Scared of the Anger

It's been a year, nine months, one week and two days since my husband took his life and I'm only now just starting to feeling angry. Even typing that, makes me ill.  I'm  very much NOT ok with feeling angry.  

When he first died, I had a fleeting moment of thinking 'how could he have made this decision for us, without consulting me!?' and then within a split second it was gone - replaced with 'well he was sick.  This wasn't my husband, this was his disease.  It robbed him of his logic, his understanding of consequences and his ability to make rational decisions. It also robbed him of his ability to ask for help. In that moment, he believed there was no other way.'  

Any hint of anger was replaced with sadness for how scared and lost he must have felt. That just broke my heart and overshadowed everything else.  I didn't want to yell at him, I wanted to hold him, comfort him, sooth him. 

I'm not a 'yelling' kind of person, never have been.  As a child, I was much more included to sulk rather than throw tantrums.  As an adult, I'm logical and sensitive, I want to find solutions and compromise rather than get lost in rage or lash out.  

My husband and I weren't fighters.  We didn't always agree, but we always communicated from a place of kindness - reluctant to hurt each other and always wanting to work towards a mutually-agreeable solution.  We never used harsh words or said things out of spite, which is why I'm totally freaking out at the harsh words that have been coming to mind now, when I think about his death. 

I have been putting off writing about this.  I can barely speak about it to my closest friends.  The words choke as they come out, I'm petrified of acknowledging this emotion. 

I don't want anyone to get confused and think that I'm blaming my husband for his death.  I've been a fierce and vocal campaigner of showing support to those suffering mental illness, and working to remove the stigma and blame around suicide.  I'm worried that by expressing anger in a public way, it may be misinterpreted. It is a very private, very intimate and very personal emotion and it's scary to be vulnerable.  It's also a temporary emotion, but something that I need to acknowledge and work through, in order to prevent it from settling in my stomach and making me unwell. 

I described it to my grief counsellor this week as though there is a child inside me wanting to throw the mother of all tantrums.  She wants to rage and scream and kick and break things.  She is so hurt and angry, she feels deceived and betrayed.  But, there's also the rational, loving adult who keeps silencing the child with soothing words such as 'but it wasn't him, he adored you - he would never consciously hurt you'.  As soon as the child starts to find her voice it is quickly shut down. But my rationality just needs to shut up for a moment so the anger can be heard and released before it suffocates me. 

I'm scared that my anger might hurt people, like those who love Dan and may not be ready for this emotion (which was me, up until now). 

I'm scared that I may be encouraging others to feel angry at him. The thought of that pains me greatly, which is very confusing and complicated.  Even in my own anger, I want to protect him from any wrath. 

And I'm scared that by acknowledging this in any way, including writing about it here, people will try to stifle or dissolve my anger by rationalising the situation.  Making it even harder for me to process it as a valid and important part of the grief journey. 

I know that while, right now, I may be very mad about his death, I still love my husband.  The anger doesn't change that.  I will continue to love him long after I've released this pain and I know that, where ever he may be, he will understand why I feel like this and forgive me.  He is probably actually wondering why it's taken me thing long in the first place.  

And again I'm reminded about the personal growth that grief leads us to.  I have learnt so much about myself since his death.  I've been faced with thoughts, emotions and ideas that I probably would never have had to consider if he were still here.  Learning to be comfortable with my anger is just the latest on this long list.  I know I will get through this one too, because my track record so far is pretty impressive. 

Empty fury

I'm sure we've all been told that 'anger' is one of the phases of grief (coincidently, Stephanie wrote about these on Thursday). I say 'phases' instead of 'stages' because, in my experience, it’s not a linear process where you graduate from one emotion to the next.  Instead, it’s been a messy, complicated jumble that throws us back and forward, turning us inside and out.

Thankfully, I haven't felt a lot of anger, maybe four or five bursts in the past 10 months. But when it hits, boy oh boy, it's like a tornado has blown in hard and fast.  I’m having one of the anger storms tonight, so thought I’d vent here.

I've never been able to direct the anger at Dan. I wish I could because I imagine it might feel satisfying to blame him for this mess I'm in. But in my heart I know it's not his fault. He didn't take his life to hurt me, he wasn't in the frame of mind to understand he was ending my life too - my life the way I knew it anyway. His final note tells me that he thought he was saving me.  I want to be angry that he got it so wrong but I honestly believe he died from a disease that he just couldn't control.

If anything, when I try to direct the anger at him I end up feeling even more heart-broken because rather than point an accusing finger, I want to protect him. I want to bundle him up in my arms, kiss his sweet, gentle face and sooth him. I want to tell him it's going to be ok, he doesn't need to be scared, we'll work it out together. 

So no, I can't be angry with him. But I'm still furious and looking for somewhere to direct it.

I want to pour blame on Dan's doctor, who I can't help but feel let us down. Or the people he crossed paths with the morning he died  He was distraught, with tears pouring down his face, yet no one stopped him. I want to shake them and say 'why didn’t you ask if he was ok? Why did you fail us!' But I know it's not their fault either. If I didn't see it, and I was the closest person too him, how can I blame others?  I know they suffered from this too.

I want to hurl my anger at those close to me - my family and friends. Those who have done everything possible to help me but needed to make their own lives a priority for a rare moment, triggering my abandonment issues and making me want to shove everyone away. But I know they love me and are hurting to see me like this.  I know it’s not fair to lash out at them.

I want to pound my fists against the idiot at work, or the asshole who gave me attitude at the grocery store. I want to roar like a savage beast at everyone who still has their spouse to come home to at night, to console them after a tough day, cook them a meal or help with the shitty chores that no one wants to do on their own. But I know that wouldn’t be fair either.

I want to run, to burn the fury through physical exertion, but I don't seem to have the energy to pull my shoes on. I want to throw crockery plates at a brick wall. Hear them crash and watch them shatter. But I like my plates and the mess would bother me.

I want to destroy everything good around me, so my surroundings resemble my insides - barren and lonely and dark.

But I just don't have the heart. So I lie here defeated and cry. That primal howling cry that comes from deep within while my body writhes with pain. I scream in to my pillow, 'why!?' and 'please come back!' and 'no, this isn't fair - it's too much! I can't do it' until I fall asleep from exhaustion.

Then, in the morning, head pounding and puffy-eyed I'll get up, take a deep breath and go and do it all again.  One day at a time, one step at a time. Until the anger rolls in again.

Wide Open

Balch Creek, Forest Park

It has been 11 months today (I'm typing this on the 4th of May) since he left this earth. This morning was taken up by volunteering for the Audubon Society and I couldn't spend a lot of brain power on the significance of the date while I was looking for and identifying birds. And besides, every day is another day without him. Whether the calendar says "3" or "4" or "24", he's still dead, and my heart is still broken.

But later, as I walked in the woods, a place so sacred for us and so important in our relationship, the significance became more apparent. I experienced many so many stereotypical grief emotions in that one hour walk.

Denial: As I started out, it felt like any other hike and I could almost pretend that all I was doing was taking a walk in the woods, as normal as can be. Muddy shoes slapping on slippery trail. Rain dripping from leaves onto coat, onto dirt. Breath in, out, feet finding a rhythm. This is a normal day. Everyone carries on with their lives. I carry on. I hike in the woods. I walk upright. It couldn't possibly be that he is dead. Dead. Dead and Dave. No way those two words go together. No way in hell. No way that I'm still standing if he didn't live.

Anger: The woods were post-rains and the creek was swollen and raging through the valley below me. The new spring growth was chartreuse and actually glowed in the dim light that made it through the canopy. The green was something you could absorb through your pores. It was so vivid it almost buzzed. You should be here to see another spring like this!, I screamed silently. Can you see this? Can you see what you're missing? How could you be taken from me? How could life be that cruel? You will never get to see another spring like this with me and I hate that. I hate this.

Depression: As I hiked back from the halfway point, past some people I tried to hide my grief-ravaged face from, the rain began to pick up and I pulled my hood over my head. The drops battered the fabric, raising a roar inside the hood, filling my ears, and rice-sized hail began to ping off my head and bounce on the ground. My mind turned to a familiar groove. The "I don't want to be alone forever" groove. I thought for the millionth time that I want love again, but I'm so scared to risk feeling this way again. Maybe it's just not worth it, I thought. Maybe it's better to just be alone. Thankfully, this thought was quickly discarded. The thought of a life without my time with Dave because I'd decided love wasn't worth the risk is something I don't want to ponder. Miss out on love to save myself pain? I can't do that. I just can't. But the time I will spend without that kind of love feels eternal to me right now. To be loved so completely by someone for 15 years and then...nothing? To say that it's a shock to my system is a laughable understatement.

Acceptance: As I hiked along the banks of the creek, I imagined what he would be doing if he'd been by my side. He'd have been carefully inspecting the waters with a fisherman's eye. He'd comment on how muddy the water was and point out a pool or two where fish might find refuge from the current. But he's not here, I thought. We'll never have those talks again. We'll never be walking down the path together oohing over a chipmunk or hummingbird or marmot. He is gone and never coming back. This concept is one that I don't wear with ease. It's a new pair of shoes that I can put on and tolerate for a very short time, but all I can think of is kicking them off to end the discomfort.
My mind still bounces right off of this one, but it comes back to it more often these days, gradually getting more and more familiar over time.

As I left the trail for the pot-hole ridden parking lot, and climbed into my waiting car, I felt heavy with grief, but free of hopelessness. Sad but not bottomless-pit-sad. I realized that my heart is broken, but it's also been cracked wide open. While this makes me endlessly more vulnerable to pain, it also makes me more open to new things, too. New possibilities for ways to carve out this second life of mine. New empathy for others, new appreciation for the small things in life. New depth of spirit and softness of heart.

Maybe a broken heart can mean more room. I hope so.

a better widow than me

Photo from here...

Last night, I finally threw Jeff's toothbrush in the trash. 3 years, 7 months and 22 days, since he used it to scrub his teeth clean.

This action was precipitated a few days ago when I had spoken to a dear friend who is known for being outspoken and blunt. She doesn't mean harm at all but is very Northern European in the delivery of her very strong beliefs and feelings.

During our visit, she told me that I had to "get over" Jeff. She said it was time to stop grieving and that I needed to get rid of the active reminders of, not only his death, but his life as well. Photos, personal effects, etc. All these should be removed.

She told me that I was teaching the kids to grow up grieving. That they would never "get over it" if I didn't move on. My lovely friend told me that she had lost grandparents who she had been close to and favourite friends and that she had had to move on.

Although I told her that I didn't agree that I was stuck in my grieving process and defended my beliefs and action; the confidence that I have grown in the last three years in my abilities, my intuition and strength took a bit of a bruising.

For the last few days, I have intensely analyzed all my post-Jeff actions. I have wondered if they are "normal" and "appropriate". I have scrutinized my grief and that of my children.

I find it interesting that to someone outside our home, it looks as if I am still struggling horribly in my grief. But inside our home, Jeff's life is celebrated and because of this, ours is so much richer. We have lost so much but manage to laugh and share a closeness that many other families do not. Death is not a taboo subject in our home. Neither is joy, anger, frustration or love. All types of emotions are wrapped into the learning experience we have all had due to Jeff's death...and we don't hide them. Just as we have these thoughts/feelings due to Jeff's death, we have a truly rich life that has nothing to do with our loss. Three lives that are celebrated everyday for the mere fact that we still live and will do so, richly and happily, until each of our time comes.

Ultimately, I have come to the conclusion that grief, specifically the loss of a spouse, is something that you have to live through to truly "get". I feel that just as everyone is the best parent they will ever be and know exactly how to parent BEFORE they ever even have their own children, everyone is the best widow/er before they have lost a spouse to death. I, too, have lost my beloved grandfather, very close friends, even an ex-boyfriend, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING, could have prepared me for this.

So this morning, I fished that old toothbrush out of the garbage bin.....and put it in my sock drawer. No one has to see it any more, but it is still there, marking his place. Marking his existence until I am ready to remove it from our home.

medication of mourning

Photo from here...

Written 13 months after Jeff died....

When someone asks me casually, "How are you?" I often feel that I am being honest when I say "fine", "okay" or even "good". The truth is that many times, I don't give it much thought, not even out of negligence, but out of a need to cope. I am doing SO much better than I was a year ago. Somedays, I think I'm a bloody master of grief. But I am always, always too cocky for my own good.

The waves of grief and shock still smack me upside the head unexpectedly. I am always surprised when I am forced to my knees by sadness again. I am always missing him. I am always aware that he is gone. That I will never feel his love again. That I have lost him forever. It's always there in the background, running like the far-off sound of the fridge in the kitchen. But now, I am getting somewhat better at muffling it. So when that 'appliance noise' gets loud again and drowns out everything else, I've always put my ear plugs away and am left reeling with surprise when the caucophenous noise erupts within my patchwork heart.
Why am I surprised that it is hitting me again?
I have told others how I think that these waves are our way of coping with grief. We can't take it in full-force. We need small sips or the strength of it will destroy us. Like a horrible tasting medication that you loathe, it is necessary to heal. But, I always wonder if I've taken my last dose. That I am 'better'. That maybe I can be whole now. I'll have to keep reminding myself that this medication needs to be administered again and again until I no longer need it...So I must need it now. I must relish that this pain and sadness is in someway healing this broken heart. I can't turn my head away. I have to take it or I will become even more ill.
I have a sneaky suspicion that this medication is now a lifetime prescription, but at least it doesn't need to be administered as often as it was initially. Right?

My Struggle with Acceptance

Since Phil's death, grief has caused a long struggle between the desire to overcome and the need to accept the realities that widowhood has brought into my life. The concept of acceptance when applied to Phil's death has always felt like giving up to me. So, I stubbornly planned around any roadblock that would slow what I thought was forward progress, though I had no clear destination. I think I believed that if I kept moving I could outrun the need to accept the fact that the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with was not coming home.

One woman I met just a few months after Phil died shared this idea with me, and I have never forgotten her words. When she was surrounded by the pain of either loss or loneliness after the death of her husband, she would challenge herself to "rest in the riddle." This was a foreign concept to my stubborn, planning, determined mind. I remember wondering HOW exactly she did that. Can you force yourself to rest in the riddle? Since resting would mean being still, would acceptance sneak up on me unbidden? What I can see now, that was not so clear then, is that I was terrified of being frozen in grief. IF I stopped what would happen to me. Would the darkness swallow me up? Would accepting Phil's death mean he was forgotten? What would I have to let go of in order to meet the acceptance criteria?

I have struggled with this answer for five years, and it has taken me every bit of that time to find a path towards acceptance that didn't feel like giving up, or somehow failing Phil. Eventually I embraced the concept that my life is a tapestry. By making my every relationship, word, effort, endeavor, friendship, challenge, and tragedy a part of my life work...nothing is ever left behind. Accepting Phil into my life tapestry, and weaving a pattern with his love so beautiful that it becomes a piece of the whole that is noticeably more vibrant than many others gave acceptance a purpose. His love shines through my weaving, but only if I can allow him to become part of me instead of an idea outside of myself. That thought turned out to be a form of acceptance I can live with...and a worthy place for the kind of love Phil and I shared.

As the New Year dawns we will each be faced with choices about what to add to our own piece of life art. Your loss will color the final product, but so will your love. The lost moments we so long for are often the smallest gestures, the quietest moments, the most unimportant seeming details...you are still creating those every day, and are slowly stitching them into your own personal tapestry. Stitch with flourish.

Wishing you all peace, hope, and love in the New Year.