Grief's Hostage No More

I’m tired. I have been going to sleep on the couch for the past week, waking up after midnight and transferring my half-sleeping body to my bed.

Tomorrow, Chris and I would have been married 5 years. I can’t believe our wedding, on the Boston Common, was 5 years ago. I can't believe we would have been celebrating 10 years of knowing one another.

I have had a measurable amount of anxiety over the last couple of weeks. Last night, I fell apart, again, just for a short while. Still, I managed to get out and run, donning my brand new cold-weather running apparrel. Unbelievably, 13 degrees didn’t affect me at all. I remained warm enough throughout my entire 4.5 mile run, and then I entered the gym and lifted weights for an hour. Who’s better than me?

I’m glad I have Jonathan. He doesn’t know I cried, last night, but knowing he’s in my life makes my life easier, more safe and less lonely. He’s like a giant queen-sized down comforter who keeps me warm on nights like last night.

I’m not grief’s hostage, the way I once was. I can easily come in and out of the state. I suppose “lucid grieving” would be an accurate label for the state of my grief, these days. Life has gotten easier. Dealing with my loss has become easier, just like other widows before me assured me it would. What I am left with is sort of a “ground zero” of anxiety akin to earthquake aftershocks or tremors. I remain ever-affected under the surface and I really don’t know what I would do without the knowledge that my bottle of Ativan is always full. I almost never take the drug. Each prescrption of 20 pills takes me an average of 8 months to swallow. Not bad for a person who has grown to really enjoy it’s effects. I often refer to Ativan as “the new marijuana” -- bottled peace.

So, another January 17 is before me and of course I’ll feel sad, but I have come a very long way since that first anniversary, when fantasies of suicide promised a possible permanent respite from my pain and anguish.

Initially, I thought I’d stay in for a while tomorrow, watch our wedding video and fall apart, but now I plan to run, hit the gym and hang out with one of my friends, a much more adaptive choice.

Peace out.

Shneed

Spirit Guide

Dear Chris,

I wish you could be here with me, right now. I’m just sitting on the couch, with the tv muted, thinking about contacting your spirit so I can feel our souls meshed together, again.

I’m nervous that I may not ever feel that soul meshing with Jonathan. Will, I Chris? Can you help me get there? You’re all wise now, right?

What’s it been like in Heaven, if there is such a place? Almost from the moment you died, I have imagined you flying around euphorically, celebrating freedom from your cancer-ridden body. Is Howard with you? Abada? Edna? Are they in love, again?

I think about you every day and I know the times when you’re with me. I can feel your presence sometimes and I become so happy. I feel hugged, cared about and safe when I know you’re with me. You comfort me. How does that work?

You sent that sparrow, didn’t you, to tell me that Jonathan was the man for me. I believe you. I love you and I trust you. Jonathan’s wonderful. How did you get that little bird to climb onto my finger and hop up my arm to sit on my shoulder? I loved it. I love sparrows. You knew that, didn’t you? That was quite a way to let me know you were watching and guiding us towards one another.

I’m scared, Chris. I’m afraid I won’t be good enough for another man. You and I were cookie cutter matches for each other. We were the same. Some days I just don’t know how I’m going to get along without you. Some moments I don’t get along without you.

I need you very much. I wish you hadn’t gone. I still cry. I still need you. I still love you. You’re still precious to me. I can still see the little boy in you and I can still hold you, sometimes, just like I feel you sometimes holding me. Thank you for that.

I need you more than ever now. I’m scared. I want to be strong enough to allow myself to go with Jonathan completely. I still feel like I’m hurting you by doing that. i still feel like I’m cheating on you. I still feel like it’s wrong to leave you standing alone on the other side when all I really want to do is run through the veil, wrap my arms around you and hold you, and thank you for knowing me.

I wish I could see you tonight in my dreams. I wish you’d come.

Shneed

Dual

I got through the anniversary cluster; Chris’ birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. One more anniversary to go. Our anniversary. January 17.

I had a wonderfully joyous weekend, this past, and I’m a bit surprised to admit that I’m feeling some more sadness today, probably due to the upcoming anniversary. It’s okay. Actually, it isn’t okay. I feel anxiety. I hate it. I feel sadness. I hate that, too. I worked out extensively this evening, and the exercise helped a lot, but endorphins, like any other vice, are a temporary fix. I know I’ll be okay.

I have been thinking about Chris, a lot, lately. I can see his face so clearly in my mind’s eye. I feel like I just saw him, yesterday, and I feel like I haven’t seen him in years. I miss him.

I’d like to be open, but there’s a part of me that’s terrified to feel. When I’m with Jonathan, I love him. When I think about him, I love him. But I think about Chris, too, and I still love him, too. I love someone I can never see again and I love someone I can see whenever I want to. I don't want to lay this on him, though. It's my crap, not his.

Maybe I’m just tired, tonight. I’m chalking up my sadness to weariness. A good night’s sleep and tomorrow’s cup of coffee are just around the corner.

Griefquake

My husband died almost 4 years ago, and contrary to popular belief, the pain doesn’t go away in one year, in fact, I believe the pain never goes away and that I’m just going to move on with a cavity in my soul for the rest of my life. But that may only be my belief this week, the anniversary week of Chris’ death. God, I hope that’s true, because I can’t feel like this for very long if I intend to continue being the basically happy person I am.

Lucky for me, Carol just called and interrupted my brief but powerful griefquake. Its intensity level exploded off the rector scale.

I answered her call by saying, “Wow. Your social worker senses must have been tingling.” She laughed and asked me if I was having a meltdown. Then we talked and laughed for a while about how my car broke down on the Pike last night and how I called her just to let someone know what was happening. The state police couldn’t find me, so I waited two hours for them to locate and push my car to the breakdown lane. Ugh. Then I waited another hour for the tow truck. Not surprisingly, I remained calm and upbeat throughout the entire experience.

Experiencing the death of a soul mate has changed my entire perspective on life. Being imprisoned within my car on the Pike for three hours is hardly a daunting experience by comparison. Instead of getting upset, I visited the guy who was broken down ahead of me and we chit-chatted about how thankful we were that we didn’t break down in last week’s snow storm, and that it was reasonably warm out and that the police came and that the tow truck was on the way. Life is all about choices.

True, I did not choose to be widowed, but an endless supply of choices are always at my disposal. I did not choose to be sucked into a whirlpool of grief this morning, but I did choose to answer the phone when I saw it was Carol calling. I knew I’d feel better after talking with her.

Choices.

I get it, God.

I was just reminded of an Alanis Morrisette song from a bazillion years ago. The song’s lyrics always had a strong impact on me, even more so, now.

You Learn

I recommend getting your heart trampled on to anyone
I recommend walking around naked in your living room
Swallow it down (what a jagged little pill)
It feels so good (swimming in your stomach)
Wait until the dust settles

You live you learn
You love you learn
You cry you learn
You lose you learn
You bleed you learn
You scream you learn

I recommend biting off more then you can chew to anyone
I recommend sticking your foot in your mouth at any time
Throw it down (the caution blocks you from the wind)
Hold it up (to the rays)
You wait and see when the smoke clears

Wear it out (the way a three-year-old would do)
Melt it down (you're gonna have to eventually anyway)
The fire trucks are coming up around the bend

You grieve you learn
You choke you learn
You laugh you learn
You choose you learn
You pray you learn
You ask you learn
You live you learn

During my griefquake, I cried, I called Chris a fucking asshole for getting cancer and leaving me alone. I swore I would never feel as much in love with anybody else as I felt with him. I felt that love, again, and then I felt the exact reflection of that love in blackened, rotting hatred toward him.

And now I have emerged from the darkness back into the light and I’m looking forward to enjoying Jonathan’s presence over dinner, this evening.

Chapter Next

The body’s ability to act out a memory is quite an amazing phenomenon.

I had a wonderful day today, visiting my mother and her boyfriend with my sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew. The weather was not ideal, but in the presence of my family, the sun shone brightly and warmly.

I suppose I have been experiencing anxiety from the time I awoke, this morning. I had trouble waking up, and I struggled with waves of grogginess and headaches throughout the day. I thought nothing of it until the drive home, when I began to feel nauseous and physically uncomfortable, achy, tense and just plain skin-crawly. I figured the heat in the car was too much for me to endure. Even so, I remained excited about coming home to take a nice run. I did just that.

It’s tough to run in the snow. Last night, I ran 4 miles, through slush, ice and puddles. I ran to the gym with thoughts of participating in a 30-minute cardio-class, but I was the only person interested in taking the class, and so it did not take place. I didn’t care. At my gym, there’s there’s always a risk of any particular class not running during its scheduled time, which is really no big deal. I simply always have a “plan B” prepared in case, so I had already accepted the existence of the possibility that I might end up running to the gym and then reversing my direction and running right back home. Either way, I got a nice workout, even though my feet were completely soaking wet and freezing by the time I returned home. I was exhausted. My snow-mound climbing and puddle-jumping nearly doubled my running time.

Tonight’s run was also difficult. I guess I thought the warmer temperature would magically melt every bit of snow and leave the sun shining well past dusk, and cause flowers to bloom throughout the city in a fresh burst of springtime. I now understand the error of my way. I ran 5.5 miles, mostly following Mass Ave. which is a pretty safe run, very well lit and usually teaming with people. But tonight is Christmas Eve, and everything closed early. I had originally planned to run 6.25 miles, straight over the Harvard Bridge and back, but the cold, wet darkness and barren streets caused me to fear for my safety, so I reversed direction early and ran back through the strangely deserted Central and Harvard Squares, yearning for my warm, dry living room.

Running often stirs up my emotions, loosening my denial and purging my anxiety. I no sooner locked the door behind me when I sat, immediately, on the floor in the hallway, against the wall and sobbed uncontrollably.

Four years ago tonight, I could hear Chris’ pain and I could do nothing to help him. That night, I slept on the couch, trying to drown out the sounds and praying that Chris would fall asleep.

Tomorrow will mark the four-year anniversary of the last time I would drive Chris to the hospital, and even though I had a wonderful day today, my body remembered the trauma, and I knew I had to stay home tonight and allow myself to feel and to react to my memories. It’s not so bad. I feel nervous and sad,. but I’m in control, and I’m looking forward to more holiday fun at my father’s house tomorrow.

And I’m looking forward to Jonathan’s return from Pennsylvania, next week. I can see what’s on offer for me this year, and I’m ready to begin shedding the past, if I can. Jonathan’s arms are a sweet safe-haven and I am relishing the safety I feel within them and within him.

All in all, I’m feeling pretty lucky. I’m still very much hurting about what happened to Chris. I'm aware that I am exiting the widow express and beginning a new chapter of life, with Jonathan, whom I am so happy to have met.

Winterscape

Friday, before the snowstorm hit, I visted the supermarket and bought all of the ingredients to make a delicious rotini pasta and homemade meat sauce dinner, complete with garlic bread and all the makin’s for hot fudge sundaes for Jonathan and me. I hadn’t cooked for him, yet, in fact I regularly claimed that I didn’t know how to cook. I was scared.

One of the most difficult things to resume after Chris’ demise was cooking. We cooked for and with each other all the time, and the first time I made my meat sauce with Chris no longer here, I trembled the entire time, fighting to catch my breath and keep from submitting to the dizzying grief and anxiety that threatened to take me down. My cooking was for Chris and nobody else, so my snap decision to cook for Jonathan took me completely by pleasant surprise.

We’re growing together. Our relationship is happening. The growth is real, and the ever-strengthening, all-enveloping fibers are nice, comforting and welcome in my life.

I spent 24 hours with him this weekend, enjoying doing pretty much absolutely nothing together, a very pleasant way to share our time.

This morning, Boston is getting hit with another snowstorm, which is a beautiful and magical sight out my Charles Dickens, criss-cross window panes, and even though I’m painfully aware I will need to venture out later on and exhume my car from the snowy rubble, my “right now” is quite intoxicating. Heck, I have not yet let go of the possibility of taking a run around the winterscaped Charles River later this afternoon, however impractical. I’m nothing if I’m not completely insane. Well, perhaps “eccentric” is a kinder word, if I am even worthy of a term of such honor. I’m claiming it as my own. I’ll take eccentric over practical, any day.

My snowy weekend is not without thoughts of my Chris, feelings of sadness for his pain, and gratitude for the end of that pain and for having known and loved each other as deeply as we had.

Jonathan is going away to visit his family for the holiday, and even though I will miss him and I will wait, anxiously for his return, I’m feeling good about having the space to process missing my Chris, while simultaneously buildling a kind, caring, loving, sweet, healthy relationship with the next love of my life.

Shneed

Not How. That.

My relationship with Jonathan continues to grow in many wonderful ways. I enjoy being in his arms and talking with him, holding him and just knowing he’s there.

Anxiety has not been absent from my mind and body, however, and I find myself needing to step back -- just a few paces -- now and again, in order to process my new love relationship. All in all, things are going very well. We have wonderful times together. I need to process, and I hope he doesn’t leave because I sometimes need to be with my own thoughts. I haven’t explained any of this to him, because there really is no need to open this door in his life. Grief is a part of my life, not his.

I spent the day with Bonnie, Beth and the girls today (Chris’ mom, sister and 10-year-old nieces, Emily and Hannah) and now I just need to be by myself. Jonathan said he understands, and I believe him, but I still feel a bit guilty about my choice. We’ll see each other next, Friday evening.

Meanwhile, I try to breathe in Jonathan and breathe out Chris, figuratively speaking. I’m no longer in love wth a dead man. I am now falling in love with a wonderful man who is very much alive. I want my life to consist of a partnership between Jonathan and me, and even though I have snagged my sock on a big old clump of grief-induced anxiety, I know I will overcome, and very soon. Two steps forward, one step back and so on.

After our trip to the Museum of Science, I took Bonnie, Beth and the girls to dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. Hannah began to cry. When we asked her what was wrong, she could barely choke out the words, “I’m going to miss Grammie.” She was exhausted, and she became upset that if she fell asleep, nobody would wake her up to say goodbye to Bonnie (Grammie). In my mind, I formlated an idea that perhaps she was expressing her sadness for losing Chris, Howard and Edna and possibly her fear of losing Bonnie. I told the story to Jonathan. Now, here in my room with my own thoughts -- one Ativan to the wind -- I realize that I was really trying to convey my own fear of loss to Jonathan. All this time I thought I was afraid of letting go of Chris, but now I see that I have already let go of my dear husband and that my real fear lies in letting go of myself, again.

I don’t quite know how I’m going to do that. I only know that I’m going to do it.

Happy Birthday, Creej.

Today is Chris’ birthday and I’m pretty certain that he wouldn’t want me to cry all day, so I’m going to have to somehow find a way to stop. I feel like throwing up. I wish I could throw up.

After Chris died, I had my and his wedding bands and my engagement ring soldered together, moved the diamond from my thin band to his thicker band, and added six sapphire chips to symbolize the six years we were together. I’m wearing my ring, today, as a gesture of remembrance. Today, Chris would have been 38 years old.

Lately I have been feeling like I want to wear my ring, again, now that I’m not dating. I took it off in a fit of rage, last Christmas Eve. I also took it off because I was dating and I didn’t want men to see it and think I was married. The ring is beautiful, though, and I would love to keep in on my right hand. I just need to find a tactful way to find out how Jonathan would feel. Maybe he wouldn’t mind at all. I may ask him.

Last night, we shared with each other that we’re in love. :) I have been dying to sign my e-mails, “Love, Robin” but I hadn’t been able to muster up the courage, for fear of scaring him away. I think he just may be unscarable.

I’m heading to Western Massachusetts, today, to spend Chris’ birthday with Bonnie, Beth and my girls (the twins). It’s the only place I want to be, today and they’re the only people I want to be with. For all the horrible events that have occurred, I managed to glean a beautiful, loving family who are so dear to my heart, that it hurts (in a good way).

Happy Birthday, Creej.
I love you.
I always will.

Love, Shneed

A Quiet Calm

I have missed being held and hugged and wanted for so long, and now I am all of those things. Jonathan makes me very happy. I hope he stays. :)

Shneed

Gentle Guidance

My favorite show, which I have been getting through Netflix, is, not surprisingly, Ghost Whisperer. The show is about a woman who can see and talk to the dead. Her quest to help cross earthborn spirits cross over into the light fuels my fantasy and hopes that people who have died exist around us, in spirit, helping us navigate through our lives.

Last night I fell apart a little, as I periodically do, after one of the episodes. The experience of crying is usually a cathartic one for me, helping me let go of the rain clouds that build up within my spirit. I began talking to Chris, asking him to help me let go and to help me continue to embrace forward movement.

He was in my dream, last night. As usual, he was wearing his brown courdoroy jacket and thick black glasses. The dream had no dialogue – just Chris’ image standing before me. I felt enchanted.

When I woke up this morning, my first thought was, “I want Jonathan.” :)

Progress, at last.

Shneed.

Flicker

He’s nice
and I flicker.

He flickers.

Boy to man
Man to boy
and back.

Girlfriend to wife
Wife back to girlfriend
and I stay.

It’s him
and it isn’t him,
and I’m me
but I’m not.

Where will I go?
Where will we go?

Onward. :)

Still Falling

I'm experiencing so many wonderful emotions that I can't even formulate a sentence to express how I feel. :)

His Eye is on the Sparrow, And I know He watches me.

Perhaps the fact that I haven’t written about him is indication enough that I’m beginning to feel something I haven’t felt in a very long time, something I have been waiting to feel again, and hoping to feel again.

Until last week, I had forbidden my friends from speaking to me about him. That way, I could enjoy the feelings that surfaced every time I was with him and still retreat back into denial in order to cope with old feelings of guilt, feelings I have always known I would eventually have to face. There are no shortcuts in grief. Every emotion felt must be faced in order to gain entry into a future pregnant with fortitude, happiness, forgiveness and health.

Four years is a very long time. Some say it’s too long, but what is time when a loss of such magnitude, the loss of a spouse, completely consumes a person’s world? Time stands still. A four-year time span is difficult for people who haven’t had the experience to wrap their minds around. Instead, talk of the “one-year mark” circulates because the sooner the ones left behind feel better, the sooner the people in their lives can stop feeling so sad for them. A common thought is that all of the “firsts” are over with after one year. Not true. There are firsts I didn’t even know existed. There was the first time I went back to school, the first time I moved, the first time I made the dean’s list, the first time I got a new job, the first time I’m going to apply for my Ph.D. in Psychology and the first time I met a man I felt I could really be with. That’s four years and counting.

It’s not a matter of dwelling. It’s a matter of knowing. Knowing a person who once walked the earth is no longer here. Where do dead people go? I carry with me a sense of wonder, and I believe I am surrounded by souls who, no longer bound by flesh and bone, have the power to touch our lives in very beautiful ways.

While sitting on a bench on the edge of Spy Pond, yesterday, Jonathan and I witnessed a most beautiful occurrence. A small sparrow flew down from wherever he had been perched and landed on the ground, 6-inches from Jonathan’s foot. I said, “That’s strange. Sparrows never get that close.” I know, because I love sparrows and I periodically try to feed them whenever I sit outside drinking coffee and snacking on some decadent piece of flaky pastry. Typically, sparrows will perch on the chair across the table from me and wait for me to throw crumbs their way, but every attempt I have made to lure one closer has failed.

Yesterday, the little sparrow jumped up onto the bench where we sat and walked behind Jonathan. I stood and moved to his other side, waiting for the precious bird to appear. When he did, I extended my hand, placing it on the bench in front of him and my new little friend placed one of his little bird-feet on my pinky finger, hopped up onto my hand and proceeded to walk the entire length of my arm to my shoulder where he sat for at least 20 seconds. My heart filled, and a flood of emotion surged throughout my body. I wanted to cry and I wanted to laugh.

I moved very slowly, so as not to frighten him, and when he was ready, he flew from my shoulder, landed on the ground and continued on his way, leaving behind two very affected people, still frozen in disbelief.

My brother has always told me that when a sparrow lands near you, God is watching. My sparrow was a sign from Chris that everything is right and that he approves of my new friend, a man I feel I may be falling in……..to be continued.

Losing Loss

I just woke up, got ready for work, read this article (the Boston Boxing and Fitness part) -- http://www.newenglandsportsmag.com/features/gonna-make-you-sweat.html -- and began to cry. I think my anxiety about letting go of Chris, and the time I have spent grieving, bubbled to the top of my consiousness and I had to let it out.

The boxing gym, at first, was a place I could go to expend some anger, punch the bags, work out to the point of complete exhaustion -- in order to kill my grief -- and feel as though I was out somehwere, instead of holed up in my apartment. The gym has always offered me a sense of community and a feeling that I ‘m working, along with everyone there, toward a common goal.

When I first joined, the one-on-one attention I received from the trainers was something I needed, something I craved, a knock-off replacement for the attention Chris provided me on a daily basis. I just needed to feel like somebody cared about me.

Reading the article reminded me about how the drill-sergeant training style made me laugh everytime I was there. The style was bizarrre to me and felt like jovial overkill, to the point where I didn’t realize, or mind, that i was being pushed far beyond any prior beliefs about where my limits lied. I loved that. I still do.

I’m moving forward. The boxing gym is old hat, now. The way I felt when I joined is fading and that fact makes me cry. What’s happening? I must be healing. Healing is painful because it denotes a parting of the familiar, a parting of helplessness, the reclaiming of a life shattered by death.

I’m finding myself simultaneously panicked and hopeful about the loss of my feelings of loss. My loss is all I have had over these past four years and, as strange as this may sound, I don’t know how to live without my loss. Loss has become love.

I guess I’ll have to replace that habit with a habit of happiness and love.

For now, I guess it’s okay for me to cry.

Fortunate

The inner-workings of the brain (I suppose ALL of the workings of the brain are “inner’) never cease to amaze me. My own nut truly is a puzzle.

I have been dating a man for the past six weeks, or so, and for the first time in a long time, I’m beginning to believe in the possibility that I could find love, again, whether with this man, or another. Love feels attainable. I really like this man, though, and he seems to really like me, too.

So, what happened? I fell asleep the other night and dreamed that the two of us were on the bus talking and laughing. Little by little, he began to change, until he got up, moved to the other side of the bus and laid down with his head in another man’s lap. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that his face was perspiring and that his face began to morph into my Chris’ face. His eyes went blank, the way Chris’ did when he died.

Neither Chris nor this man had blue eyes, but the eyes of the man in my dream were bright blue, much brighter than anything else in my dream. My analysis is that the eyes were unfamiliar and unrecognizable.

I remember being in my kitchen with Chris, near the end, and realizing that through his morphine haze (yes, he was up and walking, even then) that day would probably be the last day he would look at me and recognize me, the way he always used to.

Even though I feel very happy about this man I have just met, my brain is acutely aware of my fear of losing anybody else who enters the part of my life where love is concerned.

My fear is valid...at least 50% valid. Unless a couple dies together, one of them will definitely know the pain of losing the other, eventually.

That’s just the cycle of life.

I feel very fortunate that I am willing to go there, again. The alternative is a life spent alone.

Shneed

Z

I don’t know why I fought going back onto an antidepressant. There’s a part of me that feels stigmatized, even though I would never stigmatize another for enlisting the aid of a mood elevator. Zoloft has returned me to a state of peace, or piece (of mind).

With the exception of an occasional outburst, my crying attacks have gone into remission and I now feel content during the time I spend by myself. All things considered, I probably should have made this decision much sooner than I did.

I have been dating, meeting many nice men, having nice times, feeling like a deisreable woman, again. Still, I find the fact that I don’t get to know my future competely annoying, but that’s the design. I didn’t write the rules.

In other news, I'm producing and preparing my solo cabaret act, which I hope to perform sometime in early 2009. I'm studying for the GRE, since I have decided to apply for a Ph.D. program in psychology and I am running and boxing and weight training, as per usual. Life is busy, just the way I like it.

Overall, I am just so happy to come home and produce completed homework assignments, polished songs and friendly support, instead of just producing tears.

Z. It does a body good.

Shneed

The Key

July is almost over and even though I’m not sure what I will write about today, I feel the need to write for therapeutic purposes.

I saw my therapist today. We have only used hypnosis once, so far, and it helped quite a bit. I’m no fool. I don’t fancy hypnosis to be a magical reshaping of my mind. Instead, I see the treatment as a placebo that works simply because I believe it works.

A friend of mine was surprised to find out that I remembered everything that happened during the time I was “under.” I explained that a hypnotic state is one in which I retreat to completely and utterly willingly. I make a choice to go with and visualize exactly as the hypnotist (my therapist, in this case) instructs. I go places and entertain thoughts of my own accord, really. I want to go.

I liken hypnosis to systematic desensitization. Both treatments involve deep breathing (relaxing, for those, like me, who don’t typcially engage in the act) while visualizing and experiencing, in one’s own mind, issues, thoughts and situations that are otherwise frightening, anxitety-inducing or just plain ugly. Mixing those thoughts with relaxation, defuses their harmful effects and before long (hopefully) the hypnotee is able to either abolish such thoughts, ore lessen their mal-effects.

Today was not a hypnosis day, though. Today I talked about my own frightening, anxitety-inducing, just plain ugly issues, thoughts and situations. I never knew the meaning of the word “ugly” until I experienced the horror of cancer.

For now, I have all but come to a decision to begin a regime of anti-depressant/anti-anxiety medication while moving forward with hypnosis and talk-therapy. I want to be free.

Susan (therapist) and I have agreed that in my next hynotic state, I will try to place all of my sad memories into a box to which only I hold they key. I can close and put the box away, knowing that if I ever want or need to, I can pull the contents off the shelf and visit my past.

My goal is to not feel that need, at least not as often as I do now.

In Response to DM's Comment

In repsonse to DM’s comment to my last post, I’d like to say that she is so right on every count. I have woven Chris into the very fabric of my being. I approach much of my life and respond to many situations using philosophies that were unknown to me before we met.

I suppose semantics could be at fault for the blurring of part of my writings. I repeatedly make reference to “letting go of my husband” and it wasn’t until I read DM’s comment that I realized what I really mean when I say that is “letting go of my sub-conscious, deep-seated and futile hopes that there’s a shred of a possibility of his physical return to me and to my life. Even though I know that sounds crazy, I’m talking about an overall emotion I have and not about any actual realistic hopes I have.

I believe that love never dies and I believe that when my time comes, I’ll be seeing Chris (in some form) again.

My grief has taken on a life of its own, which I know I have allowed to happen.

What I hope to do with hypnosis is allow myself to relax and admit (even though I know this, logically) that Chris is not going to return to my life and that things are never going to be the way they were. My subconscious belief to the contrary has become a very stubborn, harmful, life-sucking force, which I plan to erase very soon.

As always, DM, thank you very much for posting. I hope you had a wonderful holiday.

Shneed

My Cold, Dead Hands

Last week, a friend of mine offered his complete honesty to me. There is little else in this world that I value as much as honesty within my friendships.

He has been reading my grief-rantings for the past few years and made mention of the few months in which I wrote very little, and those months in which I wrote nothing at all. In his mind, he guessed (and hoped) I was doing well, feeling better, and that that’s why I wrote less. Less time to stop and smell the grief. I confirmed his belief, stating that in true artist form, I write most often when I am feeling miserable. When my writing is sparse, happiness is abundant.

I also shared with him my own frustration with the state of my mind, part of which is still riddled with sadness, shock, denial and anger, even after three and half years. At times, I am maddened by the pesistence of grief in my life. I’m angry that my brain still dons the chains of loss. I am annoyed with myself for not “getting over it” faster, in the same way Chris was admittedly “annoyed” with his cancer.

My friend said grief can be self-indulgent, and I agree with him. I know, because I’m living within the confines of self-indulgent grief. I have been enduring a pattern of night-meltdowns, every night, sometimes immediately after walking through my door and sometimes immediately before I fall asleep.

When I grieve my loss, Chris is kept alive. The day I let go, will be a very sad day, for on that day Chris will die again. I know I have said before that grief has another side, a side that feels good, because grieving my loss feels right. Letting go of my husband feels wrong. Hence, my self-indulgence.

My new therapist is going to work with me, using hypnotherapy, in an attempt (hopefully a successful one) to help me let go of the white-knuckled grip I still have on my Chris, my hopes, my dreams, my plans, and a future that never was and never will be. I am unable to release the grip on my own. She believes she can help me, and I need to believe she can, too.

I no longer wish to live a life asserting that I will let go of my husband when he is pried out of my cold, dead hands.

I’d like to let go while I’m still alive.

Two Dreams

A few nights ago I had a cute dream about Chris.

We were on the orange line coming home from Boston. When we got to Malden Station and the doors opened, Chris wrapped his arms around me from behind, pulled my newsboy cap down over my eyes and pulled me off of the train. Laughing, I said, “Hey, you can’t do that to me!”

We both laughed.

I felt that old familar warmth that was ever-present when we were being playful together.

Then last night I dreamed about us, again.

We were laying on metal chaise lounges, holding hands outside of a local Starbuck’s. I said to him, “I like closing my eyes and listening to all of the different conversations happening around me.” Chris said, “Oh, I don’t have that.”

I wondered what it was like on the other side.

As usual, in my dreams about Chris, I loved being with him and I woke up wishing it could be.