Commitment

I am calling myself out on my crap.

I've been doing it all week.

While talking to a friend, I realized I have commitment issues.

I’m not talking about relationship – commitment – issues.

I’m talking about committing to life.

I've realized I have a major problem seeing past today.

A friend will ask if I want to do something, go out and have fun, say, a week from now.

And I can’t really commit to it.

I think to myself “That sounds like fun. But that’s a week away. Today I just need to focus on today”.

This week I've been struggling with – is this the “grown-up” version of me, or is this the “widowed” version of me?

I've gone back and forth in my head, trying to figure out when this commitment issue started.

And why?

I guess it started about a year ago. A year after Seth died.

When Seth first died, I used to keep myself far too busy. I think to avoid my grief and pain. For almost a year straight, I was far too busy.

Then I crashed. Fell flat on my face in depression.

Suddenly I had to stop my life from spinning. I had to slow down, and just grieve.

I had to just stop. Stop everything.

Make my life stand still, so I could grieve and breath.

Now I’m afraid of being too busy.

I think the fear comes from “What if I have plans, and I’m riddled with grief, and I don’t feel like going??”. 

Then I have to pull the widow card, tell my friend I don’t feel up to it, and feel slightly embarrassed that something fun is too much for me to handle.

It’s embarrassing.

So instead of making plans, say a week from now, it’s easier to focus on just today. Because in a week I might not feel well. I might be emotionally sick next week.

So instead of dealing with the embarrassment of having to cancel plans, I have trained myself to not look past today.

Everyone says – “Take it one day at a time”.

I don’t think this is what they meant.

I think there is a silver lining in it. Stay focused and present with just today. Not next week.

Also allowing myself to be un-busy, and just be, with my grief. Rather than avoiding my grief.

But am I missing out on life in the process? Am I missing out on something amazing – a week from now?

I can’t tell if my commitment issue is a good or bad thing.

I do know not being able to look past today, isn't exactly a great thing.

But I realized that my brain and body have naturally figured out how to handle my grief, even if I don’t like the process.

It’s amazing what the human brain and body can do.

Forcing me to focus on just today, is ironically a good thing.

Thank you my dear, tired, body.

I appreciate it.

December

“It never stops hurting, the big losses never do, it becomes a part of your bones. It rips you apart and leaves you to figure out what to do next. It becomes a part of who you are and runs through your life like thread, coloring everything you are and do. It has informed how I choose to live, what I do, how I love. You will ache and you will hurt but you will be feeling, remembering how much love there was and how much there still is; death can never touch that. You heal and the wound closes, becoming a scar to remind you how precious things are and how well you were loved..."

It's quite insane.

5 years have passed since my love was taken but when the toughest month rolls around, even when equipped with an arsenal of optimism, friends and plans, their is a subtle nuance of loss present that unknowingly takes over my body.

I'm not sad or find myself crying, but I sleep in a bit longer, watch movies a bit more. Subtle differences that anytime of the year would seem out of place.

It's almost like the the chill that's left when you walk in from the cold. You're warm and in a safe place, but still have a chill shake you're whole being when taking off the coat and gloves.

It finds me. I stare down at the scar over my heart.

I breathe in and accept it.

The scar. The extra hot chocolates. The extra hours of sleep. The extra glass of wine. The extra tears that may creep in. The unknown. The welcome. The unwelcome. The part of me that I honorably hold eternally.

December.

The Love of Friends

Last Saturday was Maggie's 37th birthday.  Each year, her birthday was a huge celebration with literally hundreds of friends gathering to feast on food and wine.  She called it the wine party, or officially "Wine: It's What's for Dinner."  Instead of a massive celebration last Saturday, I spent quite some time reading back on my posts and remembering how life was a year ago or longer.  Two years ago on Maggie's birthday (12.9.2010), I was miserable.  I felt more alone and alienated than I had ever felt in my life.  While overwhelmed by feelings of abandonment from folks who I thought would never, ever leave my side, I wrote the following.

“Whacha doin’?” I asked.

“Nothin’” he mumbled, looking up briefly from his work to lock eyes, that warm, friendly gaze ever so familiar.

As he gently tapped another brick in place I continued with my story.  It was like all the others lately, sad and filled with heart-pain and lost love.  I spoke straight from my heart.  The comfort of being best friends for such a long time made it easy to be blunt.  He smiled as I spoke, occasionally looking up and mumbling confirmative grunts.  But he never stopped working.

After a while of me spilling guts and tears, he started talking.  His business was doing great, he said.  The future was very bright, he said.  You wouldn’t believe the success that was happening, he told me.  It was amazing, he said.  And it was.  All he told me was wonderful.  But I felt cold.  As he spoke he didn’t look at me.  The more he spoke, the more distant I felt.  While I heard his words, it seemed like what he was telling me was mumbled and hard to understand, like the message was possibly meant for someone else.

I began to feel alone.

He continued to talk but I stopped listening.  I heard the mumbled tones of his voice but I didn’t hear his words anymore.  Something was between us, something that was smothering me.  It was not familiar at all.  Finally, I stopped him and asked “What’s happening here?  Why do you sound so far away?”

Then I saw it.  It was like I was asleep and suddenly I had awoken.  Where I had only noticed that his hands were busy, now I saw the bricks, so many bricks – each staggered on top of another, layers and layers, ten feet tall and completely surrounding me.  All except for one small space where he stood, brick and trowel in hand, staring at me with warm, friendly, loving eyes.  I can’t imagine how this happened and when all this was done.  Yet here I was, trapped behind an almost-closed wall.

“What are you doing!?!” I asked.

“I’m helping you” he said.

“How are you helping me?”

“I’m protecting you from things that might hurt you.  And from me” he stated.

“I don’t understand.  Why do you seem so far away?  I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, my best friend.  I wish you’d come back.”

Me:  Every time we hang out you just talk about business.  I have so many other things I __need__ to talk about but I feel like you only want to talk about you, like you don’t see me anymore.  I feel so alone and it hurts my feelings.  So I’ve been avoiding you.

Him:  When we hang out, you are so sad that it hurts me badly.  You are hurting and I care so much about you.  To see you hurt, hurts me and I don’t know how to deal with it.  Then, when we talk, inevitably, the things I say end up hurting you more.  I can see you visibly cringe!  I talk about my wonderful relationship with my wife and it hurts you.  I talk about how things are going well in my life and it hurts you.  I don’t want to hurt you anymore.  It’s dragging me down.

Me:  I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to be a fun suck.  I’m so sad though and I just need to talk.  It didn’t used to be this way and it won’t be this way forever.  But I’m so, so sad right now.  You are my best friend and I trust you and we are so comfortable I feel like I can be really honest with you.

Him:  You are so raw and the things you have experienced and feel are so intense.  I don’t have the tools to handle them.

Me:  I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to cause any difficulties.

Him:  I’m sorry that all I’ve talked about is business.  It’s because I’m scared of hurting you more.  I see you hurt when I talk about certain things.  I see you cringe in pain.  It hurts so much to see you hurt.  I just want to protect you.

Me:  You can’t protect me.  You mustn’t try!

Him:  I can keep from hurting you by avoiding talking about things that do hurt you.  I keep conversations light and on topics that can’t possibly cause you pain, like my business.

Me:  How can you possibly anticipate what’s going to hurt me when, heck, I don’t even know myself?

Him:  I want to keep you safe but it’s so hard.

Me:  Please don’t try to protect me.  There’s no wall you can build that could save me from the world.  Besides, any wall you might build would only cage me in and separate us.

Him:  But I don’t want to hurt you.  I don’t want you to hurt.

Me:  Just talk to me.  Be my friend.  I give you my word that I won’t be angry at you for anything you might say.  I trust you.  Please give me permission to hurt.  I promise I’ll be ok.

Him:  But….

Me:  If you see me hurt, just give me a minute.  If need be, give me longer.  I’ll be ok.  Let me take the pain, sit for a second and regroup.  I _will_ regroup.  I’m strong.  But you have to give me a chance.

Him:  But if I say something that hurts you badly….?

Me:  I’ll still be ok.  Give me permission to hurt.  Then have faith in me that I’ll be ok.  This is how I heal.  This is how I’ll grow.  If you protect me, you are keeping me from healing.  If you protect me, you are stopping me from a return back to normalcy.  If you keep you from me, then you are starving me from our friendship, something I need more than anything else right now.

Him:  This is scary.  You are telling me that it’s ok that I hurt you?

Me:  Sort of.  I’m telling you that it’s ok to be you.  And I’m asking permission to be me, hurt and all.  If you’ll let me, eventually, I’ll be stronger and you won’t see me hurt so much.

Him:  It’d be nice to see you again.

Me:  It’d be nice to be me again.

Him:  I’m glad we are friends.

Me:  Me, too.

Him:  So, me and my wife were hanging out the other day.  Have I mentioned how much I love her?…..

How you can help

I originally found this here. I didn't write it, but it's perfect and needs to be brought back to the surface every once in awhile. With everything coming back up again after my friend lost her husband last week, I wanted to share it again:

"How You Can Help Me"

Please talk about my loved one, even though he is gone. It is more comforting to cry than to pretend that he never existed. I need to talk about him, and I need to do it over and over.

Be patient with my agitation. Nothing feels secure in my world. Get comfortable with my crying. Sadness hits me in waves, and I never know when my tears may flow. Just sit with me in silence and hold my hand.

Don't abandon me with the excuse that you don't want to upset me. You can't catch my grief. My world is painful, and when you are too afraid to call me or visit or say anything, you isolate me at a time when I most need to be cared about. If you don't know what to say, just come over, give me a hug or touch my arm, and gently say, "I'm sorry." You can even say, "I just don't know what to say, but I care, and want you to know that."

Just because I look good does not mean that I feel good. Ask me how I feel only if you really have time to find out.

I am not strong. I'm just numb. When you tell me I am strong, I feel that you don't see me. I will not recover. This is not a cold or the flu. I'm not sick. I'm grieving and that's different. My grieving may only begin 6 months after my loved one's death. Don't think that I will be over it in a year. For I am not only grieving his death, but also the person I was when I was with him, the life that we shared, the plans we had for our children, the places we will never get to go together, and the hopes and dreams that will never come true. My whole world has crumbled and I will never be the same.

I will not always be grieving as intensely, but I will never forget my loved one and rather than recover, I want to incorporate his life and love into the rest of my life. He is a part of me and always will be, and sometimes I will remember him with joy and other times with a tear. Both are okay.

I don't have to accept the death. Yes, I have to understand that it has happened and it is real, but there are some things in life that are just not acceptable. When you tell me what I should be doing, then I feel even more lost and alone. I feel badly enough that my loved one is dead, so please don't make it worse by telling me I'm not doing this right. And remember, I was a capable adult before his death and I still am.

Please don't tell me I can find someone else or that I need to start dating again. I may not be ready. And maybe I don't want to be. And besides, what makes you think people are replaceable? They aren't. Whoever comes after will always be someone different.

I don't even understand what you mean when you say, "You've got to get on with your life." My life is going on, I've been forced to take on many new responsibilities and roles. It may not look the way you think it should. This will take time and I will never be my old self again. So please, just love me as I am today, and know that with your love and support, the joy will slowly return to my life. But I will never forget and there will always be times that I cry.

I need to know that you care about me. I need to feel your touch, your hugs. I need you just to be with me, and I need to be with you. I need to know you believe in me and in my ability to get through my grief in my own way, and in my own time.

Please don't say, "Call me if you need anything." I'll never call you because I have no idea what I need. Trying to figure out what you could do for me takes more energy than I have. So, in advance, let me give you some ideas:

(a) Bring food or a movie over to watch together.

(b) Send me a card on special holidays, our wedding anniversary, his birthday, and the anniversary of his death, and be sure to mention his name. You can't make me cry. The tears are here and I will love you for giving me the opportunity to shed them because someone cared enough about me to reach out on this difficult day.

(c) Ask me more than once to join you at a movie or lunch or dinner. I may say no at first or even for a while, but please don't give up on me because somewhere down the line, I may be ready, and if you've given up then I really will be alone.

(d) Understand how difficult it is for me to be surrounded by couples, to walk into events alone, to feel out of place in the same situations where I used to feel so comfortable.

Please don't judge me now - or think that I'm behaving strangely. Remember I'm grieving. I may even be in shock. I am afraid. I may feel deep rage. I may even feel guilty. But above all, I hurt. I'm experiencing a pain unlike any I've ever felt before and one that can't be imagined by anyone who has not walked in my shoes.

Don't worry if you think I'm getting better and then suddenly I seem to slip backward. Grief makes me behave this way at times. And please don't tell me you know how I feel, or that it's time for me to get on with my life. What I need now is time to grieve. Most of all thank you for being my friend. Thank you for your patience.

Thank you for caring. Thank you for helping, for understanding.

And remember in the days or years ahead, after your loss - when you need me as I have needed you - I will understand. And then I will come and be with you.

--Author Unknown

And So The Month ......

                                                          Source
...... is marching on.  Swiftly.
I can't believe today is the 12th.
The 18th will be upon me in the blink of an eye.

But, interestingly enough, this year has been different.
So far.
And that's all I'm going by.
So far.

It's not that I haven't shed some tears.  I have.
It's difficult not to.
What with all of the romantic movies on, the Christmas specials, the Christmas "family" commercials, all of the things that so loudly point out that my family isn't "perfect".
Not that it ever was, but you ALL know what I mean.

It's not the same.
It won't ever be the same.
And I still hate that.

But this month, these days of the Death March, haven't been dragging me down like they usually do.  I don't even have that thought in my head every day.  And that's TOTALLY weird.
And wonderful.
And a relief.
A very huge relief.

It doesn't feel as if my body is remembering as much as it has before.  My body seems to be letting go of the annual march.
Or at least I think it is.
The 18th isn't here yet.
Neither is Christmas.
Or New Year's Eve.

But at least this New Year's Eve I have a totally different plan.
Thank God.

OSU is playing in a bowl game on January 1st.
In Dallas.
So Son #3, Son #1 (since he lives there) and I are going to the game.
Thank.
You.
God.

Maybe it's been different this year because the month started off on such a fun high.
Being in NYC with wonderful friends and finally deciding that, yes, I do want to live there.
At least part of the year (less than 186 days, half the year ...... or the city and state of NY will kick my butt in taxes).
It's given me something to focus on, to plan for.
Something that had, and has, nothing to do with Jim.
Other than the fact that I wouldn't be doing this if he were alive.

Maybe it's different because it's time for it to be different.
Maybe.
I hope that's what it is.
Time.

Being different doesn't mean that I miss him less.
Or I think of him less.
Or love him less.
It just means that these days hurt me less.
And I'm all for less hurt.

I still cry.
I still cry as I write this kind of stuff.
I still cry when I say, or think, "I miss him".
I think that thought, those words, will always make me cry.

And I still cry when I see movies or read books that remind me in any way of him ....... of losing him.
Like "Lincoln".
Boy, did I cry.
As soon as Lincoln put on his coat to go to the theatre, turned to the few men closest to him and said, "I guess it's time for me to go.  But I wish I could stay here."
Oh.
My.
Lord.
I lost it.
And still lose it when I think about that scene.

Because I can imagine Jim saying that, instead of "I'll see you later."
I can imagine, that had he known he'd never wake up from that surgery, he would've said, "I guess it's time for me to go.  But I wish I could stay here."

I wish it for him.
I wished it for Mary Lincoln, as I wept for her, too.
I wished it for all of us.

Wishes.
Sometimes ..... a waste of time.
But sometimes ...... nice.

So anyway, it was a very good movie.
Very good.
Even if it made me a mess.

But at least I'm not as much of a mess as I've been the last 4 years.
Not yet.
Hopefully not at all.

Here's to hope.
:)

My Abstract Husband

It is the last day of school for the kids (and the teachers!) in Australia...so Amanda has asked me to fill in for her today so he can focus on finishing up the school year. She'll be back next week!

Recently, I moved into a new home. This is my first move since Phil's death seven years ago. Leaving the place where Phil and I lived our married life; blended our Brady bunch family; where we returned after various adventures, and worked side by side to remodel was really hard. But, I expected the emotional turmoil that ending this chapter of my life would bring. Even though there were many reasons that moving was definitely the right thing to do, I struggled to find the courage to leave the four walls that witnessed our love story. 

If you are a frequent reader of this blog, you may be saying to yourself..."But, isn't Michele remarried?" The answer to that question, is yes I am married to another amazing man. And to be honest, being remarried greatly complicated my feelings about this move. Michael and I needed a new start in a place that was ours, and not mine and Phil's. Though he never complained (really, not once) Michael didn't feel a sense of ownership in my house. He felt as if he was a guest in someone else's house...a welcome guest, but just a tenant of sorts. He hesitated to suggest household changes, for fear that the part of the house in question might have some significant emotional value to me of which he was unaware. Michael's sensitivity about my relationship with Phil made him hyper aware of what he considered to be his guest status. Not the best atmosphere for building a new marriage. Add the other practical reasons for moving to the need for a fresh start, and all signs pointed to now being the time to take the leap. 

I knew that I would need to do some "grief work" around this move. I braced myself as I packed, and remembered. Every time I emptied a room, I breathed in the history I was about to leave behind. Each step forward was accompanied by an emotional step back...the music of my life with Phil became the background to my days as I boxed, taped, and stored so many of the things he and I chose together. Through the process of the move I practiced self awareness. I tried to listen to myself, and recognize when I needed a break from the daily grief dance I was doing. Overall, I was pretty cocky about my ability to "manage" my feelings around this major life change. Famous last words...I was pretty cocky.

One area of the house that I avoided until the last possible moment was our garage, AKA Phil's sole domain. Every part of that one space screamed...Phil lived here. As I stood on a step stool removing plaques from the wall, my heart began a familiar ache. Up the ladder, remove a piece of Phil's life, down the ladder put the item in a box. Up the ladder, realize that you are unscrewing a screw that he used his crazy huge electric drill on....down the ladder remembering how happy he was the day he came home with that new drill. Up the ladder, avoid the roof remnants dropping on my head from the box I just pulled down from the rafters...down the ladder seeing flashbacks of the two of us standing on that roof in the dark on a gorgeous Summer evening super proud of ourselves for saving so much money on labor by hefting the roof tiles onto the roof ourselves. And so it went: up the ladder, down the ladder, heart tug followed by heart ache. 

Then I started opening the boxes. Every single box marked in his hand writing, or with his name on it, was examined and then put into the appropriate pile...give away, can't possibly let this go, throw out finally or what in the world do I do with this? Every time I wanted to run away from the sorting, I reminded myself that I'd waited to the last possible moment and today was the day to get it all done...so much for giving myself time and space! By the time I'd successfully sorted all the boxes and returned to our new home, tears were running down my face, and I couldn't stop them. I wasn't sobbing, I just couldn't stop leaking tears. Part of me understood the pain, but another part was so frustrated by the fact that Phil's death doesn't suck any less than it did seven years ago. I mean, I talk about him every single day. I live through his loss every time I do a presentation or speak to a group. Literally, every time. So, why then does sorting through his things turn on the tear faucet?

Then I figured it out. I am used to Phil in the abstract. He is still a very real part of my life. I talk to him, and he talks back...well, at least I think he does, and that is all I care about. I know that he is happy that I have Michael in my life, and he still makes himself known to me through our 'signs' now and then. Over they years I've created a space in my heart where these two men easily coexist. One of the men I love is dead, and the other is very much alive. Most days I accept that reality, and appreciate the opportunity to love and have loved these two husbands. But, when I opened those boxes in the garage...I was faced with the vivid memories of the very much alive Phil instead of the ghost version with whom I am now so well acquainted. Moving from our shared home made me face Phil in the flesh. I am not used to the reality of him anymore: his smell, his touch, the feel of his shirt under my cheek. I've grown so used to having a late husband in the abstract that the concrete evidence of his existence has been pushed back into my grief closet. I grieve the idea of Phil often, but I have realized that since I don't feel separate from him on a daily basis I grieve the reality of him in my life less and less as my life grows and changes.

What almost made me fall off that stupid ladder was the size of his shoes. There they were so very real, not ghost like at all. Every time I looked at the proof that he lived, I experienced the loss of him all over again. Holding a huge garbage bag of his t-shirts (that are waiting to become a quilt someday) I was overcome by the power of yesterday. I wanted to hear him make fun of me, instead of imagining what he would say to me as I dither over whether I can give away his dirty, old lunchbox. I know without a doubt that he would instruct me to let go of all the stuff. What I want to know is will he be gone when all the literal evidence of his existence is sorted into one of those neat piles in our garage? Seven years, one International support organization, one million widowed people impacted, one happy remarriage later...and death still sucks. I am pretty sure there is a lesson in there somewhere.

The hopeful lining? My life now is really good despite of, and because of, the path my life has taken. Phil's love changed me, and so did his death. I know now that the pain of losing him is part of his legacy to me. That sharpness around his loss reminds me of how very much he was loved. Every tear still has a meaning, I will try to remember that the next time I get pretty cocky.

Me University

source

In my before life I had many "projects" I dedicated all my energy to. I had a ginormous garden I'd work on for hours. I worked hard at my job as a teacher, investing every ounce of myself into being the best teacher I could be. I worked hard on my marriage, too, considering it my most important project of all.

The one thing I never for a second considered as a viable project was myself. Here and there, I'd try to address my own issues, of course, but it wasn't a project that I considered a major priority.

I realize now that when Dave died I gave up all my projects. I quit teaching, and moved to the city. 

Making myself and my own happiness and healing a priority never seemed viable before, but suddenly it was just me. No more teaching, no more garden, no more marriage.

I struggle against the idea of making myself my first priority. I keep trying to add new projects.

Go back to school! Get a job! Start a business! DO SOMETHING whether you want to or not! says a part of me.

It is beginning to dawn on me that I've been doing this because I never believed I was a worthy project. I guess I thought it was too indulgent for me to focus only on myself.

Now, I've been slowly allowing for the possibility that it's okay to make myself my one and only priority. It doesn't make me selfish or indulgent or immature to do so.

The other day I read an article in a magazine about a woman named Carrie who was in the empty nest phase so she quit her job to find out what she wanted out of life. She was taking all kinds of classes and learning new things and simply having fun. She called it "Carrie University" and suddenly, something in my mind shifted. Dedicating this time in my life to myself isn't something to be ashamed of. I didn't recoil when I read about Carrie. I didn't think "Ew, how selfish of her!"  I thought "Wow! What a courageous and awesome way to look at a new phase in her life!".

I will think of this phase in my life as Me University.  I will learn all I can about myself and what I like to do. I will, for the first time in my LIFE, make myself a priority. And I WON'T feel guilty about it!!!

Well, I'll probably feel a little guilty, but I won't let it stop me.

I didn't choose this new phase of life for myself. I don't want it and I'd trade it in to have Dave back, but I can't. Instead I will make ME my new project.

Thank God the admissions requirements for Me U are lax because my SAT scores sucked.