Those Other Lives

Do you ever think back to those other lives you've had. I do.

I remember how naive I was when I got married at 22. I was young, in love, optimistic. Did I mention naive? I was so sure we would go the distance. For 18 years we did. Boy, though, I was unprepared. Willing to learn and grow, but unprepared. Much like when the kiddos arrived. Optimistic, but unprepared. And, oh, how I love them. They are the best part of those 18 years, and I am forever grateful.

I am taken back to another life by simply donning a shirt that has a tiny speck of paint on it. I know exactly where I was at, who I was painting with, and why we were painting together. It was a hard time in life, a rebuilding season. A fresh coat of paint put on with a friend makes a difference though. 

I remember pulling up roots and beginning a journey while struggling with depression and grief. It was a bold move. Another naive and crazy move. Definitely a hard move. I floundered for months. Yet here I am.

I remember being a new widow. How impossible it seemed. Every day it slapped me in the face one way or another. So many rude awakenings. I met with a group of other widows for dinner monthly which should have been comforting. But somehow the dynamics weren't. Right concept, wrong situation. Not my people. It's entirely okay to understand that some people are just not your people. 

In other lives I worked way harder than I should have, for far less than I deserved. Now, shall we say, I am a seasoned widow. A different person than I was in those other lives. I won't say I am an old widow, or an old wife or mother. Just seasoned. Seasoned by the journey and lessons in the other lives I've lived.

Sparkles

When I graduated from high school, a hundred years ago, my parents gave me a diamond necklace. It has a small stone from my mom, one from an aunt, and one from my grandmother. My parents wished they could have given me a car. Admittedly, that would have been amazing. Unlikely, but amazing. 

When I bought my first car, it was a used Plymouth Duster. The same day, my sister-in-law bought a used Trans Am. Very sporty, very. Kind of took the luster off my Duster. Granted my Duster ran a lot longer than her car. So, there's that. Many times, smart choices win out. But not so smart decisions provide wisdom and experience. We take our decisions wherever we go and what we make of them is up to us.

When my first marriage ended, I took my ring in, traded stones and had a right-hand ring made. In case you haven't guessed, I like bling and other shiny things. I used those stones in my ring when I married a second time. Perhaps odd? All depends on your viewpoint. I'm again wearing them in a right-hand ring. It's like wearable history in bling format. 

I don't know what you wear, drive or carry from your past. I know often there are shrouds of pain and regret. I know life can weigh heavy. I know we sometimes forget to see what sparkles in our life. I feel like I can see what's what now more than I could before. I like that I still have jewelry from my parents, bling that honors my life, and memories of a first car that wasn't fast or particularly sporty. But it was smart choice. And when it was clean and in the sun, it did kind of sparkle. 

anniversaries

Thirteen years ago today Gordon and I got married. You don't forget dates like this. Talk about for better or worse. I rarely talk about his life, and his death even less. But, this blog is for those who want to say their names and have a hard time doing so. Maybe it's a loss like mine to suicide. Maybe it's a nasty divorce. Maybe a bad, bad breakup. You want to forget it, but you can't. It's not humanly possible.

There is some shame, if you will, in the aftermath of suicide. It's a horrific event to be a part of. No less for the one who suffers enough to complete it. However, for them the pain has ended, for the survivors it doesn't end. It's hard to talk about it, so most times we don't. Memories and anniversaries of the heart get swept under the rug.  Pretend it never happened. Because, honestly, no one wants to talk about the colossal failure of what was once a loving relationship. Even I don't.

But, and there is always a but, sometimes we must talk about it. Sometimes it helps to say their name. We need to know it's okay to say their name. The shame isn't completely rational, rather it is tempered by stigma. The stigma is a wicked beast.

Thirteen years ago was a good day. Surrounded by friends and family, all our favorite people. We celebrated, we ate well, really well, we danced! It was a "for better" day. For which I am grateful. 

It's sad that the bad days, the traumatic endings take precedence over the good days. Those memories are hard to expunge. I don't expect people to say happy anniversary or remember the date. But sometimes a simple, that was a good day. I remember it well. Remember when we did this? Even a look how far you've come is comfort enough.

We do not have to live in silence. But we do have to choose to speak up. For all those who struggle with this, me included, I say own it. Honor it. Speak it. Share it.