Today would have been Chris’ 40th birthday. His 34th was the last one I got to celebrate with him, although I suppose I have celebrated each of his birthday’s since in my own way.
Deciding that his birthday is a happy day is a matter of flipping the switch in my head. I could easily collapse and cry all day about his absence from my life, or I can celebrate his birth, which provided him with life, and enabled us to meet.
My newest miracle is that I have not cried over Chris, at all, in almost one month, and that has opened wide the door into my future with Jonathan. My lack of tears is a direct result of leveling with Jonathan about my emotions surrounding Chris’ death. I had been unsure about just how much it was fair to share with him. I don’t want to hurt him, or make him think I loved Chris more than I love him. It’s a sticky situation, one that many men might not be able to handle. Not for my Jonathan, though. He’s tough. I fall a little more in love with him each time I trust him enough to be honest about the effects Chris’ death have had and still have on me. Jonathan just reminds me that I loved Chris very much, and reassures me that Chris loved me very much, too. Then he tells me that he’s thankful for how Chris’ presence in my life has shaped me and made the person I am, today. Then he tells me he loves me and wants to be with me forever. Sweet. My rock.
I joked with Jonathan this morning about how I am eternally thankful for Chris’ life and how he’s probably eternally thankful for Chris’ death. He was shocked, of course, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m a shock-jock when it comes to death, now. Society takes it all too seriously.
Today, on Chris’ 40th birthday, I give him the gift of continuing to let go and move forward in my life together with Jonathan. After all, Chris gave him to me.
You can read more about that at http://creejnshneed.blogspot.com/2008/10/his-eye-is-on-sparrow-and-i-know-he.html.
Happy birthday, sweet Creej.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
The Rock
My perception has always painted my grief a monstrous, ominous, seemingly insurmountable sharp-edged mountain, surrounded in black clouds, towering in front of me, growing ever larger and ever darker, each time I have attempted to climb up and over. But that perception has never stopped me from trying, again and again, succeeding a little bit more with each try.
I think I may have had as close to a real major depressive episode as I am capable of having this past week. Generally, I’m a pretty sane person, and I’m aware that depressive episodes are very serious, which is why I provide this disclaimer. Because I listened to myself, and figured out what I needed, I was able to smash away a huge portion of Grief Mountain with my pick axe, and watch it separate from the rest of the rock, and fall to the ground where it disintegrated into a harmless cloud of dust.
I don’t know how my thoughts became so twisted. I doubted my future, calling my engagement and eventual marriage to Jonathan into question, along with my ability to laugh, to sing, to be my own person, and to feel free from the heaviness I had allowed to encompass my heart. I was ambushed, once again, drowning in my horror of what happened to Chris. I cried at work, at school, at home, all the while finding ways to masquerade as a happy and healthy fiancée to Jonathan. By mid week this past, I had convinced myself that I was better off not being anyone’s fiancée, and seriously began to think about jumping off the relationship ledge. I had returned to a place of great pain, and in doing so, forgot that people who have experienced loss can be happy, again. Each and every one of us deserves to be happy, again. And the people whose lives we touch, merely by existing, also deserve to have us in their lives.
I took two personal days off of work this past Thursday and Friday. Most of Thursday, I spent in indecisive turmoil, lamenting over my loss of almost six years ago. My pain over the occurrences of Chris’ illness and death returned full-force…no, more than full force, a flashback of sorts…wrapping around my ankles, tripping me up, and sending me crashing to the ground. I wanted out of my new life and back into my old life with Chris so badly that for the first time in a long time, I felt incapable of handling the intensity.
During my two-day sabbatical, I did things only for myself. I returned to singing. I ran. I cooked. I tried to breathe, although I wasn’t very successful.
During the late afternoon, this Thursday past, I drove to the boxing gym, which now takes over thirty minutes, lifted weights, and took a 5-mile run. When I was finished, I grabbed my stuff from the locker room and left. On my drive home, I had an epiphany: I no longer need to go there. I don’t box, anymore, I never really did, anyway. I just needed to release my anger, anguish and shock. Boxing provided me a most effective method of doing just that. I had thought about joining a new gym for a while, but never really could let go of my old gym, which had become a surrogate husband to me. In a sense, the gym became my handle to Chris, his hand, a way for me to hold onto him, which is why the thought of leaving the gym, in the past, had sent me into mother-bear mode, protecting my right to hold on to my husband, the boxing gym. The mind's ability to make sense where there isn't any is very powerful.
My decision to leave the gym empowered me. I began to spring back into existence, the Robin I used to know began returning to this stage we call life.
Last week, I explained to Jonathan, my difficulty in moving forward with him, reassuring him that I would eventually be able to do so with ease. I described my vision to him, which is a vision of Chris dangling off of a cliff, holding onto my hand as I try to pull him to safety. In my vision, my grip weakens, and I try with all of my might to hold onto him, but he slips, my eyes widen, and I scream, “Nooooooooooo!” as he plummets to the bottom of the mountain. I fail in that vision, as in life, to save him. The thought takes my breath from me. Jonathan identified survivor’s guilt in my vision, and he was right. Even though it’s not possible for one human being to give another human being cancer, I carry a secret stash of guilt and responsibility for Chris’ demise.
Tonight, I shared my new epiphany with Jonathan, explaining how the black piece of rock cracked, broke from the mountain of grief, and fell to the bottom of the ravine. I shared another vision of mine with him, one of the boxing gym becoming dim, gray and covered with cobwebs immediately followed by a vision of Jonathan's house, our home, lighting up and filling with warmth.
After six weeks of living here in my new home, six weeks of fighting forward movement, feeling alienated, and wanting to run home to Cambridge, the city I love, but really wanting to run back to Chris, to my life alone, where I was free to indulge in my past. I am free. The gear has turned. I’m here by choice. My new gym is a five-minute walk from home, and I’m ready to let go of the blanket I knitted out of the grief I expended at the boxing gym these past three years. I feel ready to knit a new one, now, out of happiness, hope and my new love.
This event is a huge one. I can see the sun, once hidden by the giant piece of rock that broke away, peaking over the mountain, and the mountain keeps getting smaller.
Shneed.
I think I may have had as close to a real major depressive episode as I am capable of having this past week. Generally, I’m a pretty sane person, and I’m aware that depressive episodes are very serious, which is why I provide this disclaimer. Because I listened to myself, and figured out what I needed, I was able to smash away a huge portion of Grief Mountain with my pick axe, and watch it separate from the rest of the rock, and fall to the ground where it disintegrated into a harmless cloud of dust.
I don’t know how my thoughts became so twisted. I doubted my future, calling my engagement and eventual marriage to Jonathan into question, along with my ability to laugh, to sing, to be my own person, and to feel free from the heaviness I had allowed to encompass my heart. I was ambushed, once again, drowning in my horror of what happened to Chris. I cried at work, at school, at home, all the while finding ways to masquerade as a happy and healthy fiancée to Jonathan. By mid week this past, I had convinced myself that I was better off not being anyone’s fiancée, and seriously began to think about jumping off the relationship ledge. I had returned to a place of great pain, and in doing so, forgot that people who have experienced loss can be happy, again. Each and every one of us deserves to be happy, again. And the people whose lives we touch, merely by existing, also deserve to have us in their lives.
I took two personal days off of work this past Thursday and Friday. Most of Thursday, I spent in indecisive turmoil, lamenting over my loss of almost six years ago. My pain over the occurrences of Chris’ illness and death returned full-force…no, more than full force, a flashback of sorts…wrapping around my ankles, tripping me up, and sending me crashing to the ground. I wanted out of my new life and back into my old life with Chris so badly that for the first time in a long time, I felt incapable of handling the intensity.
During my two-day sabbatical, I did things only for myself. I returned to singing. I ran. I cooked. I tried to breathe, although I wasn’t very successful.
During the late afternoon, this Thursday past, I drove to the boxing gym, which now takes over thirty minutes, lifted weights, and took a 5-mile run. When I was finished, I grabbed my stuff from the locker room and left. On my drive home, I had an epiphany: I no longer need to go there. I don’t box, anymore, I never really did, anyway. I just needed to release my anger, anguish and shock. Boxing provided me a most effective method of doing just that. I had thought about joining a new gym for a while, but never really could let go of my old gym, which had become a surrogate husband to me. In a sense, the gym became my handle to Chris, his hand, a way for me to hold onto him, which is why the thought of leaving the gym, in the past, had sent me into mother-bear mode, protecting my right to hold on to my husband, the boxing gym. The mind's ability to make sense where there isn't any is very powerful.
My decision to leave the gym empowered me. I began to spring back into existence, the Robin I used to know began returning to this stage we call life.
Last week, I explained to Jonathan, my difficulty in moving forward with him, reassuring him that I would eventually be able to do so with ease. I described my vision to him, which is a vision of Chris dangling off of a cliff, holding onto my hand as I try to pull him to safety. In my vision, my grip weakens, and I try with all of my might to hold onto him, but he slips, my eyes widen, and I scream, “Nooooooooooo!” as he plummets to the bottom of the mountain. I fail in that vision, as in life, to save him. The thought takes my breath from me. Jonathan identified survivor’s guilt in my vision, and he was right. Even though it’s not possible for one human being to give another human being cancer, I carry a secret stash of guilt and responsibility for Chris’ demise.
Tonight, I shared my new epiphany with Jonathan, explaining how the black piece of rock cracked, broke from the mountain of grief, and fell to the bottom of the ravine. I shared another vision of mine with him, one of the boxing gym becoming dim, gray and covered with cobwebs immediately followed by a vision of Jonathan's house, our home, lighting up and filling with warmth.
After six weeks of living here in my new home, six weeks of fighting forward movement, feeling alienated, and wanting to run home to Cambridge, the city I love, but really wanting to run back to Chris, to my life alone, where I was free to indulge in my past. I am free. The gear has turned. I’m here by choice. My new gym is a five-minute walk from home, and I’m ready to let go of the blanket I knitted out of the grief I expended at the boxing gym these past three years. I feel ready to knit a new one, now, out of happiness, hope and my new love.
This event is a huge one. I can see the sun, once hidden by the giant piece of rock that broke away, peaking over the mountain, and the mountain keeps getting smaller.
Shneed.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Holding out for Eleven
I have begun 2010’s descent into the mucky mire of grief, ever-present even at almost six years, even after welcoming a new love into my life, even after everything I have accomplished since Chris’ death...even after anything...ever...perhaps for the rest of my life. My annual slip-slide into the black hole arrives like clockwork. Mood swings and anger-spells seem to be the main ingredients in my emotional soup du jour as of late.
This year, navigating through the symptoms is trickier. I can’t just cry whenever I need to because I live with Jonathan now, and my engaging in a nightly 6:00 tear-fest would not be fair to him. But the truth is that I still miss Chris, I still love him, and I still wish he didn’t die. Those truths are sturdy enough to build a roadblock to my future if I let them, and if I don’t find/create yet another method of dealing with them, I will surely risk living my life in the past, possibly alone.
No matter what, Chris is gone, whether or not I cry, whether or not I run, whether or not I continue to (try to) move forward, and right about now I’m wishing I could forget he ever existed. If I never met him, I wouldn’t be hurting, right now. But if I never met him, I also wouldn’t be the person I am, today. There’s no erasing Chris. He either lived, loved me, and changed me for the better, or he didn’t exist, and I never learned how to love. His existence was pivotal for me.
Today is going to be a difficult one for me, I can feel it. Once again, I have become tripped up in the minefield of sorrow. Usually, a simple choice to be happy is all I need, but today, I’m fighting making that choice.
All things considered, today is just a day. This particular hour is just one of many potential happy ones.
Maybe I’ll feel better at 11:00.
Shneed
This year, navigating through the symptoms is trickier. I can’t just cry whenever I need to because I live with Jonathan now, and my engaging in a nightly 6:00 tear-fest would not be fair to him. But the truth is that I still miss Chris, I still love him, and I still wish he didn’t die. Those truths are sturdy enough to build a roadblock to my future if I let them, and if I don’t find/create yet another method of dealing with them, I will surely risk living my life in the past, possibly alone.
No matter what, Chris is gone, whether or not I cry, whether or not I run, whether or not I continue to (try to) move forward, and right about now I’m wishing I could forget he ever existed. If I never met him, I wouldn’t be hurting, right now. But if I never met him, I also wouldn’t be the person I am, today. There’s no erasing Chris. He either lived, loved me, and changed me for the better, or he didn’t exist, and I never learned how to love. His existence was pivotal for me.
Today is going to be a difficult one for me, I can feel it. Once again, I have become tripped up in the minefield of sorrow. Usually, a simple choice to be happy is all I need, but today, I’m fighting making that choice.
All things considered, today is just a day. This particular hour is just one of many potential happy ones.
Maybe I’ll feel better at 11:00.
Shneed
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Here.
I have a hard time believing that the spirits of those who have passed are not walking beside us or, at the very least, peeking in on us and helping us during our dark moments.
Yesterday was a tough day for me. I knew that moving in with Jonathan would initiate a grief backdraft, and that I would need to remain alert and aware in order to navigate through the smoke, but all day yesterday I was suffocating, lost in the fog. Anxiety and panic from the past two weeks, my first two weeks sharing a home with Jonathan, collected within my mind and body, and I found myself crying, off and on, over my loneliness for Chris, and my anger over the differences between my interactions with him, and my interactions with Jonathan. Like I said, I knew it was coming. It was just a question of when.
Jonathan and I had dinner plans, last night, so although I fell apart all day (I worked from home), I knew from experience, that I would be able to pull myself together and enjoy my and Jonathan’s evening together.
During one of several breakdowns, yesterday, I spoke to Chris. “You have to help me. I need to stop crying over you. I can’t do this anymore. Please help me.”
Jonathan and I had a wonderful time at dinner. We talked, laughed, and shared our entrees, sans the growing pains of our past two weeks of figuring out where we fall together, as a couple living together. Not that we’ve had any problems, but moving in together for anyone, male or female, takes a fair amount of adjusting on each side in order to create a smooth and easy existence together. Being a person who panics when things don’t go as smoothly as I want them to, I have found that over the past two weeks, every time we hit a snag, I wanted to run back into Chris’ arms, again, to the safety of a time before I knew cancer.
After dinner, Jonathan and I went our separate ways within the confines of our home, fed our separate interests, and decided to turn in for the night. Even though I spent the day in turmoil over the events of the past almost six years, I went to sleep hoping I could hold on to exactly the way Jonathan and I got along all evening. It was perfect.
I fell asleep quickly for the first time since moving in, and I dreamed that Chris was dying and that we (?) were all waiting for the phone call to tell us (?) when to arrive at the hospital. I was primping, styling my hair so I could look beautiful for him. The call came. I went to the hospital. Chris died. My floodgates opened immediately and I cried just the way I cried when I was told he only had 4 days to live.
I can’t remember whether or not I actually woke up crying hysterically, or whether I dreamed that I woke up crying hysterically. Jonathan said he didn’t hear a thing.
I went back to sleep, and awoke a couple hours later feeling happy and free from grief.
I believe my Chris stepped in, as he always does when I really need him, and infiltrated my dreams in a symbolic attempt to kill himself for me, so I could experience the reality that he is gone and move past yesterday’s snag, which wasn’t the first snag, and which won’t be the last.
He’s here. He’s with me, and he helps me let go and move on. Today, I feel light and happy, and I can see my future possibilities.
Yesterday was a tough day for me. I knew that moving in with Jonathan would initiate a grief backdraft, and that I would need to remain alert and aware in order to navigate through the smoke, but all day yesterday I was suffocating, lost in the fog. Anxiety and panic from the past two weeks, my first two weeks sharing a home with Jonathan, collected within my mind and body, and I found myself crying, off and on, over my loneliness for Chris, and my anger over the differences between my interactions with him, and my interactions with Jonathan. Like I said, I knew it was coming. It was just a question of when.
Jonathan and I had dinner plans, last night, so although I fell apart all day (I worked from home), I knew from experience, that I would be able to pull myself together and enjoy my and Jonathan’s evening together.
During one of several breakdowns, yesterday, I spoke to Chris. “You have to help me. I need to stop crying over you. I can’t do this anymore. Please help me.”
Jonathan and I had a wonderful time at dinner. We talked, laughed, and shared our entrees, sans the growing pains of our past two weeks of figuring out where we fall together, as a couple living together. Not that we’ve had any problems, but moving in together for anyone, male or female, takes a fair amount of adjusting on each side in order to create a smooth and easy existence together. Being a person who panics when things don’t go as smoothly as I want them to, I have found that over the past two weeks, every time we hit a snag, I wanted to run back into Chris’ arms, again, to the safety of a time before I knew cancer.
After dinner, Jonathan and I went our separate ways within the confines of our home, fed our separate interests, and decided to turn in for the night. Even though I spent the day in turmoil over the events of the past almost six years, I went to sleep hoping I could hold on to exactly the way Jonathan and I got along all evening. It was perfect.
I fell asleep quickly for the first time since moving in, and I dreamed that Chris was dying and that we (?) were all waiting for the phone call to tell us (?) when to arrive at the hospital. I was primping, styling my hair so I could look beautiful for him. The call came. I went to the hospital. Chris died. My floodgates opened immediately and I cried just the way I cried when I was told he only had 4 days to live.
I can’t remember whether or not I actually woke up crying hysterically, or whether I dreamed that I woke up crying hysterically. Jonathan said he didn’t hear a thing.
I went back to sleep, and awoke a couple hours later feeling happy and free from grief.
I believe my Chris stepped in, as he always does when I really need him, and infiltrated my dreams in a symbolic attempt to kill himself for me, so I could experience the reality that he is gone and move past yesterday’s snag, which wasn’t the first snag, and which won’t be the last.
He’s here. He’s with me, and he helps me let go and move on. Today, I feel light and happy, and I can see my future possibilities.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Chair
The night before I moved, I caught myself thinking, “Maybe I can let go of the Chris-chair.” The salvation army was coming the following Wednesday and I was just thinking about how easy it would be not to have to move the chair. Chris’ chair was really my chair. It had been for a couple of years before we even met. It only became his chair after his cancer surgery. I set it up for him, without the footrest, so he could be comfortable while he recovered. There was so little I could do to make any part of the ordeal easier for him, but when he came home and saw it set up, he smiled and thanked me.
Jonathan and I tried to make the chair work at home, but it just wouldn’t. Single futon chairs are quite large and no matter what layout we tried, the chair didn’t work. I decided I was ready to let it go, especially since it was tied to a memory of Chris that was bad. The chair came to symbolize great sadness for me, an empty chair, the chair in which my husband took his last breath. I didn’t want it anymore. Not now. Not when I’m really taking huge strides pushing myself forward.
The salvation army came on Wednesday. They began loading up the truck with all of the boxes and furniture we had stored in the garage. When they took the chair, I lost my breath. I turned to Jonathan and said, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to get through this without crying.” I try not to cry about Chris in front of Jonathan. Hell, I try not to cry in front of him, at all. But when the chair went, I did.
Jonathan held me and said, “It’s okay. You can cry if you need to. It’s okay. You loved him. You loved him very much. And he loved you. He still does. He always will.”
How did I get so lucky? Twice.
Shneed.
Jonathan and I tried to make the chair work at home, but it just wouldn’t. Single futon chairs are quite large and no matter what layout we tried, the chair didn’t work. I decided I was ready to let it go, especially since it was tied to a memory of Chris that was bad. The chair came to symbolize great sadness for me, an empty chair, the chair in which my husband took his last breath. I didn’t want it anymore. Not now. Not when I’m really taking huge strides pushing myself forward.
The salvation army came on Wednesday. They began loading up the truck with all of the boxes and furniture we had stored in the garage. When they took the chair, I lost my breath. I turned to Jonathan and said, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to get through this without crying.” I try not to cry about Chris in front of Jonathan. Hell, I try not to cry in front of him, at all. But when the chair went, I did.
Jonathan held me and said, “It’s okay. You can cry if you need to. It’s okay. You loved him. You loved him very much. And he loved you. He still does. He always will.”
How did I get so lucky? Twice.
Shneed.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
A Huge Part of Who I Am
I’m just about finished packing up my stuff for my move in with Jonathan, who, by the way, I got engaged to two weeks ago.
Even though I love Jonathan, this major life change has not been an easy one to prepare for. There are things of Chris’ I had been holding onto for the past five-plus years, that had been buried in the crawl space of my current apartment. I sifted through the rubble of “used to be” and surprised myself with how much stuff no longer held meaning for me. On the flip side, I melted down again and again over the stuff that still does hold quite a bit of meaning for me, and placed it into a brand new waterproof storage box to store at Jonathan’s house. Everything I have left that once belonged to Chris now fits into one plastic box, a time capsule of a part of my life that held immense joy…followed by immense dread, anguish, and five years and eight months (and counting) of grief-induced loneliness for my lost love.
I often talk about the magical (and fictitious) “one year of firsts” that everyone seems to think follows the death of a loved one. The firsts never end, unless life ends. I’m about to move in with a man I love for the first time since Chris died, a fact I have been simultaneously celebrating and grieving. My apartment has become an asylum of sorts, a place for me to cry, laugh, fall, get back up and scream. I’m happy every time I think about Jonathan and depressed every time I think about Chris. I wear a brilliant diamond engagement ring on the ring finger of my left hand, the hand closest to my heart. I wear my engagement ring from Chris, and both of our wedding bands which I had soldered together on my right hand. I think about both rings and I sometimes feel handcuffed by them. I haven’t decided yet whether or not to keep my right-hand rings on. Jonathan is a very generous, supportive, sweet man who tells me I should keep both of my rings, since Chris was such a huge part of who I am, today. Then he tells me he loves me because of who I am, today. Brings tears, doesn’t it? That kind of patience and understanding is just what I need.
I’m ready, Jonathan. I’m ready for something. And I don’t have to be ready for a lifetime of love. I only have to be ready to step outside my door.
Even though I love Jonathan, this major life change has not been an easy one to prepare for. There are things of Chris’ I had been holding onto for the past five-plus years, that had been buried in the crawl space of my current apartment. I sifted through the rubble of “used to be” and surprised myself with how much stuff no longer held meaning for me. On the flip side, I melted down again and again over the stuff that still does hold quite a bit of meaning for me, and placed it into a brand new waterproof storage box to store at Jonathan’s house. Everything I have left that once belonged to Chris now fits into one plastic box, a time capsule of a part of my life that held immense joy…followed by immense dread, anguish, and five years and eight months (and counting) of grief-induced loneliness for my lost love.
I often talk about the magical (and fictitious) “one year of firsts” that everyone seems to think follows the death of a loved one. The firsts never end, unless life ends. I’m about to move in with a man I love for the first time since Chris died, a fact I have been simultaneously celebrating and grieving. My apartment has become an asylum of sorts, a place for me to cry, laugh, fall, get back up and scream. I’m happy every time I think about Jonathan and depressed every time I think about Chris. I wear a brilliant diamond engagement ring on the ring finger of my left hand, the hand closest to my heart. I wear my engagement ring from Chris, and both of our wedding bands which I had soldered together on my right hand. I think about both rings and I sometimes feel handcuffed by them. I haven’t decided yet whether or not to keep my right-hand rings on. Jonathan is a very generous, supportive, sweet man who tells me I should keep both of my rings, since Chris was such a huge part of who I am, today. Then he tells me he loves me because of who I am, today. Brings tears, doesn’t it? That kind of patience and understanding is just what I need.
I’m ready, Jonathan. I’m ready for something. And I don’t have to be ready for a lifetime of love. I only have to be ready to step outside my door.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Gone.
I began packing up my belongings for my move in with Jonathan. I’m very happy I finally unfroze and started the process of breaking down the apartment in which I have resided for the past three years. Three years is the longest I have spent living in any one place since I left my family home twenty-one years ago.
Each place I have lived since Chris died has acted as a third-way house for me.
First I lived alone in the apartment we shared at the time of Chris’ death, where I went through the motions, simulating a life from which I was so far removed that I may as well have occupied a chair looking out onto the green at the nearest sanitarium. That was back when sitting on the sofa, warm and protected, wrapped tightly in my comforter was all I could do to keep the thoughts of killing myself from becoming actions.
Eight months after that, I occupied a third-floor loft apartment in Malden, where, despite the fact that I wasn’t ready at all, and I didn’t believe I ever would be, I began dating again, only one year after Chris died. I resented that I had returned to a place where I had to date, bitter that marriage hadn’t ended that roller-coaster for me.
Lastly, I moved into my current apartment, a charming third-floor cottage-like abode featuring Charles Dickens, twelve-pane cozy criss-cross molding. I thought the apartment would be enough for me for the rest of my life, that I’d never need, or want, to share my life with another man. I was proud of my home, proud of the independence I had inherited, and I viewed my being able to reside, on my own, in Cambridge as a huge accomplishment I never thought I’d be able to afford on my own. I did it. I rose from the ashes and showed myself inner strength I would never have guessed I possessed. I would much rather have had Chris. Inner strength is overrated.
So, today, even though I’m supposed to be heading over to Best Buy to unload three old Macintosh computers I no longer need (They belonged to Chris. We regularly engaged in the MAC/PC war), the heat is causing me to hide, in air-conditioned comfort in my living room, and pack up stuff I plan to donate.
The further away my life with Chris becomes, the more the entire six years feels like something I dreamed. That thought hurts. We met. I lived with him. I married him. We meshed.
And now it’s gone, and at the moment, I don’t feel like sweeping it under the rug by boasting about how happy I am to be moving in with my new love.
Each place I have lived since Chris died has acted as a third-way house for me.
First I lived alone in the apartment we shared at the time of Chris’ death, where I went through the motions, simulating a life from which I was so far removed that I may as well have occupied a chair looking out onto the green at the nearest sanitarium. That was back when sitting on the sofa, warm and protected, wrapped tightly in my comforter was all I could do to keep the thoughts of killing myself from becoming actions.
Eight months after that, I occupied a third-floor loft apartment in Malden, where, despite the fact that I wasn’t ready at all, and I didn’t believe I ever would be, I began dating again, only one year after Chris died. I resented that I had returned to a place where I had to date, bitter that marriage hadn’t ended that roller-coaster for me.
Lastly, I moved into my current apartment, a charming third-floor cottage-like abode featuring Charles Dickens, twelve-pane cozy criss-cross molding. I thought the apartment would be enough for me for the rest of my life, that I’d never need, or want, to share my life with another man. I was proud of my home, proud of the independence I had inherited, and I viewed my being able to reside, on my own, in Cambridge as a huge accomplishment I never thought I’d be able to afford on my own. I did it. I rose from the ashes and showed myself inner strength I would never have guessed I possessed. I would much rather have had Chris. Inner strength is overrated.
So, today, even though I’m supposed to be heading over to Best Buy to unload three old Macintosh computers I no longer need (They belonged to Chris. We regularly engaged in the MAC/PC war), the heat is causing me to hide, in air-conditioned comfort in my living room, and pack up stuff I plan to donate.
The further away my life with Chris becomes, the more the entire six years feels like something I dreamed. That thought hurts. We met. I lived with him. I married him. We meshed.
And now it’s gone, and at the moment, I don’t feel like sweeping it under the rug by boasting about how happy I am to be moving in with my new love.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
The Dance in the Middle
I just gave my 60-day notice to my landlords. I’m moving in with Jonathan in August.
Jonathan and I looked at engagement rings on Saturday. We have been talking about marriage for almost the entire “just-about-two-years” that we’ve been together. We’ve also been talking about having a baby.
The past two years has had its share of sadness, anxiety and anger, all of which have been nicely tempered with happiness, feelings of good fortune, and a sense that I can begin (the starting line keeps moving ahead on me) to relax and try to let go of the tears that still plague me.
I really do wonder how long getting used to the death of a spouse takes. Spouse isn’t really the right word for who I lost. Chris was a soul-mate, a teacher, and a best friend and a savior. From experience, I know that grief lingers for at least five-and-a-half years. Reemergence happens alongside grief, both traveling in opposite directions, intersecting in the middle right smack where positive change begins. I’m ready for that change, now. I don’t believe I have ever been ready before now.
My landlords like to remind me that, when I moved in three years ago, I told them I was done with dating and love and all of that stuff. They joke and say, “Oh, she was done dating…no men for her…she liked being by herself.” It’s not a joke in which I find humor. It’s a joke that makes me want to say, “Well, when one of YOU dies, the other one will see how much fun it is to be widowed.” I know. It’s mean. Like I said, I’m still a work in progress.
I’m not sure if I can paint an accurate mental picture of how I see this pivotal scene in my head. Grief comes from the west, and reemergence approaches from the east. They meet, but don’t pass each other right away. The two circle one another at the point of intersection for hundreds of years (less in real-time). Grief ponders being on its way. Reemergence ponders resuming the joys of a life interrupted by a cancer diagnosis seven years ago. The dance continues until the time is right and then maybe grief leaves, taking chest-crushing anxiety and depression with it. And maybe reemergence finds itself standing on the ground with nothing but sky in view.
I want to sing. I want to act. I want to run. I want to exercise. I want to eat delicious foods. I want to bask in the sun. I want to cry less often. I want to spend hours engaged in frivolous activities with my friends. I want the eclipse to go away. I want the sun back.
There’s an upcoming audition for a musical I have loved most of my adult life. I began to prepare to compete for one of the two leading roles, both of which are played by women in their twenties. I wanted it seven years ago, and I wanted it as recently as this morning. On my way home, on the train, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the subway window, and even though I look much younger than my years, I took a breath and admitted to myself that I’m not going to snag either one of those roles. That time has passed. Perhaps ten years ago, when I looked twenty years younger than I do now, I might have stood a chance. I shudder to think of how many sweet, beautiful twenty-somethings are going to show up with the same desire to sing those roles, each more talented than I am. The time is theirs, now, not mine. It’s okay. There are plenty of roles that call for forty-three-year-old women. Plenty.
In admitting that to myself, I think I may have entered a very early stage of working grief and reemergence apart, loosening the knot that keeps them intertwined and sending them on two separate journeys into the future.
I was young once. I’m not old yet, but I’m not twenty, either. I spent my thirties falling deeply in love and then losing that love. Ten years gone. More.
But Jonathan’s here, now, and I learned that I can love very deeply again, even though the thought chokes me when it’s not filing me with joy and wonder. There’s that dance in the middle, again.
Sometimes I feel desperately tired and unable to cope with everyday occurrences. Sometimes I still feel the need to stay in and cry. Sometimes my head is full of negative existential thoughts. And sometimes I’m the luckiest woman in the world and I wouldn’t trade my life for anything.
I’m just dancing, right now, and it's nice to know I have moved from the beginning to the middle.
Jonathan and I looked at engagement rings on Saturday. We have been talking about marriage for almost the entire “just-about-two-years” that we’ve been together. We’ve also been talking about having a baby.
The past two years has had its share of sadness, anxiety and anger, all of which have been nicely tempered with happiness, feelings of good fortune, and a sense that I can begin (the starting line keeps moving ahead on me) to relax and try to let go of the tears that still plague me.
I really do wonder how long getting used to the death of a spouse takes. Spouse isn’t really the right word for who I lost. Chris was a soul-mate, a teacher, and a best friend and a savior. From experience, I know that grief lingers for at least five-and-a-half years. Reemergence happens alongside grief, both traveling in opposite directions, intersecting in the middle right smack where positive change begins. I’m ready for that change, now. I don’t believe I have ever been ready before now.
My landlords like to remind me that, when I moved in three years ago, I told them I was done with dating and love and all of that stuff. They joke and say, “Oh, she was done dating…no men for her…she liked being by herself.” It’s not a joke in which I find humor. It’s a joke that makes me want to say, “Well, when one of YOU dies, the other one will see how much fun it is to be widowed.” I know. It’s mean. Like I said, I’m still a work in progress.
I’m not sure if I can paint an accurate mental picture of how I see this pivotal scene in my head. Grief comes from the west, and reemergence approaches from the east. They meet, but don’t pass each other right away. The two circle one another at the point of intersection for hundreds of years (less in real-time). Grief ponders being on its way. Reemergence ponders resuming the joys of a life interrupted by a cancer diagnosis seven years ago. The dance continues until the time is right and then maybe grief leaves, taking chest-crushing anxiety and depression with it. And maybe reemergence finds itself standing on the ground with nothing but sky in view.
I want to sing. I want to act. I want to run. I want to exercise. I want to eat delicious foods. I want to bask in the sun. I want to cry less often. I want to spend hours engaged in frivolous activities with my friends. I want the eclipse to go away. I want the sun back.
There’s an upcoming audition for a musical I have loved most of my adult life. I began to prepare to compete for one of the two leading roles, both of which are played by women in their twenties. I wanted it seven years ago, and I wanted it as recently as this morning. On my way home, on the train, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the subway window, and even though I look much younger than my years, I took a breath and admitted to myself that I’m not going to snag either one of those roles. That time has passed. Perhaps ten years ago, when I looked twenty years younger than I do now, I might have stood a chance. I shudder to think of how many sweet, beautiful twenty-somethings are going to show up with the same desire to sing those roles, each more talented than I am. The time is theirs, now, not mine. It’s okay. There are plenty of roles that call for forty-three-year-old women. Plenty.
In admitting that to myself, I think I may have entered a very early stage of working grief and reemergence apart, loosening the knot that keeps them intertwined and sending them on two separate journeys into the future.
I was young once. I’m not old yet, but I’m not twenty, either. I spent my thirties falling deeply in love and then losing that love. Ten years gone. More.
But Jonathan’s here, now, and I learned that I can love very deeply again, even though the thought chokes me when it’s not filing me with joy and wonder. There’s that dance in the middle, again.
Sometimes I feel desperately tired and unable to cope with everyday occurrences. Sometimes I still feel the need to stay in and cry. Sometimes my head is full of negative existential thoughts. And sometimes I’m the luckiest woman in the world and I wouldn’t trade my life for anything.
I’m just dancing, right now, and it's nice to know I have moved from the beginning to the middle.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Gift Came in a Box.............ing Gym
I don’t box, anymore. I sustained a concussion in January and had to take a 4-month break, and even though I thought I’d come back to continue honing my boxing skills, I spent those 4 months thinking about myself, Jonathan and the baby we might still have the chance to bring into our life.
The boxing gym was extremely important in my journey towards peace and wellness after Chris died. I only went there because I wanted to punch things, and what I ended up with is a sense of inclusion and warmth among a group of people who are just as goofy as I am. I have never belonged to a gym that gave me that kind of payback before.
I was walking on shaky ground when I noticed the first signs of my breaking away from the boxing gym. In one sense, I felt very sad, like I was once again losing something special to me. In another sense, my lack of excitement about punching and exercising myself into utter exhaustion is a very clear sign that I’m feeling better…less angry, less like hitting things and less like placing myself in front of someone who can hurt me and assuage the guilt I felt surrounding Chris’ death.
I once equated my intense workouts at the gym (which used to consist of a 3-hour cardio, strength training and boxing routine, 3 times a week) to cutting, as in razor blades and inability to deal with pain in a constructive manner. Not allowing myself to quit before every last rep and every last set of way too many workouts all wrapped up in one was completed was my way of dealing with my pain. I also felt as though I deserved nothing better than pain and exhaustion for what happened to Chris.
Times have changed. I do like to run long distances now, but it’s different. I do it because I like it. And those crazy boxing drills on the wall that I used to love to do – I still love them, but I skimp. I cut out entire sets, reps and I leave just because I’m tired. I can do that now. I no longer feel compelled to punish myself.
All things considered, a person who wishes to inflict pain upon herself could have chosen many, much worse ways of doing so. I got fit in the process of working through my pain.
So now what? I don’t want to leave the gym. The boxing gym is my friendly neighborhood bar, where everybody knows each other. We see each other at boxing events, we have a beer together, we like each other. I don’t have to leave just because I’m not interested in boxing, anymore. I’m a little interested...I mean, I haven’t yet donated my headgears. Maybe I’ll keep one for some light sparring. Getting in the ring, although harrowing for me, filled me with excitement and adrenaline.
Nobody there would think it strange that a person who has all but lost interest in the sport would still come in to work out in a more traditional way. And if they did, it wouldn’t matter to me. I spend much of my life looking for environments void of pretense, and I found a good one. It’s my gift to myself for weathering a storm I thought couldn’t be weathered
And I get to keep it.
The boxing gym was extremely important in my journey towards peace and wellness after Chris died. I only went there because I wanted to punch things, and what I ended up with is a sense of inclusion and warmth among a group of people who are just as goofy as I am. I have never belonged to a gym that gave me that kind of payback before.
I was walking on shaky ground when I noticed the first signs of my breaking away from the boxing gym. In one sense, I felt very sad, like I was once again losing something special to me. In another sense, my lack of excitement about punching and exercising myself into utter exhaustion is a very clear sign that I’m feeling better…less angry, less like hitting things and less like placing myself in front of someone who can hurt me and assuage the guilt I felt surrounding Chris’ death.
I once equated my intense workouts at the gym (which used to consist of a 3-hour cardio, strength training and boxing routine, 3 times a week) to cutting, as in razor blades and inability to deal with pain in a constructive manner. Not allowing myself to quit before every last rep and every last set of way too many workouts all wrapped up in one was completed was my way of dealing with my pain. I also felt as though I deserved nothing better than pain and exhaustion for what happened to Chris.
Times have changed. I do like to run long distances now, but it’s different. I do it because I like it. And those crazy boxing drills on the wall that I used to love to do – I still love them, but I skimp. I cut out entire sets, reps and I leave just because I’m tired. I can do that now. I no longer feel compelled to punish myself.
All things considered, a person who wishes to inflict pain upon herself could have chosen many, much worse ways of doing so. I got fit in the process of working through my pain.
So now what? I don’t want to leave the gym. The boxing gym is my friendly neighborhood bar, where everybody knows each other. We see each other at boxing events, we have a beer together, we like each other. I don’t have to leave just because I’m not interested in boxing, anymore. I’m a little interested...I mean, I haven’t yet donated my headgears. Maybe I’ll keep one for some light sparring. Getting in the ring, although harrowing for me, filled me with excitement and adrenaline.
Nobody there would think it strange that a person who has all but lost interest in the sport would still come in to work out in a more traditional way. And if they did, it wouldn’t matter to me. I spend much of my life looking for environments void of pretense, and I found a good one. It’s my gift to myself for weathering a storm I thought couldn’t be weathered
And I get to keep it.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
All That and a Load of Laundry
Tonight I brought home the new futon cover I bought for Chris’ chair, the one he sat in right before he died. I remember him, in his morphine haze, saying, “I wanna sit in the chair,” and getting up from the hospital bed the ambulance drivers had pushed into our bedroom for Chris’ safety during the last four days of his life. There was no way Chris was going down in a hospital bed. Although he was incredibly weak, he got up and, with our help, walked over to the chair so he could sit upright and go out in style. I still remember him in that chair, finding me among his friends and family and locking his eyes on me. I talked him through his departure, because I knew it was best for him to go with as much guilt-free ease, and as little fear as possible. He did a good job.
I have sat in that chair a few times since his death, but the one single time that haunts me still is the night I realized, for the first time, that Chris was really gone forever. I can’t describe the pain, other than remembering how much I needed him. The pain was searing, like my skin being ripped off of my body, a hollowing feeling like screaming into an abyss. Nobody could hear me because I couldn’t make sound. I could just hold onto the futon chair and hope and pray that I could open my eyes and find that it was him I was holding, and not some stupid chair. I almost lost my mind that night. I had never before felt on the brink of snapping…really snapping…and never since.
Thinking about that night puts me back there, and I know I shouldn’t be doing that, but sometimes, that’s really all I want to do with a quiet evening at home.
I remember that even though Chris was dead, I still thought he was coming home. I still remember the piles and piles of unopened sympathy cards I came home to after being away for a time, the length of which I still can’t remember. I hated those cards. They were anything but a comfort to me. I grabbed them up and threw them, as forcefully as I could, into the trash without opening them, threw away all of the food from the days preceding his death, and emptied all of his toiletries out of the bathroom cabinets with one sweep of an arm. I couldn’t get away from his stuff, and that’s all I wanted to do.
Everybody felt sorry for me, and I wanted to die and I wanted everything to stop, and I wondered how long I was going to remain in the state of shock I was in, and I just wanted to be able to breathe again.
I still wonder where he is, and if he’s okay, and if he still knows me.
Last week, I took the old futon cover, the one on which Chris died, folded it up, and placed it into my little Chris-box of his stuff I keep for myself. There are only a few things in the box, but they’re important things that remind me that he was here, and that we met.
Tonight, before I left the futon store, I asked the salesman behind the counter if it would be okay for me to share a story with him. I told him about how Chris died in my chair, and how after five years I was giving my chair a makeover and giving myself hope for a brighter future. I said all that without crying. He smiled, God-blessed me, and wished me luck.
When I got home, I put the new cover on the chair. It’s Chris’ chair, the one I set up for him when he returned home from having surgery, so he could be comfortable while he recovered. Now, it has a new face, a brighter face, a face of the future, my future together with Jonathan, and it has a chance to become my and Jonathan’s chair.
I just don’t know how long that will take.
Shneed
I have sat in that chair a few times since his death, but the one single time that haunts me still is the night I realized, for the first time, that Chris was really gone forever. I can’t describe the pain, other than remembering how much I needed him. The pain was searing, like my skin being ripped off of my body, a hollowing feeling like screaming into an abyss. Nobody could hear me because I couldn’t make sound. I could just hold onto the futon chair and hope and pray that I could open my eyes and find that it was him I was holding, and not some stupid chair. I almost lost my mind that night. I had never before felt on the brink of snapping…really snapping…and never since.
Thinking about that night puts me back there, and I know I shouldn’t be doing that, but sometimes, that’s really all I want to do with a quiet evening at home.
I remember that even though Chris was dead, I still thought he was coming home. I still remember the piles and piles of unopened sympathy cards I came home to after being away for a time, the length of which I still can’t remember. I hated those cards. They were anything but a comfort to me. I grabbed them up and threw them, as forcefully as I could, into the trash without opening them, threw away all of the food from the days preceding his death, and emptied all of his toiletries out of the bathroom cabinets with one sweep of an arm. I couldn’t get away from his stuff, and that’s all I wanted to do.
Everybody felt sorry for me, and I wanted to die and I wanted everything to stop, and I wondered how long I was going to remain in the state of shock I was in, and I just wanted to be able to breathe again.
I still wonder where he is, and if he’s okay, and if he still knows me.
Last week, I took the old futon cover, the one on which Chris died, folded it up, and placed it into my little Chris-box of his stuff I keep for myself. There are only a few things in the box, but they’re important things that remind me that he was here, and that we met.
Tonight, before I left the futon store, I asked the salesman behind the counter if it would be okay for me to share a story with him. I told him about how Chris died in my chair, and how after five years I was giving my chair a makeover and giving myself hope for a brighter future. I said all that without crying. He smiled, God-blessed me, and wished me luck.
When I got home, I put the new cover on the chair. It’s Chris’ chair, the one I set up for him when he returned home from having surgery, so he could be comfortable while he recovered. Now, it has a new face, a brighter face, a face of the future, my future together with Jonathan, and it has a chance to become my and Jonathan’s chair.
I just don’t know how long that will take.
Shneed
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Nobody
I no longer have a reason to feel crushed, yet that's exactly how I feel every Sunday when Jonathan and I part.
I don't feel slightly down, or moderately lonely. I go right back to the month, or so, I stayed out of work after Chris died, where I sat on my sofa, wrapped tightly in a comforter feeling as though the colorful quilt was the the only thing holding me together. I was safe inside the cocoon I had crafted, and reality could not reach me within.
I didn't know that the death of my spouse could leave me feeling as though my spouse has died every single time I am by myself; every Friday evening after work, when it seems that nobody is available to pass some time with me, every Sunday evening after Jonathan leaves, every night after the lights are out and all of my friends are sleeping, as I should be.
The pain of losing Chris is never going away, and although I feel much better in general, these days, I still have to fight to choke back tears on a regular basis.
Passing time opens me up like a meat hook tearing through flesh and I still don't want the day to come when I wake up and realize he's been gone for ten years. It has already been five years.
I don't really know whether or not I am still traumatized, but I cannot come up with an explanation for why I still have flashbacks, intrusive memories and sudden tearful breakdowns. Clay thinks I'm afraid that Jonathan will die, too, and since he has twenty years of experience in the field of psychology, to my B.S. in Psychology and about zero experience in the field, I feel inclined to believe him. I don't always believe I deserve to be with somebody I love and who loves me. If that were true...oh forget it.
Our society treats death as though it was a broken leg. Nobody expects me to still cry and fear loss and remain affected by what I witnessed Chris endure.
I don't feel slightly down, or moderately lonely. I go right back to the month, or so, I stayed out of work after Chris died, where I sat on my sofa, wrapped tightly in a comforter feeling as though the colorful quilt was the the only thing holding me together. I was safe inside the cocoon I had crafted, and reality could not reach me within.
I didn't know that the death of my spouse could leave me feeling as though my spouse has died every single time I am by myself; every Friday evening after work, when it seems that nobody is available to pass some time with me, every Sunday evening after Jonathan leaves, every night after the lights are out and all of my friends are sleeping, as I should be.
The pain of losing Chris is never going away, and although I feel much better in general, these days, I still have to fight to choke back tears on a regular basis.
Passing time opens me up like a meat hook tearing through flesh and I still don't want the day to come when I wake up and realize he's been gone for ten years. It has already been five years.
I don't really know whether or not I am still traumatized, but I cannot come up with an explanation for why I still have flashbacks, intrusive memories and sudden tearful breakdowns. Clay thinks I'm afraid that Jonathan will die, too, and since he has twenty years of experience in the field of psychology, to my B.S. in Psychology and about zero experience in the field, I feel inclined to believe him. I don't always believe I deserve to be with somebody I love and who loves me. If that were true...oh forget it.
Our society treats death as though it was a broken leg. Nobody expects me to still cry and fear loss and remain affected by what I witnessed Chris endure.
Friday, March 5, 2010
And I Do
So many changes, so many changes.
I haven’t written in such a long time that I’m having trouble deciding where to begin.
I have been feeling sad, lately, which isn’t surprising considering my systematic, gradual weaning off of Zoloft. I don’t want it, anymore. I don’t need it. My Z-tox is going well. I have decreased from two 50mg pills/day to one-quarter of one 50mg pill/day. By this time next week, I will have successfully kicked the habit.
Going off of Z has not been without discomfort in the form of withdrawals. I decreased nice and slowly, though, to keep the after-effects to all-time low.
I’m moving in with Jonathan in September. We love each other and I’m ready, even though there really isn’t any such thing as ‘ready.’ One of the things I love about him is that he knows everything about how I’m feeling. He doesn’t ever expect me to give up Chris in any way. He makes it known that anything I give up is entirely my decision and that he’d never ask me to give anything up until I’m ready. The load that takes off of my shoulders, my soul really, is worth everything to me.
I don’t like us living apart. I miss him when we’re not together, but I strike a nice balance between wanting to be with him, and wanting to make sure I respect his time and needs. Living together will be easier because we’ll get to be together even when we don’t have plans.
There’s a fight night at the boxing gym tonight and I have been thinking about how I don’t want to be there. Not wanting to be there is new for me. For more than two years I exercised myself to exhaustion to keep my grief in check, to cope and to have somewhere to be when I felt alone, which was all the time. I liked that the members were mostly men because I felt like maybe I would find someone there and even when I didn’t, I liked feeling like a desirable woman in a room full of men, even if that was only my mind.
The gym took on a surrogate meaning for me. For the past two years, I got to feel safe, and I got to work though so much of my fear, sadness and loneliness. This particular gym promotes a culture of camaraderie and support. There, I got to feel like somebody cared about me, and I really needed to feel like somebody cared after
Chris died. Now I have Jonathan, so instead of going out to fight night tonight just to be around people, I can be home knowing that Jonathan loves me.
I have never been comfortable with change, and feeling myself separate from the gym is no exception. Time keeps marching on and my life keeps changing and find myself fighting change just slightly more than I welcome it.
Tonight I’m left wondering if the boxing gym has served its purpose and if I will notice myself backing away now. I’m proud of the fact that I boxed for a while. I’m proud of the concussion I sustained. I’m totally, ever-proud of the changes in my body since the day I first walked through the door. I walked in wearing size 10-12 jeans and today my size 6 jeans are getting loose. I wonder how long I’ll be enjoying my new self before Jonathan and I try to have a baby. We both want to, but we also both realize that I’m 42. It’s in God’s hands.
Anyway…most of the time, because of the changes I am experiencing, I can’t collect my thoughts well enough to write about them. Like I said, I spend a bit more time fighting them than accepting them.
Chris is forever in my mind and in my heart, and instead of having to get rid of my memories of him, I get to nudge them over a little so my memories of me and Jonathan can fit, too.
And I do.
I haven’t written in such a long time that I’m having trouble deciding where to begin.
I have been feeling sad, lately, which isn’t surprising considering my systematic, gradual weaning off of Zoloft. I don’t want it, anymore. I don’t need it. My Z-tox is going well. I have decreased from two 50mg pills/day to one-quarter of one 50mg pill/day. By this time next week, I will have successfully kicked the habit.
Going off of Z has not been without discomfort in the form of withdrawals. I decreased nice and slowly, though, to keep the after-effects to all-time low.
I’m moving in with Jonathan in September. We love each other and I’m ready, even though there really isn’t any such thing as ‘ready.’ One of the things I love about him is that he knows everything about how I’m feeling. He doesn’t ever expect me to give up Chris in any way. He makes it known that anything I give up is entirely my decision and that he’d never ask me to give anything up until I’m ready. The load that takes off of my shoulders, my soul really, is worth everything to me.
I don’t like us living apart. I miss him when we’re not together, but I strike a nice balance between wanting to be with him, and wanting to make sure I respect his time and needs. Living together will be easier because we’ll get to be together even when we don’t have plans.
There’s a fight night at the boxing gym tonight and I have been thinking about how I don’t want to be there. Not wanting to be there is new for me. For more than two years I exercised myself to exhaustion to keep my grief in check, to cope and to have somewhere to be when I felt alone, which was all the time. I liked that the members were mostly men because I felt like maybe I would find someone there and even when I didn’t, I liked feeling like a desirable woman in a room full of men, even if that was only my mind.
The gym took on a surrogate meaning for me. For the past two years, I got to feel safe, and I got to work though so much of my fear, sadness and loneliness. This particular gym promotes a culture of camaraderie and support. There, I got to feel like somebody cared about me, and I really needed to feel like somebody cared after
Chris died. Now I have Jonathan, so instead of going out to fight night tonight just to be around people, I can be home knowing that Jonathan loves me.
I have never been comfortable with change, and feeling myself separate from the gym is no exception. Time keeps marching on and my life keeps changing and find myself fighting change just slightly more than I welcome it.
Tonight I’m left wondering if the boxing gym has served its purpose and if I will notice myself backing away now. I’m proud of the fact that I boxed for a while. I’m proud of the concussion I sustained. I’m totally, ever-proud of the changes in my body since the day I first walked through the door. I walked in wearing size 10-12 jeans and today my size 6 jeans are getting loose. I wonder how long I’ll be enjoying my new self before Jonathan and I try to have a baby. We both want to, but we also both realize that I’m 42. It’s in God’s hands.
Anyway…most of the time, because of the changes I am experiencing, I can’t collect my thoughts well enough to write about them. Like I said, I spend a bit more time fighting them than accepting them.
Chris is forever in my mind and in my heart, and instead of having to get rid of my memories of him, I get to nudge them over a little so my memories of me and Jonathan can fit, too.
And I do.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
5 Down.
This coming Sunday, January 17, Chris and I would have been married for 6 years. After Sunday, I will have made it through yet another concentrated anniversary season crammed into its usual 3-month span:
Nov. 23 – Chris’ Birthday
Thanksgiving – Chris’ favorite holiday
Christmas – The last time I rushed Chris to the hospital
New Years Day – Chris’ last day
January 17 – Our wedding anniversary
Even at the 5-year mark, I had a rough go of it this year. I fell a couple of times, cried more that I wanted to, hurt from a place inside that I just can’t reach.
The big difference this year is that I am in love with Jonathan. While our lovely relationship doesn’t obliterate my grief, it helps me to move forward, to realize that I am now living in the present, possibly for the first time in five years.
I will always miss my Chris and I am so thankful that so much of him now resides in me, because he was such a great, fun, sweet, creative and kind man, and I get to keep all of that positive energy within myself, and give it to others in my life.
5 years feels different. Chris has become a distant memory; a happy one and a sad one. I have placed him where he belongs, in my past, even though I have carried his beliefs, mannerisms and values into my present. We’ll see each other again…and again…and again…and again… and I’ll get to introduce Jonathan and Chris, if they haven’t already met before…and before…and before.
Cheers,
Shneed
Nov. 23 – Chris’ Birthday
Thanksgiving – Chris’ favorite holiday
Christmas – The last time I rushed Chris to the hospital
New Years Day – Chris’ last day
January 17 – Our wedding anniversary
Even at the 5-year mark, I had a rough go of it this year. I fell a couple of times, cried more that I wanted to, hurt from a place inside that I just can’t reach.
The big difference this year is that I am in love with Jonathan. While our lovely relationship doesn’t obliterate my grief, it helps me to move forward, to realize that I am now living in the present, possibly for the first time in five years.
I will always miss my Chris and I am so thankful that so much of him now resides in me, because he was such a great, fun, sweet, creative and kind man, and I get to keep all of that positive energy within myself, and give it to others in my life.
5 years feels different. Chris has become a distant memory; a happy one and a sad one. I have placed him where he belongs, in my past, even though I have carried his beliefs, mannerisms and values into my present. We’ll see each other again…and again…and again…and again… and I’ll get to introduce Jonathan and Chris, if they haven’t already met before…and before…and before.
Cheers,
Shneed
Friday, January 1, 2010
Rite of Passage
My new life has begun. I’m tired. I have given up my fight, a fight I can’t win, anyway. Chris is gone. No matter how much I screamed and cried over the past five years, he was never coming back. He’s gone.
I miss him, greatly, even now, and I’m still so sorry for what happened to him. Terminal illness is horrifying for the afflicted, and extremely painful…and sad.
We laughed. We laughed a lot. We also bickered and annoyed each other. And I learned what love is, and I really, really wanted to keep it. I didn’t know I wasn’t done searching, yet.
However silly the notion, I still wonder if he remembers me.
The good news is that the fog is gone. I see us for what we were, and neither of us stands on a pedestal in my memory. We were just doing our best, and our best was the best I had ever experienced. What I have learned is that absolutely everything in life is a gift intended to help us learn and grow.
Jonathan and I share a whole different best. It’s nice, too. I love him. He loves me. We’re good together. And I wonder if I’ll ever really allow myself to let go completely, or if I’ll be scared forever.
Five years is a long time. I have arrived at a rite of passage, from the past into the present, and I will continue with my life with Jonathan as we share a brand new future together.
I miss him, greatly, even now, and I’m still so sorry for what happened to him. Terminal illness is horrifying for the afflicted, and extremely painful…and sad.
We laughed. We laughed a lot. We also bickered and annoyed each other. And I learned what love is, and I really, really wanted to keep it. I didn’t know I wasn’t done searching, yet.
However silly the notion, I still wonder if he remembers me.
The good news is that the fog is gone. I see us for what we were, and neither of us stands on a pedestal in my memory. We were just doing our best, and our best was the best I had ever experienced. What I have learned is that absolutely everything in life is a gift intended to help us learn and grow.
Jonathan and I share a whole different best. It’s nice, too. I love him. He loves me. We’re good together. And I wonder if I’ll ever really allow myself to let go completely, or if I’ll be scared forever.
Five years is a long time. I have arrived at a rite of passage, from the past into the present, and I will continue with my life with Jonathan as we share a brand new future together.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Fighting It
I’m more tired than I should have probably let myself get, tonight. I left work with the best of intentions, did a bit of Christmas shopping, called some friends, hopped on the bus and started home. I stepped off of the bus and began to walk through the park to my apartment and suddenly found myself crying.
I hate nights like these. My crying-while-walking-home spells have become very few and far between, but when they hit, I don’t even try to stop them. I have only my tears to pay tribute to Chris and if I have to stop, I don’t know how I would reassure the memory of him that I cared, that I still care, that I loved him and that I will always love him. It’s a game I play with myself.
I cried for a while, and then ate, and then toyed with my computer and now I’m over-ready for bed, drunk with exhaustion. I could fall asleep right here on the couch with my fingers still on the keyboard.
In just 2 weeks, Chris will be 5-years gone. I hate that.
I hate nights like these. My crying-while-walking-home spells have become very few and far between, but when they hit, I don’t even try to stop them. I have only my tears to pay tribute to Chris and if I have to stop, I don’t know how I would reassure the memory of him that I cared, that I still care, that I loved him and that I will always love him. It’s a game I play with myself.
I cried for a while, and then ate, and then toyed with my computer and now I’m over-ready for bed, drunk with exhaustion. I could fall asleep right here on the couch with my fingers still on the keyboard.
In just 2 weeks, Chris will be 5-years gone. I hate that.
Monday, November 9, 2009
And just like that…
I didn’t go to work, today. I’m not feeling well. I still feel guilty because, by most peoples’ standards, ‘sad’ doesn’t really qualify as ‘not feeling well.’ I woke up and started to get ready for work and then decided that I needed to stay home, instead.
Chris’ birthday is in 2 weeks, and even though I didn’t feel like I was going to be sad, sadness kicked in last night and spilled into today. I’m taking the day to cry, to fall, and to pick myself back up and continue on. In a perfect world, I would run and lift weights tonight in the spirit of feeling better. Right now, I couldn’t even begin to set foot out of my apartment.
The more Jonathan and I talk about getting engaged, married, living together and having a baby, the more I feel like I’m laying Chris to rest. I’m scared. After almost five years, I’m still afraid of losing him…even though I already lost him. I just want to be with Jonathan, now. I want to feel safe with him and secure that he’s not going to go anywhere or die on me.
I’m ready to step outside of the past and into the future…almost. Five years. How did this happen? Where did the time go? Where did my old life go?
Okay. Enough. I’m just waiting for Jonathan. His going away on business has triggered a small grief-spell in me. I want him here. With me.
I’ll just cry myself out, and then try to go to the gym, tonight.
Shneed
Chris’ birthday is in 2 weeks, and even though I didn’t feel like I was going to be sad, sadness kicked in last night and spilled into today. I’m taking the day to cry, to fall, and to pick myself back up and continue on. In a perfect world, I would run and lift weights tonight in the spirit of feeling better. Right now, I couldn’t even begin to set foot out of my apartment.
The more Jonathan and I talk about getting engaged, married, living together and having a baby, the more I feel like I’m laying Chris to rest. I’m scared. After almost five years, I’m still afraid of losing him…even though I already lost him. I just want to be with Jonathan, now. I want to feel safe with him and secure that he’s not going to go anywhere or die on me.
I’m ready to step outside of the past and into the future…almost. Five years. How did this happen? Where did the time go? Where did my old life go?
Okay. Enough. I’m just waiting for Jonathan. His going away on business has triggered a small grief-spell in me. I want him here. With me.
I’ll just cry myself out, and then try to go to the gym, tonight.
Shneed
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Admittance
Being smarter than myself is crucial to my forward movement. I am an extremely self-aware person and as such, I have found that being able to decipher and dismantle my psychological facades has proved to be a most helpful skill.
Most of the admissions I make evolve out of writing about my emotions and thoughts surrounding my tragedy.
After writing about my perceived distance between Jonathan and me, I admitted the possibility that I, myself, might be responsible for our stagnating would-be growth. I began to take steps to pull down the barrier I had built between my past and my present. It wasn’t an easy task.
I began by talking a little bit more to Jonathan about what upsets me, how I feel about him, and what I want in life and in love. He also shared his own needs with me. It was hard. I had to keep nudging myself forward even though my heels were planted firmly in my past.
Jonathan is too good a man for me to give only choice parts of myself. He deserves my passion, my honesty and all of my love. We are both alive. My love no longer belongs to Chris. Only my love of his memory does.
There are still some things I cannot do, yet.
I planned to swap the lamp next to my bed with the lamp in my office, the other day. I entered my bedroom, office-lamp in hand and I froze. Chris picked out the bedside lamp. He didn’t even like home décor, and I remember wanting to encourage him, since he took the leap and chose an accent for our apartment. How could I say no? It wasn’t my type of lamp, but he picked it and I loved it for that reason, alone. I couldn’t move it. My body wouldn’t let me.
I have been wanting to watch our wedding video, lately, but I’m too afraid to see him in motion. I’m afraid I’ll cry and I won’t be able to stop. I still have trouble with the truth that a person who exists on earth can, one day, cease to exist.
Intellectually, I get it, but on a very basic level, I just don’t understand. And sometimes I still feel like I did something wrong, even though I know it isn’t true.
I had the most wonderful weekend with Jonathan. I am letting myself go. I’m letting myself live. I’m letting myself grow with him and I am letting myself begin to place my memories of Chris into storage, as cruel as that sounds.
I’m finally in love, again. I didn’t believe I could be. I never believed I would let myself be. I think about Jonathan and I feel safe, even though I know safety doesn’t really exist. Life exists. The ‘here and now’ exists.
And the only guarantee I have in life is the knowledge that I exist right now, in this very moment. And I believe that I will, someday, be reunited with everyone who has ceased to exist.
Most of the admissions I make evolve out of writing about my emotions and thoughts surrounding my tragedy.
After writing about my perceived distance between Jonathan and me, I admitted the possibility that I, myself, might be responsible for our stagnating would-be growth. I began to take steps to pull down the barrier I had built between my past and my present. It wasn’t an easy task.
I began by talking a little bit more to Jonathan about what upsets me, how I feel about him, and what I want in life and in love. He also shared his own needs with me. It was hard. I had to keep nudging myself forward even though my heels were planted firmly in my past.
Jonathan is too good a man for me to give only choice parts of myself. He deserves my passion, my honesty and all of my love. We are both alive. My love no longer belongs to Chris. Only my love of his memory does.
There are still some things I cannot do, yet.
I planned to swap the lamp next to my bed with the lamp in my office, the other day. I entered my bedroom, office-lamp in hand and I froze. Chris picked out the bedside lamp. He didn’t even like home décor, and I remember wanting to encourage him, since he took the leap and chose an accent for our apartment. How could I say no? It wasn’t my type of lamp, but he picked it and I loved it for that reason, alone. I couldn’t move it. My body wouldn’t let me.
I have been wanting to watch our wedding video, lately, but I’m too afraid to see him in motion. I’m afraid I’ll cry and I won’t be able to stop. I still have trouble with the truth that a person who exists on earth can, one day, cease to exist.
Intellectually, I get it, but on a very basic level, I just don’t understand. And sometimes I still feel like I did something wrong, even though I know it isn’t true.
I had the most wonderful weekend with Jonathan. I am letting myself go. I’m letting myself live. I’m letting myself grow with him and I am letting myself begin to place my memories of Chris into storage, as cruel as that sounds.
I’m finally in love, again. I didn’t believe I could be. I never believed I would let myself be. I think about Jonathan and I feel safe, even though I know safety doesn’t really exist. Life exists. The ‘here and now’ exists.
And the only guarantee I have in life is the knowledge that I exist right now, in this very moment. And I believe that I will, someday, be reunited with everyone who has ceased to exist.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Ritualistic Autumn Fall
I feel like I haven't written in forever, but only one month has passed since my last entry.
I'm having "one of those nights" this evening. With autumn, always comes a great sadness for me, operating right alongside a great happiness. I don't know if I'm making sense. I only know that I have waited all year for this beautiful weather to come, and I love it....by day. By night, I'm sad. I miss him. The void is gutting me tonight.
I still know everything he would say in reply to anything I might say. Chris and I were fused in some way. I could feel it. We were cut from the same mold. My best friend. And he understood me like nobody else ever has.
The night's fall temperature and ever-earlier darkness brought me right back to my week-nightly walk up Pearson Road, straining to see the warm, amber lights glowing from our apartment windows. When I saw them, I knew he was there. Home. And I was so happy to be there.
After Chris died, I bought some timers for the lamps in our apartment, so I wouldn't have to come home to darkness. I used to fool myself on the way up the street. I wanted him to be there. I wanted to laugh with him. We truly enhanced each other.
And tonight, for some reason, I feel like screaming.
I don't know what's going to happen with me and Jonathan. There's a distance that perhaps only I feel. It's possible that I put it there and that I keep it there. I don't know.
I'm too scared to share my grief with him. How do you tell someone that you love that he's not the only one, that you have never been able to pull the knife out of your heart? It's still there.
I want to go to heaven and say hello to my husband.
Someday, I suppose I will.
I hope he'll be waiting for me.
I'm having "one of those nights" this evening. With autumn, always comes a great sadness for me, operating right alongside a great happiness. I don't know if I'm making sense. I only know that I have waited all year for this beautiful weather to come, and I love it....by day. By night, I'm sad. I miss him. The void is gutting me tonight.
I still know everything he would say in reply to anything I might say. Chris and I were fused in some way. I could feel it. We were cut from the same mold. My best friend. And he understood me like nobody else ever has.
The night's fall temperature and ever-earlier darkness brought me right back to my week-nightly walk up Pearson Road, straining to see the warm, amber lights glowing from our apartment windows. When I saw them, I knew he was there. Home. And I was so happy to be there.
After Chris died, I bought some timers for the lamps in our apartment, so I wouldn't have to come home to darkness. I used to fool myself on the way up the street. I wanted him to be there. I wanted to laugh with him. We truly enhanced each other.
And tonight, for some reason, I feel like screaming.
I don't know what's going to happen with me and Jonathan. There's a distance that perhaps only I feel. It's possible that I put it there and that I keep it there. I don't know.
I'm too scared to share my grief with him. How do you tell someone that you love that he's not the only one, that you have never been able to pull the knife out of your heart? It's still there.
I want to go to heaven and say hello to my husband.
Someday, I suppose I will.
I hope he'll be waiting for me.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
My Very Freudian Dream
Last night, I dreamed that Chris and I had moved into a new apartment in a bad part of town. I was scared. I left to go running and ran about halfway up the street, when I found myself feeling as though I had run into the middle of imminent danger. I turned and looked, and saw a man standing behind me, immediately became alarmed and ran, as fast as I could, to get away from him. When I stopped and looked ahead, past our new, decrepid, ramshackle apartment, I saw a beautiful horizon, blue sunny skies, a big orange sun and green lawns and mansions as far as I could see. Behind me, things were ugly, scary and gray, but up ahead there seemed to be warmth and hope. I stood in place for a moment, taking in the beautiful promise up ahead. I turned, once again, to look behind me and saw gray, cold structures, and felt mean undertones, and saw men dressed freakishly and evil clown-like, one in a hot pink tutu and one in women’s clothing and smeared hot pink lipstick. The scary man behind me was still there, dressed as though he had just stepped out of an old western. The scene reminded me of a circus. I looked ahead of me again and saw beauty. I wanted it so much, but I stood still, gazing and feeling like I could run towards the sun and be in that picture instead of the one I was in.
I am in love with Jonathan. We’re in love with each other. Last night was our one-year dating anniversary, and I wished it was our one-year wedding anniversary.
I think, eventually, it will be.
Still frozen, yet steadily thawing,
Shneed
I am in love with Jonathan. We’re in love with each other. Last night was our one-year dating anniversary, and I wished it was our one-year wedding anniversary.
I think, eventually, it will be.
Still frozen, yet steadily thawing,
Shneed
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Independence Day
July 4, 2009 was the most wonderful, happiest fourth of July I have had in many years.
This entire weekend was perfect. I spent most of each day outside, which is what I love doing. I ran 7 miles Friday, and then shopped and dined with a friend. I kayaked on the Charles Saturday morning, dined with more friends and walked to Harvard Square, sat on a bench on the banks of the river, let the river breeze soothe me to my core, and walked home. Then today, I ran 3.5 miles, dined with yet another friend and shopped some more.
I worried that I might be sad, once again, about that singular 4th of July back in 2004 when, despite the fact that Chris was experiencing horrid chemo side-effects, and I could do nothing to help him, the rest of the world celebrated with barbeques, beers and patriotism. I knew I was inside a bubble back then, that we two were not connected to the world the way we had been before the cancer came. Holidays, back then, always felt like nobody cared, because people who are not experiencing adversity of their own don’t want their own holiday ruined by the horrors of others. That’s just the way it is.
Case in point, on Christmas Day, 2004, when I called my family from the emergency ward at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, where Chris and I spent the entire day after his abdominal pain became completely unbearable, I was invited by my father to come to dinner, anyway. I know he didn’t realize at the time that he was essentially asking me to leave Chris at the hospital and come to Christmas Dinner (by the way, we’re Jewish), but there is a certain level of denial that spreads to those who come into contact with the adversity of others. For fourteen months, I had to investigate and find out if anyone at our family gatherings was sick, because nobody understood that Chris’ chemo treatments weakened his immune system and posed a very real threat to his health. I know it’s a compliment that they wanted us there, but that type of compliment could have killed Chris long before his actual demise.
I feel better this year, than I have felt in all of the years that have passed since Chris’ death. I feel happy and I feel able.
I will always cry for my Chris. I will miss him always and I will love him always. I suspect that I will always shudder at thoughts of all of pain, fear and anger he endured and the injustice of cancer. The broken promises of a life snuffed out like a candle flame will always make me doubt love’s durability, even when a relationship is good. But all of that stuff now fits into a much smaller compartment within my mind and most of my mind is filled with optimism, as always.
And I continue to trek forward.
This entire weekend was perfect. I spent most of each day outside, which is what I love doing. I ran 7 miles Friday, and then shopped and dined with a friend. I kayaked on the Charles Saturday morning, dined with more friends and walked to Harvard Square, sat on a bench on the banks of the river, let the river breeze soothe me to my core, and walked home. Then today, I ran 3.5 miles, dined with yet another friend and shopped some more.
I worried that I might be sad, once again, about that singular 4th of July back in 2004 when, despite the fact that Chris was experiencing horrid chemo side-effects, and I could do nothing to help him, the rest of the world celebrated with barbeques, beers and patriotism. I knew I was inside a bubble back then, that we two were not connected to the world the way we had been before the cancer came. Holidays, back then, always felt like nobody cared, because people who are not experiencing adversity of their own don’t want their own holiday ruined by the horrors of others. That’s just the way it is.
Case in point, on Christmas Day, 2004, when I called my family from the emergency ward at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, where Chris and I spent the entire day after his abdominal pain became completely unbearable, I was invited by my father to come to dinner, anyway. I know he didn’t realize at the time that he was essentially asking me to leave Chris at the hospital and come to Christmas Dinner (by the way, we’re Jewish), but there is a certain level of denial that spreads to those who come into contact with the adversity of others. For fourteen months, I had to investigate and find out if anyone at our family gatherings was sick, because nobody understood that Chris’ chemo treatments weakened his immune system and posed a very real threat to his health. I know it’s a compliment that they wanted us there, but that type of compliment could have killed Chris long before his actual demise.
I feel better this year, than I have felt in all of the years that have passed since Chris’ death. I feel happy and I feel able.
I will always cry for my Chris. I will miss him always and I will love him always. I suspect that I will always shudder at thoughts of all of pain, fear and anger he endured and the injustice of cancer. The broken promises of a life snuffed out like a candle flame will always make me doubt love’s durability, even when a relationship is good. But all of that stuff now fits into a much smaller compartment within my mind and most of my mind is filled with optimism, as always.
And I continue to trek forward.
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