Friday, August 18, 2006
Howard Alan Burrage 1944-2006
NORTHAMPTON - Howard Alan Burrage was born in Ludlow, Massachusetts on December 2, 1944 to the late Earl and Dorilla (Boucher) Burrage. He died August 10, 2006 at Baystate Medical Center in Springfield, Massachusetts of congestive heart failure and sepsis with his daughter by his side. Howard graduated from Cathedral High School in Springfield Massachusetts in 1964. After attending Marist College for one year, he enlisted in the Air Force and spent his time in the service in Biloxi, Mississippi learning Morse Code. After discharge, he returned to Springfield, attending American International College full time as an English major while working full time as an orderly at Baystate Medical Center. In 1970, he joined the Ludlow Junior High School faculty as an English teacher and several years later transferred to Ludlow High School as an English and Drama teacher. He remained on the faculty for twenty years until the cumulative effects of his bipolar disorder took its toll and precipitated his early retirement. While at LHS, he taught Drama classes and was the advisor for the Drama Club. During his time with the Drama Club, he continuously pushed himself and his students to strive to be the best, to always reach higher. Over his career, the group entered many state drama competitions that garnered awards and recognition throughout Massachusetts and New England. His children Chris and Beth developed their love of theater and acting both genetically and experientially as students of their father at Ludlow High School. Howard also enjoyed directing musical comedies for various local community theaters including "Finian's Rainbow", "Gypsy" and "The Music Man". His greatest personal triumph was "Camelot" directed for the Exit Seven Players. Howard was proud to be a founding father of the Exit Seven Players, rescuing an unused, somewhat decrepit old auditorium in the former Ludlow Junior High School building for their home. The company is still going strong some 20 plus years later. Howard spent the last years of his life living in Northampton. He directed several plays there and even last year was taking acting classes at Holyoke Community College. Howard was a dedicated volunteer at the Northampton Survival Center. He was well known and well loved at the Walter Salvo House where he lived and leaves many good friends there including Jim and Ray. Those who know and love Howard know that he was broken physically and spiritually by the death of his son Christopher J. Burrage on January 1, 2005 from cancer at the age of 34. He declined physically over the 18 month's since his son's death. We know he is sad to leave his beautiful daughter, Elizabeth (Beth) Burrage of Ludlow and her twin girls Hannah and Emily, age 8, who early on named him "Boppa" and "Candy Man" much to his delight. He also leaves Elizabeth's partner Bryan Cohen of whom he was very fond. Howard is survived by his former wife, Bonita (Bonnie) Krotkov of Hadley, Massachusetts. Despite their divorce, they remained friends and shared the love of their children and grandchildren and the profound grief in the loss of their son. He also leaves his daughter-in-law, Robin O. Burrage of Malden, legions of drama aficionados, both amateur and professional, and his feline friend Benvolio. Two brothers and a sister survive him. A memorial service will be held at a later date. Contributions in Howard's memory may be made to the Northampton Survival Center, the Walter Salvo House Tenants Association or to a charity of one's choice that supports the needs of people with mental illness. We know that somewhere Chris and Howard are together again in a joyful reunion and enjoying a spirited discussion of theater. Arrangements are entrusted to Nowak Funeral and Cremation Services, Springfield.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
At Ease
Despite the fact that I almost erupted into tears here at my desk after accessing the website from the synagogue I worked at in Los Angeles, not a single tear has run down my cheek since I last wrote. Los Angeles is a rough spot. I can't believe I lived there for two years and that Chris was alive and that we did things together and, and, and...
I am experiencing a lovely, lovely time with Marc. The time speeds by when we are together. Seven hours passed in a flash on Sunday. We shopped, dined, enjoyed Boston’s Back Bay area and talked about anything and everything.
I told him that I am not bothered, at all, talking about Chris but said he had to tell me if it bothered him to hear about Chris. The subject of my deceased husband did not bother him. He said my situation is unique, in that he is the man coming in and that it’s strange that the person who died was my husband.
I shared with him that there are a few people in my life who feel as though they have the right to bestow censorship upon me. “Don’t talk about Chris. Don’t talk about your husband. Don’t talk about your grief.” To those people, I say “It didn’t happen to you. It happened to me and Chris. I will talk about whatever I choose to talk about and any man who cannot handle conversations about reality is not a strong enough or dignified enough person to share my time. Death is a part of life. Truth is a part of love.
I elaborated to Marc that if one of my girlfriends had died, nobody would be telling me not to talk about her. Chris was my best friend. “Husband” is just a title.
Marc’s expression was one of thoughtful consideration and with a smile, he replied, “That’s why you married him. You wouldn’t have married him if he wasn’t your best friend.”
Where did he come from? He embodies kindness, patience, optimism, good humor and brilliance. Marc is not without his own grief, having lost his bother, sister and father. He understands that what I feel is normal.
How I feel about my loss isn’t of much consequence, since I cannot stop my heart from soaring whenever we’re together. I still have a ways to go before I can truly allow myself to fall in love, but he makes me happy. He’s a conversationalist, he’s pro time-alone, anti joined-at-the-hip, expressive and empathic and he sets me at ease.
I have only two more days to wait until I can sit safely enveloped within the embrace of Clay’s office and relay to him my reflections of the past two weeks.
How dare he take a vacation?
I am experiencing a lovely, lovely time with Marc. The time speeds by when we are together. Seven hours passed in a flash on Sunday. We shopped, dined, enjoyed Boston’s Back Bay area and talked about anything and everything.
I told him that I am not bothered, at all, talking about Chris but said he had to tell me if it bothered him to hear about Chris. The subject of my deceased husband did not bother him. He said my situation is unique, in that he is the man coming in and that it’s strange that the person who died was my husband.
I shared with him that there are a few people in my life who feel as though they have the right to bestow censorship upon me. “Don’t talk about Chris. Don’t talk about your husband. Don’t talk about your grief.” To those people, I say “It didn’t happen to you. It happened to me and Chris. I will talk about whatever I choose to talk about and any man who cannot handle conversations about reality is not a strong enough or dignified enough person to share my time. Death is a part of life. Truth is a part of love.
I elaborated to Marc that if one of my girlfriends had died, nobody would be telling me not to talk about her. Chris was my best friend. “Husband” is just a title.
Marc’s expression was one of thoughtful consideration and with a smile, he replied, “That’s why you married him. You wouldn’t have married him if he wasn’t your best friend.”
Where did he come from? He embodies kindness, patience, optimism, good humor and brilliance. Marc is not without his own grief, having lost his bother, sister and father. He understands that what I feel is normal.
How I feel about my loss isn’t of much consequence, since I cannot stop my heart from soaring whenever we’re together. I still have a ways to go before I can truly allow myself to fall in love, but he makes me happy. He’s a conversationalist, he’s pro time-alone, anti joined-at-the-hip, expressive and empathic and he sets me at ease.
I have only two more days to wait until I can sit safely enveloped within the embrace of Clay’s office and relay to him my reflections of the past two weeks.
How dare he take a vacation?
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Play-by-Play Grief
I feel different and I am afraid of it. I haven’t cried in a couple of days, which is quite remarkable and unlike me.
I miss Marc. I actually miss Marc, and I can feel an onslaught of guilt threatening to wash over me.
I look at Chris’ pictures with the same fondness and love I felt when he was alive and the same sadness since his illness and ultimate death.
And I look forward to seeing Marc.
I’m trying, Creej. I’m really trying.
I keep dreaming of loneliness and waking up feeling empty and sad.
And I feel so damned tired today.
Still, the weather is beautiful, the sun is shining, I’m pulling the chaos aound me into order and I am enjoying today’s solitude.
I miss Marc. I actually miss Marc, and I can feel an onslaught of guilt threatening to wash over me.
I look at Chris’ pictures with the same fondness and love I felt when he was alive and the same sadness since his illness and ultimate death.
And I look forward to seeing Marc.
I’m trying, Creej. I’m really trying.
I keep dreaming of loneliness and waking up feeling empty and sad.
And I feel so damned tired today.
Still, the weather is beautiful, the sun is shining, I’m pulling the chaos aound me into order and I am enjoying today’s solitude.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Howard’s New Beginning
Chris’ father, Howard, died today. He had been sick for a while and then in April, he was diagnosed with congestive heart failure and emphysema. The doctors gave him one day to six months to live and he died today, roughly five months later.
I’m glad I visited him and got to talk about Chris with him. I got to see him smile and laugh and I saw all of his love for Chris shining through the intense pain that he felt. Howard was a very sad and tired man. I believe he wanted to die because he missed Chris and just because he had a hard life and I’m sure he was tired.
I said it back in April and I’ll say it now. In some bizarre way, I’m envious of him. He got to leave this place. His time was up. Mine will be, too, someday and I’ll be ready to go, too.
I ran after work today to clear my head but I had to stop after four miles. I just didn’t have it in me. After hearing the news about Howard, I sustained an instant headache and became desperately tired. I ran anyway. I walked home the last mile and jumped in the shower. As I stood under the water, I thought to myself, “Chris won’t be around to guide us tonight. He and Howard are having a reunion.” I imagine that Chris was right there waiting for Howard as Howard arrived on the other side. I picture an embrace and a lot of catching up, a private party for father and son.
I just know Howard is happy now, just like Chris after he got to leave his body behind. They’re elated. I can feel it. We wil all see each other again.
I’m half expecting a message of some sort to be delivered to me in my dreams tonight, but that never happens when I’m expecting it.
I feel better tonight. Somehow, knowing that Chris is no longer alone, that he gets to be reunited with is father and imagining the euphoria they both must feel, I feel a little more capable of loosening my white-knuckled grip on...
Hmm...I still can’t call it “the past.”
Shneed
I’m glad I visited him and got to talk about Chris with him. I got to see him smile and laugh and I saw all of his love for Chris shining through the intense pain that he felt. Howard was a very sad and tired man. I believe he wanted to die because he missed Chris and just because he had a hard life and I’m sure he was tired.
I said it back in April and I’ll say it now. In some bizarre way, I’m envious of him. He got to leave this place. His time was up. Mine will be, too, someday and I’ll be ready to go, too.
I ran after work today to clear my head but I had to stop after four miles. I just didn’t have it in me. After hearing the news about Howard, I sustained an instant headache and became desperately tired. I ran anyway. I walked home the last mile and jumped in the shower. As I stood under the water, I thought to myself, “Chris won’t be around to guide us tonight. He and Howard are having a reunion.” I imagine that Chris was right there waiting for Howard as Howard arrived on the other side. I picture an embrace and a lot of catching up, a private party for father and son.
I just know Howard is happy now, just like Chris after he got to leave his body behind. They’re elated. I can feel it. We wil all see each other again.
I’m half expecting a message of some sort to be delivered to me in my dreams tonight, but that never happens when I’m expecting it.
I feel better tonight. Somehow, knowing that Chris is no longer alone, that he gets to be reunited with is father and imagining the euphoria they both must feel, I feel a little more capable of loosening my white-knuckled grip on...
Hmm...I still can’t call it “the past.”
Shneed
Tuesday, August 8, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, August 7, 2006
Touching Chris' Stuff
The other day when Marc was in my apartment he was trying to explain to me how to brake a bicycle chain. He looked around for something to help him demonstrate.
He picked up Chris’ guitar hand-strengthener and began to demonstrate. I felt a surge of panic seeing his hands touching something that belonged to Chris. I wasn’t ready, but I held my emotions in check.
Chris’ Aunt Renee gave me a beautiful wooden box in which I keep pictures of Chris . The top of the box is a picture frame which holds a photo from our wedding day of a close up of Chris and I kissing. I keep it on my coffee table. I meant to move it somewhere a little less noticeable before Marc came up, but I forgot. Just now, I noticed that it was moved onto the end table at the side of my couch. I didn’t move it. I think Marc did. I’m guessing he saw it and picked it up to look at it and put it down on the other table. Tonight, when I noticed it was moved, I had a small breakdown and held onto it, sobbing on the couch. I couldn’t stop. I’m freaked out about another man touching my Chris-stuff.
There are so many layers to grief. I hate all of them. I’m so afraid I’m going to make a wrong move and piss Marc off. I know that if that happens, he’s not the guy for me. It’s just a matter of trust. Sitting here and trying to guess what might happen would be a huge waste of time and energy. We live in a free country. If Marc wants to pick up one or two of my things that belonged to Chris, there’s really no law against it. The obvious solution is to hoard everything away in a secret place but I want to keep them out in the open. I really don’t know what the protocol is. There is no crime in Marc touching things. I was really happy that he was looking at the pictures of Chris and me that I have hanging on my walls. He even said, “Is that Chris?” and then he said, “And that must be your wedding day.” He complimented the crown of flowers I wore. I loved that he wasn’t afraid to ask me about or look at the pictures. Is it fair that I keep them up? I can’t take them down. The thought of putting them away makes me feel like vomiting.
Ouch. My neck hurts.
When I began crying, I headed straight for my bottle of Ativan, but I stopped myself before I got there. I don’t want to take drugs anymore to aid me in my battle against grief. I only want to take drugs for recreationall purposes. Ativan feels so much nicer when I start out happy than when I start out in a fit of tears. I finished my bottle of Zoloft and I’m not having it refilled. I’m done. No more antidepressants. They’re so 2005.
Anyway, despite the fact that Marc’s actions threw me into a grief/anxiety attack, he makes me very happy. I hope he stays.
He picked up Chris’ guitar hand-strengthener and began to demonstrate. I felt a surge of panic seeing his hands touching something that belonged to Chris. I wasn’t ready, but I held my emotions in check.
Chris’ Aunt Renee gave me a beautiful wooden box in which I keep pictures of Chris . The top of the box is a picture frame which holds a photo from our wedding day of a close up of Chris and I kissing. I keep it on my coffee table. I meant to move it somewhere a little less noticeable before Marc came up, but I forgot. Just now, I noticed that it was moved onto the end table at the side of my couch. I didn’t move it. I think Marc did. I’m guessing he saw it and picked it up to look at it and put it down on the other table. Tonight, when I noticed it was moved, I had a small breakdown and held onto it, sobbing on the couch. I couldn’t stop. I’m freaked out about another man touching my Chris-stuff.
There are so many layers to grief. I hate all of them. I’m so afraid I’m going to make a wrong move and piss Marc off. I know that if that happens, he’s not the guy for me. It’s just a matter of trust. Sitting here and trying to guess what might happen would be a huge waste of time and energy. We live in a free country. If Marc wants to pick up one or two of my things that belonged to Chris, there’s really no law against it. The obvious solution is to hoard everything away in a secret place but I want to keep them out in the open. I really don’t know what the protocol is. There is no crime in Marc touching things. I was really happy that he was looking at the pictures of Chris and me that I have hanging on my walls. He even said, “Is that Chris?” and then he said, “And that must be your wedding day.” He complimented the crown of flowers I wore. I loved that he wasn’t afraid to ask me about or look at the pictures. Is it fair that I keep them up? I can’t take them down. The thought of putting them away makes me feel like vomiting.
Ouch. My neck hurts.
When I began crying, I headed straight for my bottle of Ativan, but I stopped myself before I got there. I don’t want to take drugs anymore to aid me in my battle against grief. I only want to take drugs for recreationall purposes. Ativan feels so much nicer when I start out happy than when I start out in a fit of tears. I finished my bottle of Zoloft and I’m not having it refilled. I’m done. No more antidepressants. They’re so 2005.
Anyway, despite the fact that Marc’s actions threw me into a grief/anxiety attack, he makes me very happy. I hope he stays.
Sunday, August 6, 2006
Breathless
Tonight, I ran six miles after being sedentary for two and a half weeks. Tomorrow promises to bring intense leg pain.
Depression has a way with keeping me from moving. Today I woke up happy for the first time in about a month or so, give or take a few days.
I continue to experience flashes of panic when I am attacked the realization that Chris once lived and has not been with me for nineteen months. I still can’t believe it. I still can’t believe how ripped off we both were Our love was too young to have to be ended. Even though some very nice feelings toward Marc are forming within me, I am still deeply saddened and haunted by all that has transpired over the past three years.
I don’t want to forget him. I am horrified of forgetting who he was, the feeling of his body next to mine, what he looked like and how we were together. The thought of his memory fading from my mind is terrifying. I grapple to keep him close but I know that as the years pass I will have to place him somewhere within my heart and eventually images of his face will not come to mind as readily as they do now. I am too afraid of that reality to be able to cope effectively.
I feel damaged and I wonder if the feeling will follow me throughout my life. Hyperventilation has become a regular part of my life. Why do I still feel as though I am suffering low grade post-traumatic stress syndrome despite the fact that Clay feels that I am experiencing panic attacks? I don’t feel panicked. I just lose my breath when I get struck with memories of Chris’ illness. I sat helplessly by his side screaming silently from the deepest part of my core, wanting his pain and fear to stop, stop, STOP.
There is nothing more painful in this life than watching someone you love suffer helplessly from a disease that cannot be stopped.
Depression has a way with keeping me from moving. Today I woke up happy for the first time in about a month or so, give or take a few days.
I continue to experience flashes of panic when I am attacked the realization that Chris once lived and has not been with me for nineteen months. I still can’t believe it. I still can’t believe how ripped off we both were Our love was too young to have to be ended. Even though some very nice feelings toward Marc are forming within me, I am still deeply saddened and haunted by all that has transpired over the past three years.
I don’t want to forget him. I am horrified of forgetting who he was, the feeling of his body next to mine, what he looked like and how we were together. The thought of his memory fading from my mind is terrifying. I grapple to keep him close but I know that as the years pass I will have to place him somewhere within my heart and eventually images of his face will not come to mind as readily as they do now. I am too afraid of that reality to be able to cope effectively.
I feel damaged and I wonder if the feeling will follow me throughout my life. Hyperventilation has become a regular part of my life. Why do I still feel as though I am suffering low grade post-traumatic stress syndrome despite the fact that Clay feels that I am experiencing panic attacks? I don’t feel panicked. I just lose my breath when I get struck with memories of Chris’ illness. I sat helplessly by his side screaming silently from the deepest part of my core, wanting his pain and fear to stop, stop, STOP.
There is nothing more painful in this life than watching someone you love suffer helplessly from a disease that cannot be stopped.
Marc
Today, by his own request, Marc came over and fixed my bike for me. I had gotten a flat tire halfway through an 18-mile ride a few weeks back and Marc, an avid quite passionate cyclist, told me not to waste money taking my bike to a shop to have the tire fixed. Today, we drove to Davis Square, bought a new tube and some rim tape and he showed me how to change a tire.
When he finished, I told him how difficult it was for me to let a man do something for me, being the self-sufficient woman that I am. He said, “You did. You supported me. You held the bike up. You held the tire...and kept me company.” What a sweet man.
He came up to my apartment afterwards. Marc is the first man that has been in any of my homes since Chris died. I just couldn’t bear the thought of another man being in Chris’ space. Even though Chris never set foot in my new apartment, he is still the only man I would allow to occupy my living space up until today.
With a quick call to Carol, I obtained guidance and the approval I needed to feel secure in my decision to keep my pictures of Chris right where they are. He will always be a part of my life and I could never put him away in a closet. Chris does not belong hidden away like some filthy secret. He was my husband. I loved him then. I love him now.
I gave Marc the grand tour of my apartment and then he began walking around looking at all of my pictures. He said, “Is that him? Is that Chris?” when he noticed our wedding picture and I said, “Yes. That’s him.” He looked at it and mentioned my little hippie-flower wreath I wore in my hair that day, a homemade gift from Meira. He looked at a small collage of pictures of Chris, and me and Chris together and said, “Is that San Francisco?” I verfied that it was. I don’t know how the pictures made him feel, but he seemed very sweet about them and I liked his curiosity. I liked that he wasn’t afraid to talk to me about Chris. Somehow, he lowered my guard, which has been up for so, so long.
Marc is very much like Chris in so many ways. He is sweet, funny, easy-going, passionate, brilliant, kind and nice to me. His degree is in audio engineering and he worked for a radio station back in the day and wants to get back into it. He is a HUGE Red Sox fan and is so patient with explaining the game to me, much like Chris was. He loves good food, gets annoyed with the general stupidity of society and likes to be alone, away from life sometimes. He’s very, very nice.
I believe that Chris brought him to me. How else could I meet someone so much like him...so much like what I need back in my life. It’s like I lost my best friend in the world and that best friend sought out and found someone for me to be with and try to feel whole with again.
The other day I had e-mailed him telling him that my nerves were wreaking havoc and that I wanted him to know. He replied, asking me if it was something he did or said and I clarified that I was talking about my grief. I told him that I frequently become overwraught and that I just wanted to tell him so that I don’t have to pretend that I am not grieving. I thought it best to be honest with him so he’ll know.
Tonight, in the car, he brought up the e-mail and said he was glad that I wrote it. He said he understands grief (his sister, brother and father have all passed on). He told me he is not trying to put any pressure on me at all and that he has a really nice time with me everytime we go out and that he doesn’t mind taking things as slowly as I need or want things to go. I told him I also really enjoy his company.
Up until tonight, we had been very quickly kissing goodnight with a swift peck on the lips and a hug. Tonight, I kept kissing him. We kissed for a while and then I thanked him for everything and got out of the car.
I couldn’t go upstairs right away. I sat, looking at the stars, called Carol to tell her how smitten I was and how nice Marc is and now I’m writing this, considering watching a bit of tv and then drifting into sleep.
Tonight I am very happy. I am quite smitten with this man. I happy I met him and I’m happy with the way things are progressing. It felt good to kiss again.
And I am so thankful to Chris for watching over me and helping me.
And I miss him.
And I love him.
Shneed
When he finished, I told him how difficult it was for me to let a man do something for me, being the self-sufficient woman that I am. He said, “You did. You supported me. You held the bike up. You held the tire...and kept me company.” What a sweet man.
He came up to my apartment afterwards. Marc is the first man that has been in any of my homes since Chris died. I just couldn’t bear the thought of another man being in Chris’ space. Even though Chris never set foot in my new apartment, he is still the only man I would allow to occupy my living space up until today.
With a quick call to Carol, I obtained guidance and the approval I needed to feel secure in my decision to keep my pictures of Chris right where they are. He will always be a part of my life and I could never put him away in a closet. Chris does not belong hidden away like some filthy secret. He was my husband. I loved him then. I love him now.
I gave Marc the grand tour of my apartment and then he began walking around looking at all of my pictures. He said, “Is that him? Is that Chris?” when he noticed our wedding picture and I said, “Yes. That’s him.” He looked at it and mentioned my little hippie-flower wreath I wore in my hair that day, a homemade gift from Meira. He looked at a small collage of pictures of Chris, and me and Chris together and said, “Is that San Francisco?” I verfied that it was. I don’t know how the pictures made him feel, but he seemed very sweet about them and I liked his curiosity. I liked that he wasn’t afraid to talk to me about Chris. Somehow, he lowered my guard, which has been up for so, so long.
Marc is very much like Chris in so many ways. He is sweet, funny, easy-going, passionate, brilliant, kind and nice to me. His degree is in audio engineering and he worked for a radio station back in the day and wants to get back into it. He is a HUGE Red Sox fan and is so patient with explaining the game to me, much like Chris was. He loves good food, gets annoyed with the general stupidity of society and likes to be alone, away from life sometimes. He’s very, very nice.
I believe that Chris brought him to me. How else could I meet someone so much like him...so much like what I need back in my life. It’s like I lost my best friend in the world and that best friend sought out and found someone for me to be with and try to feel whole with again.
The other day I had e-mailed him telling him that my nerves were wreaking havoc and that I wanted him to know. He replied, asking me if it was something he did or said and I clarified that I was talking about my grief. I told him that I frequently become overwraught and that I just wanted to tell him so that I don’t have to pretend that I am not grieving. I thought it best to be honest with him so he’ll know.
Tonight, in the car, he brought up the e-mail and said he was glad that I wrote it. He said he understands grief (his sister, brother and father have all passed on). He told me he is not trying to put any pressure on me at all and that he has a really nice time with me everytime we go out and that he doesn’t mind taking things as slowly as I need or want things to go. I told him I also really enjoy his company.
Up until tonight, we had been very quickly kissing goodnight with a swift peck on the lips and a hug. Tonight, I kept kissing him. We kissed for a while and then I thanked him for everything and got out of the car.
I couldn’t go upstairs right away. I sat, looking at the stars, called Carol to tell her how smitten I was and how nice Marc is and now I’m writing this, considering watching a bit of tv and then drifting into sleep.
Tonight I am very happy. I am quite smitten with this man. I happy I met him and I’m happy with the way things are progressing. It felt good to kiss again.
And I am so thankful to Chris for watching over me and helping me.
And I miss him.
And I love him.
Shneed
Friday, August 4, 2006
Better
Last evening, I brought the DVD of our wedding day and my laptop to Clay so he could see Chris in motion. For the first time, I watched the video from beginning to end without shedding a tear. Just last week, I could barely catch my breath and I was hard-pressed to peel myself off of my living room floor for the duration of the ceremony.
Clay liked it. He thanked me for bringing it and he commented on Chris’ quirky sense of humor and how good looking he was. Clay kept saying “is”, though.
Is this another shift in the tide? I feel as though I have admitted something to myself with the act of showing Chris to Clay. Something within me feels different. Have I admitted to myself, by playing the DVD for Clay, that Chris is gone. Who knows? Every time I think I make strides, I find that strides come complete with setbacks. And setbacks were two for the price of one last week.
I feel better, partially because I had a wonderful rehearsal Wednesday night but also partially because I disclosed to Marc that I am still grieving and that one of my fears is that people will expect me to have stopped by now. He was completely understanding and today, for the first time since I have known him, I felt the most minute, barely noticeable fraction of a smouldering spark somewhere very, very, very deep beneath the surface of anything I could possibly reach within me. It might have been a spark of trust.
I feel as though I honored Chris by sharing him.
Clay liked it. He thanked me for bringing it and he commented on Chris’ quirky sense of humor and how good looking he was. Clay kept saying “is”, though.
Is this another shift in the tide? I feel as though I have admitted something to myself with the act of showing Chris to Clay. Something within me feels different. Have I admitted to myself, by playing the DVD for Clay, that Chris is gone. Who knows? Every time I think I make strides, I find that strides come complete with setbacks. And setbacks were two for the price of one last week.
I feel better, partially because I had a wonderful rehearsal Wednesday night but also partially because I disclosed to Marc that I am still grieving and that one of my fears is that people will expect me to have stopped by now. He was completely understanding and today, for the first time since I have known him, I felt the most minute, barely noticeable fraction of a smouldering spark somewhere very, very, very deep beneath the surface of anything I could possibly reach within me. It might have been a spark of trust.
I feel as though I honored Chris by sharing him.
Wednesday, August 2, 2006
Good Things Amidst a Sea of Grief
I just got home from rehearsal and I’m not in the mood to go straight to bed, so I’m taking the time I need to unwind. I’m guessing I’ll be hitting the hay at around midnight and that is just fine with me because I know I’m having Thai food tomorrow night and that’s all I really need to know in order to chase away my fear of being tired tomorrow.
I love my director and his husband. They’re very nice, good people. They don’t know how much they have helped me heal just by casting me in their show these past two seasons. Singing is the most therapeutical activity I have ever known. No matter how rough things can get in my life and in my mind, when I’m singing a song and being in each moment of that story, grief ceases to exist completely. I needed the break tonight.
There’s a duet from the musical “Miss Saigon” that one of my co-singers wanted to perform with me. We tried it this evening. I didn’t tell anyone, but I could never sing that song because it is much too painful for me. Coincidentally, the man they are singing about is named Chris. That, alone, is too much for me to bear. The lyrics are:
I still believe you will return.
I know you will.
My heart against all odds holds still.
love cannot die.
You will return, you will return,
and I alone know why...
I still believe the time will come
when nothing keeps us apart.
My heart forever more holds still.
It's all over I'm here, there is nothing to fear!
Chris, what's haunting you?
Won't you let me inside
what you so want to hide.
I need you too!
I will Hold you all night
I will make it all right
You are safe with me
You can sleep now
I'll Live...I'll live
You can cry now
You will return
I'm your wife now
For life
It took every ounce of concentration I had not to cry right there at the piano. I felt panic rising in my chest and I just wished Rob would stop playing. I stood there grinding my teeth, waiting for the song to end. I told him I didn’t like it and didn’t want to sing it.
After rehearsal, I was chitchatting with the two of them and I told them about Marc. They were both so happy for me. They’re so sweet. I felt really warm and really safe sitting there sharing part of my life with them.
When I got home from work today, I immediately turned on the air conditioners and went to my room, turned on the fan and sat in front of it. I glanced over at my night stand where my picture of Chris sits. I snapped the picture the last time Chris and I went to Venice Beach before we moved home from Los Angeles. We were happy that day. He looked good. He looked healthy. Neither of us knew that cancer was growing within him even as we enjoyed our cheeseburgers and walked the boardwalk together. Neither of us knew we wouldn’t get to spend our lives together.
I took the picture in my hand and sat there on the edge of my bed with the fan blowing me cool and once again, lost control of myself as I sobbed, hugging the photo against my chest. I just have to accept that I’m not in control for now. Grief has me in it’s jaws. I am completely at its mercy until I’m not anymore. That’s the story.
I sent Marc a quick e-mail the other day. At the end of the note, I informed him that my nerves have been wreaking havoc lately. We have since corresponded and I clarified that I am actively grieving and that I just wanted him to know. I don’t know what he will say to that. Maybe I have scared him off. I feel better since I put it out there, though. Telling him was like releasing the valve on a pressure cooker. It helped me. I guess I’ll find out if he ever wants to see me again. The poor guy doesn’t know what he’s getting into. I don’t even know what I’m getting into.
He knows grief. He knows death. I’m hoping he will understand. I like him.
Time will tell.
I wish Chris could see me now. I’m singing with a fabulous group. I’m singing in a documentary. I’m singing with my university symphony orchestra. My friend just offered me a job singing in a church, stating that the door to singing at wedding services will probably open. I’m getting paid to sing. He would have liked that.
But I did it all after he died.
Maybe he sees.
I love my director and his husband. They’re very nice, good people. They don’t know how much they have helped me heal just by casting me in their show these past two seasons. Singing is the most therapeutical activity I have ever known. No matter how rough things can get in my life and in my mind, when I’m singing a song and being in each moment of that story, grief ceases to exist completely. I needed the break tonight.
There’s a duet from the musical “Miss Saigon” that one of my co-singers wanted to perform with me. We tried it this evening. I didn’t tell anyone, but I could never sing that song because it is much too painful for me. Coincidentally, the man they are singing about is named Chris. That, alone, is too much for me to bear. The lyrics are:
I still believe you will return.
I know you will.
My heart against all odds holds still.
love cannot die.
You will return, you will return,
and I alone know why...
I still believe the time will come
when nothing keeps us apart.
My heart forever more holds still.
It's all over I'm here, there is nothing to fear!
Chris, what's haunting you?
Won't you let me inside
what you so want to hide.
I need you too!
I will Hold you all night
I will make it all right
You are safe with me
You can sleep now
I'll Live...I'll live
You can cry now
You will return
I'm your wife now
For life
It took every ounce of concentration I had not to cry right there at the piano. I felt panic rising in my chest and I just wished Rob would stop playing. I stood there grinding my teeth, waiting for the song to end. I told him I didn’t like it and didn’t want to sing it.
After rehearsal, I was chitchatting with the two of them and I told them about Marc. They were both so happy for me. They’re so sweet. I felt really warm and really safe sitting there sharing part of my life with them.
When I got home from work today, I immediately turned on the air conditioners and went to my room, turned on the fan and sat in front of it. I glanced over at my night stand where my picture of Chris sits. I snapped the picture the last time Chris and I went to Venice Beach before we moved home from Los Angeles. We were happy that day. He looked good. He looked healthy. Neither of us knew that cancer was growing within him even as we enjoyed our cheeseburgers and walked the boardwalk together. Neither of us knew we wouldn’t get to spend our lives together.
I took the picture in my hand and sat there on the edge of my bed with the fan blowing me cool and once again, lost control of myself as I sobbed, hugging the photo against my chest. I just have to accept that I’m not in control for now. Grief has me in it’s jaws. I am completely at its mercy until I’m not anymore. That’s the story.
I sent Marc a quick e-mail the other day. At the end of the note, I informed him that my nerves have been wreaking havoc lately. We have since corresponded and I clarified that I am actively grieving and that I just wanted him to know. I don’t know what he will say to that. Maybe I have scared him off. I feel better since I put it out there, though. Telling him was like releasing the valve on a pressure cooker. It helped me. I guess I’ll find out if he ever wants to see me again. The poor guy doesn’t know what he’s getting into. I don’t even know what I’m getting into.
He knows grief. He knows death. I’m hoping he will understand. I like him.
Time will tell.
I wish Chris could see me now. I’m singing with a fabulous group. I’m singing in a documentary. I’m singing with my university symphony orchestra. My friend just offered me a job singing in a church, stating that the door to singing at wedding services will probably open. I’m getting paid to sing. He would have liked that.
But I did it all after he died.
Maybe he sees.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Relearning and Old Lesson
Today, I had a “psychic" reading done in Salem, MA, even after submitting the following answer to a question posed by my Psychology professor not more than three weeks ago.
Q: Describe your understanding of and beliefs about ESP and other paranormal phenomena. For example, are you more or less inclined to believe that phenomena such as telepathy exist?
A: My fascination with extra sensory perception has waned quite a bit in the past decade as my suspicion has grown to occupy a more prominent part of my reasoning.
I used to visit a self-proclaimed "psychic" periodically, mostly for fun and the thrill of dancing with the unknown. This woman read my tarot cards and always seemed dead-on with her interpretations of the occurrences in my life as well as my emotions.
When I was in my twenties my astonishment was overwhelming. The experience of having a person who did not know me tell me what had happened in my life during the past year and how I was feeling about it was more magical than a David Copperfield illusion. I was astounded by what this "psychic" knew about me. I didn’t tell her at thing…or did I? Whatever I may have told her, I conveniently shelved in the name of believing.
Having exited that decade and finding myself now standing on the cusp of my fourth decade of life my opinion about ESP, clairvoyance and precognition have become tarnished (or scrubbed) with cynicism.
Thinking back, I now realize that the “psychic” told me nothing specific about my life and anybody who looks at me long enough can read my emotions like a book. Beyond that, she never predicted anything about my future. She only told me what had already happened and what I was feeling. I was young and impressionable and easily absorbed and accepted every word as the truth. I wanted her to be real. I wanted to be able to do what she did. I wanted to think somebody could see into my soul and my life and my past.
Presently, the aspects of the paranormal that I am unsure about (in a positive way) are past lives, reincarnation and the place behind the veil. My personal experience has made denying the existence of such phenomena extremely difficult for me. I have a tendency toward believing there is a place human beings go after their time on earth where they can see, guide and help the loved ones they have left behind and where they rejoin with loved ones who had previously left them behind. I also feel as though we can sometimes be visited by our deceased loved ones through dreams, other living human beings and our own thoughts.
I am ashamed of myself. I feel like I made an impulsive choice and that choice cost me $60.00 I could have used for a better purpose. I am very angry with myself for wanting to have a "psychic" reading when I knew damn well that I already believed it was all crap. Grrrrrr.
I told the "psychic" I wanted to know about my best friend. I didn’t tell him that this best friend I wanted to contact was actually my deceased husband. I thought if he was a true "psychic", he would have been able to “see” that.
He shuffled the tarot cards, had me pull seven of them out of the deck and began asking me questions.
"psychic": Is your friend very tall, like 6’1”?
me: No.
"psychic": Does he have light brown hair?
me. No.
"psychic": Is he 5’10” ?
me: No.
"psychic": Describe him to me.
me: Dark hair.
"psychic": And dark brown eyes.
me: Yeah.
"psychic": Do you want to sleep with him? You want more than you have with him? Does he want to sleep with you?
me: He’s actually no longer “with us.”
"psychic": Oh. (sweeps up the tarot cards and takes both of my hands in his and begins chanting “This is a full "psychic" reading.”) Were you married to him?
me: Yes.
"psychic": Now, did he die suddenly or was the progression a slow one?
me: Slow.
From this point on, the "psychic" lectured me on aspects of love and aspects of grief, never getting back to channeling Chris or predicting anything about my life. I was exhausted and bored and I kept looking at him like he was full of shit. I know he knew I didn’t believe a word he was saying, but he still won. When I left, he was $60 richer and I was out 60 bucks.
I feel dumb. This was a dumb thing to do. I already knew I was a skeptic but I went ahead anyway. Oh well. Now I know and as I stated earlier, “Grrrrrr.”
Chris would not be happy with me for blowing the money. I feel guilty and I feel stupid. I won’t be going to anymore "psychic"s although past life regressions aren’t out of the question.
I have had a very busy two days. I went to Hadley to visit Bonnie, my mother-in-law and Chris’ mother on Friday. After that, I came home and went to sleep. Saturday, I got up at 7:30am and didn’t stop running until 11:30pm. I have a house guest who arrived Saturday night and will be staying possible through tomorrow. My grief is suppressed until I get into bed and break down tonight.
It’s really hard when I can’t just burst into tears. I need to be alone a lot and if I don’t get enough time to just grieve my loss, things in my life become chaotic. I need to cry.
I can’t believe I was sitting around with three friends this evening talking about dating. This was never supposed to be my life. I already got married. It was supposed to last. I was never supposed to be in this position again. I liked my life with Chris. It was my life. I finally found what I had been searching for my entire life. He was here. He was next to me. He was with me. How did this happen? How is it possible that I’m sitting around talking about dates? I hate it. I hate it.
I keep finding myself in a perpetual state of shock as I realize he’s dead and wish he wasn’t and think he’s in contact with me and realize that even if that’s true, it doesn’t make him alive and it doesn’t bring him back and he’s not coming back. This is permanent, not temporary. He’s gone. I lost him. He’s not coming back.
After our readings, we visited a friend who is happily married and has an 11 month old baby boy. She and her husband are cute together. They bought a gorgeous condo together. They live in a lovely part of town. They’re happy. They have each other. It seems to me that I am the only fool who used to be married and is now alone. I feel so stupid.
Why can’t I stop searching for him? I need him so much.
Everything hurts. My skin hurts. My follicles hurt. I’m willingly, yet reluctantly dating.
And I am still lost without him.
Q: Describe your understanding of and beliefs about ESP and other paranormal phenomena. For example, are you more or less inclined to believe that phenomena such as telepathy exist?
A: My fascination with extra sensory perception has waned quite a bit in the past decade as my suspicion has grown to occupy a more prominent part of my reasoning.
I used to visit a self-proclaimed "psychic" periodically, mostly for fun and the thrill of dancing with the unknown. This woman read my tarot cards and always seemed dead-on with her interpretations of the occurrences in my life as well as my emotions.
When I was in my twenties my astonishment was overwhelming. The experience of having a person who did not know me tell me what had happened in my life during the past year and how I was feeling about it was more magical than a David Copperfield illusion. I was astounded by what this "psychic" knew about me. I didn’t tell her at thing…or did I? Whatever I may have told her, I conveniently shelved in the name of believing.
Having exited that decade and finding myself now standing on the cusp of my fourth decade of life my opinion about ESP, clairvoyance and precognition have become tarnished (or scrubbed) with cynicism.
Thinking back, I now realize that the “psychic” told me nothing specific about my life and anybody who looks at me long enough can read my emotions like a book. Beyond that, she never predicted anything about my future. She only told me what had already happened and what I was feeling. I was young and impressionable and easily absorbed and accepted every word as the truth. I wanted her to be real. I wanted to be able to do what she did. I wanted to think somebody could see into my soul and my life and my past.
Presently, the aspects of the paranormal that I am unsure about (in a positive way) are past lives, reincarnation and the place behind the veil. My personal experience has made denying the existence of such phenomena extremely difficult for me. I have a tendency toward believing there is a place human beings go after their time on earth where they can see, guide and help the loved ones they have left behind and where they rejoin with loved ones who had previously left them behind. I also feel as though we can sometimes be visited by our deceased loved ones through dreams, other living human beings and our own thoughts.
I am ashamed of myself. I feel like I made an impulsive choice and that choice cost me $60.00 I could have used for a better purpose. I am very angry with myself for wanting to have a "psychic" reading when I knew damn well that I already believed it was all crap. Grrrrrr.
I told the "psychic" I wanted to know about my best friend. I didn’t tell him that this best friend I wanted to contact was actually my deceased husband. I thought if he was a true "psychic", he would have been able to “see” that.
He shuffled the tarot cards, had me pull seven of them out of the deck and began asking me questions.
"psychic": Is your friend very tall, like 6’1”?
me: No.
"psychic": Does he have light brown hair?
me. No.
"psychic": Is he 5’10” ?
me: No.
"psychic": Describe him to me.
me: Dark hair.
"psychic": And dark brown eyes.
me: Yeah.
"psychic": Do you want to sleep with him? You want more than you have with him? Does he want to sleep with you?
me: He’s actually no longer “with us.”
"psychic": Oh. (sweeps up the tarot cards and takes both of my hands in his and begins chanting “This is a full "psychic" reading.”) Were you married to him?
me: Yes.
"psychic": Now, did he die suddenly or was the progression a slow one?
me: Slow.
From this point on, the "psychic" lectured me on aspects of love and aspects of grief, never getting back to channeling Chris or predicting anything about my life. I was exhausted and bored and I kept looking at him like he was full of shit. I know he knew I didn’t believe a word he was saying, but he still won. When I left, he was $60 richer and I was out 60 bucks.
I feel dumb. This was a dumb thing to do. I already knew I was a skeptic but I went ahead anyway. Oh well. Now I know and as I stated earlier, “Grrrrrr.”
Chris would not be happy with me for blowing the money. I feel guilty and I feel stupid. I won’t be going to anymore "psychic"s although past life regressions aren’t out of the question.
I have had a very busy two days. I went to Hadley to visit Bonnie, my mother-in-law and Chris’ mother on Friday. After that, I came home and went to sleep. Saturday, I got up at 7:30am and didn’t stop running until 11:30pm. I have a house guest who arrived Saturday night and will be staying possible through tomorrow. My grief is suppressed until I get into bed and break down tonight.
It’s really hard when I can’t just burst into tears. I need to be alone a lot and if I don’t get enough time to just grieve my loss, things in my life become chaotic. I need to cry.
I can’t believe I was sitting around with three friends this evening talking about dating. This was never supposed to be my life. I already got married. It was supposed to last. I was never supposed to be in this position again. I liked my life with Chris. It was my life. I finally found what I had been searching for my entire life. He was here. He was next to me. He was with me. How did this happen? How is it possible that I’m sitting around talking about dates? I hate it. I hate it.
I keep finding myself in a perpetual state of shock as I realize he’s dead and wish he wasn’t and think he’s in contact with me and realize that even if that’s true, it doesn’t make him alive and it doesn’t bring him back and he’s not coming back. This is permanent, not temporary. He’s gone. I lost him. He’s not coming back.
After our readings, we visited a friend who is happily married and has an 11 month old baby boy. She and her husband are cute together. They bought a gorgeous condo together. They live in a lovely part of town. They’re happy. They have each other. It seems to me that I am the only fool who used to be married and is now alone. I feel so stupid.
Why can’t I stop searching for him? I need him so much.
Everything hurts. My skin hurts. My follicles hurt. I’m willingly, yet reluctantly dating.
And I am still lost without him.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Bargaining up the Wrong Tree
I loved Chris with everything I had in me. I loved him and I miss him every day of my life. I think about the times we spent together and the style in which we interacted. His sense of humor was beautiful and unique, offbeat, quirky and it matched my own sense of humor completely. I don’t know how to go forward always thinking that whatever love I find in my life will be less than that. Less loving. Less beautiful. Less funny. Less.
A few weeks ago, I told Clay that I had been angry with him and that I didn’t know why. As far as I could tell, I just targeted him because he’s the therapist and he has to deal with everything I do and say and that’s just too bad. I realized the reason for my anger this past week.
Somewhere deep inside of me, I still feel like Chris’ absence is temporary, like he’s going to come back eventually and then we can resume our life together. The thought is not a conscious one, rather more of a feeling.
Since I have been seeing Clay, I have been thinking that if I’m good, and I come every week and try to sort through my feelings, that then I can have Chris back. Furthermore, I have been feeling as though Clay has the power to give him back to me and each week that didn’t happen, I became angry with him for not doing it. It sounds absurd, but as I mentioned, the thought has not been on a conscious level. I think my behavior fits nicely into the “bargaining” stage of grief. Clay won't give Chris back to me because Clay's power does not lie within the ability to ressurrect the dead, but in the ability to help ressurrect the spirits of the living who have been left behind by the dead. In silently begging Clay to give him back, I'm afraid I have been bargaining up the wrong tree.
If there was a person who had the power to give Chris back to me but wouldn’t, I would fight that person to the death. I would punch, kick, claw and pummel until there was nothing left between me and Chris and then I would pick Chris up and run with him until we reached a safe place where I could nurse him back to health until he was strong enough to help himself. And nobody would ever take him away from me again.
I wish it was that easy. I have a big problem. I want to spend the rest of my life with a man who died, but instead I’m going on a third date with Marc, who’s very nice and who is about to find out about the grief I have been experiencing because I am going to tell him about it. He already knows my husband died and he knows when and he knows the story. In order to let him in a little, I think it’s fair to tell him about what it’s like for me and how guilty I feel and just how hard coping has been for me.
Try as I might, I can’t bring myself to tell him I don’t want to see him anymore. I do want to. Even if every date sends me into the eye of a grief-storm for the better part of the week to follow.
A few weeks ago, I told Clay that I had been angry with him and that I didn’t know why. As far as I could tell, I just targeted him because he’s the therapist and he has to deal with everything I do and say and that’s just too bad. I realized the reason for my anger this past week.
Somewhere deep inside of me, I still feel like Chris’ absence is temporary, like he’s going to come back eventually and then we can resume our life together. The thought is not a conscious one, rather more of a feeling.
Since I have been seeing Clay, I have been thinking that if I’m good, and I come every week and try to sort through my feelings, that then I can have Chris back. Furthermore, I have been feeling as though Clay has the power to give him back to me and each week that didn’t happen, I became angry with him for not doing it. It sounds absurd, but as I mentioned, the thought has not been on a conscious level. I think my behavior fits nicely into the “bargaining” stage of grief. Clay won't give Chris back to me because Clay's power does not lie within the ability to ressurrect the dead, but in the ability to help ressurrect the spirits of the living who have been left behind by the dead. In silently begging Clay to give him back, I'm afraid I have been bargaining up the wrong tree.
If there was a person who had the power to give Chris back to me but wouldn’t, I would fight that person to the death. I would punch, kick, claw and pummel until there was nothing left between me and Chris and then I would pick Chris up and run with him until we reached a safe place where I could nurse him back to health until he was strong enough to help himself. And nobody would ever take him away from me again.
I wish it was that easy. I have a big problem. I want to spend the rest of my life with a man who died, but instead I’m going on a third date with Marc, who’s very nice and who is about to find out about the grief I have been experiencing because I am going to tell him about it. He already knows my husband died and he knows when and he knows the story. In order to let him in a little, I think it’s fair to tell him about what it’s like for me and how guilty I feel and just how hard coping has been for me.
Try as I might, I can’t bring myself to tell him I don’t want to see him anymore. I do want to. Even if every date sends me into the eye of a grief-storm for the better part of the week to follow.
Monday, July 24, 2006
A Sweet Daydream
I am aware that I have not been drinking enough water and since I like to run, I suppose I am at risk for dehydration if I do not start hydrating myself on a regular basis.
Relaxing on my sofa, a glass of water by my side, I began to daydream about dehydration. I daydreamed myself into the hospital, resting in a hospital bed.
I open my eyes and see Chris sitting by the bed. He says, “You might die. We haven’t decided, yet.” I say to him, “I wanna die.” and he smiles, shrugs his shoulders and replies, “Aw, thanks, Shneed.” I smile at him and close my eyes.
(White Out)
Relaxing on my sofa, a glass of water by my side, I began to daydream about dehydration. I daydreamed myself into the hospital, resting in a hospital bed.
I open my eyes and see Chris sitting by the bed. He says, “You might die. We haven’t decided, yet.” I say to him, “I wanna die.” and he smiles, shrugs his shoulders and replies, “Aw, thanks, Shneed.” I smile at him and close my eyes.
(White Out)
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Tsunami
I guess I have been feeling overwhelmed this weekend. Initially, I thought the source of my anxiety was my final exam, but now that the end of the day has come and gone, I realize that I have been running, running, running away from my grief since Friday evening just barely managing to stay one step ahead of an explosion.
Grief is like a volcano, sometimes quiet and cool and sometimes fiery and explosive, spewing molten lava and burning everything in it’s path. During the quiet times, it’s hard to imagine that an eruption will ever occur and imagining an upcoming episode or remembering a prior eruption is never quite as intense as when I find myself in the throes of a new one.
Friday night I went to a jazz concert. Saturday I went to a friend’s house and then to a voice lesson. I began to wander, aimlessly, after that but intercepted my thoughts of shopping with thoughts and the accrual of a delicious super sized carnitas burrito which I chased down with a bunch of watermelon. Running around and eating usually stave off the grief for a while until I can no longer contain myself. Right after that I took a Tylenol PM, watched the Fugitive and fell asleep. This morning, I cleaned, went to a meeting, shopped, washed laundry, visited my sister, went food shopping and finally came home.
In between all of that stuff, I found the time to snap at one of my closest friends. I struck like a cobra, unleashing my pent up rage all over him. I felt awful. I was venomous. I was angry. It wasn’t his fault. I called and left a voicemail apologizing to him and when I hung up the phone, all of the gurgling, toxic grief finally came bursting out.
I sat at my vanity, my spirit collapsing as it sometimes does, burying my head in my folded up arms and sobbed uncontrollably. Sometimes I feel small in the midst of my grief. My heart ached, my head ached and I sat for as long as I needed to, allowing sadness to take over. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. Existing hurt.
I came out into the living room, inserted our wedding DVD into the player and watched us for the first time since the one-year mark. Seeing us happily wed destroyed me. Sometimes I can’t understand or believe what happened. He was 34. How could this have happened? I was happy. We were happy. None of it is fair.
When I was finished, I felt very tired. But I felt better. I visited my sister for a while, went food shopping with another friend and swallowed an Ativan to squish down the second onslaught of grief that threatened to resurface.
I need to remind myself that grief is turbulent. It’s a bucking bronco, throwing me and stomping on me until I’m writhing around on the ground trying to avoid getting crushed. It bats me around like a feline bats a trapped mouse around.
That’s what grief does.
I’m tired. I’m shaky. I’m afraid it will come again. It will come again. There’s no doubt.
Marc invited me out this evening but I declined. I was in no frame of mind to think about my future. I was buried in my past and that’s exactly where I wanted to be today.
Grief is like a volcano, sometimes quiet and cool and sometimes fiery and explosive, spewing molten lava and burning everything in it’s path. During the quiet times, it’s hard to imagine that an eruption will ever occur and imagining an upcoming episode or remembering a prior eruption is never quite as intense as when I find myself in the throes of a new one.
Friday night I went to a jazz concert. Saturday I went to a friend’s house and then to a voice lesson. I began to wander, aimlessly, after that but intercepted my thoughts of shopping with thoughts and the accrual of a delicious super sized carnitas burrito which I chased down with a bunch of watermelon. Running around and eating usually stave off the grief for a while until I can no longer contain myself. Right after that I took a Tylenol PM, watched the Fugitive and fell asleep. This morning, I cleaned, went to a meeting, shopped, washed laundry, visited my sister, went food shopping and finally came home.
In between all of that stuff, I found the time to snap at one of my closest friends. I struck like a cobra, unleashing my pent up rage all over him. I felt awful. I was venomous. I was angry. It wasn’t his fault. I called and left a voicemail apologizing to him and when I hung up the phone, all of the gurgling, toxic grief finally came bursting out.
I sat at my vanity, my spirit collapsing as it sometimes does, burying my head in my folded up arms and sobbed uncontrollably. Sometimes I feel small in the midst of my grief. My heart ached, my head ached and I sat for as long as I needed to, allowing sadness to take over. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. Existing hurt.
I came out into the living room, inserted our wedding DVD into the player and watched us for the first time since the one-year mark. Seeing us happily wed destroyed me. Sometimes I can’t understand or believe what happened. He was 34. How could this have happened? I was happy. We were happy. None of it is fair.
When I was finished, I felt very tired. But I felt better. I visited my sister for a while, went food shopping with another friend and swallowed an Ativan to squish down the second onslaught of grief that threatened to resurface.
I need to remind myself that grief is turbulent. It’s a bucking bronco, throwing me and stomping on me until I’m writhing around on the ground trying to avoid getting crushed. It bats me around like a feline bats a trapped mouse around.
That’s what grief does.
I’m tired. I’m shaky. I’m afraid it will come again. It will come again. There’s no doubt.
Marc invited me out this evening but I declined. I was in no frame of mind to think about my future. I was buried in my past and that’s exactly where I wanted to be today.
Fugitive Heart-String
Last night I watched “The Fugitive” starring Harrison Ford and Tommy Lee Jones. Chris used to say “That’s a GREAT movie.”
I lay on my back on the sofa with pillows under my head and closed my eyes, opening them for the parts that got my attention. I daydreamed, quietly crying in between scenes.
I wished Chris was there watching the movie with me. In the flash of a second, I even though about calling him up to let him know it was on. I yearned to open my eyes and see him sitting at the other end of the couch smiling at me.
When I could no longer keep myself awake (or half-awake) I turned off the television, blew out my candles and headed into my bedroom where I fired up the other tv to the same channel. I half-watched the rest of the film and when it ended, a voice announced that another showing of the movie was coming right up. I felt comforted. I needed it to be on. I needed to feel Chris.
With the help of a Tylenol PM, and since I can’t seem to fall asleep on my own these days, I drifted into slumber. I dreamed that Chris was standing before me in his black pants and T-shirt. I extended my arms way overhead, stepped close to him and brought them down, wrapping them around his neck just as I always did. We stood there embracing and Creej said, “It’s gone, Shneed. It’s gone.” , meaning his cancer.
I still feel comforted, and I feel as though our hearts are connected across the veil by a single, eternal heart-string.
I lay on my back on the sofa with pillows under my head and closed my eyes, opening them for the parts that got my attention. I daydreamed, quietly crying in between scenes.
I wished Chris was there watching the movie with me. In the flash of a second, I even though about calling him up to let him know it was on. I yearned to open my eyes and see him sitting at the other end of the couch smiling at me.
When I could no longer keep myself awake (or half-awake) I turned off the television, blew out my candles and headed into my bedroom where I fired up the other tv to the same channel. I half-watched the rest of the film and when it ended, a voice announced that another showing of the movie was coming right up. I felt comforted. I needed it to be on. I needed to feel Chris.
With the help of a Tylenol PM, and since I can’t seem to fall asleep on my own these days, I drifted into slumber. I dreamed that Chris was standing before me in his black pants and T-shirt. I extended my arms way overhead, stepped close to him and brought them down, wrapping them around his neck just as I always did. We stood there embracing and Creej said, “It’s gone, Shneed. It’s gone.” , meaning his cancer.
I still feel comforted, and I feel as though our hearts are connected across the veil by a single, eternal heart-string.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
All work and no play...(You know the rest.)
I was going to stay in last night after work since I have a psychology final exam this Monday evening. None of my friends were around and I finally succumbed to the thought that I would sit home, study a little, grieve a lot and then go to sleep.
Instead, I went to see my friend perform at a Thai food restaurant in Salem. One of my friends was there, so we enjoyed dinner and wine and fun music. I’m glad I went.
Today, my plan was to stay in all day and study for my exam and then go to my voice lesson at 4:00. It’s a good plan. However, one of my friends invited me over before my lesson to have coffee. I gave him a solid, stern, “No.” and we hung up. The moment I put my phone down, I picked it back up, called him back, and said I would come over at 2:00. Go me. Way to flip responsibility the bird.
I have just opened up my laptop to begin studying, but as you can see, I began writing this instead. Is there no hope for me?
I’m ready to give barbeque-guy a name. His name is Marc. Saying it feels good. Even though every one of our dates has been followed up with an overwhelming, crushing grief setback, once the dust settles, I feel good about him. I’m still scared. I’m still sad. But I like knowing he’s around. We don’t talk too much at this point. We each have our very busy separate lives. That’s a good thing because if I had met someone who was all about pushing things forward too fast, this could all be too much for me. This almost-no-pace-at-all is exactly what I need.
I had invited him to come with me last night earlier in the week and he didn’t call to answer me either way. I didn’t mind. I just figured he didn’t want to come. Then last night, he called me up and sincerely apologized for not calling me. His week went by so fast that he finally looked at the e-mail again and realized that last night was the night. I didn’t mind. It’s okay if he didn’t want to come. He’s stressed out about his time and I don’t mind that, either. Building trust is about accepting those things about others . If that’s who he is, then that’s who I have met and I just want to begin building trust and letting him know that it’s all okay.
We get along nicely. He reminds of Chris in a lot of ways. Good ways. Even his time-neurosis, although with Chris it was a money-neurosis. He has personal interests. So do I. So did Chris.
Anyway...Introducing.....Marc.
I just hope Chris is holding my hand through this. I really need him to.
Shneed.
Instead, I went to see my friend perform at a Thai food restaurant in Salem. One of my friends was there, so we enjoyed dinner and wine and fun music. I’m glad I went.
Today, my plan was to stay in all day and study for my exam and then go to my voice lesson at 4:00. It’s a good plan. However, one of my friends invited me over before my lesson to have coffee. I gave him a solid, stern, “No.” and we hung up. The moment I put my phone down, I picked it back up, called him back, and said I would come over at 2:00. Go me. Way to flip responsibility the bird.
I have just opened up my laptop to begin studying, but as you can see, I began writing this instead. Is there no hope for me?
I’m ready to give barbeque-guy a name. His name is Marc. Saying it feels good. Even though every one of our dates has been followed up with an overwhelming, crushing grief setback, once the dust settles, I feel good about him. I’m still scared. I’m still sad. But I like knowing he’s around. We don’t talk too much at this point. We each have our very busy separate lives. That’s a good thing because if I had met someone who was all about pushing things forward too fast, this could all be too much for me. This almost-no-pace-at-all is exactly what I need.
I had invited him to come with me last night earlier in the week and he didn’t call to answer me either way. I didn’t mind. I just figured he didn’t want to come. Then last night, he called me up and sincerely apologized for not calling me. His week went by so fast that he finally looked at the e-mail again and realized that last night was the night. I didn’t mind. It’s okay if he didn’t want to come. He’s stressed out about his time and I don’t mind that, either. Building trust is about accepting those things about others . If that’s who he is, then that’s who I have met and I just want to begin building trust and letting him know that it’s all okay.
We get along nicely. He reminds of Chris in a lot of ways. Good ways. Even his time-neurosis, although with Chris it was a money-neurosis. He has personal interests. So do I. So did Chris.
Anyway...Introducing.....Marc.
I just hope Chris is holding my hand through this. I really need him to.
Shneed.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Feeling Better
A friend of mine who lost both parents to cancer within very close proximity of one another said something interesting the other day.
She mentioned that for years she would lapse in and out of grief-depression for two weeks before any anniversary (meaning any “first”) and it would last for two weeks after each anniversary. That cycle is so familiar to me.
July 4th was a big anniversary day for me and today, roughly two and a half weeks later, I am beginning to feel better again. Lighter.
I’m feeling better about barbeque-guy today. I invited him out this Friday night to see a friend of mine sing.
I do need to talk with him and just let him know how sad I have been feeling and how dating is affecting me grief-wise. It’s only fair. I want him to know. I need him to know. He already understands. I could go on forever trying to find reasons why we should not be together or I can face my fear, guilt and anxiety and give it a go. Honesty is called for and I plan to deliver.
Boy, it feels nice to feel better.
She mentioned that for years she would lapse in and out of grief-depression for two weeks before any anniversary (meaning any “first”) and it would last for two weeks after each anniversary. That cycle is so familiar to me.
July 4th was a big anniversary day for me and today, roughly two and a half weeks later, I am beginning to feel better again. Lighter.
I’m feeling better about barbeque-guy today. I invited him out this Friday night to see a friend of mine sing.
I do need to talk with him and just let him know how sad I have been feeling and how dating is affecting me grief-wise. It’s only fair. I want him to know. I need him to know. He already understands. I could go on forever trying to find reasons why we should not be together or I can face my fear, guilt and anxiety and give it a go. Honesty is called for and I plan to deliver.
Boy, it feels nice to feel better.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Date-Induced Grief Wave
I’m lonely. I don’t know what I want. I only know that I’m sad and that I don’t like to come home anymore.
I have found myself thinking a lot about marijuana and alcohol lately. I won’t indulge in either one, but I have made a mental note that I have been experiencing some desperation as of late. I feel as though I am standing before three tunnels. One leads to a room full of Ativan. One leads to a room full of alcohol. One leads to a room full of marijuana. I don’t want to go down either one of them. I just want to feel okay again and I’m really not sure that I ever will.
I used to begin getting excited to come home an hour before work ended. There was only one hour separating Chris and me, then.
Grief has been having me for breakfast all month. I don’t know what to do. Befriend it? Envelope myself in it? Live alongside it? I don’t know.
I finally realized why I feel as though Clay can’t always help me and why I sometimes feel as though I am mad at him long after I have gone home. The problem is that I can’t be helped. Chris is gone. Clay can’t get him back for me. If the problem was (and sometimes it is) low self-esteem, Clay knows what to say. When I’m afraid to go on a date, he pushes me (and I get defensive) but nonetheless, he knows what to do. But Clay can’t bring back the dead. I wish he could. I’m sure he wishes he could for his own reasons.
Despite my sadness, I am still forging ahead. The terrain is mountainous and treacherous these days, but I just keep going.
I have found myself thinking a lot about marijuana and alcohol lately. I won’t indulge in either one, but I have made a mental note that I have been experiencing some desperation as of late. I feel as though I am standing before three tunnels. One leads to a room full of Ativan. One leads to a room full of alcohol. One leads to a room full of marijuana. I don’t want to go down either one of them. I just want to feel okay again and I’m really not sure that I ever will.
I used to begin getting excited to come home an hour before work ended. There was only one hour separating Chris and me, then.
Grief has been having me for breakfast all month. I don’t know what to do. Befriend it? Envelope myself in it? Live alongside it? I don’t know.
I finally realized why I feel as though Clay can’t always help me and why I sometimes feel as though I am mad at him long after I have gone home. The problem is that I can’t be helped. Chris is gone. Clay can’t get him back for me. If the problem was (and sometimes it is) low self-esteem, Clay knows what to say. When I’m afraid to go on a date, he pushes me (and I get defensive) but nonetheless, he knows what to do. But Clay can’t bring back the dead. I wish he could. I’m sure he wishes he could for his own reasons.
Despite my sadness, I am still forging ahead. The terrain is mountainous and treacherous these days, but I just keep going.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Razors, Knives and Omelettes
Chris was in my dream last night.
We were in a parking lot that had potholes in the ground. I was in the driver’s seat of my car and Chris was standing outside leaning on the door talking with me. He said, “I’m going to Baystate today.”, which, in my dream, was a seafood place where he was going to get lobster or clam chowder with his friends from Vermont. I said to him, “Do you have enough money?” He took out a ten dollar bill and some singles and I said, “Here. Take this.” and handed him a twenty dollar bill. He said, “Are you sure?” and I said, “Yes. Take it. Go have fun.” I was filled with all of the love I felt for him in life and as he left, I walked toward the back of my car and remembered that he had cancer and was going to die. I began crying.
When I woke up, I thought he was still alive and took a few moments to reorientate myself to the here and now.
My new Chicago Cutlery kitchen knives are awesome and beautiful with their stainless steel handles and blades to match. Buying them made me very happy since the only knife I had left broke in half a couple of weeks ago while I was trying to slice through a watermelon.
Since last weekend, I have been feeling very anxiety-ridden and depressed and basically unable to calm the beast within. Sleep did not come easy this past week.
Although I have conquered the art of dating, entertaining the idea of beginning a new relationship has proven to be intensely crushing. Thursday evening’s date weighed on my mind like a wet load of laundry this past week, and I was hard-pressed to find the ability within myself to relax and just live my day-to-day life. The date went well. Still, I was left with another back draft of grief.
Hungry for breakfast this morning, I meandered into the kitchen to make a mushroom, onion and cheese omellette. Chris loved my omelettes, which I always arranged on the plate garnished with fresh fruit and a sprig of whatever I could find (parsley, a daisy, a plant leaf). He complimented me every time on both the presentation and the flavor. “That looks great, Shneed! You make the best omelettes!” he would exclaim in his excited-about-food way and we would eat them, periodically glancing up to smile at each other.
This morning, I had to scrape the surface of the glass-top-stove with a razor blade. When I looked at the blade, I was filled with excitement. I finished scraping and put the blade back into the drawer.
I cooked the eggs the way I did when Chris was alive, in a large frying pan. Once firm enough, I cut the circular egg-form in half in the pan as though I was making one for each of us, except that this time, I used one half as the bottom, put the cheese on top and used the other half as the cover. As the omelette fried in the pan, I started to fall apart. What began as breakfast-prep culminated in a Vesuvian eruption of anger, despair and thoughts of transforming one of my new Chicago Cutlery cooking utensils into a Chicago Cutlery self-maming utensil.
This episode of grief was brought to you by an old journal entry of mine from 1999 in which I described the beginning of my relationship with Chris. I stated, “We have only been on two dates, but I feel like I have known him forever.”
The anger was powerful, as was the fantasy. I could hear the *glitch* as I thrust the blade into the back of my hand, and I could see the blood, all too artistic and beautiful, plum-red, dripping down the blade toward the handle, coating the stainless steel angel of death in my love for Chris.
I sunk to the floor, my arms still on the countertop, knife still in hand repeating over and over, “I hate you, I hate you I hate you for leaving me! I hate you. How could you leave me?! I don’t want to be with somebody else. I want to be with you!”
I suppose the fact that I refrained from stabbing myself because I knew there would be pain involved is good news that proves I don’t really want to hurt myself. I have come to know that episodes such as this only mean that I want my pain to end...and that I want Chris to come back and be with me. I can’t have the latter, so I keep working toward easing my pain.
The two-year anniversary is coming way too fast. I feel like I can’t handle it. It’s too much. T w o y e a r s. How can this be?
I sat and ate my breakfast, breathing in between mouthfuls since my nose was no longer functioning.
And now? I am through the grief with not so much as a scratch on me. I am still not at zero, but I am back at the same low-grade anxiety I have been feeling all week, which is about all I am capable of right now.
We were in a parking lot that had potholes in the ground. I was in the driver’s seat of my car and Chris was standing outside leaning on the door talking with me. He said, “I’m going to Baystate today.”, which, in my dream, was a seafood place where he was going to get lobster or clam chowder with his friends from Vermont. I said to him, “Do you have enough money?” He took out a ten dollar bill and some singles and I said, “Here. Take this.” and handed him a twenty dollar bill. He said, “Are you sure?” and I said, “Yes. Take it. Go have fun.” I was filled with all of the love I felt for him in life and as he left, I walked toward the back of my car and remembered that he had cancer and was going to die. I began crying.
When I woke up, I thought he was still alive and took a few moments to reorientate myself to the here and now.
My new Chicago Cutlery kitchen knives are awesome and beautiful with their stainless steel handles and blades to match. Buying them made me very happy since the only knife I had left broke in half a couple of weeks ago while I was trying to slice through a watermelon.
Since last weekend, I have been feeling very anxiety-ridden and depressed and basically unable to calm the beast within. Sleep did not come easy this past week.
Although I have conquered the art of dating, entertaining the idea of beginning a new relationship has proven to be intensely crushing. Thursday evening’s date weighed on my mind like a wet load of laundry this past week, and I was hard-pressed to find the ability within myself to relax and just live my day-to-day life. The date went well. Still, I was left with another back draft of grief.
Hungry for breakfast this morning, I meandered into the kitchen to make a mushroom, onion and cheese omellette. Chris loved my omelettes, which I always arranged on the plate garnished with fresh fruit and a sprig of whatever I could find (parsley, a daisy, a plant leaf). He complimented me every time on both the presentation and the flavor. “That looks great, Shneed! You make the best omelettes!” he would exclaim in his excited-about-food way and we would eat them, periodically glancing up to smile at each other.
This morning, I had to scrape the surface of the glass-top-stove with a razor blade. When I looked at the blade, I was filled with excitement. I finished scraping and put the blade back into the drawer.
I cooked the eggs the way I did when Chris was alive, in a large frying pan. Once firm enough, I cut the circular egg-form in half in the pan as though I was making one for each of us, except that this time, I used one half as the bottom, put the cheese on top and used the other half as the cover. As the omelette fried in the pan, I started to fall apart. What began as breakfast-prep culminated in a Vesuvian eruption of anger, despair and thoughts of transforming one of my new Chicago Cutlery cooking utensils into a Chicago Cutlery self-maming utensil.
This episode of grief was brought to you by an old journal entry of mine from 1999 in which I described the beginning of my relationship with Chris. I stated, “We have only been on two dates, but I feel like I have known him forever.”
The anger was powerful, as was the fantasy. I could hear the *glitch* as I thrust the blade into the back of my hand, and I could see the blood, all too artistic and beautiful, plum-red, dripping down the blade toward the handle, coating the stainless steel angel of death in my love for Chris.
I sunk to the floor, my arms still on the countertop, knife still in hand repeating over and over, “I hate you, I hate you I hate you for leaving me! I hate you. How could you leave me?! I don’t want to be with somebody else. I want to be with you!”
I suppose the fact that I refrained from stabbing myself because I knew there would be pain involved is good news that proves I don’t really want to hurt myself. I have come to know that episodes such as this only mean that I want my pain to end...and that I want Chris to come back and be with me. I can’t have the latter, so I keep working toward easing my pain.
The two-year anniversary is coming way too fast. I feel like I can’t handle it. It’s too much. T w o y e a r s. How can this be?
I sat and ate my breakfast, breathing in between mouthfuls since my nose was no longer functioning.
And now? I am through the grief with not so much as a scratch on me. I am still not at zero, but I am back at the same low-grade anxiety I have been feeling all week, which is about all I am capable of right now.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Flicker
Nobody told me this was going to be easy, but after experiencing three successful dates, I began to feel really good about myself and my struggles, which led me to believe I had pushed past the tough part. Every time I think I have pushed past the difficulties encased within my grief I find out that I have really only pushed past a miniscule portion of my grief and the rest is yet to come.
On date #2, we enjoyed dinner and conversation and then moved to another restaurant for a cup of coffee for me and cup of tea for him. As the night progressed and I began to become tired, the magic began to retreat for me. I looked into his face as he talked and right before my eyes, his face flickered from his, to Chris’, back to his, back to Chris’ and so on. I wished I was enjoying an evening with Chris.
His face is different. He’s thinner.
Last night, on my way into slumber, I found myself wondering when the switch between “not love” and “love” happens. I remembered that there was a time when I didn’t yet love Chris. I remembered not even liking Chris. The truth is that after I had been seeing him for a couple of months, I told my therapist I wanted to break up with him. I was bored. He was too nice. He wasn’t for me. She encouraged me to let three more months pass before doing anything. I did, and ended up marrying the love of my life as a result. I remain ever-thankful to her for that priceless piece of advice.
I thought a lot on my drive home after last night’s date. I was frustrated that we don’t love each other, but that thought is absurd. We have been on two dates. Love takes a long time. Love might not even happen between the two of us. Who can say?
Instead of secretly picking on him for not being Chris, I remembered all of the events leading up to me and Chris falling in love and realized that all of it took quite a bit of time.
The important factor for me to be aware of is that even though every man’s face flickers back and forth from Chris’ face to their own, I need to remember that love took a long time to happen. I must not reject somebody for not being Chris because that would put me at risk for spending the rest of my life alone. I didn’t love Chris on our second date and I am not going to love any man on our second date. Love takes a long time to happen.
For now, I am just going to let my relationship with this man simmer in the pot. The ingredients are all there and the finished product is either going to be a tasty treat or not really what I feel like indulging in. The fact is that there is no way for me to know until the time for me to know arrives and the same is true for him.
My best course of action at this point is to continue what I am doing. Live my life. Have my fun. Be with my friends and family. And continue to see this man for as long as the uncertainty remains. Eventually I will know. Eventually, we will both know.
Time.
On date #2, we enjoyed dinner and conversation and then moved to another restaurant for a cup of coffee for me and cup of tea for him. As the night progressed and I began to become tired, the magic began to retreat for me. I looked into his face as he talked and right before my eyes, his face flickered from his, to Chris’, back to his, back to Chris’ and so on. I wished I was enjoying an evening with Chris.
His face is different. He’s thinner.
Last night, on my way into slumber, I found myself wondering when the switch between “not love” and “love” happens. I remembered that there was a time when I didn’t yet love Chris. I remembered not even liking Chris. The truth is that after I had been seeing him for a couple of months, I told my therapist I wanted to break up with him. I was bored. He was too nice. He wasn’t for me. She encouraged me to let three more months pass before doing anything. I did, and ended up marrying the love of my life as a result. I remain ever-thankful to her for that priceless piece of advice.
I thought a lot on my drive home after last night’s date. I was frustrated that we don’t love each other, but that thought is absurd. We have been on two dates. Love takes a long time. Love might not even happen between the two of us. Who can say?
Instead of secretly picking on him for not being Chris, I remembered all of the events leading up to me and Chris falling in love and realized that all of it took quite a bit of time.
The important factor for me to be aware of is that even though every man’s face flickers back and forth from Chris’ face to their own, I need to remember that love took a long time to happen. I must not reject somebody for not being Chris because that would put me at risk for spending the rest of my life alone. I didn’t love Chris on our second date and I am not going to love any man on our second date. Love takes a long time to happen.
For now, I am just going to let my relationship with this man simmer in the pot. The ingredients are all there and the finished product is either going to be a tasty treat or not really what I feel like indulging in. The fact is that there is no way for me to know until the time for me to know arrives and the same is true for him.
My best course of action at this point is to continue what I am doing. Live my life. Have my fun. Be with my friends and family. And continue to see this man for as long as the uncertainty remains. Eventually I will know. Eventually, we will both know.
Time.
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