Grief Vs Depression

I have been involved in an argument on facebook about "grief" this afternoon (very mature, I know - there were some classic lines that I should send Supa for "shit-people-say-to-widows").

But it actually turned out to be a misunderstanding where the other person had confused grief with depression.

To me, grief is something that I live with everyday.
It is simple: I miss Greg. I wish he was here. I feel sad about the loss of the life we should have had. It makes me feel fearful and anxious at times and at other times, it helps me to feel compassion and understanding.
Talking about it here (and on facebook and letting the demons out on my personal blog) has really helped me to learn to live with it.
It lives with me, it bites sometimes, but it no longer controls me: I hold down a job, I care for my children and I watch them develop into decent, caring human beings.

Depression is something very different. I have tasted it. I have spent evenings wallowing in it. I have tried constructing "exit plans" at two in the morning (which were destined to fail).
I have contemplated drinking myself into oblivion on more than one occasion (but haven't - somebody has to be the parent here).
I'm fairly sure most of us have felt depression's darkness at some point.

But I recovered from it.

I know I wont ever "recover" from grief.
...and I don't really want to.
Grief is as much a part of my life as joy is.

The darkness and the light sit side by side.




PS - Sorry if you were expecting a valentine's lament today, but we never really fell in for the hype, so it's not something I think about enough to construct a post on.

Blessing

From here

I'm sitting in my new apartment while I type this. Soon, I'll have to go get ready to leave. Today I have to drive back to the house and work on clearing what I want out of the place before I can have an estate sale. I don't want to leave my new place, and this surprises me. I've lived here a week and already it feels like home. It's amazing how adaptable we humans are.

That's not to say that I don't still feel a bit lost here. I think there's actually a bit of shock, too. I feel an "out of body" sensation quite often. As though I'm seeing myself from outside of myself and I just shake my head in surprise. Wasn't I married, living in the country and teaching only 9 months ago?

But I'm here now. This is my home for the at least the next 6 months. I'm meeting people and the cats are settling in nicely. And to be honest, wherever they are feels like home, anyway.  I'm sleeping through the night, something that has always been a gauge of my emotional state. It's easier to go to the grocery store because there's less danger of running into dangerous memory traps.

I don't think longingly of that house itself all the time, like I worried I might.

I'm mourning the loss of an entire life and a person I'll never be again in addition to the love of my life, and that's the hard work, but actually transitioning to living here wasn't as bad as I thought SO FAR. As we all know, in the grieving process, we can always expect the triggers to be coming for us.

I think the move itself and selling the house was a good thing. I think I needed to be in a space that was all mine. I needed to see what was possible outside of my safety zone. I think most of all, I needed to prove to myself that I could do this on my own.

Best of all, I like Portland. It's fitting that I moved to a place with the only city wilderness in the United States. There are 29 different hikes for me to try in Forest Park. If you live in Portland, come join me. I'm going to check each one off until I've hiked 'em all.

And the other day, I spotted two hummingbirds soaring up and over my apartment building. It felt like a blessing.

Remembrance Candle

            I know the holidays are way over, but I wanted to share a Christmas experience I had with my children, when we lit a candle in remembrance of Lisa.

            The monthly grief group my girls and I attend has a holiday service where the family lights a candle for the person we are remembering.  Our family was not able to make the event this year, but a one of the widows thought of us and took Lisa’s candle and dropped it off at our house. 

            On Christmas Eve, I always let the girls open a couple of gifts as a way to get Christmas started –  truth be told, I basically get the night off as they are busy playing with new toys.  It’s a win win for both the girls and me.  This year, I sit them in a circle with their gifts to my left.  I pull out the candle and let them know that tonight we will be starting the holidays by lighting this candle to symbolize mom.  The holiday music behind us sets the perfect tone as Bing Crosby croons "Silent Night".

            I pull out the matches as the girls sit on the floor looking at me.  I put match to box and strike.

            “Tonight, we will start Christmas remembering our Lisa,” I say and light the wick.  “As we light this candle, let it be a symbol….”

            “Oooh, can I blow out the match?” Haley asks.

            “No Haley. I’ll blow it out,” I say and try again.  “As we light this…”

            “How come she gets to blow it out?”  asks Kelly.

            “She’s not. No one is blowing it out, let’s focus…”

            “Me me me me me.” my three-year-old, Molly, joins in.

            I blow out the match to end the discussion. “Girls, please, this is about mom.”

            “I wanna say something about mom.” Kelly says.

            “Sure Kelly… I was… talking first though, trying to say some…”

            “Are we done? Is it time to open presents?” Molly asks.

            “Hey Dad, If I say something first, can I open up a gift first?” Haley asks.

            “No! That’s not fair! Dad said I was going to say something first.  Right Dad?”

            “Girls, everyone stop,” I pick up the candle.  “Can’t we just focus a little for the sake of mom?” I pause, holding the candle, waiting for them to self realize their insensitivity.

            “Dad, careful, you shouldn’t hold that candle so close to your face.” says Haley.

            “Hey can I at least blow out the candle.” says Kelly.

            “No, me me me.” says Molly.

            I watch them fighting and bickering, so I decide to try a different approach. 

“Who wants to open up presents?”

            A chorus of “I do” explode with hands shooting into the air, accompanied by three of the sweetest faces and a look of… well, of kids about to open presents at Christmas.

After the girls are playing with their new toys, I go into my bedroom and redo the candle ceremony – party for one.  About 20 minutes later, Kelly comes wandering into my room holding Tinkerbelle, flying her through the air.  She sees I have re-lit candle and there’s a new burnt match on the side.

“Shoot, you blew out another match, I wanted to try it.” Kelly says.

            “Here,” I say and reach over and light a match.  Her eyes widen and a big inhale is followed by an even bigger exhale as she blows enough air to knock out 50 matches.  She picks up Tinkerbelle and flies her out of the room.  I sit back and watch the candle when Haley and Molly come running in.

            “Kelly said she was able to blow out a match to remember mom.  Can we do it also?” Haley says.

            “It wasn’t to remember…yeah sure.”  I pick up the box and strike the match for Haley.

            “Love you Mom, miss you.” whwhwhwwhhhh

            Next match for Molly.

            “Misssss you.” pthpthpththh  “Another one, another one!”

            “No Molly, just one,” I say, as they both leave faster than when they came in.

            My remembrance candle ended up reminding me, not to try to have the kids grieve like I do.  It also reminds me, I need to go with the flow, as where I think I may be failing, it might just be that I am creating a different tradition that could end up being better than what I originally had in mind.

Do It

“Let your mind start a journey thru a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before. Let your soul take you where you long to be...Close your eyes let your spirit start to soar, and you'll live as you've never lived before.”-Erich Fromm

Tomorrow I share a part of my life known by few...and figured I'd follow it up by spending one of the holiday's Michael claimed to hate (but always truly loved and went all out on), the way he'd want me to...all out...in Paris.

I vowed after his death to do a "Once in A Lifetime Trip" once a year, but found that I had no time in 2011, so this year I'm making up for it by starting off 2012 in the city of love.

Life, living, his love, love in general, keep on bursting at the seams of my being and I truly have no complaints.

As I was telling someone tonight, I've gotten and continue to get all that I've wanted from life...just not all at once....and I'll take that any day.

This journey unwinds and the least I can do for it make the most of it, plus some...and so I shall...

Screw February

February is my landmine month and the only way I think I can make it through is chin down, teeth bared and feet moving. So far, it’s been a blur.

February 14^th is my 42^nd birthday. I cringe at the idea of celebrating without my sweet wife but time doesn’t stop, whether I want to recognize it or not. My 40^th was my first birthday after Maggie’s Angel Day and I couldn’t in my wildest dreams imagine a reason to celebrate that day without her so I didn’t. Since then, I’ve felt no love for my birthday. How could I? How can I celebrate another year in my life when she’s not with me? We were supposed to travel together to our old ages and celebrate our rocking-chair days. Yet now it’s just me. Celebrate? No. I’d much rather just forget.

February 28^th is our 8^th wedding anniversary. Damn. I’ve commiserated before about what to call that day. “Our anniversary”? No. She’s not with me any more. “My anniversary”? It’s hard to have a “My” wedding anniversary. Damn semantics.

February 29^th is MY wedding anniversary. This date is easier but the humor of it all feeds my sadness. See, we were married twice: once on the 28^th which was OUR wedding and then once again on the 29^th which was MY wedding. (MY wedding was in Las Vegas. She dressed up as Marylyn Monroe and I dressed up as James Dean. Elvis married us in the Little White Chapel with about 20 of our closest friends attending while dressed as their favorite movie stars.) Our simple plan was that HER wedding anniversary was more important and was to be celebrated every year. MY wedding anniversary, however, came just once every four years and was to be a par-tay! Unfortunately, we didn’t plan for this particular outcome.

Making this month more difficult is that a very good friend of mine’s brother is dying as I type this. His brother has been ill for some time. My friend is keeping a bedside vigil. I know all too well what that looks like and how that feels. My friend has told me many times during this time that he better understands how my life has been. His experiences have brought back many painful memories.

Making this month even worse (and some of you will laugh when I say this but stay with me), a friend of mine’s cat died last night. Yes, we widow/ers have all had that pale comparison made. But my very intuitive friend nailed it this time. For months he had been nursing his poor, ill-health kitty with various caretaking, around-the-clock tasks. Then, suddenly, he was relieved of his position of caretaker. Many of us know all too well that sudden cessation of duties. He was in shock. And all he could do was think of how it was for me back in early May of 2009. More memories for me.

But here’s the real kicker. Yesterday, an old friend of mine sent me a whole bunch of digital memories all wrapped up in a zip file. There were thirty or more pictures and about twelve videos of Maggie and me together. When were these little time capsules from? February 28, 2004 – our wedding day.

Maggie and I both agreed not to videotape the wedding. Jokingly, we said we didn’t want any chance for either of us to play out those sad scenes you see in movies where there’s a dark room and a wedding video playing where it becomes clear that a spouse had died. We only had pictures from that day, pictures I haven’t looked at in years. Now there’s video. As for as I know, these are the only videos in existence of her. It’s like the only proof she was even alive. I feel like I’m sitting in a dark room with a lit match and a stick of emotional dynamite that I haven’t lit yet.

I really try to leave each post I write with a positive message. I’m truly reaching this time for anything more than a message of determination. By taking many steps, a journey will take place. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. You will be surprised at where you’ll end up. (Right foot… left foot… right foot… stumble… right foot again… left foot….)

Part of my journey is writing these words to you. I’ll never know how they affect you. I hope they help in some way, if in no other way, knowing you aren’t alone; I truly want to help. But part of why I write is to know I’m not alone. Surely, I can’t be the only one who lived a dream… and lost.

“Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened.” ~ Dr Suess.

Crocodiles and other absurdities

Photo from here....

I live in our little house physically alone aside from my two young children and our pets. All the belongings in this home are ours and paint a vivid and accurate picture of who is housed within these walls. But if you were to dig deep enough within cupboards and closets, you would items and articles that seemed at odds with these inhabitants and their actions. It would almost seem as if someone was hiding another person's things. Things that don't match. Things that come from another time or place. Random odd articles. Misplaced and mismatched items.

Buried deep in my deep freeze is a package of crocodile....er, maybe alligator meat. I never plan to eat it and never set out to eat it from the moment it entered said freezer.

It was Jeff's. He had bought it to feed our daughter. He was determined to have his children not be picky eaters. I remember he and three-year-old Liv sharing a chair in the kitchen together eating from a jar of pickled herring or dining on a dinner of rattlesnake meat.

As with most things, he didn't face the issues of childhood sustenance halfway. Instead of insisting that our daughter dine on asparagus or cauliflower, he would thrust something at her that was barely food in my eyes. But she trusted him and she ate it.

So many of these odd and mismatched things that line the backs of closets, shoes boxes and freezers mark who Jeff was and what he stood for. His beliefs. His idiosyncrasies.

I have thought about giving the freezer-burnt crocodile/alligator meat to the dog. But I have refrained. It is a reminder of a man who was funny, loving and passionate about his little family. As all the remaining small and possibly seemingly insignificant items he left behind, they hint at who he was and how strongly he loved his little ones.

Although I have donated many of his clothes or shared some of his more memorable belongings with his family; it is these small items wedged in the corners that speak of him most and remind me while I dig for dinner at the bottom of the freezer of who he was and how much he is missed.

Of All The Feelings in The World ....

                                           picture from here

.... I hate that one the most.
Or at least it's in the top 3.
Pity might be number 1.

It's an exhausting emotion and it leads people to make very bad, very poor choices while they are in it.  And you mostly feel worse afterwards.

Rage has been a regular visitor at my house over the last 2 weeks.
I will not bore you with all of the horrid "teenage vs. parent" details.  Let me just say that when you add in "grieving teenage boys vs. parenT (singular)" ..... it can be more horrid that you can imagine.
I will tell you that at this moment in time, neither of my sons is living in my home.
Both have made bad choices and are now facing the consequences of those choices.  One son doesn't think his was a bad choice, and it may turn out that it wasn't so very bad....if he can turn things around and make something good come of it.
I know he can if he wants to.  And this is his chance.

At first he cried and begged for me to change my stance (he knew what my stance would be long ago).
Then, he raged at me.
All normal.
All expected.
As a mom .... the rage was a lot easier to hear than the crying, so I was relieved when he moved on to that emotion.
Now he is understanding .... and determined to prove to himself, and his mom (and everyone else) that he can do this.
I have no doubt that he will.

The other son made a choice yesterday that is beyond bad.
I don't even have a word to describe the severity of this choice.
But .... he made it.
While in a rage.
Fortunately for him, he made this choice with me, and not with anyone else.
Or the outcome would be very, very different.
And very, very far-reaching.

And, in a rage upon a rage, he left.
Thinking that he was choosing to not live here.
I know where he is.  I know he is being looked after by a wonderful friend who has shared these kinds of troubles with her own sons.
Just so you know ...... Everybody has "something".  They may try to hide it (most people do), they may even lie about it or try to convince themselves it's not there ..... but they can't fool everybody forever.  And they can't feel "normal" until they share it with someone .... bring it out in the open.
There is no perfect person .... and certainly no perfect family.
"Everybody.
Has.
Something."

So I know where my son is.
I know that he is safe.
And I know that he now knows ..... that staying in our home is no longer his choice.
He knows that I love him, but that he cannot live here with the way things are.  He has to deal with the choice that he made.  A choice that could have ended his future ..... if he made it with someone else.
I'm sure that he is still raging.
But I'm also pretty sure that the rage is starting to ebb ..... a bit.

That's the thing about rage .... it takes way too much energy to keep sustained.
I know.
Because last week, instead of writing a post for Widow's Voice, I was raging.

My life has been anything but calm since Jim died.
It has been (and really, you can ask those who've been along for the 4 year ride .... I'm not exaggerating) one thing after another.  RIGHT after another.  Health issues for the kids (life or death issues and life-long testing for all of them), health issues for me,  cancer, surgery, long and painful recovery,  depression and suicide issues, more health issues, school issues, behavior issues, military school, rage, drugs, more health issues, a hurricane, another hurricane, trees falling on houses ...... I'd keep going, but by now it's sounding ridiculous.
Suffice it to say that not one single week goes by without an "issue".
Not one.
In four years.

And last week, was the last straw with my older son.
Or so I thought.  (It turns out I seem to have plenty of straws.)
And so I raged.
I raged at God.
Hard.
He and I are still working on it, but I'm over the rage.  Way too weary to keep that up for long.

But before I lost my rage momentum, I turned it onto Jim.
Really ..... for the first time.
I have sometimes joked that I'm ticked at him for leaving me to deal with ...... our life.
And I've sometimes been sad when I've thought about it.
And maybe once or twice .... really ticked.

But last week .... last week I raged.  I think I may have even looked upwards (because I know where he is) and shouted "F--- YOU FOR DYING AND LEAVING ME WITH ALL OF THIS!! F---- YOU FOR TAKING THE EASY WAY OUT"!!!  Vern walked into my house at just that time, and as he held me in his arms and let me sob and sob and rage, I said, "I HATE Jim for dying!  I HATE him!"
He said nothing, as any wise man would ..... and continued to hold and rock me and let me sob and rage until I no longer had the ability.

Now hopefully you all know that I don't really hate my late husband (late .... a rather ironic word because he was late to most everything.  Sorry .... just an aside.  :)
You all know that I didn't mean those ugliest of ugly words.
Because some of you have had these same thoughts.
Some of you haven't.
Maybe you never will.
It took 4 years for me.
Well, 4 years, 1 month and 20 days.

I have no idea if I'll ever think them again, but I wonder.
Last week I was raging because a son had broken what I thought was my last straw.
This week ..... another son broke a fistful of straws.
But I am not raging.
It really does take too much energy.
And besides, if I'm going to start raging every time something shitty happens in our lives .... I'll have a stroke before I'm 55!  I don't believe one can rage, truly rage, once a week and survive for very long.  Some blood vessel somewhere is going to burst.  And unless it's a painless, one second "she never knew what hit her" death .... I'd rather that not happen.

So there you go .... a very quick run-through of some of the lowlights of my life these past 4 years, and my thoughts on rage.
I'm not sure what the point of this post is.  Except to admit to you that I raged at my saintly, perfect (cough, cough) dead husband.
For the first time.

And that we ALL  have crappy things in our lives.  I mean, crappy beyond the dead spouse, which is about as crappy as it can get ..... until it gets piled upon.

And that even people with very much alive spouses .... have crap.  Whether they show it or not ....
Everybody has something.
Which makes us all as normal as normal can really be.
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On a P.S. side note, I'm writing to you now as an SSLF Board member.  Camp Widow East is right around the corner and we need some help.  Even from those of you who won't be going.  I know I've asked for this before and thank you SO much to those of you who responded, but we still need more information about grief support resources in the east (the eastern 1/3 of the US).  We're creating a data base of as many support groups, counselors, hospices, etc. and we need your help.  If you could please send me a list of all of the confirmed places a widowed person could go for grief support that are in your area .... and the surrounding areas, we would be very grateful.  We just need the name of the group, hospice, hospital, funeral home, etc. and it's contact information and the name of the person who's in charge.  Just collect all the info you can and send it to me in an email (janinee@sslf.org).  All it takes is a little time on the phone.  Not too much energy and you'd be helping so very many people .... some who are in desperate need of grief support.  Please help us.  Please.
I need to collect all of this by February 17th.  Don't make me beg.
Or bribe.
But if I have to .... I'll give everyone who sends me this info (more than one place, please) and comes to Camp Widow East ..... a dollar!
You got that right! ONE HUNDRED cents!!!  And a picture of George Washington!!  How often are you going to get a deal like that .... just for some time on the phone?!
Thank you again to those of you who've sent info ..... you can always send more names from other areas, even if you've already sent in one ..... or fifty.  More is good.  :)
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OK, I'm now returning to my regularly scheduled blogging personality.
Let me know if you've raged.
And how it felt.
And for those of you who parent children under the age of 13 ..... bless you.
Hug them tight.
And then buckle your seat belt .......
:)