career, although very challenging and still in the fledging stages, is meaningful and fulfilling for me. While I still have my bad days and occasional triggers and there are still certain aspects of my life that I am working to change... for the most part, I have a very full and fulfilling life.

I have mixed emotions about this. How can I possibly love my life again? And furthermore... how can I possibly love this life even MORE? How could I choose this life over my life with him if given the choice? (And I would actually). And how do I not really feel bad about that? That's some really complex shit right there.

I don't feel bad for feeling happy. I feel like it is only making Drew happier to see me finally wanting to embrace joy more fully again. And I do believe I deserve happiness. So why does it feel so damn difficult to write about happiness. Why do I fear that it will sound like I am bragging or that I will alienate readers who are in a different place on their journey through grief? It shouldn't be so hard to write about this. But it does seem like happiness becomes a taboo subject when we are grieving. Like it's not okay to admit that you may actually have some joy still left in you. Heck, maybe - eventually - you find you have even MORE joy left in you than you'd ever had before. I think this is how I feel now... that my heart is even bigger since he died - and has room for both more sorrow and more joy.

I'm just going to close this up by saying, I think that is a wonderful thing... the thought that maybe we can find just as much joy in new ways and in a new life someday as we had in our old lives. Maybe holding onto this idea can help us along when things are rough and there isn't much joy. And the grander thought that maybe - as our hearts expand from the pain of loving them - we will find that their death has created the space in us to experience even greater joy than we could have ever known had they not died. It's a complex idea, for sure, but in my heart I personally believe - this was his greatest and most lasting gift to me.

It Takes a While ......

                                                         source


...... before happiness can be a choice.

Last week I wrote a post about a powerful fortune that I found in my cookie at a Chinese restaurant.
It was about looking for my happiness in front of me, not in my past.
Those words stunned and overwhelmed me, but not as they would have stunned and overwhelmed me in my first 2-3 years on this "path".

Because now, at almost the 5 year mark, I have the ability to choose to be happy.
Most of the time.
Way more often than I did in those first few years.

I wrote that post as encouragement to those of you who are behind me on this path .... and who have yet to be able to choose happiness.  Or sadness.  Or what's for dinner.  It's difficult to make almost any choice in the beginning.  I get that.
I remember that.

But in writing that post, I think I unknowingly put pressure on some of you who aren't there yet.  Those of you who don't have the ability to choose ...... yet.
And who can't even imagine EVER being happy again .... by choice or otherwise.

And for that, I apologize.
I hope that you now are familiar with me enough that you know I would never intentionally cause any of you pain.  Or sorrow, or grief, or pressure.
My goal is to let you know that you're not crazy, that you're perfectly normal in a perfectly abnormal situation, and that your timing is the perfect timing .... for you.  No matter what your friends or family members might say.
My goal is to let you know that you're not alone and that there is no ONE right way to grieve.
My goal is to give you hope.
Not pain.

So while I wrote about choosing happiness ....... I should have made it more clear that I was writing about me, and only me, being able to choose happiness now.
It's taken almost 5 years, and The Happiness Project, to show me that.

But just because I'm at a point in my life where I can choose to be happy (most of the time) doesn't mean that I don't remember, with every fiber of my being, those first few years when happiness was not a choice I had.
In fact, there were very few choices that I had.

Grief ruled over me with an iron fist.
He was a very cruel and a very stealthy ruler.
I never knew when he was going to show up .... which was often at the most inopportune moments.  He would pour his hot, horrendous pain all over my body, but with particular preciseness .... he'd slice it straight into my heart.
And it didn't matter where I was ..... at home alone, sitting in church, driving down the freeway, or in a business meeting.  He'd show up and leave me in a mess of tears and sorrow and pain.

Sometimes I knew when to expect him.
Interestingly enough, the pain at those times wasn't as bad as I had anticipated.

But there were far more times when he would descend upon me out of nowhere.  I'd never see him coming, never hear a warning bell, never be able to prepare myself for his onslaught.  Those times required a longer recovery period.  They left me emotionally and physically drained.  I often wondered how much more I could take.
And how many tears I could possibly physically make.  I never understood why I wasn't constantly dehydrated from all of the tears I seemed to constantly shed.

Yes, I remember those days.  We all remember those days.  Which makes me all the more passionate about sharing hope with you.
I didn't know many widowed people in my early days out here.
I didn't know of any websites where I could find encouragement and support from people who understood, mostly, what I was going through.
I wish I had.
Maybe my dark, dark days wouldn't have lasted so long.
Maybe my darkness wouldn't have continued to grow so dark that the only escape I thought I had was death.
Maybe.
Maybe not.

The "maybes" don't matter so much to me anymore.
What matters is that I'm still here.
I am a survivor.
I have experienced the worst thing that I can ever face (in my opinion).
And I'm standing.  Tall.
Well, as tall as a person who's 5'3" can stand.
And that's a lot taller than you think so don't even ponder making a short joke!!

I have been through "THE Valley".
It was a very long, very hard, very painful and very exhausting trip.
I thought I'd never get out.
But I did.
One day I looked around and found that I was climbing upward, approaching the lip of THE Valley.  And someone ahead of me was there to reach down, grab my hand and help me climb over the top.

I made it out.
But I still didn't have the ability to choose happiness.
That didn't come until a year or so later.
It just kind of snuck up on me ..... like almost everything else on this path.

So what was the point of this very long, very boring description of my time on this path?
My point, or rather, half of my point, is this:  to tell you that I get it.  I remember.  I will never forget the days, weeks, months, years that all I could see in front of me was cold, dark blackness.  No future.  No joy.  No happiness.
And no choice.

And the other half?
To tell you that you won't always see only cold, dark blackness in front of you.  You won't always despair at having a future.  You won't always believe that you'll never be happy again.
And you will one day be blessed with the ability to make a choice.

I can't tell you when.
I can't give you any short cuts.  Because there aren't any.
I can't walk through this Valley for you, though there are many, many times when I wish I could.

You will get to the other side when you get there.
Don't measure your progress against anyone else's.
No two journeys are the same.
You will walk through the whole Valley.  One step at a time.
Some days you'll just sit, too exhausted to take a step.  And that's ok.
But you will get through it.
You have to.
Because that's what you'd want for your loved one ..... if he/she had been the one left behind.
And it's what we do ...... fight to survive.
And it's a fight, believe me.

So many of you, right now, can't imagine happiness.  You can't imagine a future any longer, because the future you looked to so very often, will never exist.
And again, that's ok.
You don't have to imagine it.
I will imagine it for you.
Others who are further along than you are will join me in imagining it for you.
We will keep hope alive for you.
Because we can.

Just as you, too, one day will do for the person behind you.

So for today ...... for right now ....... if you can't believe that you have happiness in front of you, let go of that.
And just believe that I do.
I have a lot of happiness before me.
I believe it so much that I know it's certain.
Believe me.
Because, though you aren't aware of it, though you can't feel it, as you believe me ...... belief in yourself will be planted within you.  It grows slowly, so you won't notice it for a while.  But it will grow.
It will grow into Hope.
And once Hope arrives, fully formed ..... Happiness comes soon after.

Believe me.
And just breathe.
One breath at a time.
I'll do the believing for you.
For now.
:)

Small Words ......

...... can add up to one powerful sentence.

Or two.

Monday I went to lunch with several friends.  We decided on Chinese.  The food was good.  The company was better.

At the end of the meal came the traditional passing around of the fortune cookies.  We always open our cookies and then take turns reading the "fortune" out loud to the others.  

This time there was one difference:  I didn't read mine and no one seemed to notice, for which I was glad.

It was a simple strip of paper.  With ten simple words.

Those ten words made two very powerful sentences:

I was stunned when I read those words.
And suddenly felt overwhelmed.
But in a good way.

And that surprised me.

If I had read those words in the first two years of my "after", I most likely would've felt stunned, overwhelmed and very, very grieved.
I could not have dealt with the thought that my happiness was not behind me.
Because behind me is where Jim is.
As is the happiness we had.
And that was all the happiness I would ever have.
Or so I thought.

But I was wrong.
Back then ...... so fresh in my "after".
And, even if it hurts to read this ...... so are you, if you think that all of your happiness is behind you.
I'd like for those words to give you hope, and not hurt.
But in the beginning ..... which lasts as long as it lasts for each person ...... just about everything hurts.

Even ten small words.

But now ...... now at almost 5 years in my "after", those ten words made me smile ..... not cry.
They reinforced the hope that has been planted in my heart.
Yes, they are only words.
No, I don't truly believe that fortune cookies hold the truth to my future ...... or anyone else's.

But I do believe in the power of those words.
And I believe there's a reason that they were in the cookie that I opened ...... and not in the eight others that were opened.

But what's more important, at least to me, is that that little slip of paper was powerful ...... but only partly true.
I do have happiness behind me.
And I treasure it.

But I also believe that I have much happiness before me.  I don't know what that looks like, but I do know that it's my choice.  If I choose to spend all of my time looking behind me, I'll miss out on all that is before me.
That doesn't mean that in order to be happy I have to stop looking behind me completely.  I don't.
I know that I can glance behind me, and yet stretch my hands out in front ..... to catch hold of the happiness that's there.
I can remember what I had, and yet look forward to what is yet to come ...... whatever that is.
I don't have to forget Jim ...... that's just physically impossible.  He's part of me, and will always be.
But I can take him forward with me ....... because he helped make the woman I am today.  And the woman I'll be tomorrow.

I am happy.
Now.
Where I am.

And I'll be happy in the future.
Because of the happiness and love I had in the past.
I know what's possible.

And I know that ten little words can pack a lot of power.
If I choose to believe them.

And I do.

I Didn't

One of the comments on my post from last Monday got to me. It stuck in my brain and will rattle around in there until I write about it.


She said that a woman in her grief group had a mantra she'd repeat to herself over and over again. Her mantra was "My husband died. I didn't".

Yesterday, somebody who means a great deal to me reminded me that my life isn't over. I have a long life ahead of me. When I heard it, I realized that I hadn't been letting myself believe it fully.

Logically, I can see that my chances of living to old age are good and there's no evidence to support the idea that I'll be kicking the bucket any time soon. I'm still young and healthy. There's also no evidence to support the chance that I'll spend the rest of my life alone. Not that it couldn't happen, just that it's not likely.


Somehow, though, in my heart, I'd felt as though the chance for happiness and love and even a family of my own was taken away from me on June 4, 2011. I'm afraid to hope sometimes. Occasionally, I worry that an essential part of me died on that terrible day and that without that part of me, I'm only a shell of a human being.

But, I didn't die. And my dreams and hopes for the rest of my life shouldn't die either. Maybe a part of me did die on that day, but the essential me is still here. Battered and heartbroken, but still here and still insisting on living.


I think I've been chanting that mantra in my soul all along. It's been a battle cry sometimes, a weak whimper other times, but it's been there. It's kept me afloat all these months and it will continue to.


In two days, I'll be boarding a plane to be with other people who have been living that mantra with me. Whether they believe it all the time or not, they exemplify it to me. They are living. We are living. Maybe even living a little extra for our precious loved ones who didn't get to.


I can't wait to be surrounded by them.

My Best Friend Got Married

Michele is filling in for Michelle D. today...who is currently lounging in St. John....

My best friend, and fellow widow, is now married.

The readers here have a unique view of this new marriage, because the majority of us have outlived a spouse. We KNOW how it feels to be "parted" from our loved one by death.

I'd wager that many of us said the word 'never' if asked when we were planning to date (let alone remarry) after becoming widowed. I can tell you first-hand, Michelle did. In fact, I believe we each said, and meant, 'never' regarding the possibility of another love in our lives as we navigated the waters of grief on our side-by-side surfboards.

For us, I believe the word never was fueled first by pain, and then by fear. During the darkest days of grief we couldn't figure out why the sun had the audacity to shine, let alone imagine a future that wasn't full of painful longing for the life from which we were unwillingly separated. The pain caused by death was blinding, all consuming, disorienting, feverish. I wanted to claw my skin off to stop the agony. There was no room for fear at first, because desperation and disorientation ruled. We were so lucky to find each other. Each time one of us dangled over the pit of despair unable to summon the strength to tie a knot in the proverbial rope with which to hang on for one more moment, the other one stepped in and provided a reprieve.

As the pain dulled slightly, fear came to visit. We began, each in our own way, to mold new lives. We dove into the multitude of tasks and responsibilities that were once shared, but now managed only by two hands. Every day brought a new challenge, and we shared them via phone calls, text messages, e-mails and sometimes late night tear-filled cryfests. Fear hovered in the background, and time and again we pushed it away in tandem, challenging each other to face the darkness and choose the light.

Over the years we have become accustomed to facing fear, choosing hope, encouraging each other as well as our larger widowed community to take the risk of loving life. Because at the end of the day, that was the source of our deepest fears. What if we truly love our life again? Will the carpet be swept out, and the fall into despair begin again?

The answer, of course, is maybe. Life gives no guarantees. Ironically though, hiding from life doesn't keep you any safer than living it large. I guess that is the lesson Michelle and I have taught each other. Live big, love big, and face your fears with a good friend by your side.

 As I shared your wedding day, my heart sang for you my friend. Long live love, and here's to jumping off of curbs!

Don't get too close

I went on a date a few weeks ago. It was a truly enjoyable evening spent talking, laughing and being with another adult....a man.

Although he talked a lot, he was funny, kind and really, really sexy. I wanted to reach out and touch him almost immediately.

The day after, he texted me to make plans for a few days later. I was thrilled!

But the day before our next date, I found myself finding excuses to not go. I could hear my mind scrambling for reasons that this particular day was just too busy. Searching for reasons to feel guilty for spending any more time with this man and sussing out any and all failings in his personality and appearance.

I am not proud of this behaviour. And when I left him a message that I had to cancel, I felt a bit sick to my stomach. But I managed to convince myself that he wouldn't care and that he probably had a lot to do as well thus alleviating some of my guilt.

Days later when he phoned, I acted cold and distracted. And when we were scheduled to hang out again, I cancelled....again.

To any outsiders, it would appear that I had found him lacking and was trying to shake him off. In actuality, I had developed a crush on him. I liked him. A lot. I wanted to be with him. To tell him things. To snuggle up to him.

But therein lay the problem. If I "liked" him, I might one day "love" him. And as I am well aware, he is going to die. Then I am just where I have been for three years, in love with a dead guy.

So instead of allowing myself some companionship, I chose to sabotage any amount of fondness that someone may have for me because I don't want to add to the *collection of urns under my bed. Ridiculous.

Because don't get too close....or I'll ditch you.

*The collection of urns under my bed isn't as morbid as it sounds....at least to a widow. It contains just one husband and two family dogs.

To Be Happy Once Again

Well, yesterday was a step into the next phase of my relationship with Abel, and the beginning of my family getting used to seeing me with another man.

It was the occasion of my niece and her husband baptizing their newborn baby boy. I drove up with two of my kids, and a new person at my side. It was not a surprise to them, as I had broken the news of this new relationship with them one week ago. Each of them were surprised to learn that I had been dating, and that I had chosen not to share the news with them for well over a month.

I let my family know that I needed some time to feel secure in being part of a new twosome before having to deal with the looks of confused emotion on their part. My family loved Michael, and they, like me, continue to grieve his absence from their lives.

Abel himself was a nervous wreck. I suppose it's always a big occasion when the new love gets introduced to the extended family members, and he wasn't quite sure how he would be received. He knew that my family had grown used to seeing me either as Michael's husband, or later, as Michael's widower. For the past two years they grew used to seeing me in a continued somber state of mind and emotion.

Once at the house, most of Abel's concerns began to melt away. My brothers and parents were very gracious in introducing themselves to him, and each spent some time getting to know him and wanting him to feel comfortable in their presence. At one point Abel leaned over to me and pointed out that my mother kept glancing our way. I reminded him that this is the first time that she has seen me with another man. It has to be both pleasing and bittersweet. Around this time my mother told me that my decision to move to San Diego has been the best choice I made for myself. She reminded me that I now have "a lovely home, a good job," and looking at Abel, then back at me, she said, "and now you have this."

On the long drive back to San Diego from our day in Thousand Oaks, I received a text from my older brother telling me that his day was great. Among those events that made his day was seeing me happy again. After reading the text to everyone in the car, my kids both chimed in, saying "Abel, we are so happy that you and my dad are dating."

Oh, to be happy once again.

Always

I'm sitting here, Sunday night, and watching the old Steven Spielberg film, Always. It's one of those films we widowed people try to avoid, especially in the first year. I'm not in my first year, more like at 22 months, but who's counting.

This is one of those films that I remember enjoying, but never really thought to watch again. So, the details of the film escaped me when I tuned in tonight. A pilot dies, leaving his girlfriend widowed, and is sent back to help guide another, younger, pilot. What the pilot doesn't realize is that he is not necessarily sent back to help the young man become a better pilot, he is sent back to help the young man heal the heart of his widowed girlfriend, through new love.

Interesting timing. As many of you know I have just started dating again. For some it may seem soon, but at 22 months, I find that I need something new in my life. Not surprising really, as most of my widowed journey has been about seeking that which is new. It's not the recommended route, nor is it the easiest route. I'm well aware that my grief remains, and that there is still much for me to work through. But, what I also know well, is me. I know what works for me. At seven months into my grief I was feeling like ending it all. Not the safest best place to have been, and not something I share with everyone, yet something I do share with my widowed companions.

I remember that time as the darkest, and most painful, time of my life. I was grieving not just the loss of my husband, but the complete loss of hope. I had gone through so much in my adult life, especially with all the unexpected challenges of raising my three adoptive children. I realized that through some of my choices, and perhaps through some bad timing, I had remained single throughout most of my adult life. I often laid up alone at night, and wondered what it was like for married people. I wondered what it was like to sleep next to the person I loved every night. I wondered what it would be like to make love to the same person, night after night, week after week, and year after year. At some point in my life, I had actually given up hope that I would indeed meet that person.

Then one April evening, without any real expectation, I met Michael. It didn't take much time to know he was the one. And, it didn't take much time to know what I had been missing all of my adult life. You see, it was almost four years later, to the day, that I sat on the floor of my bedroom, with a choice to make. Succumb to the pain, or wake up the next morning with a new plan. That is when I made a plan to pack up my kids, leave my job, sell my home, and move on. It is what I needed. I knew that ultimately it would be the only way for me to survive. I made a choice that next morning to trust that I wasn't making this decision alone, and that I wouldn't be taking those steps alone as well.

Now I find myself out here, 22 months into this journey, knowing that it is time for me to take another step. I know that I need new love in my life, and that I have to go out and seek it. It is what he wanted for me, and I feel like he is once again here guiding me. Funny, there is no guilt. There is only a smile on my face, thinking about the way Michael's whole face would light up when he was filled with joy, or when he looked at me. I don't see him, yet I feel his smile. I feel the warmth of his gaze. It lights up my life.

This week I will be going on a second date. I'm excited, and I am nervous. I know what I had, and I know what I would like to have once again. I hope to maintain my optimism as I begin this phase of my life. I hope to find enjoyment in the process of meeting new guys, and I hope to remain open to the prospect of new love and romance.

For so long I thought I would never have true love.

For a short time I thought I would always have it.

For a time I thought I would never escape the pain of losing him.

For now, I realize that I will always have him, and his love.

I trust that he knew what was best for me, and that he wants me to choose love.

Always.

Pretty Panty Problems

Photo from here...

There's an old adage that says that you should make sure that you are always wearing nice underpants in case you end up at the hospital and some health care worker witnesses the terrible state of your undergarments.
I remember this and other silly issues causing me concern at one point.
I could worry about this still...if I worked at it. But now, it is a choice.
I can care that someone believes that I am too old for my nose ring. I may occasionally wonder if I appear to be a socially responsible human. I might stress about the length of the lawn.
Since Jeff's death, I truly realize that "Life is short". All of us reading this blog are painfully aware. Our hearts ache and we may wonder 'why' this has happened. Why we have lost our loved ones.
But if we can look through the mesh of fear and sadness that our loss has created, we can see the gift that this loss has given us.
It's the gift of knowing what is important. Truly important.
It's not the whole-y undies that matter - it's the person that's wearing them. Their deeds, their heart, their memories. Well-loved and saggy, rainbow tie-dyed underpants can be replaced. The fabulous human who sports them cannot.
Although this lesson has come with a heartbreaking price, I am a kinder, better and more fun and confident person because of it....And if you look inside, I bet you are to. And I now feel that many of our everyday issues rank down there with pondering "pretty panty problems".


P.S. Nice undies!!!!

they are okay

There are days or moments that I watch my little ones and think, "Bloody Hell. They are going to be so messed up after all they've been through." Then there are times that I see them blossom and bloom with smiles, laughter and play where I think, "If you didn't know what had happened, you would think these two had a 'normal' life."

All I know for sure, is that no matter how our lives unfold, they are stronger because they have eachother.

They still know how to laugh and be silly without guilt or remorse.

And that these two little ones are the most amazing teachers of living after your life has stopped.

I am practising seeing the world through their eyes....It isn't as dark as it is through mine.

Originally posted 7 1/2 months after losing their daddy on our personal blog.

not all bad

Photo from here...

When we think of being widowed, we most often think of the sadness, the loss and the loneliness created in the wake of our loss. We reflect on what once was. We imagine and recreate what could have been 'if only'. We long to be transported back in time to when life seemed sweeter and kinder.
Rarely do we think of the blessings we have gained. The lessons we have learned. The better people we have become.
I know that since Jeff died, I take the positives in my life less for granted. This is not to say that I don't still grumble like a petulent child when life doesn't provide what I feel it should. But I am certainly more aware of the amazing and awe-filled things that those touched by trauma are gifted with. I notice the small crystalline patterns created in the dog's water dish and marvel at their beauty. I realize that I am either going crazy or have been struck by some seemingly silly, glowing warmth that makes me....grateful that there is still breathtaking beauty in the world.
I realize now just how lucky I was to have found such love in my life and even when we argued over who's way was the 'correct' way to load the dishwasher, I was blessed.
I feel the gift of knowing that life does not revolve around 'what' but 'who'. This fact was probably known to me before losing Jeff....but not internalized. I still have the occasional longing for a pair of coveted gumboots, but I realize that in 15 years those same boots may lay lifeless and forgotten in my shoe rack....and those who I actually love may be lifeless as well....but certainly not forgotten.
I feel a peace that I did not once possess. I know that I cannot change much of what happens in the world or my life. Events happen. Losses occur. I cannot dictate these happenings. I can only control my own actions. This brings my soul a form of solace. Worrying will not change what may happen. I can only face what has happened.
Although life is less sweet without my love sharing it with me, it is sweetened somewhat with the realizations and epiphanies my loss has opened my eyes to. And I am grateful for these blessings.

Photo from Reader's Digest - laugh yourself to good health

Being a widow is a lot of things. Scary. Sad. Lonely. Guilt-ridden. But an unexpected side effect of the loss of my spouse is the humour and hilarity.
Maybe I was funny person before. Maybe it has been in me all along. But after spending time again this year at Camp Widow, my cheeks hurt from laughing....and I didn't spend the time giggling at myself. Either death finds funny people or funny people just curse those around us.....or maybe, when life has you scraping the barrel, you begin to not take it as seriously. You realize that you can't jinx yourself with a belly laugh and no one has ever ceased breathing for joking about the ceasing of breathing.
I now find it more comfortable to be able to face the sadness and fear down and speak it out loud....and then laugh in its' face. Unfortunately, lay people sometimes seem to be either very uncomfortable with this M.O. or they seem to think that I am flippant or nonchalant about losing my beloved Jeff. I can assure you I'm not.
But a sign-in sheet at work for the staff party where it inquires whether each staff member will be bringing their spouse fills me with a desire to answer in the allotted box, "No. The seat belt won't properly hold the urn."
A man who approaches me at the bar surrounded with other widows who have attended the widowhood conference states to me that it is such a coincidence that he has the same tattoo on his forearm as I do. "Oh?!", I say, "So your husband died too and you got an anchor to signify both his job as a fisherman and his role as an 'anchor' in your life????? Wow!!!!! That IS a coincidence!" Shocked, he tells me that I am mean and rude. I just thought it was plain funny.
A woman at Camp Widow sported a shirt that said, "My husband died and all I got was this lousy t-shirt." This shirt has brought me many moments of mirth for the last week as I recalled it.
I love that we can find humour at such a deathly grave situation. We are not (as) afraid anymore. We now know that you will not be struck dead for a good chuckle.