Ephiphany in the Middle of my Work Day

Last night, I had an insight into myself and my life which caused me to stop crying, sit up and ponder the truth about my life.

I am not just a grieving widow. I am not just Marc’s new romantic interest. I am so much more than those two things combined. I am a graphic artist. I am a web designer. I am a singer. I am a good friend. I am a wonderful daughter, sister, aunt and colleague. I am a runner and a biker. I am full of life, love and humor.

The point this moment of realization has brought into light is that I can blow any one of these things alone way out of proportion if I choose to. I can give any one of these aspects of myself far more power over me than it deserves or not enough importance and I can write my emotions as I go. Placing all of the emphasis on Chris’ death steals my breath and shuts me down just like he was shut down. The difference is that I am still alive. I have the power to become the living dead if I choose to live that way, or I can remember that I also have talent and the ability to feel alive. I am full of very powerful emotions.

My growing relationship with Marc has the power to shut me down completely and send me crawling under my bed, curling up into a ball and weeping for all of eternity. But I am not just a woman on the cusp of a new relationship. I am also the very proud aunt of four beautiful children who make me happy and thankful to be alive every moment of my life. I have wonderful friends who make me laugh during the entire time I spend awake each day. My grieving moments, though powerful and filled with agony, pale by comparison.

My job is the best, most creative job I have ever had in my life. I love coming to work every day. I love the creative license I have in the projects that come my way.

Granted, my love for Chris rivals the power of my grief over him, but I am not just a griever. True, part of me is, but not all of me and as long as that rings true, I can temper my moments of darkness with lightness.

Yes, I lost my best friend and husband to a horrible illness, but that doesn’t mean that all I can do for the rest of my existence is grieve. Sometimes I grieve for hours, sometimes for days and even weeks, but then the hours, days and weeks have passed and I have a wonderful time singing and laughing with friends and family.

I am trying to let Marc in. It’s difficult because I feel as though I am pushing Chris out. Marc is new. I’m afraid of him. I don’t know him. I don’t know his idiosyncrasies. I don’t know if he will suddenly blow up at something trivial that I do or say. I didn’t know that about Chris in the beginning, either. Then I found out which things made Chris happy, angry or hurt and we worked those things out. It took six years for me to know Chris as well as I did and even at the six-year mark, I didn’t know him completely. What am I afraid of?

I feel buried beneath the rubble of a collapsed life, trapped under the fallen support beams but I am still alive and I can see light up above me and I can hear voices talking, laughing and singing. I can see and hear all of it and if I push hard enough, I can lift the weight of the collapsed debris off of me and make my way back up into the light. Sometimes I have to push really hard to uncover my spirit. Sometimes, temptation and determination to give up, close my eyes and die in my ready-made tomb is all that exists in the moment and I abandon all hope except the hope that my life will end sooner as opposed to later.

If I can hold onto the insight and use the knowledge that I am a singer, sister, aunt, designer, friend, daughter and love interest against the aspects of grief that knock the wind out of me.

I may be crediting my grief with more power than it actually has. I am not just Chris’ grieving widow. I am his wife, his lover, his friend and his legacy.

I know better than to believe this spark of insight will rescue me from my grief forever. I have a road…a lifetime…ahead of me.

Grieving widow is a component of who I am, but next to all of the other things I am, grief, by comparison, is relatively small.

I wonder when its next ambush will be.