The other day I received a holiday card. A thoughtful, beautiful card. And it still makes me cry. My friend wrote "How you've endured this year with your spirit intact is amazing". It reaches deep into my heart & soul that others see me this way. It's been six months of doing whatever I could to just survive the pain. To not drink, to continue to get out of bed, to do whatever was necessary to remain in this world; physically, emotionally, spiritually. I didn't try to be "strong", I didn't try to be "tough", I didn't try to keep it together, I didn't try to hide from the pain or hide the pain. I just did whatever I could to keep moving through the loss, through the fear, through the pain. I grasped onto every hand that was generously extended, the lifelines that allowed me to go into the depths and find my way back out. I allowed myself to accept every drop of loving assistance that was offered. And I talked. And wrote. And talked. To anyone that would listen. I let the grief keep moving through me; talking to process, talking to release. I didn't care how I looked or what other people thought. I was stripped to the core and just did whatever I had to do to survive.
Sometimes I worry about being selfish, about all of the taking I've had to do. Luckily a friend said to me early on "You've given so much to so many for so long. Please let us give to you". I didn't have the energy to fight the love. And I've discovered that I don't have a clue what is selfish and what is not. At some level I've long known that giving makes me feel good and that by receiving, I allow others to have that same good feeling. Through this process called grief, I've had to take everything given. But what's boggled my logical mind is how many people have thanked me for my writing, for my talking. It's baffling how allowing myself to open up, share my pain, my grief has so many people thanking me. I don't understand how by doing what feels selfish it is also a gift to others. And I don't have to understand. I just have to trust. Trust that being me is all I need to do.
I'm still moving through the grief. Every day it's at another level, another place. So many things make me weep. But the deep, gut wrenching, my heart & soul are being torn out of me, sobbing on the floor has subsided. So I let the tears stream when they need to, knowing that I'm letting the pain clear. And sometimes the tears are of joy & gratitude from someplace deeper inside myself than I've been before.
So I sit here this morning with a full heart. I've learned I can not only survive, but triumph over whatever life throws at me. That the heartbreaking pain has both helped me find my inner strength and opened my heart more fully. Although I'm still saddened by the events that have brought me to this place, I'm grateful to be right here, right now.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Six Months of Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey Stuff
It's been six months since my husband died. In some ways it feels like forever, in other ways it feels like yesterday. We were both huge Doctor Who fans and one of our favorite quotes was "People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly... timey-wimey... stuff." That's what this feels like. I've grown so much emotionally that it feels like a very long time must have passed. But when I sit & get quiet, the loss wells up inside me like it was yesterday.
Grief is weird. And until you experience, you have no clue. I didn't.
A couple of weeks ago I went to Grand Junction to the arts & crafts show. Sometimes I know something is going to cause the grief to surface, other times I'm totally not thinking & clueless, until "Bam!" it gets me. Driving to GJ, I felt the sorrow surface. I've learned to just let it, let the feelings surface, let the tears flow. I exited the freeway and there I was, sitting at the longest light in the world in front of the hospital where the worst week of my life happened, where the last week of my husband's life happened. I sat there and stared at the window of the room he was in. The trickle of tears became a full fledged storm. I drove a few blocks to where the arts & crafts show was, pulled in the parking lot and the tears became a deluge. We had been in that show for the last 12 years. I went into the show and it was a painful, but healing experience. Our artist family gathered around me. They let me know they missed Jim and missed us being there. They listened while I talked and hugged me. They gave me unconditional acceptance and gave freely of their love & affection. I cried my way through the show, sometimes laughing at the same time. More letting go. More acceptance. Walking through the grief. Gratitude for those that hold my hand as I walk through the rough patches.
I haven't been able to watch Doctor Who yet this year. Or Fringe. Or Survivor. We watched them together and even when our marriage was pretty much over, we still watched them & talked about them.
It seems to be a continual process. Every time I confront something with a ton of memories entwined, another layer of denial is destroyed. I am reminded that he died, he's no longer in this world. And the pain is as fresh as it was the first day. Either the pain has gotten less intense, or I'm just used to it now.
It wasn't only that he died that day. I died too. The whole picture of my life shattered. I now know how tenuous, how delicate the balance of our everyday life is. I spent so much time looking for security, for safety. Now I know those are only illusions. There is now and my connectedness with now and that's pretty much it. A lot of my fear has been removed. I'm being more me than I ever have and living life the best I can.
Life can't hand me much worse than it did this year. But I also think of this year as the year I discovered I'm a phoenix. I was incinerated and a new me has risen from the ashes. A stronger, more me, me. A me that knows I can pretty much handle anything. I am a bad ass warrior phoenix. Who cries a lot.
Grief is weird. And until you experience, you have no clue. I didn't.
A couple of weeks ago I went to Grand Junction to the arts & crafts show. Sometimes I know something is going to cause the grief to surface, other times I'm totally not thinking & clueless, until "Bam!" it gets me. Driving to GJ, I felt the sorrow surface. I've learned to just let it, let the feelings surface, let the tears flow. I exited the freeway and there I was, sitting at the longest light in the world in front of the hospital where the worst week of my life happened, where the last week of my husband's life happened. I sat there and stared at the window of the room he was in. The trickle of tears became a full fledged storm. I drove a few blocks to where the arts & crafts show was, pulled in the parking lot and the tears became a deluge. We had been in that show for the last 12 years. I went into the show and it was a painful, but healing experience. Our artist family gathered around me. They let me know they missed Jim and missed us being there. They listened while I talked and hugged me. They gave me unconditional acceptance and gave freely of their love & affection. I cried my way through the show, sometimes laughing at the same time. More letting go. More acceptance. Walking through the grief. Gratitude for those that hold my hand as I walk through the rough patches.
I haven't been able to watch Doctor Who yet this year. Or Fringe. Or Survivor. We watched them together and even when our marriage was pretty much over, we still watched them & talked about them.
It seems to be a continual process. Every time I confront something with a ton of memories entwined, another layer of denial is destroyed. I am reminded that he died, he's no longer in this world. And the pain is as fresh as it was the first day. Either the pain has gotten less intense, or I'm just used to it now.
It wasn't only that he died that day. I died too. The whole picture of my life shattered. I now know how tenuous, how delicate the balance of our everyday life is. I spent so much time looking for security, for safety. Now I know those are only illusions. There is now and my connectedness with now and that's pretty much it. A lot of my fear has been removed. I'm being more me than I ever have and living life the best I can.
Life can't hand me much worse than it did this year. But I also think of this year as the year I discovered I'm a phoenix. I was incinerated and a new me has risen from the ashes. A stronger, more me, me. A me that knows I can pretty much handle anything. I am a bad ass warrior phoenix. Who cries a lot.
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