Mess And All

I had someone suggest, after watching an interview of someone who had lost two children to suicide, that they didn't emote enough. That they seemed numb. I'm trying to get my words to catch up with my thoughts when I encounter comments like this.

First of all, grief is not linear, it's intensely personal, it is never the same on any given day. There is a certain numbness to it that gets us through the first months, often longer. It protects us from the enormity of the shock. It somewhat contains how fractured we feel until we can process and feel again. Even then, when we get to that point, it's like walking in high water. A daily struggle. Even if/when we do have good days, the struggle is like an ever present shadow. 

Now, I try to extend grace when I hear comments like this, but I try to balance it with words to defend the grieving, or erase the stigma. Frankly, I shouldn't have to defend those grieving a suicide or any other loss. But I will when needed.

I would say I am mostly past the numbness, but not the dismay. Some days I feel better, some days I don't feel better at all. I push forward in spite of the fatigue, I try to find joy, my humor seeps out and my hope runs deep. 

Tread gently and judge not. We may know a person's story, or have no clue. Reach out in concern if need be. But don't decide we/they aren't feeling enough, showing it appropriately, or moving on. We don't move on, we move through and it's messy. It will always be messy. Accept us, bless us, love us, mess and all.

Gifts Worth Waiting For

Several month's ago a friend gave me a wrapped gift and the instructions to save it for a bad day. So long ago, in fact, I had to dust off the pretty wrapping paper. There is comfort in just having a box like that. Kind of like having a bell to ring if you need help. Just knowing you can get help makes all the difference.

I'm pretty good at holding it together, probably too good. Cover it with a huge dose of I can do this, followed by it's not so bad, and a butt load of positive self talk. Oh yes, and then stuff down those feelings for a while too. Not necessarily healthy but mostly productive.

Today, however, I owned that I needed to open that box. It was the perfect storm of emotions. Tears welled up and I finally said, yes tears, today I'll make time for you. Today it's hard, today it's frustrating, today it's overwhelming. Today I took my lunch to the truck and cried. Not saying I didn't eat my lunch and scarf down my dessert, but first I acknowledged how hard it is. It's hard financially and emotionally, it's hard to press forward. It's hard to find your footing. It's okay to say "today I am not okay". Today I need to pause and release some of the struggle.

It is a huge gift to ourselves to own our reality. To feel it and to wade through it. To mop up after it and go on. I am fairly certain I opened more than one gift today. For that I give thanks.

Trains and Automobiles

Years ago, when my coworker was out delivering flowers, she started sending me a picture whenever she had to wait for a train. In our part of the world it happens frequently. At first we laughed about it, but it helped me know about her drive time and whereabouts. In the world we live in feeling/being connected matters. Soon all of the delivery gals would send pic's. They would laugh sending them, I would laugh receiving them.

I've discovered what we did was touching, and loving in it's own way. I still receive train pictures from one coworker, even though we don't have the joy of working together any more. It makes us laugh, and it makes us pause for more than a train passing by.

We pause to honor, to remember, to feel warm fuzzies. We snicker because often there is a red car in front of her. The universe must like red cars. If there is a dog in the picture I award bonus points. Trains are big things, kinda symbolic of life. Life has big things, but it is the little things that touch us.

The roads of life don't necessarily lead us away from good things. More often they bring us closer. As close as a train, a red car, an old dog, and a good friend.

Self, I love you.

Alone is a new concept for me. So first let me say, I know I am not really alone. I am surrounded by love, grace and gratitude. But, and there is always a but, I am marching solo these days. Maybe marching isn't the word, lurching maybe, stumbling probably, frozen in place sometimes. One step forward and two steps back marching. Not exactly a marching band, but a sketchy little soloist without  sheet music.

I'm not really one of those people who likes to be alone, so I can only assume God has a special plan for me right now. I love nurturing others, but I kinda suck at nurturing myself. Learning opportunity right there in front of me. I am way better in small groups, than in large. In large groups I am an avid listener, but a hesitant sharer. I need to find my words and take them to the world.

Living alone encourages self talk, and talking to ones self. I'm good at talking to myself. I have complete conversations about the dinner menu (does a martini and a whole bag of chips count as eating clean?) I have conversations with the audience of dogs who follow me into the bathroom regularly. Yes, I can pet all 3 of you while I 'multitask'. I talk about the pile I just stepped in, or the winter roads, or the injustice of loss.

What if I talked about how life piled up on me, how slippery it got and how I'm going to gently love myself forward? Yes, I'm talking about self care. I'm going to be vocal about it. Self, it's okay to have regrets. Self, I know you grieve, and you will always grieve. Self, you are not the same person now that you were then, so those mistakes are now lessons. Self, do not be ashamed of where you are in life. Self, you deserve more. Self, I think you are beautiful. Self, this alone time is a gift of discovery. Self, I love you. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Alone is not a bad place to be, even if I tend to meet it with resistance. It's time find my words, write a new story and unfold my self. 

Picking Up The Pieces

I never expected, at this stage in life, to be trying to find the new me and create a new life. The old me is gone, so I have no choice. I never expected to find kinship with the grieving the easier path. I envy those who haven't had the pain and give thanks for their innocence. 

I look back at my life with Gordon and see two separate people. One I thought I knew and one I clearly didn't. I could be referring to him, I could be referring to me. I will continue to look back and wish it had gone different. I will always regret how it ended. 

Like pieces of a picture torn to shreds, I have to pick up and carry on. So while I stumble often, into a new life I go. I find it curious, that when a young person loses a spouse, how quickly we are to say you are young, you will find love again. Why don't we offer the same assurance to those of other ages? Love comes in so many forms. Let's leave age out of it.

Let's encourage the hurting and support them. Let's not make assumptions, let's leave stigma at the door. Now I understand that my experience represents one of the scary things that can happen in life. So in some ways I make people uncomfortable. In past years I would have felt that discomfort because of my lack of experience. This experience has been brutal, but with this experience comes empathy.

Some will never share their grief, their story, their regret, their longing. Everyone grieves a loss in their own way and time. I put mine into words, for others along the path who may not have words. Try to remember the hurting often pull it all together and present like any other person. Inside they have broken parts. We all have broken parts, now that I think of it.

As you/me/we go on with life, be gentle. Acknowledging the hurt promotes the healing. So hold my hand as I go on, and I will hold yours as you go on.

Stupid Stuff

I want to talk about the stupid stuff people say. I'll be the first to admit I have said stupid stuff, and no doubt I will do it again. It's part of being human, of floundering, of filling gaps with words that seem plausible, but miss the mark.  We all miss the mark sometimes.

I can only assume having lost someone to suicide that people don't know how to bridge the gap between us. Likely they are scared, the reality that it could happen to anyone (and does) makes it too close, too personal. Nobody wants to be reminded that tragic, traumatic things happen. Survivors of suicide are frightening in that way. It's scary for us too, we know the horizon has shifted. We don't know quite where we fit either. 

For the record, no, I couldn't have just hidden anti depressants in his food. No, I don't know what a crime scene is like. I do know what a horribly sad ending to life looks like. No, I won't get over it, but I will get through it. No, I'm not as strong as you think. I simply have to chose life even in it's smallest forward movements. No, never mentioning life before Gordon's death doesn't make it easier. It in fact makes it harder. Yes, I do have things to share about my weekend, even if I am a widow and lead a very quiet life. Yes, I weep frequently. I've always been an easy weeper, in fact it is quite healing. I would rather cry over a sadness, or a loving gesture, or sheer beauty, than to never cry at all. Yes, I do believe he is in a better place, but that doesn't erase the suffering he carried until he could carry it no more. Yes, I know many don't speak of it in front of me, but I know it gets whispered behind me. Their version, about what happened, or think they heard about what happened and why it happened. That judgment, where there should only be compassion, causes me to retreat. It's sometimes easier feel the hurt by myself, to keep a distance, to be closed instead of open for love. I'd much rather to be open for love.

I get that comments are made in a haphazard, even stupid manner. With no intent to be hurtful. Often with every intent to be helpful. I try to wash them with grace. I get that this journey is nearly impossible to fathom unless you have experienced it yourself. I still struggle with it, I will always struggle with it. 

I have no doubt that I owe some apologies, over the years, for stupid stuff I have said. I pray the universe will accept my apologies and also my gratitude for now understanding how this happens. I'm a work in progress on a rough difficult path. Lead me, guide me, forgive me, fill me with gentle words for those hard moments in life.

Steady Someone

Sometimes, in the middle of being mostly at peace with where I am in life, I lose my balance. It's gets a little shaky and being alone feels, well, lonely. The tears come and my eyes leak. The other day I was walking in to work with tears in my eyes and I said "God I feel so alone". I know those five words were a prayer that was heard. I know the prayer will be answered.

Someday, my well adjusted days will outnumber the shaky days. I'm getting closer to that. It always gets sketchy around the 19th of the month. My heart will not forget the date Gordon chose end his life. I have no doubt all of us have anniversaries of the heart that weigh heavy. Just as in other parts of life we have days and memories that make our heart sing. 

I have two friends who chose to steady me on the 19th of each month. It doesn't take away the pain, but it gives light to the darkness. It's like a gentle hand that reaches out to say "I gotcha". Isn't that what friends do?

Some day, alone will simply be a comfortable thing, not a struggle. Someday, I will welcome both time alone and time with others. Sometimes, in this part of life, time with others makes me feel more alone. I long to get past that too. The stigma of Gordon's death stands in my way. It can't be seen, but is often felt. It's hard to explain and tough to navigate. 

As I/we/you struggle, remember this. It's okay to be alone or feel alone, and it won't always be this way. It's okay to own the struggle. Sharing it divides the burden. I will continue to grow, and I trust you will to. Remember this today, or in the tomorrows of life, don't hesitate to steady someone. It is a gift we can all give.