The D Word

(Source)

Over the past couple of months I have been very quietly thinking about that terrifying concept of dating again.  The feeling that I might like to dip my toe back in the dating pool started creeping in around late January, at my 18-month mark, and completely took me by surprise.

After Dan’s death, the thought of finding another partner filled me with such dread – I didn't want anyone else, the idea of another man’s touch repulsed me and I couldn't understand how someone would ever make me as happy or complete as my husband had, or live up to the expectations that he had set. I had married him six weeks earlier knowing undoubtedly that he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I couldn't contemplate an alternative.

For a long time I thought that I had to wait until I finished grieving before being ‘ready’ to love again.  Because how could I possibly ask anyone to take me on while I still had ‘bad days’ on a semi-frequent basis?  How could I give my battered heart to another while still crying for my lost love?  What a disaster – it wouldn't be fair to myself or to any future suitors.  Sex was the last thing on my mind (and is still not the driver for me wanting to date).  I wondered if the 20 wonderful months I’d shared with Dan would be enough to sustain me for the rest of my life, however long that may be, if I were never able to love again.

It wasn't until I attended Camp Widow West in July last year and met so many wonderful widowed people, who had learnt to love again while honoring their dearly departed, that I began to understand that I would never actually finish grieving Dan.  There wouldn't be a line in the sand where I could put that part of my life behind me and start a new chapter, stress and baggage-free.  And more importantly, I didn’t want to leave that part of me behind. 

It was a bit of a light bulb moment. Maybe, just maybe, I would be lucky enough to one day meet a man who was secure within himself and would accept that I could give myself to him without having to let go of the love I have for Dan.  The idea still terrified me – but I don't want to be alone forever.  I also knew Dan wouldn’t want me to be alone.  And for that reason, I knew I would have to try.  But not yet, I still wasn’t ready.  I had more healing to do and needed to learn to love the ‘new me’.  So I focused on that and put the idea of dating out of mind. 

Until recently, when it began bubbling up to the surface more and more often.  After finally accepting that – yes, I think it would be nice to have someone to share my life with.  I think I would like to try dating and see how it felt.  Maybe I would freak out and fall apart, but I wouldn’t really know for sure until I gave it a go.

So, a few weeks ago, I did just that.  I created an on-line profile on a respectable, ‘paid’, dating website and started chatting to a man.  A psychologist, to be exact, who I'd hoped would be sensitive about Dan’s suicide and emotionally-mature enough to help me navigate the world of dating again.  Unfortunately, it didn’t go well… we didn’t click, he was very boring, kind of arrogant and also asked a lot of questions about Dan’s death, critiquing the treatment he'd been receiving for his depression and basically making me feel like my husband was a case study for his professional analysis rather than a real human being.

It was pretty bad.  But I had survived it.  In fact, it was so ridiculous that I actually found the whole situation funny and was able to laugh about it with my girlfriends over a glass of wine or two.  I’d gotten my ‘first date’ out of the way and surely things would have to look up from here.  So here I am.  Officially dating again, well  - looking for a worthy candidate anyway (which is not proving to be easy!).  I'm taking it slowly, not rushing anything but remaining open to possibilities. 

The timeline is different for everyone and I’m still figuring mine out.  If I happen to meet someone I like, I don’t really know how I feel about even kissing another man, let alone having sex.  The idea of giving my heart to another still terrifies me.  But I’m ready to at least take a step in that direction and see where it leads me.  

Disconnected by Pain

Source

Last weekend, both my sister and my best friend were out of town on (separate) family holidays when my grief decided it might be a good time to roll on up and knock me around for a bit. Knowing I was in for a quiet weekend, I had set myself a few tasks around the house and planned to lay low, catch up on laundry and housework, do some cooking for the week and fit in a gym session or two. 

However when I woke up on Saturday morning, with the weekend stretching before me, the feeling of loneliness was heavy and the emptiness filled my bedroom. I am usually quite comfortable spending time alone and quite enjoy my own company, so it’s not unusual for me to have a weekend by myself.  But I think that knowing my two ‘go-to people’ were unavailable if I started feeling lost or down, opened the door to that horrible realisation that my person is gone and I am on my own. 

By midday on Sunday the tears had been falling almost non-stop all weekend, I had achieved none of the chores I’d set myself and had lost a significant number of hours just staring at the wall and waiting for time to pass.   I was in a deep depression and felt disconnected from the rest of the world.  The idea of returning to work Monday morning was actually looking appealing.  Yep, things were that grim!

Somewhere in the depths of my logical brain, I knew the fog that had settled would lift again.  I knew there was light and hope and happiness out there somewhere, it was just out of reach in that moment so I had to buckle up and wait for it to pass.

Luckily, mid-week I started doing better and am feeling ok now but when I caught up with another friend and mentioned that I’d had a bad few days, she asked why I hadn’t called her. It was so hard to explain.  I’ve never been very good at asking for help and the grief complicates this even more, because no one can make it so that Dan didn’t die and bring back my old life.

I’m lucky that my sister and my best friend know me well enough to sense when I’ve gone a bit quiet or usually hear the strain in my voice when I lie that ‘I’m ok’, and just turn up to sit with me and talk it out.  But even with them it takes a considerable amount of effort to show them my pain.

In my head, it’s like I’m so miserable and sad, I just can’t bring myself to subject other people to that.  I don’t even know what I would say or what I need/want. In my grieving brain, I can’t see the purpose in calling and saying, ‘Oh hi, I’m really sad.’ I mean, what am expecting from them?  I feel terrible for putting someone in the position to have to respond to that.  It’s not like I’m asking for help moving a heavy piece of furniture, I’m asking them to help me feel less devastated.  What a massive thing to ask of someone!

In hindsight I know the act of reaching out always leads me to a better place.  Once I connect and start talking I can usually identify whatever particular thought or emotion it is that happens to be taking the floor at that moment and almost always feel a release by just verbalising the pain.  But when you’re in that hole, you just can’t see that.

In a way, if I put myself in the company of others, I’d probably just feel pressure to try not to be sad and upset them, so I’d feel compelled to put on my cheerful mask to reassure everyone that I’m ok, and that’s just even more exhausting. 

Which lead me to think, I wonder if that’s kind of how Dan felt when his depression passed that point of going beyond being able to reach out.  Maybe that’s what stopped him from talking to me that day.  Did he think that there was nothing I could do to help him, so he didn’t want to worry me and inflict that on me?  Maybe he didn’t want to put that pressure on me – or knew he’d feel compelled to put on his ‘I’m ok’ face and just didn’t have the energy to do that anymore. 

I’m not anywhere near as desperate and lost as he must have been feeling, because I’m not suicidal.  So it makes me sad to think just how dark that place must have been for him. It’s a cruel disease, depression.  The way it feeds you lies and blocks you from getting help.  If he had of been suffering from a physical pain, rather than a disease in his brain, he would have had the logic and capacity to communicate how he was feeling and seek help.  But the depression took that from him.

It had been said there are significant similarities between grief and depression, but it’s also incredibly important to know the difference between the two.  I have felt depressed in my grief but I haven’t had depression, although I know many of my widowed friends have, which is very scary for them.

Every time the darkness of that deep grief descends upon me I’m reminded of some of the feelings my darling husband must have been battling with.  It helps me understand how out of control he must have been feeling and again reaffirms that his suicide wasn’t a ‘choice’ made by a rational brain, it was a desperate act by someone who felt deprived of any other solution. While I can remind myself that the fog will lift and my deep pain isn’t permanent, he just wasn’t able to find that hope.  

My Imaginary Man

I am coming up on the two-year mark fast… in just a bit over a month now. And I'm sure this is how it goes for everyone, but the past 4 or 5 months now whole new levels of loneliness have started to creep in. A much deeper physical loneliness.

The loneliness of not having affection and physical comfort has become torturous this year. It seems to come in waves. For weeks, my heart will be consumed with wishing for someone to magically appear to comfort me. Someone that I feel safe enough with to just allow them to hold me. Someone I could let all my crazy out with and not feel weird. Someone who's shoulder I could cry on literally until I got snot all over their shirt and they didn't even care - just like Drew.

That's the thing, while I do miss the romantic stuff… flirting and teasing, sweet date nights, an amazing sex life… the stuff I really miss the most was just having that one person I could let all my crazy out with. And who could do the same with me. And neither of us was phased by each other's crazy. In fact, sharing those parts of ourselves was what made us closer to each other than we'd ever been to anyone in our lives. And it really sucks to have that particular person missing.

Now, instead (and I have never shared this with ANYONE folks…) I have an imaginary man friend. I pile up pillows on the other side of the bed at night and lay on them and pretend this kind guy is there. Sometimes I cry my eyes out into his pillowy embrace - which is really lame, since he has no freakin arms, so there IS no embrace. Like the desperate weirdo that I am, I imagine a fictitious man and fictitiously kind and warm and comforting conversations that we have together about how much I miss Drew. And about how much pain I'm in. And all of the other messy stuff I don't really let out with others too much anymore. And of course all the while, I feel like a lunatic.

I don't know if other people do things like this. I suppose it's not that weird. I had an imaginary friend when I was a child in the years after my mom died - the really hard years. He helped me through a lot, and made me feel less alone. So I guess I've just kind of reinstated the imaginary friend in some form. Weird or not, it really does help. Even though it may just be a pile of pillows and all pretend... sometimes it's helps me to pretend someone is there with me, instead of focusing on how alone I am. No, it's not the same as literal physical touch and a real person by my side. Not even close. But it helps me to take my mind off of that a little, and somehow makes me really feel less alone.

For now, that works for me. It's really all the man I can handle anyway - as I'm still far far too freaked out by the concept of actually letting a real man into my life in any sort of close way, even as a close friend. I think that maybe imagining myself being comforted might help me to slowly open back up to the idea of allowing someone real into that space again one day… when its right.

Am I alone here? Anyone else out there got themselves a pillow man or woman? God, please tell me I'm not the only one and you all think I'm nuts…

Feeling Adrift ......

                                                                 

                                                                     

                                                                     source
...... like someone alone in a canoe ...... with no oar, no compass.

I feel as though I'm living in some kind of in-between layer of life.  It feels like I don't belong anywhere anymore ...... like a tree that's been cut away from its roots.
No place feels like "home" right now, or whatever "home" used to feel like.

My house in Texas is on the market and most of the time I feel like that's the right decision.  But then the shadow of doubt creeps in and starts to cloud my mind and I don't know what's right for me.

I love NY, but I wonder if I'll be too lonely in the long run.  I know that sounds crazy to most people ...... how can you feel lonely in a place where almost 8 million other people live?
I also know that I don't have to explain that feeling here.  You get that.  You have most likely felt the same dark loneliness in a room full of people.
I used to feel that way often in the first year or two of grieving.  I thought that it had passed.
I was wrong.

I seem to feel lonely no matter where I am.  Not all of the time, but definitely more lately.  Home is no longer "home", but then ...... neither is anywhere else.
I miss my roots.

I have no doubt that I'd be feeling something quite like this if Jim were alive.  After all, our youngest child left for college 2 months ago.  I know that this is partly "empty nest syndrome".
But I also know that this "rootless" feeling is another result of his death.
In a world full of couples, of shifted relationships, of empty bedrooms ...... the person I most belonged with is missing.  The one relationship here on earth that I knew was as solid as stone no longer grounds me ...... no longer helps me feel that I belong.

Experience tells me that this feeling will most likely pass.
It also tells me that it may take some time.
It does not, however, tell me what I should decide.
Or where I should put down new roots.

That's where hope comes in.
I hope that this loneliness will fade soon and that I'll be able to decide what my next step should be.

And I hope that I will once again feel a sense of belonging.
Wherever my canoe lands.

The Power of We

My New We

Today is Blog Action Day 2012. The theme this year is "The Power of We".

Thinking about the word we brought back a vivid memory of the first few weeks after my husband Dave's death. I remember suddenly noticing how often I still said we.

I had many visitors in those first few weeks. I would hear myself telling them "We are getting new siding," or "We grew corn this summer but not last summer," or "We were going to go to Italy again," and the word we would punch me in the stomach, leaving me winded and nauseous.

My we had turned to me in an instant and my heart and mind hadn't had a chance to understand. The power of the loss of my we was immense and crushing. Almost a year and a half later and I'm still trying to understand it.

My we used to consist of Dave and me.  He was my family, my husband, my best friend, my biggest fan and the person I trusted most in this world. And then I became just me. Overnight.

Everything was still there. His shoes, his wallet, his phone, his email account. But he was missing and so was the me I had been when he'd been here on this earth.

He had been dead for less than 3 months when I went to San Diego for Camp Widow. I was 35 years old and was completely consumed with the need to find my new we.

I vividly remember the feeling I had as the escalator at that Marriott brought me to the second floor where Camp Widow check in was taking place. I looked around at all the people milling about and thought "They're all like me," and I swear I took a deep breath for the first time in 3 months.

I was comforted just by the knowledge that I was surrounded by my new we. It wasn't anything like my old we and it couldn't replace my old we.

It didn't make the pain of his loss any less devastating, but it was power in numbers, and I didn't feel alone anymore. That first camp was the beginning of my re-entry into life.

When I returned home, I would picture all of those people I'd met, doing incredible things, like Michele Neff Hernandez, starting the foundation that allowed me to find my new we in the wreckage of Dave's death, and Matt Logelin, finding strength in his daughter and getting his beautiful love story to her and her mom out into the world and I borrowed their light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn't see mine yet, so I used theirs.

When I was sure I couldn't withstand the pain of grieving the loss of my old we, I would call someone I met at Camp, and even from several states (and a country) away they would extend a strong hand through the dark and pull me out into the light, reminding me that we were in this together at least for that moment.

When I'd do the same for them, I felt a connection almost as strong as any I'd felt before. It was as though I could suddenly feel the invisible cords from my heart to theirs, extending hundreds of miles, allowing strength to surge back and forth between us, as needed.

My identity from my before-life was gone, but my new identity was a WE again. A different we.

We widowed people are warriors.
We are heroes, the kind of people who have power from the depths they've clawed their way out of to find the light.
We are a force to be reckoned with.
We know intimately the true value of love and the impermanence of life.

I don't know if I'd truly understand that if it weren't for SSLF and Camp Widow.

Just the simple but incredible act of communicating online with widows from all over the world through this blog is a we that spans the globe and includes millions of people in its web of connections.

My neighbor, two doors down, just lost his wife to cancer and in my condolence card to him, I included one of the SSLF outreach cards I carry around. So, I've cast the net over him, too, including him in this we. Hopefully, he will not feel as alone just knowing that there's a we out there for him, too, whenever he needs it.

SSLF allowed me to have a we again, during a phase in my life that could have been isolating and horrifically lonely.

The power of we, indeed.

I Freaking Hate ......

                                                     picture source


...... weekends.
Truly hate them.
With a passion.

Ironic, isn't it?
When Jim was alive I loved weekends.
I'm guessing most of us liked them a whole lot better than we do now.
I can't stand them and usually just want them to be over.
What a waste.

Weekends are no different than week days for me.  It's just 7 days that run right into the next 7 days.  No days of rest.  No days of recreation.  No days of hanging out with the person I love and just relaxing.
I miss weekends with Jim.
I miss week days with Jim.
I miss nights with Jim.
I.
Miss.
Everything.
With.
Jim.

I have one child left at home.
But he is a boy.
And a young man, at that.
A senior this year.
Who is involved with after school activities.
And he works.

Needless to say, he's not home much.
Which is as it should be.
But that was fine when I had Jim.
Now .... it sucks.
Because even though my nest is not literally "empty" .... it's still empty .... most of the time.
And I hate it.

It's not that I want my son to stay here an extra year.  No way.  No how.
It's time for him to move on.  Hell, he's had "senior-itus" since he was in 7th grade.
And I've had it for 2 years now.
It's almost time .... and that's a good thing.

But my nest will be emptier than it should be.
I should not be here alone.
That was not the plan.
It's not what most people experience.
But it's my life.
And that sucks.

I'm beginning to hate my house, my community, and the absence of my "before" friends.
I'm tired of being alone 24 hours a day, 7 days a week .... for the most part.

I am counting down the days until my son graduates and then I can sell my house and start somewhere else .... fresh.  Some place where I'll only be known as Janine, not Jim's wife.  Not Jim's widow.  Not "how terrible is it that Jim died and I'm going to keep my distance because you never know .... that may be contagious."
I.
Can.
Not.
Wait.
To get out of here.

And yet I realize, that no matter where I go .... Jim will not be there.
My weeks may still run into the weekends with no change ..... no marked difference to recognize a week day from a week end.
And yes, it may still suck.

But that is my life.
No matter how much I loathe that part of it right now.
No matter how much I dread the 6th and 7th days of the week.
No matter.

I also realize that this is just a "phase" I'm feeling at the moment.
And that not everything in my life is horrible.
I am genuinely happy most of the time.
This is just not one of those times.
But it will pass.
Maybe today, maybe next week.

Yet when it passes, one thing will most likely remain for a longer time.

I hate weekends.

What if this is as good as it gets?

Inner Peace (Photo credit: d0.0b)

Well meaning people tell me to find my "inner peace" as a way of dealing with my current anger over the unfairness of losing Greg.

Apparently I should just let things "be" and let the angst go and I will feel better.

Inherently, I know they are right ....

...but I am terrified.....

What if this is as good as it gets?

What happens when my children grow up and move out?
What happens when I am left on my own?
What happens when I know that I am not enough?


When I lost my husband, I lost my sense of self.
I lost who I am.
....who I was.

I lost a lot of other things too ....

I lost my religion.
I lost my faith.
I lost my ability to remember things.
I lost my confidence.
I lost my sense of worth.
I lost my femininity.
I lost my sense of fun.
I lost feeling unconditionally loved.

I lost knowing that I was somebody's somebody.

But .....
I have found some of those things again ... not many of them ... but some of them.

....and I have to hope that I will continue to find pieces of my old self and add in pieces of my new self
until I am me again.

Maybe then I can find my "inner peace" and know that if this is as good as it gets, that it will be OK.

Somebody's somebody

source

I wrote this 7.16.2011. It's written to my husband:

I had a weird discovery today. There are a lot of things that you were to me that cannot be replaced. So many wonderful people have stepped up to help out in areas where you used to cover, and that's great, but it's obviously never the same. Even so, I couldn't articulate exactly what it was that I felt voided of completely that can never be recovered. 


Today, I realized what it was: I miss being number one for somebody. At the top of someone's list. Aside from our children, I am not the first anyone would call if there was an emergency, big news, or something incredibly funny that they wanted to share. Even my closest friends have their families or spouses that they would call on - and should call on - first when they think of something important. Along side that loss, I'm now missing the one person at the top of my list I would go to for anything. If I have something to share, I have to consider who to share it with that doesn't have other things going on to worry about. When I need something fixed, I have to think about who I know that I might be able to call on. When I need a break, I feel guilty for finding people to watch the kids. When I remember a funny story, I have to think about who might appreciate it the most. You were all of that in my life. It's hard to not have that constant go-to person to share life with. Really hard.


I miss feeling that specialness that comes with being at the top of someone's list. I miss feeling like someone needs me. I miss being there for you, being the person you wanted to start and end your day with. I miss feeling a part of something. This is totally corny, but the lyrics "I wanna be somebody's somebody" popped into my head. Thank you, adolescent teen pop music days. It's true, though.


I miss being your number one, baby.
I love you forever and always.
Vee

Wake me up when December ends

It’s December 1, 2011.

I bought a new car today.

My very first new car ever.

The very first car I have bought all by myself.

Something bright and shiny and new to replace the old and falling apart, frustrating and faded.

I should feel happy.

But I don’t.

I am gripped by the worst grief I have felt in months.

“A new car – you are so lucky” she said.

“I am not lucky” I wanted to shout. “The only reason I have to buy this is because Greg is dead. If he were alive, he would have fixed the old car.”

“...and all that bright, shiny money I paid for the new car wouldn’t have been available because it would have still been sitting in his superannuation account.”

This conversation never took place though.

The second half of it ... my half of it... took place in the shower as I washed off the dirt of the day like so much armour surrounding my heart.

...and I broke.

By the time I dragged myself from under the hot water, big, fat, salty tears were plopping onto the bath mat at my feet.

I gripped the door frame for support as drop after drop fell from my eyelashes to puddle onto the floor.

My whole body was heaving with silent sobs as I crawled into our (my) cold bed, and as I lay down the tears ran in a steady rivulet down my face to soak the pillow behind my head.

...and I wonder if I am feeling this way because today marks 21 months since Greg’s head and chest were destroyed so badly by the bulbar of a truck, that I never saw him again.

... or am I feeling this way because I am having to face my second Christmas alone.
....my second Christmas as a sole parent.
...trying to put some sparkle into the children’s lives to make a semblance of a happy childhood.
...trying to fake a joy that I don’t feel and trying to summon a belief in God and goodness that has long since gone.

I don’t know.

Right now, all I want to do is to sleep through this horrible season and wake up when there is some light back in my world.

Just wake me up when December ends....

the unhelpful helper

Photo from here...

When I first became a widow, I wanted everyone to go away. I did not want to talk, discuss, be comforted, or hear anyone. I found everything overwhelming and the need to communicate with others verbally was not at all on the list of desired actions.

I was annoyed by the needs of others. Their want to know I was okay or that the kids were surviving seemed intrusive and obnoxious. I felt that they all just wanted the gory details or the notoriety that goes along with death. Although the realization that my feelings were not "fair" or even logical always accompanied these angry thoughts, I couldn't help but feel myself growling internally when someone attempted to break into my quiet, lost and introspective bubble.

I had extremely close friends that I leaned on and a sister with whom I told the majority of my thoughts, but the only person I wanted aside from these confidantes was Jeff.

Now, three years later, I find myself in a strange spot.

Recently, two friends have lost their husbands. Neither of these women are close friends, but they are certainly women who I would stop to say "hello", share a hug and have a chat or a cup of coffee together should I see them on the street prior to their loss.

They are both early in their losses. They don't want to talk. Or if they do, it's not to me. And I SO get this. I know this feeling so very well and empathize totally....

But I find myself compelled to tell them that. I feel almost panicked in my need to let them know that there are others, just like us, who know this pain. That they are not alone. That the community of widows is an amazing and supportive one.

I itch to reach out to them. I want to help them with the ridiculous amounts of paperwork that accompanies a death. Or to deliver a meal or mow a lawn.

I want to take away any pain for them that I can. I feel anxious that they are hurting and may not have the support they so need (although I am sure they have so very many loving people surrounding them begging hoping to be of some assistance).

I know that it is all TOO much right now. And I hope that months from now if the phone doesn't ring as often for them and they slowly awaken from the dull, aching void that envelopes early on, they know that I will be here whenever they need someone who gets it.

In the meantime, I wish them well on their own private journey and hope they know where to find the rest of us.....

Like a Hurricane

It’s been 812 days since I last kissed my angel. After she was diagnosed, we were lucky to live life large for 850 days. Like so many other difficult things (dealing with chemo treatments, watching her deteriorate over time, holding her that day, her death, living without her), it is so hard to get my head around how much time has passed; it’s been nearly as many days as I’ve coped with It happening as days we coped with It coming, denial and all.

The start of this journey, just before January 5, 2007 (the day she was diagnosed) can be compared to the intro of a Michael Bay action movie with a slow-motion, stop-action film capture of an explosion:

Frame 1 (very early December 2006): A little flash.

Frame 2 (early December): Hmmm... That little flash is getting bigger.

Frame 3 (mid December): That’s no spark. It’s a FIRE!

Frame 4 (late December): Oh my gosh! Something is very wrong!

Frame 5 (very late December): WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON??

Frame 6 (January 5, 2007): OH MY GOD!

The next weeks were absolute misery. But after the shock and after the surgery and after the first chemo treatment (which thankfully started working immediately), things started to get better. She was stronger. She wasn’t in the hospital. She wasn’t dead. We were still together. I won’t call it nirvana but I’ll sure call it a time that we were both very, very happy to be together. Maybe it was borrowed time. But nonetheless, things got a lot better compared to the first few opening frames of the movie. And that was how it all started: with a bang that just about knocked us down and broke us. Then we began rebuilding.

Little did we know that we didn’t just survive some big explosion. No. What we really had done is survive one wall of the hurricane. And for a good long while, we lived, love and played innocently inside the eye of that hurricane. The weather there was nice and the company was wonderful. I wish we could have stayed there forever. Then the other wall of that hurricane hit us and hit us hard. It was relentless until…. Well, you know how that ended.

The day It happened I was numb and tired and had nothing to give other than just give up. The waves of the hurricane had bashed me about and beaten me into passivity. I didn’t care whether I lived or died. I was numb. Even physical pain didn’t hurt any more. I just didn’t care. What could life possibly throw at me that even compared to the pain that I was feeling? I wished I could sink into the ocean and just dissolve.

Somehow unnoticed, time passed. Months, even. When I came to, I found myself lying on some floating debris, one arm holding on while my body dangled into the still thrashing ocean. I was tired, dazed, angry, sad, and still didn’t care if I lived or died. At best I was conscious only part of the time. Days and nights smeared together while wave after wave of salty, cold water stung my eyes, choked me and threatened to dislodge me from my float. I didn't fight. Why should I? My love was gone. What reason was there to live?

More time passed. Months, even. Eventually I found myself floating near a beach, neck deep in water and feet dragging on the bottom. I was sore, covered in deep wounds, emaciated, and confused. Waves still pushed and pulled me up and down, forward and back while I choked on the briny water. My body was numb but my eyes were clearer now; I could see what looked like a shore. Despite being tossed about, I put one foot down flat against the sand and pushed. I took my first step. Then I fell.

But my first step turned into my second. And my second into my third. Every other step was a trip or a slip back into the cold water. Coral sliced my feet. Waves choked my breathing and stung my eyes. But I kept putting my feet down, one after another, and pushing, while still holding onto that debris to keep me afloat. As I stepped, the water became not neck deep but chest deep. The coral still sliced my feet almost every step. And the shore slowly inched closer. But I still fell often. I was exhausted.

Today, 812 days after It happened, I’m lying on a sand bar alone covered in bruises with bleeding feet looking out at the horizon and the waves wondering what the hell just happened. I remember it all but it seems like a dream. I’m thirsty and hungry. I hurt so much but nothing’s broken. I’m scared and confused. I still don’t care if I live or die. I have no idea where I’m at or how the hell I’m going to get back to… back where? Back to where? Where is home now? For the last 812 days, my life has been the ocean, the waves, the sand and that very, very special piece of debris I clanged to which saved my life. Where is home now? Even if I knew where and even if I made it there, she wouldn’t be there. So I sit here on this sand bar, alone, wondering, what do I do now.