That question was posed to me today by an acquaintance. What a question. A pretty typical question for someone who hasn’t experienced loss. Am I over it? What is it exactly? What exactly do you believe I should be getting over? His death? Absence of the person? Hurt? Anger? Feelings of injustice? Daily loneliness? The recognition that I’m chasing someone and something I can never have? That sometimes I feel his presence? That sometimes I still reach for him at night?
And what does over mean? A sense of moving on? Forgetfulness? Pushing forward? No longer curling up in the fetal position in the back of my closet? No longer feeling like I can’t possibly breathe one more day? No longer feeling like I’m drowning? I ask myself time and time again how can it be that I am breathing but don’t feel as though I am living?
No. I am NOT OVER IT.
Sometime over the course of the last week I wrote the darkest blog I have thus far. I chose not to share it then but will share some of it today. I woke in the middle of the night because sleepless nights have resurrected themselves again. I awoke with a start and realized I was crying. I’m not exactly sure what prompted this bout, but I knew I needed to get these feelings off my chest. I grabbed my phone and began vomiting these words of hurt and injustice and sorrow. Crying and shaking, finding my voice, releasing the loss, the hurt, the struggle.
My husband died two years ago and part of me died too. I can't get that part of me back. I live through my kids. I run them from point a to point b and I don't stop. I have no me. They are me. I am their mom. Period. I meet someone and I feel so guilty. I make unfair comparisons. I can't imagine life with them because I can't imagine life without Daniel. I feel like I'm crazy. I'm no longer the counselor but the client. I try to do things for me and someone refers to me as being self-centered. My breath catches, I want to scream the most profane thing I can think of at them, but I can’t because they have kicked me when I am down. They have stolen my breath.
I get up every day. I work my ass off to function every day. I keep it together when my kid tells me he wants to take the last family picture we have to school to show his friends his dad. I hold it together day in and day out when my kids ask me about spirits being in heaven and what their dad is doing when he’s there. I hold it together when all they want is to share something with him and him alone. I hold it together when our youngest climbs into bed and unprompted says I love you daddy.
I hold IT together.
All I want is a day where I can feel normal again. I want me back. I want to find myself. I want to move forward but my feet are stuck in cement. Life does that sometimes. We get stuck. We all have our own shit. We all struggle for breath at times. We go through phases where our faith is tested, periods of internment with our spouse, days when our feelings get stripped by our loved ones, times when the person on the other end of the phone is rude, times when we feel unbalanced, struggles that we don't understand, times when we want to give up. I know that the cement is not permanent. I know that I am simply leaving an impression. I may even leave my cutest pair of high heels in that cement but one day the light will shine again and one day I will no longer be in those shoes. I will look back and sigh with relief. I will recognize that the cement was part of the bigger picture. I will get through this. I will use my strength to continue to hold IT together and so will you.
Meet the Author (me)
Driven by a need to help others. I have known from a young age that this is what I wanted to do. This is my very real, somewhat sarcastic, look into my newfound widowhood. I hope this site will help you as much as it helps me.