Tailor Made

Today, as I sit down to write with tired eyes, I must admit that although I miss Megan as much now as before, it has shifted over these past few months from an intense grief at the thought of her death to more of a longing for her to be present to witness where life has taken me since that time.

I have just returned from an extended weekend in Kentucky with an amazing woman named Sarah, who also happens to be the same Sarah the writes here on Widow's Voice every Sunday.  We met at Camp Widow East in February, completely by chance and/or fate, depending on your beliefs.  Neither of us had any intention of finding someone new at that time, but here we are. Three months after meeting, Sarah and I are a couple.  Not a day has passed since February 5th that we have not talked, and this past weekend, we were finally able to close the 1400 miles of distance, and bring our lives into the same physical space for a few days.  It was wonderful.  

 It's an odd thing, not only being a widower, but being with a widow.  Both Megan and Drew are eternally present in our lives and hearts, but now, after endless hours on the phone or Skype, I can almost feel Drew as a friend of mine.  It's as if I know him personally, and there are even moments where I mourn his loss.  There is no jealousy when Sarah speaks of him. In fact, I love that she gets that wide eyed, contented joy when describing an event or memory with him.  

Of course, there is always the thought that had Drew or Megan not died, neither of us would have met the other, but there is also the thought that had they not existed, it would have also prevented us from meeting.  The two of them made Sarah and I who we are.  I am thankful for Drew's love towards Sarah, and her love for him, because she would not be the same person without him.  I took Sarah to a restaurant on the Ohio river immediately after picking her up at the airport called "Drew's", simply because of the name.

Just as I feel a connection with Drew, I can feel the same connection between Sarah and Megan.  There is no competition between them.  They are not the same person, and although there is a multitude of similarities, there are just as many differences.  Megan would love her and her attitude (primarily because they both make fun of me).  That's how I knew that Sarah was not a "band-aid" or a "rebound".  I have not once looked at her and thought "well, Megan did it this way, and that means Sarah's way is wrong"

Although I am filled with happiness about Sarah, I am struggling to find a poignant, teachable moment.  I can't suggest that any widow or widower who is ready to date go out and find another widow, because not only are there good people outside of our "club" that could be just as compassionate and understanding, but there also remains the fact that I wasn't ready to date.  Fate happened.  She sat down at that table at Camp Widow, and we clicked.  I had no choice in the matter, and now we've fallen for each other.  We may have been tailor made for each other, but it's not because we're widowed.

I guess that the smartest thing I did was keep my eyes, and my heart open.  Just as I knew that I wasn't ready to go looking for someone else, I also knew that I shouldn't prevent a good thing from happening.

I hope that Sarah and I's relationship can give some hope to other widows and widowers, and inspire people to realize that although we may have lost the loves of our lives, that when they were lost, we were given a new life, and a chance to have a new love.  

  

Into A New Darkness

Well, here I am in the caves region of Kentucky. Last week I shared about the trip I would be on with my new guy - seeing each other in person for the first time since we met several months ago. As I write this, we're a few days into our trip. He is lying next to me now, munching away on donuts while I write. I'm finally ready to share a bit more about this person with you all... particularly because you may know him more than you think - or at least his writing. He is our very own Tuesday featured writer on Widow's Voice - Mike. 

We met at Camp Widow East back in February. I sat down beside this guy at the meet & greet on Thursday night, and for the entire rest of the weekend we were inseparable. We shared our whole stories with one another and laughed more than either of us had in ages. Something certainly clicked... although I had no clue then that it would end up meaning I would fall for someone new and be sitting here states away on some whole other adventure. 

I've been saying for three years now that Drew would give me a really obvious sign about someone new coming into my life. And Mike and I have had many, many obvious signs. One of my favorites was just a few days ago, within hours of arriving in Cincinnati for our trip. He surprised me with a short ferry ride across the Ohio river, and on the other side was a little restaurant he took me to... called Drew's. Imagine the delight on my face, and the love in my heart. Those are the moments I know that Drew will always be a part of us - just as his wife Megan will be. And speaking of Megan...

We walk inside and sit down by the window. It's dead in there, no one but us, as it's around 2pm in the afternoon. I said jokingly "Just watch... our waitress's name will be Megan". And sure enough, this very friendly waitress walks up and introduces herself as... you guess it... MEGAN. We both look right at each other in total disbelief. At the end of our lunch, we told her the whole story of us, including their names, and she was as amazed as we were. We chatted a while and there even ended up being other unreal similarities... so we had to get a picture with her for that first crazy memory of this new adventure.

Yesterday we made our way to Mammoth Cave National Park – the main reason for our trip here. We picked this place because it is something we could not have done with our loves that died. Drew was claustrophobic in small spaces, and Megan was unable to due to her medical condition and the bacteria in the air in caves. It's a hard pill to swallow... but the truth is there. We WILL do things with someone new... Things we never could have experienced had our loves not died. Maybe that's one of the gifts they leave us... the chance to discover new adventures in a way we couldn't have done with them. With new eyes and new hearts. I like to think it is.

We did a few tours yesterday of Mammoth Cave, the first cave either of us have explored in years. As we gazed out into the darkness of the tunnels underground, that feeling of wonder and childlike excitement about the unknown filled us both. As we hiked around some 300 feet below the surface of the earth, I couldn't help but think of the expansive metaphor before us.

Two people who have gone through unspeakable darknesses on our own in life, now walking willfully and quite literally into the darkness together – knowing full well that to love again will inevitably mean to endure pain again. Yet we are doing so with a sense of wonder, not dread. It's not easy to do. There have been moments on this trip when I have broken down crying because of how new love is reminding me of the love I lost, and also of the fears of losing someone else. But even with all of that, with all we have both endured, how amazing it is that each of us is still able to see wonder in the darkness.

I have thought this weekend about enduring the journey through my own darkness for the past three years. I've thought about all the pain and fear I have encountered in the dark, and also all the amazement and wonder I have found there. Treasures that cannot be found above ground, but only in the most hidden depths of ourselves. Perhaps that is what the darkness of grief can bring us... a different appreciation for the dark and the light.

One thing is for sure, today I am very grateful. After traversing the dark alone, it is beautiful to have someone to journey into the darkness with me. Someone with their own darkness who is not afraid of mine. I suppose that is the best kind of person to find – one with a galaxy much like our own inside their heart. One who looks into the dark with wonder.

Into the Unknown...

©Sarah Treanor

Along with being a writer, many of you know that I'm an artist. You may also know, as I've sometimes shared here, that I've been working on a photographic series for the past year all about my journey through grief. What began as just a small idea, to take a self portrait every week and share it on my blog, has snowballed into something of a whole new direction for my life. I was only a hobby photographer before I set out on this journey.

Now, a year later, I am looking back and seeing just how much has changed... how much I have changed. I am just this week kicking off my first international show, in Rome. What the hell? And have won quite a few awards at recent shows for my work in this series. Looking ahead, I have goals to publish a book of the series and begin speaking about death and the healing power of creativity. A year ago, none of this was here. I was completely and utterly lost. And still very broken. Somehow, this project put me back together. It rebuilt me into someone new who has bold things ahead of her. It's exciting and really daunting all at the same time. I am frequently terrified of where this freight train is taking me and of whether or not I can handle it all.

"Still, Life" has been easily the most significant, most difficult and most life-changing project I have ever worked on. It has taken every ounce of me... creative, conceptual, technical, physical, emotional. There have been many many weeks when I just wanted to give up entirely. I cursed enough to make a sailor blush because the burden felt too big. I hit walls of resistance and would inevitably have no choice but to force myself to get up and shoot something, anything. I was consumed by anger for the fact that I am even in the situation to be doing a project all about death and grief. It has been a long and difficult journey. I don't think I need to make it apparent just how much this project has aligned with the challenges of grief itself. The struggles of creating this have so deeply gone hand in hand with navigating the waves of emotions from losing my fiance.

There have also been good things. The small glimmers of hope when I finally begin to see an image taking shape that I have worked hard on. The bright and brilliant moments of winning awards for the work that I could and would not be doing if it was not for him. The quiet moments of deep meaning when someone writes or shares with me how much one of these images resonated with them on their own journey with grief. It's those quiet moments especially when I realize that telling my story is helping someone else to tell theirs. Which also aligns with the journey of grief itself.

Reflecting back, I realize that this project has been not only a physical manifestation of one woman's inner voyage through grief, but also an example of the simple power of telling our stories... however we choose to tell them. It is in telling my story that I've been able to journey deeper into it, deep enough to find the gifts within the darkness. Telling my story is what pulled me back out of the darkness - by connecting me with others who feel it too. Allowing my story to be heard heals me, strengthens me, and teaches me all the time that death has given me something very valuable - knowledge and wisdom and experience with which to help others. Death has given us all that.

This project came to a close for me this week... quite unexpectedly. I sat down to write about the next image, and instead, a final statement ended up pouring out of my fingertips - which you can read here on my blog. By the time I was finished typing, I was in shock. It happened almost without me... as if some part of me willed the thing to come to a close. It was a sharp reminder not only of how I cannot control the creative process, but of how I cannot control life... or when things may end or begin in my world. It has of course stirred me up. I've been emotional the past few days. I'm sensing a need for some time to grieve and let go of the project itself (or at least the initial year of it) just as I would let go of any chapter of my life.

I know deep down I was ready for this to come to a close. I have been ready for a new chapter to begin in my artistic world but scared to initiate the change. And so I suppose I just got pushed into it somehow. It was certain: I was done being at the end of something, and ready to be at the beginning of something else. A very very huge statement in this journey as a widow. I'm not even sure what I am ready to be at the beginning of yet... or what this new chapter of my life will be or look like. All I know, is that I am ready for change again... or at least as ready as I'll ever be.


You can view the full "Still, Life" photo series on my blog: 12moc.com

A House for his Soul

There's a story I've been wanting to share here for a while now. It is one my grief counselor has encouraged me to tell, as he's felt it could be of help to others. So here goes. It's been roughly two and a half years since my fiancé died, very suddenly, in a helicopter crash. I've gone through unimaginable pain. I've wanted to climb out of my own skin. I've wanted to rip apart every synapse in my brain for the constant knowingness that he is never coming back. I've been angrier than I've ever known possible. I haven't given up though… I have kept on fighting as every new wave of this journey washes over me.

Things are easier now. I'm not as angry as I used to be. I'm learning to sit with my pain better. I'm learning not to apologize for where I need to be at any given time with my life and my world. I'm making new friendships, I'm building a new and meaningful career following what I feel like I am meant to do. Most days now, my life is more filled with current-day thoughts and activities than it is of the past. He is still always there. There isn't a day that goes by that I am not thinking of him. Missing him. But as I have begun to return to life… our relationship is changing. He is still at the center, but Now, my new life is the center too. And that leaves the question which I have struggled with for probably the past six months or so: Just where do I put him now? In this new life?

It's a question I never really understood in the beginning… the idea that he would somehow NOT be the full center of my world anymore was just so hard to grasp. And also felt horrifying. And it has been something I have struggled with a lot this past year. As I made new friendships, new memories with those friends, new accomplishments in a new career, I struggled with where he fit into all of this. How to have both of these worlds living inside me at the same time.

And then one night, I was just arriving home from a night class. I live out in the country where you can see a sky full of stars… so I often stop as I am walking in the house just to gaze up for a while and take it all in. As I admired the dark, I noticed the neighboring house in a way I never had before. Set quite a few miles off from our ranch, this house sits up on the horizon, and at night the entire thing is lit up with a warm glow. Every single night.

Now I've seen this house and it's warm light in the night for years… it is always there, off in the distance. And I always look out at it when I come home in the evenings. But on this particular night, something or someone whispered a thought to me as I looked up at it. A thought of my fiancé. And an intuitive feeling that I think maybe came right from him. "Maybe it is like he is just over there now?"

It was a small idea that I took and ran with… and began creating a story around in my head. And the story is that, perhaps - in a way - he is just next door now, instead of right beside me. Perhaps on warm summer nights, he's sitting out on his back porch with a cold beer wondering fondly what I am up to... while I am soaking in the hot tub out back doing the same. There is a peacefulness to it. And almost a relief… for I feel like this narrative has helped me with a question I have struggled with greatly this past year… knowing just where to put him in my life as things begin to move forward. Not wanting to leave him behind, but not wanting my world to be entirely about him anymore because it simply cannot be if I am to create a happy life again.

We still love each other deeply. We still miss each other. But we know we each have a new and different life to live - him in the afterlife, and me here in mine.

The idea makes me feel comfortable with going out into the world and living my new life that he is not physically part of. It is a tangible reminder for me that when I return home, he is always just there… in the warm glow of the house on the horizon.

A Powerful Destruction

Before I get into my post for this week, I just wanted to mention how EXCITED I am to be attending Camp Widow in Tampa this coming week! I mention it because last year, I attended but did not mention here - and it turned out there were a few readers who had no idea I was coming. For anyone out there who is, I am so looking forward to meeting you at camp!

I know many of you read my first post of the year - about the first man I've been romantic with since my fiancé died… and how, after a night of fooling around he took off and never called or texted me again. Days, then weeks go by, and I hear nothing. I don't need to explain how traumatic that was - you can read all of that here. Instead I wanted to share an update on the whole thing… one I am very glad for. And very proud of myself for.

After a few weeks of having no contact, I decided I had some things to say. So I wrote him a brief but to-the-point letter and sent it off this past week. Was it risky? Absolutely. Was I terrified? Beyond imagine. But sometimes you just have do the damn thing, even if it scares you.

There was no guarantee at all that this would end well. That I would even get any response at all from this person. But that no longer mattered. It was now about standing up for myself, respecting myself, an saying what needs saying without giving a shit what the outcome was. After all, if my fiancé is no longer here to defend my honor, then it is up to me to do it. No one treats me that way. Furthermore, I needed to leave the situation in a way that respects myself and the other person. Not because they deserve it, but because I deserve to walk away knowing I did the right thing.

I cannot express the anxiety of hitting send on that letter. But I did it. And I felt a huge weight off my shoulders as soon as I did. Amazing how quickly it can shift things inside of you when you speak your truth. That in itself was good. And then to my surprise, a few hours later, he actually responded...

It took me probably an hour to even open up his response. I was so nervous of what was on the other side. But finally, with the support of one of my girlfriends who was visiting for the weekend, I opened it. It was the best possible response I could have gotten. He was kind and respectful. Full of remorse and regret. Deeply apologetic. It showed me how broken he is - with his own set of problems that made him panic and run. In the end, he wasn't using me. It wasn't just a game. He just freaked out and handled it badly. We both agreed it went farther than we meant for it to at the time, and he was incredibly stupid, but we wish the very best for each other. Look at that. Resolve. Which never would have happened had I not risked approaching him and saying my piece. God damn, I am proud of myself.

Although this situation made me feel incredibly weak and hurt initially, it has come to bring much the opposite now because of how I chose to handle it. It has reminded me of a few really important lessons too. The old me likely never would have stood up to defend myself. And she certainly would not have done it with such incredible tact and grace. My words were not angry or overly emotional, but instead were bold, confident, firmly grounded in myself and unafraid. It quite surprised me at how powerful I could be. And that part of it had nothing to do with the other person at all. Even if I had gotten no response, I will would have been able to feel powerful for standing up for myself.

It seems, as widowed folks, that we feel pain and weakness so much for so long that we do not realize all along, we are becoming more POWERFUL. It's something I lose sight of ALL the time. But all of the fighting we have to do to survive creates an incredible force inside us - even if it's hard for us to see. It is oftentimes a new painful event that had the ability to allow us to choose our power and thus see it more clearly.

It's a force that can only come from the ashes of devastation… for it is precisely because we have to fight so hard to survive that we become so powerful. You don't spend every day of your life for years crawling through the broken shards of yourself without becoming more battle-hardened and more firmly grounded in who you are. You don't endure years of being broken open by a thousand smaller losses and come out with a heart that is weaker. Even if you feel weak, your power is there... in the choices you make. Hopefully, eventually, when those new experiences come, we are able to make the choices that reinforce how powerful we are… even if it scares the shit out of us to do it.

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.

Wanting to Live Again

Source

When you're a widow, the passing of time often feels like the only constant.  When your world has fallen apart and you've been made acutely aware of just how little control you have over your life; the counting of the days, months and years can give us a point of focus and something to hold on to.

I remember when Dan first died, I held on to the hope that if I could just survive the coming months, the pain would surely have to ease. I learned to accept that it would never go away, but the widowed people I met who were further along the path gave me hope that I'd adapt to live with the grief and life wouldn't always be agonising.

Today marks 18 months since I lost my husband to depression.  The pain, while easier to carry, is still so very deep. On the 24th of every month I find myself wondering at how surreal it is that he's been gone so long, yet this life without him can still feel so new.

I mean, 18 months is not a particularly long period of time.  As far as jail sentences go, it's considered a bit of a slap on the wrist (though I'm the sure the inmate would feel every single day of it). An 18-month old child is really still in infant, so very brand new in the world.  However, in so may ways, 18 months can feel like a lifetime.  I know this because 18 months, give or take, is really only how long I had with Dan.  And in this time he changed my entire world.

We met in November 2011 after he contacted me through an online dating website.  We'd both been single for awhile and, between us, had a LOT of interesting and pretty average online dating experiences.  So we had both nearly given up hope... until our paths crossed.

We spent the next four weeks getting to know each other, before he had to head away on a pre-planned, month-long Christmas holiday.  By the time he got back in early January 2012, we were both pretty sure that this was going to be something special.  Things stated to get more serious and I introduced him to my friends a few weeks later, with absolutely no idea that in 18 months time he would be dead and I'd be a widow at 33.

Those 18 months with Dan were magical.  We were fairly conservative people and not inclined to jump into things or give up our independence easily, however we quickly became inseparable and felt like we'd finally found a love that had been worth waiting for.  A kind, generous, patient and eternal love that taught us more about ourselves and the world that we could ever have imagined.

He bought an engagement ring six months later, in July, proposed in September and we set a date to be married the following June, in 2013. Almost 18-months after we met.   In 18 months I went from being very single to a blissfully happy newlywed.  And then six weeks later, a young widow.

So because of this, I know exactly how much can happen in 18 months.  Which makes this past 18 months of my life so very bleak in comparison.  While I can list the things I've done since Dan died: travelled overseas, enjoyed time with friends and family, met some wonderful new people and been present at special occasions and holidays, I really just feel like I've been treading water.  It pales in comparison to how alive Dan made me feel.

My career has taken a significant step back, I haven't been as present and giving in the lives of the people around me and every day has been tinged with the weight and the sadness of living in a world without him in it.

I guess it's the difference between surviving and living.  My life has been on pause, I've been waiting for  the pain to get more bearable, for me to grow stronger.  Waiting to heal so that I can take myself off pause and take a step forward. And those who know me well can testify that I'm not known for my patience.

It is so frustrating, this feeling of not quite living. I don't want to wait.  I want to be doing all the things that my friends are doing, having babies and making plans and sharing their lives with the person who loves them more than anything else in the world.

I'm now at that point where the restlessness to 'live' is getting stronger than the sense of needing to wait.  It's just so hard to know what to do about it.  How do I live again while such a big part of me is dead?

Healing Forward

I was talking to a widowed friend the other night about the whole idea of sharing this part of our life and how it changes over time. I remember well the first year after my fiance died. The first thing out of my mouth was this information. I told everyone and anyone. Friends, family, coworkers, customers, the mail man, police officers, the tech support guy, random strangers... No one was safe. I spewed my raw pain out all over the world like a continually erupting volcano. 

My friend did the same. We talked about how at first, it is the only thing we wanted to talk about. It is the only thing that mattered. And for a while, it really did swallow up our identity. And we talked about how we felt like we lost the whole rest of our identity for a time to the label "widow". Which left us both feeling conflicted - simultaneously wanting to be completely defined by our love for this person, and resentful that people now only saw us as a widow.

Then we raised the question: when did that shift? When did we go from the hurling our widowhood at every innocent bystander to becoming extremely protective of this information and very choosy about who we share it with? 

It has happened somewhere in this third year for me. I've begun to re-emerge into life again. And as I have, slowly my desire to be defined as a widow has become less and less. After two years of talking about nothing but death and about him in exhaustion, I am finding that its okay not to talk about it all the time anymore. I'm finding myself wanting to talk about other things that are a part of me; art and writing, new music and travel, fun recipes and healthy living. 

Instead of my widowhood being the first thing I tell people now, it is usually that I am an artist. Sometimes I wait months before sharing with someone new about being widowed. My friend - who's a few years ahead of me on this road - does the same thing. And we wondered, what causes that transition from sharing it with everyone to keeping it more private? 

Our initial answer was that we have just grown tired of the myriad of awkward reaponses we get from people. And tired of being pegged as The Widow. And tired of the unwanted advice. Eventually, it becomes easier to just avoid all that as long as possible. But there were other things we realized too as we discussed it. More positive things. 

We talked about how we were so raw at first that we absolutely needed to talk to anyone and everyone about it. Acute pain needs serious acute talking to begin to heal. Over time, all that sharing and other things we've done for ourselves have helped us to heal to a point where we no longer need to talk about it all the time. So the fact that we can comfortably not talk about it now is a sign that we are healing.

Our desire to be defined by other parts of ourselves has begun to return too. This horrible, unspeakable thing happened to us, but it is NOT who we are. So somewhere in this year 3-5 area, we each found a desire to reclaim and rediscover who we are now. 

We also talked about how difficult that transition is. How we each felt scared that we were leaving our partner behind if we began to talk about them less or reenter into life again. How we worried that it would make us lose them all over again. This is what I have struggled with largely most of this year - this push-pull between wanting desperately to fill my life with other things again and feeling guilty about it and scared I'd feel farther from him.

What we both found though, is that it didn't make us feel farther from them at all. In fact it has felt more the opposite for me. This year, I've transitioned into spending more of my time thinking about the present and the future. I've started to accept that I must build a new life of my own and begun to work towards building this life into something happy and meaningful. To my surprise, he has come with me every step of the way.

 It turns out that beginning to live again doesn't mean I have to move on without him. To my relief, it actually seems to be quite impossible to leave him behind. He is so deeply interwoven into the fabric of this new woman I am that I'm finding that nothing can separate us now. He is in everything now - even the new beautiful things and people that weren't part of our life. Especially those in fact, because his death is what has lead me to them... And so it feels like he is always leading me to happiness. It's been a beautiful discovery which has come out of this third year of widowhood. He will always be. 

Ready for [A Little] New

Overlooking Diamond Head crater on Oahu. 

I've had a roller coaster of a weekend. Yesterday was my fiancé and I's anniversary of when we began dating, and in just a few more days comes the two year mark of his death. I spent the past two weeks in Hawaii visiting a friend, which was incredible and a welcome distraction. Then, on Wednesday, I flew directly to Portland for a conference. Needless to say - not only is this an emotion filled month anyway, but I am absolutely depleted from being gone from home for almost three weeks. By the end of yesterday, my emotions were erupting. It's quite a miracle I haven't gone into a full-blown melt down (yet!).

The worst of it was, I'd had two full weeks of feeling pretty great. And coming down from that - as you ALL know - is the worst. But I'm trying to look for some positives in it all - because despite how tired and run-down I am right now, I had some important shifts while on this trip.

My girlfriends and I went on hikes around Oahu almost every single day… we hiked through rain-soaked forests, to the top of 800 foot waterfalls, open vistas, and ancient craters. We visited Pearl Harbor and floated a lantern for my fiancé at the annual festival. On the last day of my trip, I hopped into a WWII era biplane for an island tour and some aerobatics maneuvers - the most amazing experience of my life. Even though it sucks to be coming down from all of this… I want to focus on the important things I've learned. Aside from wishing that was my life every day of the year (and that my fiancé was there to enjoy it with me) I really realized just how little regular ole fun I have in my daily life.

I've been working so tirelessly for the past few months on my grief photography project that I realized I've really done very little besides create art around grief and write about grief and think about grief and talk about grief. Don't get me wrong, it does feel good to be working on that - to be healing and expressing and sharing and helping - but I'm seeing after this vacation that I really could use a little more plain, ordinary FUN in my life.

I realize as I type that, it's a big deal. The fact that I want for more fun at all, especially NEW fun. The fact that I am even ENJOYING new fun… the fun that he and I did not share together. For almost two years now, I have not felt able to really get out and make new friends or start new hobbies much. Since I moved away from where all our friends live, this has made things kind of lonely. I've mostly kept to the things that I already enjoyed while he was alive... because even if we didn't do them together, they connect me to that life still.

Another little step - just a few months ago I signed up for Crossfit at the local gym, and it has turned into one of my first small reaches into a new life it seems. Aside from giving me a boost of confidence and helping me feel stronger, it's place I am beginning to make friends. And finally, it doesn't feel wrong or off or uncomfortable. It actually feels…. okay. And so did having two weeks in Hawaii spending all my time hiking and exploring the new and just enjoying the present moment. It felt okay that he wasn't physically with me. I definitely feel a shift is happening after this trip.

It still feels like yesterday that the idea of trying anything too new or having to try and establish any new friendships felt completely impossible and really scary. But I guess when the time is right, it becomes a lot less scary. With a lot of work on healing, and some wonderful support from others… eventually we will start to be able to let the new in without being scared that it will replace what we had. It can't ever be replaced, and they will always be here, even in the new lives we forge ahead into. So here's to letting new fun in today… in whatever ways we can - big or small. Aloha!

Walking Alone, Together.

©Sarah Treanor

I'm writing today to you from Hawaii. I came out for a few weeks to visit a friend on Oahu. This is the longest trip I've ever taken away from home since he died, and the first real vacation I've taken without him or his family being with me. Leaving the shelter of home has always made me a little antsy, but now instead of just the usual nervousness, my mind is filled with new questions about how I will be able to cope with something so seemingly simple yet terrifying as vacation.

Will my anxiety strike? Will I have a complete meltdown in a totally public space because something triggered my grief or a memory? Will it happen totally unplanned and out of nowhere? Will I miss him so much that I won't even be able to enjoy myself? I've found that the answer to all of those things is yes. At least until you get there. I'd be lying if I didn't say that on the morning of my flight I wasn't riddled with anxiety. But I am learning that if I want to ever get out there and do anything, I have to be willing to accept that the grief factors are just going to be a part of things for now. If I want to try something, I have to accept those things may happen.

So I got on that plane and I flew over an ocean alone… knowing full well that all of those scary things might (and very well would) happen. The crazy thing is, for the most part, they haven't. I am on day 11 of this 14 day trip… and I am pretty okay. I had some anxiety for the first few days, and certain activities have been a little difficult, but no major melt downs. No insane anxiety. And his absence has absolutely not kept me from being able to enjoy the moment.

In an odd way, its been more of the opposite. I've felt more able to embrace the present moment and more appreciative of it all. Even in the frustrating moments or when things go wrong. Our helicopter tour got canceled due to rain (it was going to be the first time going up in a helicopter since he died in one… and the first time to have anyone behind the controls but him taking me up). I dropped my GoPro camera into the ocean while kayaking and watched it sink straight to the bottom. My DSLR camera quit working on me halfway through the trip - just totally dead (and thankfully now revived!). And I've gotten lost in the jungle a number of times and fallen into rivers getting soaked to the bone… and none of these things have phased me. I've responded to all of them with a calm resolve and clearheadedness that is so entirely foreign to my personality.

It's a very familiar reaction for me, just not one that has ever come from within me. It was how HE responded to things. Always very solid and logical, he had a way of responding to things that helped me to stay calmer and more rational. I was always the one getting worked up about little things or creating problems where there weren't any yet. I never liked that part of me, but I didn't know how to not be that way. Now, when faced with frustrations or minor struggles, I seem to have adopted those qualities that I loved so much in him. It's as if parts of him have been infused right into my own personality and soul… some of the best parts.

I feel like each new experience in this afterlife of mine is teaching me new things and bringing new depth, value, and meaning to his death. With every trip I go on, every new thing I try, every risk I take - I feel as though I am not only coming to know myself and what I'm capable of on a much deeper level, but also somehow that I am getting to know him on a deeper level too. I'm learning that embracing the now does not make me forget him or our relationship. Embracing this new life does not make him any less a part of that new life. In fact, the more over time that I am able to embrace the new life I was thrown into - the more I feel that he is on the journey with me still.

Sure, I still miss his body warmly next to mine. I still miss his eyes and his hands and his laughter. Sometimes excruciatingly so. But now, I am coming to know a different part of him. And a different part of myself. Parts of us that we would have never come to know had we not been sent on this journey. It still somehow feels like we are in this together. And in completely different ways, this new life together - this journey of walking alone, but still walking together - is just as beautiful.

I am not What Happened to Me

Showing my strength at Waimea Canyon, Kauai, Hawaii. 

A week ago, I had a really big moment. It was defined the by a very simple difference in word choice. It was not something anyone else would have noticed or defined as big - unless of course you yourself are widowed perhaps. While at the gym, one of the other girls in class asked if I was married and had kids. And I said - in this effortless, matter-of-fact way - "No, I'm widowed, so the kids thing is pretty much out of the picture for right now". And then I just continued about my workout. Just like that. No big emotional breakdown. No desire to run and hide. No real care for whether or not this other woman was pitying me. It just rolled out naturally. A fact. Plain and simple.

This was a big deal. Something felt really different about it. The more I thought about it, I began to realize what it was. I said "I'm widowed". It's the first time since he died that I have said it that way by default. Every other time I have said "I'm a widow". I AM a widow. It's a small difference in words, but it feels like a huge difference in perspective.

In that moment, I realized that a shift is happening. I'm starting to feel like this is something that happened to me, and not that it IS me. For the past two years, my world has been so completely consumed by his death and by my grief that it's been hard so see myself as anything other than a widow. I hate that. Because I was so many other things in my past life. A rock climber. A kayaker. A skydiver. A lover of hockey. A friend. A sister. A photographer. When he died, suddenly, I was just a widow. I stopped doing a lot of things I enjoyed - although not all. And even though I was still a friend and a sister, it's like I was wearing a pair of glasses in which the grief tinted everything and made any other parts of me very hard to see.

But lately, I've poured myself into my photography and writing in a way that I never have before. I've had a different kind of focus and a feeling of purpose about it. It's helped me reclaim that part of who I am. I've added new things too… things that the old me in my old life would have never been gutsy enough to try. In February, I signed up for Crossfit class - a very high-intensity, total body workout that's been a big trend the past few years. I have to explain this by saying that I've never been very physically fit in my life, and Crossfit is definitely something I never in a million years would have imagined I would sign up for. Not only has it been healing to try something I'd have never done before his death, but seeing my body get stronger over time has in turn helped my mind and soul to feel stronger, too. Each day I go to that class, I lift a little more weight, or run a little farther, and that progress in strengthening my body seems to be carrying over to my mind and spirit too.

For the first time since he died, I feel like I am more than just a widow. And don't get me wrong - I am actually damn proud now to call myself a widow. It means I am part of an incredible community of some of the strongest people I've ever known. But you all get it - it's still the club you wish you didn't belong to. And it's still important for us to find other parts of ourselves on this journey so that we can begin to see ourselves as more than just widowed. Rediscovering the other parts of ourselves - or perhaps discovering them for first time - is what helps us to be able to find something about our new life that we can feel proud of and even joyful about. It helps us to embrace the new life, which in turn helps us to better honor the person we will love forever and the life we shared with them.

Photo Note: This is photo taken of me by my best friend just a few days ago at Waimea Canyon on the island of Kauai, Hawaii. One more thing that I never imagined that I would ever do is visit this place. Upon seeing the Grand Canyon just a few months after Drew died, I decided to visit a canyon every year somehow. This is the third. Both a humbling and empowering place to look out on. 

Living Adventurously In Loss

Even though our adventure together did not last a lifetime as we expected - my fiancé and I certainly lived our days adventurously. He convinced me to go skydiving a week before we began dating to my surprise. I am not an adrenaline junky, but somehow he had a way of making me surprise myself by the things he was able to bring out in me. I always liked that. He took me up for several helicopter flights while he was in flight school. He was so elated because apparently I was the only girl who ever accepted his invite to go up with him for a flight - and not only did I accept - I was extremely excited. It's beyond me that anyone would have had any other reaction to someone asking them "do wanna go up in a helicopter?" Certainly one more reason we fit so well together.

In the three years we had together we did lots of other adventurous things. We took a rock star trip to Vegas, took up kayaking together, did lots of camping and hiking, hot air ballooning, parasailing, race car driving school for a day… this was most assuredly NOT the girl I was before I met him. It was the girl I wanted to be - but without the right companion to do it with. I think that is one of my favorite things that he brought into my life - a perfect match for my sense of adventure that brought it out even more so in me.

But that spirit wasn't just in the grand adventures. It was in the little everyday things too. When we took frequent road trips across Texas to visit his family, we would often get off the main highway and take some other winding road we'd never been on. It always took longer, but we saw things we'd never seen before and even enjoy laughing at ourselves if we got lost sometimes.

We were big foodies too. We enjoyed going to restaurants and eating slowly and savoring every flavor - trying to pick out the ingredients we were tasting in each dish. And cooking at home was always fun too. He would find a new inspirations for a main courses, and I would chime in with ideas of what sides would go great with it. We'd go to the store together thinking it out and creating it as we went along, then come home and create together in the kitchen with some good music going - which could be anything from classical to jazz to country or rap depending on our mood. Cooking together was most definitely one of my favorite everyday adventures we shared.

Our conversations were adventurous too… sharing a sharp wit and flair for the sarcastic - we would often lock into an effervescent one-upmanship, trying to impress each other with twists and turns of our humor. A road trip or long day's hike would often result in talks spanning american history, gun ballistics, inspiring new artwork, outer space and the universe, achieving goals and dreams, the rapture of flying and favorite new music. There was never a dull moment and we never ran out of things to talk about.

The joy and beauty that our shared adventure brought to my life makes continuing to live adventurously very important to me. It brought me a profound feeling of aliveness… of being and living fully and deeply in the present moment. Adventure - no matter how big or small - has a profound ability to do this for us. And that's not only possible to experience in the midst of grief, I think its absolutely VITAL. At no other time do we more need the reprieve that a feeling of adventure can bring.

The joy and beauty our adventure brought to my life is also the reason why its so HARD to continue to live adventurously. Because without him here to live wildly with - it can be so easy to focus instead on what is missing. Being unable to ask my partner "Hey! You want to go kayaking tomorrow?"and hear back an excited reply of "Hell yes! Let's do this!" makes it harder to even remember to think about going kayaking (our kayaks still sit in storage collecting dust, 2 years after his death). I've found that my desire to do some of the things we did together just hasn't been there.

But I am still trying to think adventurously like him. Trying to keep the spirit alive inside me… because I know more than anything that he is telling me its time to go out and have a whole new adventure of my own. He is telling me to get out there and keep surprising myself. Even though there are a lot of days when I don't WANT a new adventure. Even though there are a lot of days still when the pain is too great to be able to see that there is still an adventure in this life of mine to be had. Still I never stop trying to mix adventure into my world - I never stop hearing him in the seat of my soul whispering for me to grab life by the horns.

And so I take trips, and I try things I've never done before. This year, I started  giving art lessons to an elementary school boy… something I never imagined myself doing in a million years. Its been rewarding and healing for us both. I also had my first solo art exhibit - a collection of the past 2 years of my photography since his death, a life long dream of mine that has totally changed my whole viewpoint of myself as an artist. And in just a few weeks… I'm blowing money I probably shouldn't be to go with my best friend to Hawaii. Two years ago I'd have been far too frugal to drop that kind of cash just for fun. But I have the money, I want one big travel adventure this year, and dammit I deserve it!

In the life of someone widowed, it can be so easy to become apprehensive… to get caught in a fearful loop of thinking to yourself dreadfully, "What's going to be just around the corner?". Continuing to take chances to see and live life adventurously has been one of the biggest ways of helping me change the whole meaning of that statement to "What's going to be just around the corner!!" To be excited by the unknown instead of paralyzed by it. This is the one of the most life-changing lessons that my fiancé brought into my life, and one that has stayed deeply seated in me even after his death. As he once said "Pain is going to happen. You've just got to not let it get you down." So I keep on trying to not let it get me down - at least not for too long - and I keep setting my eyes towards new adventures. Towards surprising myself pleasantly. Towards hope.

Where We're Going

He died on a Tuesday. I can still remember screaming those animal sounds into the phone, tones I'd never heard come out of myself. Deep, guttural defiances... yelled at his dad on the other end of the line – every cell of me rejecting the words from his broken voice, “No baby, he's not okay...” The room is spinning. I remember flashes only. I remember pacing like a caged animal in the shock of it all, and coming back to the bedside where I stared at one of those old-timey pictures of us on the wall, in a teal frame, which I'd hung only days earlier. Suddenly, I am in the hallway, down on my knees, screaming still. Then on the floor, in the bedroom, calling my best friends, the first words I say, over & over, “You have to come over. You HAVE to come over!” followed by barely breathing words, “It's Drew. He was in a crash...... he... didn't make it...” I am lost in space. Gasping. Grasping at anything I can, but nothing exists. I am plummeting through an empty black void – a vast nothing. It is somewhere not earthly. In the explosive event of his death, I have left my body too. It is 8pm, June 12, 2012. I am 29 years old. And the love of my life, my future husband, is dead.

- -

It was a helicopter crash. He was working his first big contract up in Washington state doing agricultural flying. He was supposed to be gone for 3 months, but in the first week, while riding along with another pilot to scout out the job, the pilot hit a power line and they went down into a tree. Drew was killed almost instantly from a severe blow to the chest. I don't have to tell all of you how terrifying and disorienting those first weeks were… how lost I was. 

In the weeks before he died, we talked excitedly about the future and about getting married. I found the ring just a week before the crash and I later found out... he was planning to propose to me as soon as he returned from his trip. Although he never had the chance to propose, one night on the phone that week, he said to me, “what if I were to ask you soon?” I did the usual ruining-of-the-moment by trying to be logical about planning and coordinating... and then I stopped myself, and said with all the love in my heart and a big smile, “Whenever you ask me, I will say yes.” I  could hear his smile all the way from Washington to Texas, it was that big. That is why, although we never got to the true proposal, I will refer to him as my fiancé.

For a month I stayed with his family near Austin. I tried to go back home to Dallas,  go back to work and routine. I made it only 4 days. Routine wasn't helping me like people said it would. I was already unhappy at my job and could not see how I could ever deal with that on top of all my grief. I had friends, but no family in Dallas. I knew in my heart that staying wasn't right for me. I could feel him telling me to leave Dallas... not to run away from it, but to run towards what I needed, family. 

This was not my first run-in with death. I lost my Mom to breast cancer when I was nine, and my Dad to heart disease when I was 27. Being without my parents at such a young age has influenced and colored every aspect of my life and who I am. With my siblings also living far away, I'd become part of Drew's family pretty fast. So after he died - when they told me to come and stay with them at their ranch near Austin - it was a no brainer for me.

Within 3 months of his death, I quit my job, rallied all my incredible friends in Dallas to help me pack everything into boxes and get it into storage, piled my two cats and a carload of essentials into my hatchback and left Dallas in the dust. I got a part time job at an art gallery in Austin, which was something I'd always wanted to do. It was easy work that surrounded me with creativity and art and amazing people. It helped.

In the rest of my time, I did a lot of what I did when I lost my parents… I made art. Hiked around in the countryside, wrote endlessly, took a lot of photos, sat and stared quietly sometimes for hours at the hills and trees. I started painting for the first time in my life, and found it helped me to express some of the pain. I started selling some of my art here and there and showing it at a few galleries and shows. I started my Our 1000 Days blog to record my journey and our story. I listened to all kinds of music from classical to heavy metal, and took some art classes like welding and clay sculpting and jewelry-making. I went to a lot of art galleries and festivals just to be around art. I found that exposing myself to new things - whether appreciating art or watching documentaries or making things in a class - helped to give me a break from the emotions and helped me find some way to still see the wonder in the world. Sometimes, like with painting, it also ended up being a way to get some really deep emotions out. Art in all its forms has saved my life.

I don't know why I decided to change everything after he died, except to say that for me, that life died and I no longer had any desire to try and continue it. I wanted his death to change everything. I wanted it to propel me off into some completely alternate direction, some big great unknown. I wanted it to help me take the chances I never took, and try the things I never tried. I wanted his death to alter me beautifully and exactly as much as his life did. I realize this may not be the usual way people deal with this sort of thing, but I guess it is just my way of making some meaning from it all.

- - -

This pretty much brings us up to now. The gallery I've been working at is closing in just a few weeks, so right as I am beginning to write to you, there is another part of this journey that is ending. It's pretty scary, as that had become some part of my new normal… and other than doing some design work for my mother-in-law (although I am not formally their daughter-in-law, it's just easier for us all to refer to each other this way now, and so we do), I really have no steady income and no concrete idea where my life is going to go from here. It's all wide open.

But I have some ideas. Before he died I had only dreams of being a writer and an artist and making a different in people's lives with my creativity. Since he died, I have dropped everything to pursue those dreams (albeit at a snails pace, because I'm also dealing with the grief). I have sold some of my art, written many pieces that I am very proud of, and gained a great deal of confident in myself as an artist and someone who can help people. That's a big thing for me to admit… because honestly, deep down, there is still a part of me that doesn't believe I am big enough to ever help anyone. But slowly the part of me that knows I can is gaining momentum.

I have no clue how anything will unfold in the next year or two or ten. All I know is that I've lost my mother, my father, and the love of my life, all before the age of 30. I've been dealing with death and grief and learning to live through it for over 20 years already, and I'm only 31. I'd have to be a complete idiot not to take that as a sign to help others out somehow. So I'm setting my compass there and letting go, trusting that someone out there - perhaps a particularly handsome pilot I know - will be guiding me.

Drifted Back to NY ......

...... and the relief I felt as soon as I sat down in my seat on the plane yesterday morning was amazing.
It was like I had been carrying 500 pounds on my shoulders (causing a lot of pain in my neck!).  As soon as I dropped into that seat,  all of that weight lifted.
In fact, I was so relaxed that I slept through most of the flight ...... which is a rarity for me.
Carrying all of that weight is exhausting.

Letting go of it is almost exhilarating.

I'm feeling less adrift right now.
Funny, I always feel that way when I'm here.
Always.

Maybe I should stop over-thinking things and just plan on moving here as soon as my house in Texas sells.
Who says I can't change my mind at a later date?
Who says I can't find somewhere else to live if this place turns out to be less than "home"?

It seems so strange that a place so large and so full of strangers ...... feels more like "home" than any other place on earth.
I think it's the freedom I feel when I step off of the plane.

I'm free to be myself ...... and no one's bothered by that here.
No one here knows that I used to be different ...... that I had a "before".

I'm free of the concerns and responsibilities that threaten to pull me under when I'm back there.
I'm free of the memories that lurk in every corner of my house, and on almost every street of my community.

I'm free from the relationships that also used to be different ...... in our "before".
I'm not the only one who was changed by my husband's death.
Not by a long shot.
But I am the one, along with my children, who have to live in it, day in, day out .....
every.
single.
24 hours.

Who knew that freedom would come in a city of over 8 million people?
Not me.
But now that I know ...... I'm accepting it.
And grabbing hold of it with both hands.
And enjoying every second of it.

For as long as it lasts.
:)

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.

Survivors' Guilt

Source - I took this picture of the Tra Vigne winery, CA.

A couple of weeks ago I traveled to California to spend time with my best friend.

On one of the days I was there we went to tour a winery.

The winery was so beautiful. Of course the wine was amazing. The day was filled with love and laughter.

On the drive back to our hotel I was looking out the window.. taking in the beauty around me.

And it hit me..

It hits me every time..

The tears started falling.

Once again, my husband missed out on an amazing experience.

When I think about all the fun I had and all the fun my husband missed out on.. it leaves me in tears.

Every time.

It feels like every time I have an amazing day it is followed by pain.

Followed by a slap in the face that he is still dead.

Pain that my husband can’t experience these things.

Pain that I am having such an amazing time without my husband.

I've thought a lot about it. How come when an amazing day is winding down, night is setting in, my brain goes there?

It seems like I have some version of survivor’s guilt.

Guilt that I can actually live and love life.

Guilt that my husband couldn't see a reason to live another day.

Guilt that I am enjoying my life while my husband is dead.

It hurts. It bothers me that I have to have a melt down after an amazing day.

Three years out, when does the quilt subside?

When can I enjoy life without feeling guilty about it?

When can I stop feeling sorry for my husband?

After all, my husband decided to leave this life.. I did not make that decision for him. So why do I feel guilty for having fun?

Times like this I wish I could tell him "Do you see all the amazing things you are missing out on?? What the hell were you thinking??"

Survivor’s guilt. Three years out I am still learning about all the bumps in this road called widowhood.

There's No Place Like Home ......

...... even if it's a brand new home.
And sometimes ...... especially if it's a brand new home.
(Not new as in newly built, but new as in new to you.)

As most of you know, I've been splitting my time between Houston and New York City.
And I've loved being in NY.
I've always loved being in NY, but now I love it for additional reasons.
And the biggest reason is because ...... it's not like home.
Or rather, the place that used to be home.
Before.

If someone would've told me in the first two years of my "after" that I would soon want to leave the place that had been home to us for almost 20 years, I would've told them that they were crazy.  I could not imagine leaving our house, our/my friends ...... our community.

But it's now been almost 6 years (how can that really be possible?) since Jim died.  And time, at least for me, has changed how I feel.
I still love our/my friends and our community, but things are ...... different.
And I now have a love/hate relationship with our house.

I have no idea why I didn't feel this way from the beginning, or why it's only grown stronger over time, but my home is becoming a house.
A house that I'm starting to resent because of all of the upkeep and cost it requires.
And because he's not there.
Particularly because he's not there.
My house and my community no longer feel like home.

To me, the words "There's no place like home" have a double-edged meaning.
There's no place like home, when it hurts to be there.  No other place has the capability to cause me pain, sadness and hurt.

There's no place like home, when you know there's no other place you'd rather be.
And for me, that's the place where Jim didn't live.  He's not supposed to be there.
It's the place where people know me as Janine ...... not as Jim's widow.
It's the place where I feel 100% comfortable and 100% accepted for who I am, rather than being treated differently because of who I was, or for who I am now.

This morning I woke up in Texas.  Tonight I'm falling asleep in New York.
 When I woke up, my first thought was this:
"I'm going home today!"
 It was a thought that just popped into my head.  It wasn't even a conscious effort.  I was surprised when it happened.
Surprised and happy.

Right now, at this point in my life, for however long it lasts ...... I feel like I've finally found my new home.
I'm going to enjoy that feeling, and my new home, as long as it's there ...... which I hope is a very long time.  But if it's not, that will be OK.
Because I know this:  If I can choose to pick up and move some place all on my own once ...... I can certainly do it again.

Because there really is no place like home.

Stay, Jump or Live

Last week I wrote about how much my husband is missing out on (I wrote about it here).

The thoughts of all the things he is missing out on has been weighing heavily on my mind.

I started thinking about how I am missing out on life because of grief, depression, anxiety, feeling overwhelmed, financially.. the list goes on.

I decided to start saying YES more often then saying no. Even when I’m depressed. Even when I haven’t slept for night after night. 

I have vowed to say yes.. for the most part.

This weekend was a whole lot of YES.

Yes because I didn't want to miss out. Yes because I have the opportunity.

Yes because I am alive.

Because I am alive I can still experience these things that my husband is missing out on.

Yesterday I ran The Color Run 5k. I knew physically I couldn't run the whole way. I knew financially I should really put the $50 into savings.

But I also knew if I said no, I would be sitting at home doing nothing.. and missing out.

The 5k kicked my butt. But the whole experience was amazing and worth every minute of pain.

Don’t you just love my outfit?

Just ignore my blue teeth.

This morning, with my skin still dyed blue, red and orange, and the wash off tattoos that aren't washing off..

I will be jumping off a side of a mountain.

Yes. Me. Jumping. Off a mountain!

The fear of getting hurt held me back. Financially I was held back. Fear that I would land on my face and be on one of those shows that people get hurt.. and it's kind of funny in a hurt way held me back. Putting my life in someone else's hands held me back.

The song I wrote for my adventure..
At first I was afraid.I was petrified.
Wondering how I would jump off the side of a mountain
With some strange dude strapped to my behind.
But then he said "lean forward"
And I knew it was out of my hands.
I placed my life in his hands.
Let my feet leave the ground.
And I was off.
Flying through the sky.
It was then that I realized...
I will survive.

Why?

Because I can. Because I am alive.

And because I choose to live I choose to not miss out on this very slow yet very fast life we live.

I’m learning to let go. To live.

I'm learning to jump.

Not Enough

The way Seth looked at me, reminds me that I was his entire world.

Since my husband’s suicide in July 2010, I have struggled with feeling like I was not enough.

I was not enough to keep my husband alive.

I have felt that if I was a better friend, a better wife, a better support system, my husband would still be alive.

Realizing that sometimes love is NOT enough.. is devastating.

What happened to all we need is love?

Three years later I struggle with feeling like I am not enough for the world around me.

Until recently I didn't realize how shattering my husband’s suicide was to my self esteem.

It now keeps me from being able to have a new relationship.

Because I’m not enough.. they will leave me, in the ultimate way.. suicide.

Feeling like I am not enough for anyone has left me looking at my future.. looking at a future that is alone and empty.

I remind myself that Seth did truly love me. Anyone that knew Seth always said I was his world. You could see it in the way he looked at me.

I remind myself that we loved each other deeply.. that our love was not an illusion.

What’s hard to swallow is that bipolar had a stronger grasp on my husband then I did. No matter how hard I pulled and pushed, bipolar always had the upper hand.

Tomorrow would have been our eight year wedding anniversary. Instead of showering my husband with love and affection, I am left with just the memories and broken dreams.

I want to love deeply. I want to give deeply. But how do I break the broken record in my head? The one that tells me you are not enough.

How does one “forget” and move forward?