Tomorrow will be three years since my Brian died. People are remarking on how much better I am. Am I? I don't cry in public nearly as often as I used to. That is a good thing. Of course I feel like I'm not out in public as much as I used to be. It is just too much work trying to be ok. I feel like I've spent years living under water, and I would like to come up for air, but I can't remember how to breath.
I still hurt, and the last two weeks before this terrible anniversary have been hard. I'm sad, and I feel physically sick. I know that anniversaries do that - so many painful memories that are so clear. I know that in a week or two I won't feel so sick. I just don't know if I'll ever remember how to breath again.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Thursday, April 7, 2016
A question is worth a thousand suggestions
What is the worst part of being a widow? It is a ridiculous question. What is good about being a widow? Nothing. I mean we don't even get a discount at the movie theater. We lose our loves, our lives, friends, health, security, companionship, financial well being. We lose so much. We seem depressed because we are depressed. Others may see up as self-indulgent, weak, or pathetic because they don't understand the enormity of the task of survival. Surviving is hard, brave, exhausting and frightening; and even with the best of support systems, it is something we do alone.
After the first year of raw, unrelenting pain, I think perhaps one of the hardest things is being made to feel like a failure for not being cured, or whole, or happy. I don't think anyone would call us failures - that would involve a special sort of cruelty. We label ourselves failures because every time someone tells us to move on, start a new life, or live in the present there is a silent message that we are somehow grieving wrong.
There is no path in grief. There is no little instruction book of how to navigate this new territory. We drag ourselves forward, clawing at a chance for wholeness. We slip, we fall. We open old scabs, and we create new wounds. We bleed.
Maybe the right thing isn't to suggest that we get over it or move on, but to ask us how we can find a less painful space. Maybe instead of presuming to understand us, you can challenge us to try to understand ourselves. If and how we get there is really none of anyone's business. But if you can help us question ourselves without demanding answers or results, perhaps you can make this awful road a bit less bumpy.
After the first year of raw, unrelenting pain, I think perhaps one of the hardest things is being made to feel like a failure for not being cured, or whole, or happy. I don't think anyone would call us failures - that would involve a special sort of cruelty. We label ourselves failures because every time someone tells us to move on, start a new life, or live in the present there is a silent message that we are somehow grieving wrong.
There is no path in grief. There is no little instruction book of how to navigate this new territory. We drag ourselves forward, clawing at a chance for wholeness. We slip, we fall. We open old scabs, and we create new wounds. We bleed.
Maybe the right thing isn't to suggest that we get over it or move on, but to ask us how we can find a less painful space. Maybe instead of presuming to understand us, you can challenge us to try to understand ourselves. If and how we get there is really none of anyone's business. But if you can help us question ourselves without demanding answers or results, perhaps you can make this awful road a bit less bumpy.
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