Travelling My New Path

Travel selfies at LAX

As I write this, I'm sitting in a plane, flying from Los Angeles to New York.  I'm back in the USA for Camp Widow East next weekend and decided to make a holiday off it, fulfilling a life-long dream of visiting the Big Apple. 

This is my second trip to the states and again I find it very emotional to be here without Dan, as it reminds me of all the plans we made to travel together but never got the chance to see through.

New York has not only always been on my bucket list, but it was one of my husband's favourite places.  He'd visited a number of times and had even spent a Christmas here with a mate, many years before we met.  

Before he died, we'd planned a wonderful holiday to experience a New York Christmas together, which we had scheduled for 2013. He was so excited as he spoke about all the places he wanted to show me.  Central Park, the Rockefeller Christmas Tree, all the beautiful boroughs and neighbourhoods.  This was one of the many dreams we didn't get to see through, because of his death.

Making this journey now without him is so very bittersweet.  I miss him so much, I miss the excited glow he would get, I miss the twinkle in his eye, I miss being able to sit here and hold his hand and share such a special moment with him.

I can't help but feel like he's with me though.  For example... I am not what you'd call a sports enthusiast.  I don't hate sport, but I wouldn't exactly seek it out.  However when the friend who I'm travelling with asked if I wanted to join her at the basketball or ice hockey during our visit, I thought it sounded like a fun thing to do.  She ended up organising tickets to both, and then we realised we'd also be in the USA for Superbowl Sunday!  So, that's three 'sporting events' that I will be viewing (the Superbowl we will only be watching from a bar somewhere, but still). Dan, the sports nut, MUST surely have pulled some strings to make that happen. 

I like that I'm able to feel connected with him through places.  I find myself wondering, did he walk down this street?  Maybe he even sat in this taxi.  I know for sure that he loved this country and if the spirits of our dearly departed really do get to stay with us and share in our happiness, he would be loving that I'm here, experiencing a city that is so dear to his heart.  

Even though I'd chose my life with Dan over any alternative, I'm also very aware that I will have opportunities and experiences on this holiday that would not have been possible if he were still here with me. 

I'm grateful that I will get to spend time with my friend (and fellow Widow's Voice writer) Kelley Lynn while I'm here.  I didn't know any 'real new yorkers' before Dan died, but my world has been broadened significantly because I'm now part of the widowed community.  I will then get to travel to Florida and see another dear friend Michele and make more new friends at Camp Widow.  

It is so easy to dwell on what I am missing.  I can't escape the fact that he should be here.  But that loss is softened slightly on the days that I'm able to take a moment and think about what blessings have come in to my life, only because of the path that it has taken.  A path I would never have chosen or wanted, a path I find myself on reluctantly.  But, nevertheless, a path that still presents adventures and experiences that are waiting to be explored.

Not Standing Still

Source

Last night I reached another ‘first’ in my widow journey.  I met some new people without doing that thing where you somehow find a way to announce that you’re widowed. 

It was a dinner party at a Greek restaurant with a close friend, her fiancé and three other couples (so yes, I was the only ‘single’).  That’s six strangers, who hadn’t been filled in on my ‘back story’, and I got through the night without crumbling. 

This is a big step for me.  For a start, I don’t really enjoy meeting new people.  I’m not anti-social or rude, I’m just very introverted and I struggle to let new people in.  Most of my friends and family don’t even know this about me because I’m so friendly and relaxed with those I know and feel comfortable with. 

I work in communications and public relations, so professionally, I often have to be confident and assertive in speaking to people I don’t know, to build a rapport and put them at ease. And I do this well.  But given a choice, I’d spend my free time either devoting my attention to the people I love or curled up at home, alone with a book. 

Once Dan died I became even less likely to put myself in a situation where I’d be pushed out of my comfort zone.  Because, lets face it, getting through the day is hard enough without extra challenges like having to make small talk with friends, let alone strangers. 

However lately I’ve been making an effort not to close myself off to new experiences or meeting new people.  I’m not ready to think about dating yet, but it is something I hope is in my future.  I’m 34, I miss being a wife and also want to be a mum one day.  The chances of this happening for me will be pretty slim if I refuse to leave my inner circle.  But, baby steps… I figure that by starting out making new friends, my confidence will grow.

So not only did I survive (and enjoy) dinner, I also didn’t have that weird need to blurt out that my husband died.  Does anyone else do this?  It’s like by letting people know I’m widowed, it will somehow give relevance to whatever conversation we’re having.  I tell people at the bank when I’m depositing a cheque, I tell the beautician who is waxing my eye brows, and recently, I told my new dentist, as if knowing Dan had died was necessary for her to able to assess my oral hygiene.

Maybe I am so used to being on the brink of tears at any given moment, that I need to advise people in case of any pending breakdown.  Maybe it’s because, for the past 14-and-a-half months, Dan’s death has been such an integral part of my life, it has touched every aspect of who I am and what I do. It still does.  But somehow last night, as I chatted to these lovely people about my day and my job and the other usual dinner conversation topics, I didn’t want it to be the most important thing. 

I did notice a couple of glances at my wedding rings and wonder if anyone was thinking: where is this lady’s husband tonight and why is she talking about ‘me’ and never ‘us’. However where I’d usually always weave it into conversation, last night I didn’t. 

As I drove home from dinner my mind was with Dan, thinking about how nice it would have been to have him by my side.  Wondering if he would have enjoyed the food and found these new people as charming as I did.  As I rested my head on my pillow I let my thoughts wander to memories of him holding me every night, wishing his arms were wrapped around me still.  The ache for him is constant but I acknowledged that I’d taken another step forward.  Another step without him, which hurts and I hate, but I wasn’t standing still.

Hope and Healing at Camp Widow

Photo booth shenanigans with new friends 

By all accounts, I really should be feeling pretty awful right now.  This past Tuesday marked my first birthday since Dan died (turning 34, his forever age) and coming up this Thursday, July 24, is the first anniversary of his death.  This is a tough time of year, there's no two ways about it.  It sucks, it hurts and it's freaking unfair.

But in a really weird way, I feel suspended from the weight of the grief at the moment.  I know it's there, lurking... most likely waiting to strike when I arrive home from my USA holiday on Wednesday, all jet-lagged and grumpy (maybe it will even hit on the 13-hour-trip home which will be fun for the people sitting around me). 

I'm pretty good at tapping in to my grief and leaning in to it when I need to rather than pushing it aside and playing the denial game, so I was thinking today, why do I feel 'ok' right now?  Where did this 'good vibe' buzz come from?  And the only thing I can really put it down to is Camp Widow.

It feels like attending this event last weekend was some kind of turning point in my grief journey.  I arrived in San Diego on Thursday afternoon so excited and bouncing with enthusiasm. I'd heard the stories from other people who'd left Camp Widow feeling like they could take on the world and I couldn't wait to feel that too.  Bring it on!

Then Friday morning arrived, I jumped out of bed and walked up to the registration desk, ready to get started.  That's when it hit me.  What the hell was I doing?!  How on earth did I think I could travel half way across the world on my own, waltz in to a conference of 250 people I'd never met, let down all the walls I carefully maintain to keep myself protected and composed and talk to strangers about Dan's death!?  

I felt so vulnerable and naive and promptly started freaking out.  I had made a serious mistake and couldn't do this - I was way out of my depth.  Before I had the chance to flee I was ushered in to the 'new campers' workshop by a friendly volunteer, where I sat with tears running down my face, carefully noting my nearest exit route and avoiding all eye contact.

After an introduction and run down by one of the Soaring Spirits board members we were instructed to turn to the person next to us and introduce ourselves. Oh shit, crunch time - this is it Rebecca, you finally have to turn up and start playing.  So I paired up with a lovely lady called Angela from Northern California and after blurting out my name, said I'd lost my husband Daniel just under a year ago and broke down in tears.  Once I calmed down and confessed to how nervous I was feeling, I realised Angela was tearing up too.  She assured me it was ok and pointed out that we weren't the only ones in the room crying, I looked around and she was right, I wasn't the 'weird crying woman' at this event, we were all in the same boat.  This really was a safe place and no one was going to point and stare at me. 

Over the next two days my confidence slowly grew.  I started feeling connected to these strangers and felt more comfortable opening up.  I sat and listened to other people's stories - their fears and their pain along with their triumphs and goals.  I cried with them and I cheered for them.  I heard presentations from widows who are further down their path than I am and who have managed to make sense of their grief and even build something positive from their pain.  Many of them had even remarried and I was fascinated that they had found happiness again with partners who embraced their grief so fully that some had even attended Camp Widow with them! 

I danced.  Now that is huge.  I am not really a dancer at the best of times and haven't danced since my wedding in June last year, six weeks before Dan died.  I put on silly props and posed for photos with my arms around women I had only met two days earlier (I'd seen the photo booth photos from previous camps and thought 'seriously, I can NOT imagine feeling comfortable enough with these grieving strangers to pose for laughing photos together' - but it happened!).  

And when it came time to say goodbye, I cried.  I cried because I would really miss these new friends whom I cared about deeply.  I cried because Camp Widow made me feel so happy and normal and actually excited about a life that lay before me, I was scared to leave in case I left those feelings behind.  

I cried because I still missed Dan and I wanted to tell him about my amazing weekend, but I realised that the pain I felt at losing my Great Love (my kryptonite as Michele so eloquently put it in her key note address) could also be my super power, as I carried that love forward with me, propelled by the knowledge that my time with him was a wonderful gift that I am still receiving by being the woman he saw in me, by being the better person he made me and by growing through this horrible life experience.  Love never dies and his love will be my super power as I live the rest of my life. 

This is something I NEVER thought I'd say, but I left Camp Widow feeling proud to be a widow.  How crazy is that!?  I felt proud of the resilience I'd developed, of the compassion I felt for others, and of the strength I never knew I had.   I felt proud to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with these incredible men and women who had also left their homes alone, travelled to an event where they knew no one and let their own walls done in the hope that there was more.

I am now trying to work out if I can make it back to the USA or Canada for Camp Widow next year and anyone else who is considering making the journey, I can't recommend it enough.  There is more for us, there is hope.  This situation may not be what we WANT and it's still certainly not fair on any level, but we don't have to settle for a life that is less than.  

The Dress

This week I am at Camp Widow West (Woop!).

Since I’m at camp I’ll save my typing (on my phone) and will spill the beans next week about my experience at camp.

This week I want to share something I have been thinking about.

For Camp Widow I HAD to have an amazing dress.. well in my head I thought I had to have the perfect dress. 

With limited funds and a sense of panic, an amazing person came to my rescue. 

I was given a dress that had never been worn.

This wasn't just a dress. It was THE dress. 

This dress was more amazing then I envisioned. When I put it on, I carefully did a little twirl, skip and a hop.

This dress made me feel.. Important.

When I sent it in to be altered I had extreme anxiety about it.

What if they mess up my dress? What if I have to find another dress right before camp? What if? What if?

It dawned on me I had more anxiety over my Camp Widow dress getting altered then I did my wedding dress.

Me enjoying my wedding dress - 2005

Why? I don’t know. I guess because if my wedding dress was wrong, I was still getting married either way.. even if I had to wear pajama’s.

But my Camp Widow dress? I couldn't just show up in my pajama’s… 

well they would have accepted me no matter what I was wearing, but in my head, this was (is) a huge event.

I've been thinking about how some of my favorite memories involve me wearing a big fancy dress. Prom, my wedding and now.. camp widow.

I realized I very rarely get to wear a fancy dress. There are very few occasions to wear one to.

There are very few occasions where dancing the night away in a fancy dress is a given.

So now I get to brag and show off my dress!!

Tada!! Aren't you amazed? Yah I know, me too!!

Okay, I am done bragging.

To the person that donated this dress to me… thank you for the bottom of my soul. The dress has become a part of me. Every time I see it hanging up in my closet I will always remember the amazing memories made at Camp Widow. I promise you, one day I will pay it forward. 

I will help a widow in need, even if it means passing this dress on. So Thank You!!

Please Just Let Me Be... The New Me

It’s remarkable to me how present the feeling of loss remains after nearly four years without my sweet Maggie.  Much of the endocrine-pulsing sharpness has been dulled by time, thankfully, but it shocks me how often my mouth forms the words “Maggie and I” which gets quickly and silently censored into just “I” so I can avoid any social discomfort.  (The “Maggie and” part becomes my own silent chant - a personal nod to a past that doesn’t feel so distant.)

Sometimes, my omissions force me into comically uncomfortable situations that require linguistic judo to escape.  Most recently, a post-Maggie-era friend has started dating Maggie’s sister.  During the discussion with the new boyfriend, I stated that the situation was a little awkward for me to which he naturally inquired why.  In keeping with the censorship that I’ve practiced (specifically in regard to mine and her relationship) I replied, “She’s my sister.”  A barrage of hilariously uncomfortable questions ensued.  Maybe I should have stuck with the truth.

Despite my daily filtering and censoring, and much to my surprise, I recently learned that some of my friends believe that I am still waving the grief/death flag way too much.  Apparently, I am sitting in my grief and refusing to get over it.  Some even believe I’m taking advantage of my situation for attention and milking it.  Sadly, I’m told that by associating with others who have also lost spouses, that I’m choosing to stay stuck or being enabled to wallow instead of what ever it is these blessed innocent folks would rather I be doing.  This makes me sad.

It’s so odd and so surprising to me how difficult it is to measure up to what other people think I should be doing.  At first, I was moving on too fast.  Now, I’m not moving on fast enough.  I guess, according to these experts, I should be over all this by now.  Gosh, I can only wonder how people would react if I were to outwardly display all the inner turmoil I have with coming to terms – yes, still – with my Maggie being gone.

I’ve noticed something, though.  I now have several post-Maggie-era friends.  Many, if not all, know about Maggie even though it’s never been a conversation.  Of these post-Maggie-era friends, not one has even hinted that I might be clinging to my past or whipping out the ol’ death flag too much.  I’ll bet if I were to ask any of them, they’d probably be surprised that I asked.  It seems, at least from this widower’s perspective, that the only folks who think I’m stuck are those who still miss Maggie, too.  This makes me sad, too.   But I can’t help them.  They have to figure this out on their own.

So, I’ll continue to aggressively build my network of post-Maggie-era friends.  I fear that ultimately, those who knew and loved Maggie will represent a smaller and less influential percentage of my current friends.  It makes me sad that I’m going to have to let them go but those people can’t seem to see me for me anymore and that’s not helpful.  Now, more than ever, I need to be able to be, well, just me - the new me, the post-Maggie-era Chris – who ever that may be.  Fortunately, the post-Maggie-era friends like the post-Maggie-era Chris. He’s a fun and happy guy with a bright future.  What’s not to like?

This Life

Six and a half years ago the worst thing happened. I wasn't prepared, I had never imagined (who does I guess?), and even if I did spend anytime pondering what life would be like if my 39 year old husband was hit and killed by a car, I still wouldn't have dreamed up the life that has come after that worst moment.

I could not have imagined the brutal pain of waking up in an empty bed.

I could not have imagined picking up the phone to call him, over and over again...I would have guessed that eventually I'd figure out that he wasn't going to answer.

I could not have imagined six years after his death STILL thinking I saw him standing on a street corner.

I could not have imagined how my heart would break when I read what one of my children would later write about that day, or the ways in which his death would change their lives.

I could  not have imagined being surrounded by other widowed people. And if I did imagine such a thing I am sure I would have expected us to all be sharing kleenex instead of laughter.

I could not have imagined telling my story in front of hundreds of people or the tightness in my chest that would accompany that storytelling each and every time. I would have imagined getting used to the words, that somehow saying them over and over would make them lose their power.

But more than any other thing I could not imagine on the day that my love died, I could never have imagined the friends I would make as I put the pieces of my shattered life back together. My widowed community changed my life. I wouldn't be who I am today without the people I have met along the way. They inspire me. They encourage me. They lift me up, and also anchor me to this world. The one I am left with now. The one that is more beautiful than I could ever have imagined 2,402 days ago.

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.....

Don't get too close

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Alone

There was a real chance that Maggie would have died that first night we were in the hospital back on January 6, 2007. Despite our dreams, our plans, our love and our forever-together commitment, I’d truly be alone. As she slept soundly in a cozy, drug-induced haze, I felt like it was me against all the evil in the world… and the evil was winning. I felt the most alone I had ever felt in my life. While I watched her chest slowly sink and rise with each laborious breath, my mind raced with terrible, terrible thoughts and I feared I was never going to speak to or kiss my sweet wife again. It was the longest, loneliest night of my life.

That low point was reset 850 days later on May 4, 2009 and has been reset even lower many times since then. Despite being surrounded by caring friends and a loving family, I’ve felt more alone than I ever felt possible. I walked alone on this path. The Highlander of widowhood, I was the only one.

I’ve spent my days since that day being embarrassed and ashamed, that I no longer fit with society. Because of no fault of mine, I was tossed out of the mainstream and into another world. Worse, few people knew how to talk to me. Even fewer knew how to relate. And no one – no one – understood.

Weekend before last I attended Widow Camp. I was terrified and, frankly, a little bit angry. I didn’t need to hang out with another bunch of bitter, hopeless old women bitching about being a widow, nor did I have the patience to listen to their pining for husbands long gone. And I sure didn’t deserve this widower/death/restarting crap.

I sat just outside the doors of the Friday evening social wondering what the hell I did to deserve this and how the hell I was going to get myself out of this inescapable situation. Then, an angel with a charming smile named Susan told me how the people at previous Widow Camps had affected her and that she was confident that I would never regret walking through those doors.

So through the doors I walked, with my heart pounding, my palms sweating and with a serious case of regret jack-hammering my confidence. But then I met AnneMarie… then Matt… then Chris, Brooke Tiffany, Nikki, Roy, Cassie and so many others. They looked just like many other strangers I’d met before. However, when I answered “830 days” they didn’t cringe. When I said “Her name was Maggie” they didn’t look at their shoes. The word “cancer” didn’t shut down the conversation. Instead, they shared their stories, comfortably, freely, openly. Amazingly, even my dead spouse humor was met with equally appalling (and very welcome) humor. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. For the first time in more than two years, I was with people who didn’t question, critique, or condemn but instead collegialised. For the first time in 830 days, I was not alone.

I am not alone.

Hope Personified

The people in this photo have experienced despair. These smiling faces have cried buckets (okay maybe an ocean) of tears because someone they love is not coming home, ever. Some of us were called to an emergency room or opened the door to a uniformed officer who told us the news that would change our lives; while others sat by a bedside day after day, night after night...climbing into a hospital bed to say the final good bye.

Our widowed journey began anywhere from a few short weeks ago to more than ten years ago. We are women, men, married, not married, remarried, straight, gay, religious, not religious, some of us have children while others do not, we came alone and in groups, we have met on-line or never before....but none of this mattered. For three lovely days in San Diego, California what mattered was hope.

Hope was a palpable presence wherever we gathered. We overcame fear of travel, or rejection, or not fitting in, or the awkward first steps in getting to know a new person in order to embrace the hope that we tasted in the air. To allow that hope into our hearts we were willing to say words that have been stuck in our throats (maybe for years); shed tears we thought were dried up; listen to another story with a tragic ending; accept  the word widow as a role that impacts our lives; and stand side by side with others who were both like us and different from us. Sometimes the last step that was necessary to get to the hope that was within arms reach, literally, was terrifying. I watched many of these faces battle internally with whether they would take that last step towards hope...towards another widowed person. But time and time again hope led people to climb over their walls and take a risk.

Each person in this photo radiates hope. Sometimes they may not recognize the glow, and many times when despair knocks they are covered in shadow. But underneath the blanket that grief throws over our lives is the light we each carry within us, still flickering. When you gather 275 flickering lights in one place, hope burns brightly.

Thank you to each and every camper for: taking a risk, reaching out, embracing the widowed person next to you, being willing to let down your guard, facing your fears, and allowing your personal light to shine. Together we made a difference, together we are more than just one word.

Stuck

I'm feeling indecisive these days. In fact, I wrote a very long post earlier this evening, then decided that it didn't adequately describe what I was feeling. I decided to leave it on my screen for awhile, then came back and hit delete.

There are so many times in my day to day life that I would love to have a do-over. I would love to just hit delete, then just start over fresh.

You know, I waste so much time in my day to day life. At work I'm productive, but then I come home, and often feel like whatever I do, or did, it was all just a waste. It's at that point that I wish I could just hit delete, and once again, start fresh.

I'm sad to report that these days, much of my free time still feels pointless. I often feel lost, or that I am just marking time. It's not that I want to be here, or in this state, it's just that I feel caught in some kind of thick mud. I can see all that life potentially has in store for me, but I don't really know how to get it anymore.

There is a duality in my desire for growth and change. I want desperately to be in a place of happiness. I want to have new people in my life, and I would love to see my home filled with weekend guests. Yet, what am I really doing to make this happen? Am I really ready for it, or am I simply not allowing it?

This weekend for example, I had most of the weekend to myself. My daughter had taken my youngest with her, so I was left to myself. This is something I used to cherish. Time alone. Well, it's something we used to cherish. Time alone, together. Now it seems that time alone is time to remember just how alone I am. It just serves to sadden me further.

And it's not like I am doing nothing about it. I am making a concerted effort to get out there now and then. I'm even going to the occasional restaurant, or club, by myself, in hopes of meeting someone. I'm not exactly sure what I will do if and when I do meet someone, but I know that I can't stay at home alone forever. I'm feeling like I need to meet someone new, who can rekindle those dormant feelings of excitement and passion. I don't necessarily mean sex, although it's not like I would turn that down at this point. What I really want, and need, is a reason to feel passionate about life again.

Last week my son and I were out having dinner. A song came on, and then I was taken away. I was taken to that dark and lonely place. When I was able to refocus I could see that my son recognized something in my face. I said sorry, and that I was having a Michael moment. He looked sad, and said "I know, I could tell." And I'm sorry to report that I'm sure I walk around most of my week with that same look.

Whose going to want to befriend me, or consider me for a date, with that look upon my face?

No big revelation here. Now grand ideas or plan. Just me, checking in about my current, and evolving, reality. I don't want to be stuck here. I don't want to be the sad guy forever. I want to know passion once again. I want to experience joy.

I'm going to keep at it. I hope you will too.

I'm Failing

I’m failing. No, not with mourning and recovery. That, my psychologist reassures me, I’m doing quite well with. In fact, he tells me that I’m doing extraordinarily well - best he's seen. (Read the next word in your best dripping sarcasm voice:) Yaaaay!

I’m failing at getting back into life. I’m just stuck and I don’t know how to get unstuck. Life isn’t really throwing me any easy lobs over the plate either. My latest biggest challenge is that I spend an unhealthy chunk of time alone and I’m not exactly sure how to fix that. My friends are all married with children (like I should be) so my running buddies are busy chasing kids. Gone are the days of single friends having BBQs or nights on the town. Now those same friends’ evenings are filled with sick kids, wife/husband date nights, or other family crises while my evenings are, well, less engaged. At least with my current set of friends, gone are my easy opportunities to jump back into life and be effortlessly carried away by all the camaraderie that is (or was) being young and single.

I’m failing to find my place in this world. I don’t belong downtown in the Mecca of the barfly; I’m not the right age or temperament or something. Likewise, I don’t belong in the divorce groups; I’m not divorced (and no, being widowed is NOT like your spouse leaving you and no, your divorce is NOT a tragedy.) I also don’t belong to the life-long singles, those who for some reason or another haven’t found true love; Maggie and I had true love in our hands, and it was ripped away from us both. So where do I belong?

I mentioned to a married-with-child friend of mine (and Maggie’s) the other day that I was going to learn to play volleyball. (My logic is charming in its simplicity: People play volley ball. I need to meet people. Therefore, I need to learn to play volleyball.) My friend, in her innocent ignorance, said “Go hang out with some friends at the local volley ball courts and meet new people.” Ah, said like that, it’s so simple.

People remember their single days as easy and filled with single friends (because everyone WAS single back then!) The idea of hanging out at a volley ball court with friends is easy to conceptualize because it was easy to materialize - just call six or seven of your (all single) friends and one or two, at least, would join in the fun. Game on! But what has changed out from under us that isn’t obvious is that all the single folks have been replaced by married folks and, at my age, most with children. Try calling six or seven of those same folks to suggest hanging out at a volley ball court one afternoon and see what responses you get now. But my friend, with her kind suggestion, just didn’t see how her simple plan was doomed or why I wasn’t already doing it. Then she labeled my disagreement a “negative attitude” and as me “not trying hard enough.” Crap.

I don’t have any answers. Likewise, I don’t have any interesting analogies to drive my point home this time around. I’m just frustrated.

But frustration leads to action. Action is movement and movement is good, even when it’s not in the right direction. I feel like I’m stuck out in a blizzard, with the snow waist-deep and the howling wind confusing my senses. My feet are numb and my face stings from the wind. It would be so easy to just sit down in the snow and give up. But I can’t. I will not. I don’t know the right way but I know what I won’t do and that’s quit. So I move on. I will keep my feet moving. Movement is good. (Damn, there goes my no-analogies moment!)

One day I’ll find my path. One day, in hindsight, I’ll be amazed at where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. My new single friends won’t believe the amazing stories I tell them about my travels. One day, I’ll see that what I thought was failing was just a redefinition of what it meant to be me.