The Away Letters: Finding a Way

When he left for the trip he never returned from, we began writing letters to each other. Despite the fact that we also talked on the phone every night, we wanted to have the letters as a reminder of these times. Neither of us ever knew that he'd not make it back from that first flying contract. Neither of us knew we would only exchange three away letters between us before the accident happened. But I’ve been writing to him still, for the past two years, all along. Most of the time in my journal. But every now and again, I share them...

"Today was one of those days I really wished you were here for all number of reasons. Around noon, I realized suddenly that I had completely forgotten about the deadline for an art show I was entering. I rushed to get my three photos matted and framed, shoved them in the back seat of your truck, and took off to New Braunfels. I got them there in time. I did. In fact with an hour to spare. But I was so beside myself by the fact that I had been planning to get this done today for days in advance and then somehow, as I woke up in the morning it was completely wiped from my memory. It reminded me of how my mind still doesn’t work as well as it used to when you were alive and around. It’s so frustrating. I never know when or what I will forget. And it reminded me how – if you were here – you would have remembered for me just in case. You always held me accountable like that, and always cared enough to make note of the important things in my life. I really miss that, you know. I do.

The other big thing about today was that it was the last day to hear back from the Badlands National Park about the artist residency I applied for. And I heard no word back. I was so very hopeful and have waited almost two months now to hear about this opportunity. It’s been such a long time to wait in anticipation. I know you would understand, because you know it’s been a dream of mine for many years to work in one of the parks. I hate that you aren’t here today – for either side of the outcome. I hate that you aren’t here to congratulate me had it happened… and I really hate that you aren’t here to make me feel better about not getting accepted. I know you, and you’d have taken me out for a nice dinner either way – rejected or accepted – to celebrate me. To make me feel special, and to remind me to just keep trying and never give up.

No one else in my life even realizes what a hard day it has been to not hear back about this opportunity. Most of them don’t even know today was an important date for me to begin with… because they aren’t part of the “us” that was you and I. I don’t hold that against anyone, it isn’t their job to remember all these things. It was our job to remember them about each other. It’s just really hard not having you here sometimes to pick me up the way you always did so well. I keep trying, and I keep pushing and I keep living. But it's really hard not being part of a team anymore like we were.

On my drive home, I tried to think of what I could do since you aren’t here. How I could make myself feel special tonight. I didn’t very well want to go out to a fancy dinner alone! So instead, I bought myself flowers at the store, and some sushi, and okay… I admit it, my own personal and delicious piece of cookie cake. Because who can be upset when you are stuffing your face with cookie cake right? And even if I do sit and cry all over it… well, at least I am freaking eating cookie cake! I can feel you smiling already. Patting me on the back a bit, for finding some way through it "like you always do" you'd say. I tell ya, it’s sure not easy without you. But somehow, I find a way. "

Running on empty

Do you know that saying 'running on the smell of an oily rag'? Maybe it's an Australian thing, but it's the best description I can think of to explain how I'm feeling today.  I'm exhausted and my tank is low. My 'refuel' light is flashing and I need to pull up and refuel.

So, I'm trying to lay low this weekend and as much as I want to pour my heart out here and write about this past week, the first anniversary of Dan's funeral and what it's been like to creep into my second year, I just don't have the energy to scrape it together. I'm sorry, I take my commitment to Widow's Voice very seriously and I promise I'll be back next week, pushing the limits of my word count.

In the mean time I thought I'd share an extract from my personal blog that still applies to how I feel today. Thank you for checking in and remember - it's ok to put your own needs first sometimes, in fact, it's essential. I know you guys get it. 

"Most days I don't really think about HOW my husband died anymore. The shock of his suicide has eased and now my pain is mainly focused around the loss of him, how much I miss him and my sadness for the life we should be living.

There are still days, however, where it creeps in to my mind or I find myself needed to share my story and as I get to 'that' bit... the uneasiness in my stomach grows again.

This morning I saw a health professional and as we discussed the stress I've been under due to my personal circumstances, it became relevant to explain the trauma around his death.

After all this time, I still stumble with the details and struggle to deliver it gracefully. 

It seems so inadequate to just say 'he took his own life'. 

He deserves more than this, he was so much more than 'just' a victim of suicide and I feel compelled to try and explain his actions. 

The most adequate explanation (short of spending a good 20 minutes going through what a brilliant, good-hearted, thoughtful, caring man he was) seems to be along the lines of: 'he had depression, we had no idea how badly... His symptoms were predominantly memory loss and inability to focus, so he became convinced he was developing dementia and, during a suspected psychotic episode, took his life to save us from having to care for him.'

But the truth is, this is merely the picture I ended up with from the prices of the puzzle that I could pull together. Pieces like: the beautiful, heart-felt note he left me; conversations we had about how scared he was by his symptoms, as well as those he had with his doctor; the assumption by police that his death was not planned or pre-meditated, but carried out in a state of detachment; and the undeniable fact that he adored me, and would never have wanted to willingly cause me this pain.

However I will never truly know what happened in his head that day. There will always be questions that creep in when I let my guard down. I will never fully understand the 'why's, no matter how much I try to help others understand and accept.

Maybe the best I can hope for is to find peace in knowing I will never know, and one day I won't need to ask the questions anymore."

Boomerang

I feel honored to be a part of this special writer's club that gets to speak and type my voice on this blog.
I really do.
I am one of seven voices, and that feels really nice, that people would even be interested in hearing or reading what I have to say.

But sometimes,
Sometimes I feel as if I am typing into a great big void of nothingness.
Sometimes I put my heart and soul into this blog, and then I notice that nobody has commented.
Or maybe three days go by and only one or two comments, after I painstakingly spent hours trying to formulate how to use my words, and what to say in just the way it needs to be said.
In my mind, which is constantly in panic mode and on fast-forward, this lack of comments means that nobody cares at all what I write or say. It means that I am talking to a wall, which I do a lot of anyway. I just don't type it out. It means that I start doubting myself and questioning myself and my validity. Who the hell do I think I am anyway? Why am I writing about this stuff - as if Im some authority on grief emotions or being a widow? Why would anybody stop to read my silly words? 

It's a dangerous cycle, and it all starts and ends inside my own brain.
I am a writer.
I am a comedian.
Us creative types, we tend to get our feelings hurt very easily. We tend to assume things. We tend to care way too much about what other people think of us. We tend to have a tough exterior, but often feel like we are cracking open on the inside. All of these traits are brought forth and multiplied by ten thousand, when you lose your life partner to death. No longer do I have that person who loved every single thing I wrote, acted in, or performed onstage. No longer do I have my biggest fan, waiting for me with flowers and a card and lots of long warm hugs. No longer do I have that person who would sit and ead every article, blog post, or review I ever wrote - and then quote me back to me, reciting out loud to me all his favorite parts of what I had just written. No longer do I have my boomerang. Now? I put something out there, I'm taking the very big chance that nothing comes back.

It hurts.
Hurts my ego. Hurts my soul. Makes me doubt.
But that is all on me. These are my own issues. I realize this.
I'm working on it. I really am.
I'm working on being really, totally, really, actually okay with just knowing that what I wrote was good and truthful, and if nobody responds, that is okay.
I'm working on it.
But I don't feel it  yet.
Not yet.
I still miss my boomerang.

Swimming

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming...

                -Dory, Finding Nemo

Mike was an enormous presence - truly larger-than-life. He had a childlike spirit; a wondrous, awe-filled approach to life, loved having fun and pushing the limits. A geek his entire life, he obsessed about things like Star Wars, Robin Hood, Doc Savage, Lord of the Rings, comic book characters, and so forth. Like a little kid he still got a kick out of wearing all kinds of silly hats and costumes. So our house became filled with his stuff as if he were eternally 14 years old. Martial arts paraphernalia. Musical instruments. Posters. Action figures. Books. Statues. Hats. Gadgets. Feathers. Arrows. Pictures. Stuff. Things. Trinkets. Everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere. 

The few pieces I had became lost in all his bits. But I didn't care. Mike World was a pretty nice place to live, most days.

Until he died.

For the better part of the first year, a lot of his stuff remained in situ. But the heaviness I felt to be left alone surrounded by all the toys he'd never play with again was intense. I felt like I was drowning. It dawned on me that you really can't take it with you - nor is anyone only defined by things. Sentimentality and nostalgia is comforting to a point, but for me personally, I had to draw a line, or I would have simply become an artifact myself; paralyzed, unable to see a way through to any sort of future without him.

About nine months after he left us I had a massive breakdown in his room, which had become a cluttered but powerful shrine to this unique person. The next day I sat in there for a long time, just being with all the familiar things that had surrounded me for so many years. I realized I was ready to start making changes. I talked to my therapist who supported me in this call. I knew many people live for years with their spouse's things, and I understand why - again it's maybe just one of those things that can't be defined as right or wrong in grief. Everyone has to do what feels right for them. So I called his two girls, my stepdaughters, and after much heartfelt discussion we agreed to go through his things together a couple of weeks later so I could begin the task of clearing out that space, both physically, and emotionally.

Even though I have kept a few chosen things, I was left with a shockingly barren living space. Even my walls were mostly empty. Still, his presence remains strong - and maybe that's as it should be. I'm ok with that, most days. But I know I need to make it my own, as long as I stay in this house; to find myself again, in my surroundings, and in my own life. To rediscover what Stephanie World is. I have to face the terrible fact that I could have many more years on this earth without him. I have to find a way to retain the memories, but still come up for air.

My dear friend and fellow widow Margaret came to stay with me for a few days on the anniversary of his death in February. We spent some time walking around Kona's little shops and found ourselves in a store that sells beautiful photographs of the islands. It occurred to me I could find something that resonated with me personally - maybe I could find something meaningful to fill my empty walls that wouldn't only remind me of Mike and his world. Maybe I was ready for that.

As I looked through the photos, almost every single one reminded me of Mike. Oh, he would have loved that. Oh, didn't he just love this, and that, and just about everything Hawaii. I moved sort of agonizingly to the next stack. I came across a photo of a shark. Aack. Margaret saw me and said, you know, sharks will die if they don't keep swimming. They are like manta rays that way, which are her special totem animal. (On the one year mark for me, we went swimming together with the mantas here - a surreal and beautiful experience - much better than the surreal and horrific day one year earlier.) We looked at each other knowingly. We knew we needed to find a way to keep moving forward, somehow. We had spent already many months texting and emailing each other the support and confidence to do just that.

I bought that photograph, and put it on the wall next to my bed. Now, I look up and see not a monster, but a survivor; a being who must continually move forward in order to breathe. When I look at it I get a small feeling of accomplishment and relief. I was able to create the first little new corner of Stephanie World, and it feels pretty ok. 

I'm going to keep swimming.

Shadow Boxing~

Caves and shadows and darkness and not being able to see around you.  It could be frightening.  Or it could be maybe okay.

We live in a hurry up culture and we live in a culture where you're supposed to be happy and positive and everything is feel good.  With an occasional momentary break for a worldwide tragedy but life gets very quickly back on track and the world goes on.  And maybe that's good and necessary but maybe we need to re-think this happy, happy culture.  Maybe we need to give space to the particular darkness that comes about as people grieve.

My daughter had a conversation with me shortly after Chuck died.  I told her I was just in this dark place and she, very wisely, said that maybe there's value there in the darkness.  Maybe the shadows and darkness weren't to be feared.  Maybe beauty could exist in that darkness.

In this past 15 months since he died, (and oh how it freaks me out to write that), I've thought often of that conversation and I've realized how correct she was.  And is.  With a note that, of course, you can't live forever in the darkness etc.

But.

When grief hits, as it will, and that darkness comes, as it does, and we lose our vision, as we do, then maybe, just maybe, our other senses become heightened.  Maybe our hearts see more because our eyes are filled with the veil of tears.  Maybe we trust our instincts more deeply because we know, (or at least I do for me,) that our brains aren't working as they once did, fogged as they are with grief.  

My eyes don't see-there is darkness all around.  So I stand still to get my bearings and I listen more acutely.  I wait to feel my feet solidly underneath me before taking a step, my hands out in front of me, searching for something to grasp.  My sense of touch becomes sensitized as I strive to identify my surroundings.  It's all very tentative and I'm learning to trust my other senses and they become stronger as I rely on them.  When the day comes that I emerge from this darkness, from these shadows of grief, I know I will be deeply aware of myself and life in general because I gave the darkness the time it needed instead of struggling against it and fighting it.

This daughter of mine who is now on the road with me for six months.  She's pretty damn smart.

Avoidance

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Avoidance has been a common theme for me in my journey.

I avoid thinking about or dealing with Ian's death by overloading myself with work and study.

And I'm still doing that to a degree, but I have a counsellor who's poking and prodding me along the journey of dealing with it all.

But now I find I'm avoiding going back into the workforce.  I kind of want to, will need to at some point, but this week I've been feeling really scared of the prospect.  Even if it's 6-18 months away.

Six years ago, after my mum and step-dad died in quick succession, plus unemployment hit at the same time my step-dad died, I took a chunk of time off, simply doing nothing, giving me time to deal with the fall out.  After about six months, I was ready to go back to work.  I reached the point I needed work, rather than hours of watching TV, reading and crafts, for my sanity.

This week I sat a supplementary exam granted because of John's hospital stay, and thought I'd done really well.  But the results that went up on Friday for the supp seem to say otherwise.   A fail, but an offer of an academic supplementary exam.  Probably technically available since the supplementary I sat was on medical grounds, so still have the academic option.  But is confusing since the supplementary exam period is over. 

Or it could simply be a quirk of the reporting system, and a true grade will come up a bit later. 

I of course emailed the school to get the situation clarified, but no response yet.  Not what you want additionally rattling around in your head over the weekend. 

But here's the thing.

I'm actually not that worried about the extra time (and cost) having to repeat the subject, and juggle pre-requisites this semester, will add to my studies. Nor am I worried that I wouldn't be able to go back to work at the end of this year to carry the load I need to in order to finish at the end of next year.

Heck, I'm tossing around that I could even take the option of pushing for an extra semester or even year to finish.

I guess it's partially because I've not actually taken that chunk of 'nothingness' time after Ian died.  I've really been on the go, except for uni holidays.  And even now I have other commitments I didn't have 6 years ago. 

But I know I'm really not ready to head back to work. 

Into the real 'real world'. 

Right now, I could happily not go back ever again.

Identities

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I had a session with my beloved therapist the other day. I filled her in on what had happened since I'd last seen her and then she said "What do you think about coming to see me? Do you think you're ready for a break?" and it was as if I'd expected her to ask me.

I was only slightly hesitant to say yes. She asked me what came up for me as I'd acknowledged that our time together for now was possibly over. I told her that it felt right, but it also felt scary to drop the identity of trauma victim or someone who needs therapy. I said that it feels like my identity for so long has been wrapped up in my losses, especially in widowhood. Who am I if I'm not a widow, an orphan and an abuse survivor?

How interesting that I'd cling in any way to the most horrific phase in my life. But it feels connected to Dave and our love and it feels like I'm betraying him to let it recede even a little.

After acknowledging and validating my fears she said "Who are you, in addition to those things?"
An artist, I replied, a writer, a good partner, a good friend, a singer, a student, a performer, a teacher...

I began to feel the identities of loss lose their grip as I rattled these off to her. It was as though I was giving myself permission to be more than my losses. I felt the guilt of admitting that I'm doing so well start to ease.

I can see how living fully, and not allowing my loss identities to define me as a way to honor Dave. Not going to therapy every week doesn't have to mean that I'm over it or that I'm done hurting. It means I'm in this phase right now and that I'm living. It means I'll probably go back to a cycle of therapy when I need to and that's fine too.

It means that I'm more than just someone who needs professional help to get through life. I'm much more than a trauma victim, though that identity has consumed me for a long time, and rightly so.

And it means that without identifying with it so much, I have room to allow other identities to flourish.