An Invisible Audience

I'm feeling very flat tonight.  It's been a long day.  My office was closed due to bad weather and while, at first, I was excited at the thought of spending a day at home with no agenda, it has dragged and the quiet stillness has started to seep in under my skin.

It's a strange feeling to go to bed at night realising you haven't spoken a single word all day.  It happens to me often.  I've had a few text messages from friends and family checking in but there's been no human contact, no physical energy in the room to stir with mine and remind me that I'm not alone.

The quiet generally doesn't bother me.  I'm an introvert and a homebody, comfortable in my own company.  I usually not only relish time on my own, I need it to recharge.  But today, the quietness felt heavy.  And I've sat down at my laptop tonight to write this entry for Widow's Voice thinking, as I do often, what on earth do I have to say today that anyone will find interesting.  Let alone helpful. It's an incredible honour to write for this website and not a responsibility that I take lightly, however sometimes that sense of duty can feel almost intimidating.

Am I being honest and raw enough?  On the days that I'm feeling positive and upbeat, will I alienate the readers who find my outlook irritating or unrealistic?  If I tell a personal anecdote am I comfortable sharing a part of my life that is very private, or will I feel ok if someone in my real life stumbles upon it and possibly reads something that upsets them?  Incase you haven't worked it out by now, I can be an over-thinker and quite hard on myself!

However this week I received an email from someone I met at Camp Widow in Tampa who also lost her husband to depression, only a few months ago.  Her kind words meant more than she could know.

She wrote, among other things, that she had spent a lot of time over the weekend reading my blog posts and Facebook fee, soaking up some of my stories about Dan and everything I had experienced since he died. She told me that it had been helpful for her to hear from other widows and said, "I appreciate your example and your grace and your honesty."

It is messages like this that make the scariness of sharing your personal thoughts with the internet worth it.  Every time, over the post 19 months, that I've posted a sad, grief-related post on my Facebook, talking about how much I miss Dan or describing the extreme agony in my heart, I've instantly felt that fear and vulnerability that comes with opening yourself up to judgement.  

Our culture is such that people aren't comfortable talking about death.  They're sure as hell not comfortable talking about suicide.  And this is precisely why I've felt the need, since Dan died, to talk about it.  As soon as the police told me how he'd died I thought 'oh no, he's going to be judged.  I'm going to be judged.  People are going to  make assumptions about our relationship or his character...' and then I realised how unfair and WRONG that was.  

I mean, of course I knew that Dan's death was caused by a disease - not a character flaw or because of any unhappiness he felt with his life.  So I was determined to help others understand that too. 

The same goes for grief.  Before Dan died the only widow I knew was my then-90-year-old grandmother (who lost her husband at 49).  I had seen friends mourn parents who had been taking too soon by cancer but I didn't have any understanding of how that actually felt.  Let alone, the loss of a spouse.  So I spoke about my feelings.  I wanted people to grasp what was happening to me.  

Maybe, so they'd be a bit gentle and avoid any unrealistic expectations about this being a 'phase' that I would go through.  Maybe because I wanted them to appreciate their own partners and their own good health.  Most likely, it was a form of therapy for me.  I needed to purge the pain and get it out of my head.  

Writing has helped me cope with, and process, my loss.  But I share it with others because I hope to help someone else the way the Widow's Voice writers coaxed me through each day of my own pain, when I become a widow.  

On the days that I post and there are no comments, it's easy to wonder if I'm missing the mark.  If I'm writing such nonsense that no one was able to relate.  Then, there are days where someone tells me that I've made a difference to them.  And that one message makes it all worth while.  So thank you to those of you who reach back.  It really does keep us going.

Hope for Hope

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

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

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

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

But I do.

I hope for hope.

Because hope makes me hope for a better for tomorrow.

Makes me hope for a less grief stricken life.

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

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

Because hope matters.

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

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

They keep me strong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because well, hope matters.

Finding my verb

I wrote this post on my blog in March of 2011. I had forgotten about it. But the call to find and use my verb has been tapping me on the shoulder again, so I thought it was very relevant to repost tonight.

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I am still here.

The truth is, I'm here almost every night, staring at a blank computer space, unable to make my fingers move. Every day, a million different things go on in my head that I want to write down, but I can't configure them into coherent thoughts when I sit to write. Even more than that, I sit and wonder if I really have anything to say that I haven't said already. I can find new adjectives, manipulate metaphors, use a thesaurus...but at the end of the day, it feels the same:

My husband is dead.

It still hurts like hell.

But this weekend I've had a couple of cool experiences that has given me a voice again. First of all, people have been writing me the last few days, wondering where I've been. It's nice to know that people like what I have to say and want to hear more from me.

Second was an encounter with Mark Duckworth, lead singer of the band Salient (check em out, btw). Mark and I have crossed paths several times, singing at the same events and hanging out here and there. This weekend, we were both singing for the youth rally at my home church (I with DeeperStill - the group my husband sang with, and Mark with his band) and we all went out after the event on Friday night. He approached me afterwords to thank me for my blog and FB postings to Jeremy and expressed an appreciation for my writing. Mark probably knows that I hear that often - which I do. I've been overwhelmed by the response that my story has received and people have expressed their appreciate for me sharing it many times. But what Mark probably doesn't know is that I really took it as a huge compliment from him as someone who has written some incredible music to note my writing, which in my opinion, is not that great. He encouraged me to keep writing and reminded me that there are so many people that I am still unaware of that are reading and praying for me. I guess I needed the reminder.

Next happened during church this morning. Without going into the entire sermon, since I could never do Patrick Mead justice by trying to recap his incredible lesson, I will say something struck me today. It was a combination of the sermon and something that was said during our Missional Moment today about finding our verb as a Community of God. We are not saved by our works but we do good works because we are saved, therefore we must put our faith into action by finding our verb. I've struggled with finding mine my entire life, and today it was as if a finger was tapping me on the shoulder and I heard it:

WRITE. That's your verb. 

Everyone has a different verb, and I don't believe this will be mine forever, as I am not a writer (at least not a good one). But for now, in a season when I feel broken with nothing to offer, I felt God showing me a way to still somehow offer something in the midst of my weakness: My words. My story. My journey. As awful as it is for me right now, I know it's blessing others along the way.

One of my and Jer's best friends wrote me something a couple weeks ago that has been swirling in my head since. I hope he doesn't mind me sharing:

"I think that most people are numb to the fragility of life, and they go about in narrowly focused on their own lives, living in quiet desperation seeking real connection with people. Even with all the advancements in technology and more ways to connect electronically than we've ever had before, people still struggle to truly connect with another. 

On a broad level I think that the genuineness of your writing, and sharing of yourself through these last months has people flocking to your posts in droves because your transparency creates the type of deep connection they so desperately crave. However wrong, right, weird, well intentioned, or wild it is, I watch people find connection and MEANING in your pain & happiness. Whether or not you're seeking it, that is a truly transcendant gift." 

There you have it. This is certainly NOT the way I wanted to watch my blog grow, and how I wanted to make even the smallest impact on the world, and yet it's happening whether I like it or not. It's not a gift I asked for, but I will take it for now in hopes that it will reveal healing and purpose back into my life. I will continue to try to write through this mess I'm living in.

***As a side note, I would love to hear what your verb is and how you feel called to use it.

Dear Me

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Writing has been a lifeline since Dave died.

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

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

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

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

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

Dear younger me:

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

It matters how much you love. 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Give yourself a chance honey. You deserve it. 

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

 

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

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

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

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