I haven’t been able to write for the past week because my brain wouldn’t let me. Even now, I have to push myself to write since I’m still slightly frozen from the fear that I am going to begin admitting truths to myself I still don’t feel comfortable admitting.
My second date with Jim went nicely. I like him. He’s a nice man. I find myself thinking about him quite a bit and I find myself wanting him to like me back, which is strange because I feel as though that desire is coming from my head and not so much from my heart. I feel as though I have made a conscious decision for our relationship to grow. He’s nice. I like him. We seem compatible. It all makes sense. The part that gets cloudy for me is when I wonder if I am closing off my heart’s emotions and telling myself that my head says we’re a good match. Have I closed my heart because of the fear I have of losing somebody close to me? I don’t know the answer.
Jim is a complete gentleman. He pulls out my chair for me and helps me get into my coat. He hasn’t walked me to my car, yet, on either date we have been on and I wonder if he’s feeling awkward about kissing me. If that’s the case, I find that aspect of him quirky and endearing.
After our date, when I was walking to my car, I felt a surge of panic begin to erupt from within me. I immediately dialed Carol’s number and to my utter joy, she answered the phone. She said she had been standing by for me, which made my heart swell.
I talked with her through my affection toward Jim until I felt as though I had permission from the universe to feel my attraction. When I arrived home, my mind took me on a scary journey on which I realized that someday I will be doing all of the things I did with Chris with somebody else. My body jerked with panic, suctioning the air from my lungs and I began to cry from my realization and from yet another funeral in honor of my lost love.
In other news, the boxing gym continues to batter me to a pulp, which is exactly my favorite kind of workout, even if the aftermath is nothing short of excruciating. I worked out Saturday afternoon and I still cannot walk up or down stairs without supporting my weight with my arms. Now I know what happens when I perform two minutes each of jump squats, front and back lunges, side lunges and sitting squats. It ain’t pretty, yet I am already hungering for the next workout. I need to know, by human experimentation, if this drill is going to get easier with practice.
When I awoke Sunday morning, I, quite literally, rolled out of bed (I couldn’t use my legs to lift myself out of bed), shuffled gingerly into the kitchen and composed an e-mail to the gym which read,
Ouch.
Sincerely, Robin Burrage
I received a reply which read,
That means it’s working.
Enough said.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
There is no Great Depression. They all suck.
I am in the process of recovering from a day-long depression which erupted into a forty-five minute meltdown that is just wrapping up now.
The movie White Oleander was just on television. I caught the last hour of the film while I did housework and as the credits rolled, I felt an ambush of anguish wash over me. I read the book in Los Angeles and watched the movie when I lived with Chris in Brighton. The Santa Ana winds are an important theme in the book’s plot. I remember the winds from when I lived in L.A. They were strange and eerie in nature, warm, dry, powerful.
Chris went to a class one night, right up the street from our apartment. He was supposed to be home by 11:00pm so I drifted off to sleep at around 10:30 that night, figuring I’d wake up when he walked through the door. I awoke with a start at midnight and he still wasn’t home. I panicked, got dressed, left the apartment and ran up Fuller Ave to Santa Monica Boulevard looking for him. The winds were blowing and tree branches were strewn along the sidewalk. I developed an asthma attack along the way, due to the dry nature of the wind. I ran all the way to the studio where his class was being held but nobody was there. Chris was nowhere to be found. I ran back home, not really knowing what I would do when I got there. Ten minutes later, Chris came through the door. Class ran over an hour late and he didn’t call to tell me. We fought a bit, well not really, we bickered. I began coughing uncontrollably and didn’t stop until the next day when the doctor gave me an inhaler.
The incident horrified me. I thought Chris was dead. There had been several shootings on the very corner where his class was taking place and when he didn’t arrive home, my imagination ran wild.
Tonight, the mere mention of the Santa Ana winds squeezed a trigger in my mind and sent me on a trip into grief and anger. Hell, I was already on the edge of grief and anger since I woke up this morning. The trigger just helped me release the tension.
I miss him so much. I tried to look at pictures of him tonight but I felt no connection to his flattened likeness. I cried about his diagnosis, his cancer, the chemo, my anguish, his hair loss, his loss of control, my loneliness, my fear of unknown things to come and so many other things.
I’m happy that I am a healthy eater because I experienced a complete emotional eating binge this afternoon that consisted of beef stir-fry, a bunch of grapes and some unbuttered popcorn. A grieving widow could eat a lot worse than that. I’m still going to eat a weight watchers chocolate ice cream sandwich.
If only I hadn’t pulled that muscle, I would have gone to the boxing gym yesterday and worked all of this out of my system before it had a chance to work me over.
I’m going to return to the gym Tuesday night with a vengeance.
Watch out, muscles.
Shneed
The movie White Oleander was just on television. I caught the last hour of the film while I did housework and as the credits rolled, I felt an ambush of anguish wash over me. I read the book in Los Angeles and watched the movie when I lived with Chris in Brighton. The Santa Ana winds are an important theme in the book’s plot. I remember the winds from when I lived in L.A. They were strange and eerie in nature, warm, dry, powerful.
Chris went to a class one night, right up the street from our apartment. He was supposed to be home by 11:00pm so I drifted off to sleep at around 10:30 that night, figuring I’d wake up when he walked through the door. I awoke with a start at midnight and he still wasn’t home. I panicked, got dressed, left the apartment and ran up Fuller Ave to Santa Monica Boulevard looking for him. The winds were blowing and tree branches were strewn along the sidewalk. I developed an asthma attack along the way, due to the dry nature of the wind. I ran all the way to the studio where his class was being held but nobody was there. Chris was nowhere to be found. I ran back home, not really knowing what I would do when I got there. Ten minutes later, Chris came through the door. Class ran over an hour late and he didn’t call to tell me. We fought a bit, well not really, we bickered. I began coughing uncontrollably and didn’t stop until the next day when the doctor gave me an inhaler.
The incident horrified me. I thought Chris was dead. There had been several shootings on the very corner where his class was taking place and when he didn’t arrive home, my imagination ran wild.
Tonight, the mere mention of the Santa Ana winds squeezed a trigger in my mind and sent me on a trip into grief and anger. Hell, I was already on the edge of grief and anger since I woke up this morning. The trigger just helped me release the tension.
I miss him so much. I tried to look at pictures of him tonight but I felt no connection to his flattened likeness. I cried about his diagnosis, his cancer, the chemo, my anguish, his hair loss, his loss of control, my loneliness, my fear of unknown things to come and so many other things.
I’m happy that I am a healthy eater because I experienced a complete emotional eating binge this afternoon that consisted of beef stir-fry, a bunch of grapes and some unbuttered popcorn. A grieving widow could eat a lot worse than that. I’m still going to eat a weight watchers chocolate ice cream sandwich.
If only I hadn’t pulled that muscle, I would have gone to the boxing gym yesterday and worked all of this out of my system before it had a chance to work me over.
I’m going to return to the gym Tuesday night with a vengeance.
Watch out, muscles.
Shneed
Jim
I had to skip boxing yesterday because I have pulled a muscle in my neck and back. I toiled over whether I should go work through the injury or skip the workout altogether. After much consideration I decided to skip.
I didn’t fully appreciate the effect boxing has been having on my mood. I was just teaming with anxiety all day yesterday to the point where I got nothing done. I can’t afford to let that happen today, too. I have tons of reading to do for school and I am hoping I can calm myself down and get my nose to the grindstone within the next few minutes. I can do it.
My muscle still hurts, but not as bad as yesterday, so by Tuesday, I will be back at the gym, hopefully.
I still have a hard time not crying when I return home for the evening these days. I still feel a large void in my life where Chris used to be. He would be proud of me as of late, though. I think my boxing shenanigans would have impressed him.
Carol said the most thoughtful thing last night. She said that when I’m ready, she and Josh would like to watch my wedding video so Josh can meet Chris. My heart swelled. What a sweet, thoughtful thing to say and do. I’d like Josh to meet Chris, too.
I have a second date with a man I met on Match a few weeks ago. He was my last-ditch effort at the online form of meeting people. I just don’t like that sort of setup. My account was running out and the day before it closed, he winked at me so I sent him my personal e-mail address and we stayed in touch. Our first date was nice. He’s a sweetie.
I’m not one for small talk on a first date, so we talked about theater, true crime stories, phobias (our own personal ones), fears and the deaths of Chris and of one of Jim's close friends. During our conversation, he said, “Wow. I don’t usually reveal this much on a first date.” Go me. We’re having dinner again this Thursday evening. I like this guy. He likes me, too.
He’s very busy pursuing his Ph.D. in Psychology so he works at a paid internship Monday through Friday and goes to school at night, plus he works a part-time job to help make ends meet. I like that he’s that busy. He’s got big plans to open his own practice by day and return to the stage at night. He’s an actor, too. I like our busy schedules. Anyway...I’m excited about Thursday evening.
Last night I cried for Chris. I just miss him. I still have a large amount of survivor’s guilt, too, and I wonder if it will ever dissipate.
I didn’t fully appreciate the effect boxing has been having on my mood. I was just teaming with anxiety all day yesterday to the point where I got nothing done. I can’t afford to let that happen today, too. I have tons of reading to do for school and I am hoping I can calm myself down and get my nose to the grindstone within the next few minutes. I can do it.
My muscle still hurts, but not as bad as yesterday, so by Tuesday, I will be back at the gym, hopefully.
I still have a hard time not crying when I return home for the evening these days. I still feel a large void in my life where Chris used to be. He would be proud of me as of late, though. I think my boxing shenanigans would have impressed him.
Carol said the most thoughtful thing last night. She said that when I’m ready, she and Josh would like to watch my wedding video so Josh can meet Chris. My heart swelled. What a sweet, thoughtful thing to say and do. I’d like Josh to meet Chris, too.
I have a second date with a man I met on Match a few weeks ago. He was my last-ditch effort at the online form of meeting people. I just don’t like that sort of setup. My account was running out and the day before it closed, he winked at me so I sent him my personal e-mail address and we stayed in touch. Our first date was nice. He’s a sweetie.
I’m not one for small talk on a first date, so we talked about theater, true crime stories, phobias (our own personal ones), fears and the deaths of Chris and of one of Jim's close friends. During our conversation, he said, “Wow. I don’t usually reveal this much on a first date.” Go me. We’re having dinner again this Thursday evening. I like this guy. He likes me, too.
He’s very busy pursuing his Ph.D. in Psychology so he works at a paid internship Monday through Friday and goes to school at night, plus he works a part-time job to help make ends meet. I like that he’s that busy. He’s got big plans to open his own practice by day and return to the stage at night. He’s an actor, too. I like our busy schedules. Anyway...I’m excited about Thursday evening.
Last night I cried for Chris. I just miss him. I still have a large amount of survivor’s guilt, too, and I wonder if it will ever dissipate.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
January 17, 2007
Chris and I would have been married three years, today. Now that the day is here, I feel a little bit better. Sleep did not come easy, last night. I lay beneath my electric blanket, sobbing for a while and fell asleep around eleven-thirty, only to awaken at 3:30.
I have said it before and I will say it again and again, this boxing workout is unbelievable. Boxing is a discipline and because my workout is supervised by a trainer, I am able and much more willing to maintain my focus for longer periods of time and with more energy than ever before. What I love the most is how I forget everything during the two hours I spend in the gym (2 and half hours, last night). After the workout, my endorphins keep me in a nice, natural, much needed and much appreciated state of serene relaxation for sometime afterwards.
This morning, while I tossed and turned trying to forget the pain in just about every part of my body, I began to cry once again. Suddenly, an image appeared in my mind’s eye of a red rose opening into bloom. I stopped crying and thanked Chris for the flower. I know he sent the thought into my mind. Then my brain began to wander again and I remembered how Chris’ tumor distorted his body. A thought immediately took over in my mind.
“That isn’t who I am, Shneed.”
The thought was so crisp and clear and instantaneous, that I believe Chris sent those words into my mind, as well.
“I love you.” I thought back. “I always have, even before we met.”
I felt comforted by the discourse taking place within me, two spirits forever intertwined, still communicating.
I’m still sad, and still so happy that we met and loved each other.
Happy Anniversary, my love.
-Shneed
I have said it before and I will say it again and again, this boxing workout is unbelievable. Boxing is a discipline and because my workout is supervised by a trainer, I am able and much more willing to maintain my focus for longer periods of time and with more energy than ever before. What I love the most is how I forget everything during the two hours I spend in the gym (2 and half hours, last night). After the workout, my endorphins keep me in a nice, natural, much needed and much appreciated state of serene relaxation for sometime afterwards.
This morning, while I tossed and turned trying to forget the pain in just about every part of my body, I began to cry once again. Suddenly, an image appeared in my mind’s eye of a red rose opening into bloom. I stopped crying and thanked Chris for the flower. I know he sent the thought into my mind. Then my brain began to wander again and I remembered how Chris’ tumor distorted his body. A thought immediately took over in my mind.
“That isn’t who I am, Shneed.”
The thought was so crisp and clear and instantaneous, that I believe Chris sent those words into my mind, as well.
“I love you.” I thought back. “I always have, even before we met.”
I felt comforted by the discourse taking place within me, two spirits forever intertwined, still communicating.
I’m still sad, and still so happy that we met and loved each other.
Happy Anniversary, my love.
-Shneed
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
January 17, 2004
I’m scared of tomorrow. Tomorrow would have been my and Chris’ third wedding anniversary and I’m afraid of the fear I’m expecting to feel.
I’m not going to go to the trees. The trees are in my mind and in my heart, now. We may have stood beneath them when we said our vows, but what would I do beneath the trees without Chris there? He’s in my heart and in my mind and in my spirit (except for when I’m crying).
I’m sad.
-Shneed
I’m not going to go to the trees. The trees are in my mind and in my heart, now. We may have stood beneath them when we said our vows, but what would I do beneath the trees without Chris there? He’s in my heart and in my mind and in my spirit (except for when I’m crying).
I’m sad.
-Shneed
Friday, January 12, 2007
Transcension
I joined the boxing gym the other night and became an official member, committing to going there every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. I canceled an audition I had for an upcoming musical. The two things I am focusing on for the next while are my school work and boxing.
I love the workout. It’s nothing like I have ever experienced before. I don’t even get to do the fun stuff until I get through the first part of my workout, which consists of jumping rope for 9 minutes, stretching, drill work (very difficult), and a medicine ball workout (extremely difficult). After, and only after that, I finally get to box. First I stand in front of a mirror and shadow box, practicing form, then I get to don my fabulous blue Everlast training gloves and punch the heavy bag for nine minutes before spending another six minutes sparring with the double-ended bag. After a bout with the speed bag, it’s off to the matt for sit-ups and then I get to go home. the entire workout takes two hours. I am exhausted and euphoric when it’s over. I love it.
School is difficult this semester, but so far, so good. I passed in my first Statistics and Analysis in Psychology assignment and passed with flying colors. Ugh. The material is very confusing and makes me want to cry. It’s really nice to cry about a trivial matter, for a change. My history class is lovely. There’s tons of reading to be done, but the class is only six weeks long (4 to go) so by the time I feel like beating myself to death with my own text book, the class will be over. I love my life when I’m this busy. I’m beginning to feel like the “old” Robin, the pre-Chris Robin and for the first time since Chris got sick, I’m starting to be able to feel good about that with minimal guilt.
I have been reading another great book by John E. Welshons entitled Awakening from Grief: Finding the Way Back to Joy. I could not have found this book at a more appropriate time. It falls on the heels of my reading, Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl, which was written by a man who survived the nazi war camps and lived to find meaning in all of his suffering. The book has helped me find meaning in my own suffering and now this new book is helping me see and feel my experience from a more transcendental vantage point.
I am a person who has experienced a cataclysmic event in my life. My husband came and then he went. His presence in my life was sheer bliss and his absense is crushing. But his job is done. He came and did what he was put here to do, and then he left. I am here to do what I am supposed to do and then I will be allowed to leave, as well. That’s the way it works.
I am feeling better these days, and although I am attributing some of my progress to Zoloft, Clay reminds me that Zoloft can only do so much and that I am the one who is making myself feel better. I know he’s right, but nevertheless, the guilt I feel from “walking away” from my husband remains. I believe, in time, I will overcome that exhausting part of my grief. When my loyalty counted, I didn’t walk away. I stayed for as long as I wanted and needed to see Chris through his last dark years on earth and I know that beneath all of his fear and pain, he appreciated my prescense. Was it enough? Did he love me? Did I help? I hope so.
I guess I’ll finally have the answer when it’s my time to go.
I love the workout. It’s nothing like I have ever experienced before. I don’t even get to do the fun stuff until I get through the first part of my workout, which consists of jumping rope for 9 minutes, stretching, drill work (very difficult), and a medicine ball workout (extremely difficult). After, and only after that, I finally get to box. First I stand in front of a mirror and shadow box, practicing form, then I get to don my fabulous blue Everlast training gloves and punch the heavy bag for nine minutes before spending another six minutes sparring with the double-ended bag. After a bout with the speed bag, it’s off to the matt for sit-ups and then I get to go home. the entire workout takes two hours. I am exhausted and euphoric when it’s over. I love it.
School is difficult this semester, but so far, so good. I passed in my first Statistics and Analysis in Psychology assignment and passed with flying colors. Ugh. The material is very confusing and makes me want to cry. It’s really nice to cry about a trivial matter, for a change. My history class is lovely. There’s tons of reading to be done, but the class is only six weeks long (4 to go) so by the time I feel like beating myself to death with my own text book, the class will be over. I love my life when I’m this busy. I’m beginning to feel like the “old” Robin, the pre-Chris Robin and for the first time since Chris got sick, I’m starting to be able to feel good about that with minimal guilt.
I have been reading another great book by John E. Welshons entitled Awakening from Grief: Finding the Way Back to Joy. I could not have found this book at a more appropriate time. It falls on the heels of my reading, Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl, which was written by a man who survived the nazi war camps and lived to find meaning in all of his suffering. The book has helped me find meaning in my own suffering and now this new book is helping me see and feel my experience from a more transcendental vantage point.
I am a person who has experienced a cataclysmic event in my life. My husband came and then he went. His presence in my life was sheer bliss and his absense is crushing. But his job is done. He came and did what he was put here to do, and then he left. I am here to do what I am supposed to do and then I will be allowed to leave, as well. That’s the way it works.
I am feeling better these days, and although I am attributing some of my progress to Zoloft, Clay reminds me that Zoloft can only do so much and that I am the one who is making myself feel better. I know he’s right, but nevertheless, the guilt I feel from “walking away” from my husband remains. I believe, in time, I will overcome that exhausting part of my grief. When my loyalty counted, I didn’t walk away. I stayed for as long as I wanted and needed to see Chris through his last dark years on earth and I know that beneath all of his fear and pain, he appreciated my prescense. Was it enough? Did he love me? Did I help? I hope so.
I guess I’ll finally have the answer when it’s my time to go.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
Self Deprecating Mood
My mood, tonight, centers around self-deprecation, probably the effects of PMS combined with the fact that school starts tomorrow and I will be going non-stop until 10:30 pm. For some reason, even though that’s the pace I prefer, I am filled with anxiety.
I don't know why I have been left alone. I feel as though I have been punished and I feel as though I just don't deserve the kind of love I shared with Chris.
I keep thinking about the way we met and how unassuming we both were and how naturally our relationship progressed. Neither of us expected to meet and neither of us knew we would fall in love and get married. Everything happened so naturally and since I don’t know how I found love the first time, I don’t know how to meet and fall in love with someone again. I am lonely these days and I want to be close with somebody, but I can’t imagine ever being close to anybody in the same way I was close to Chris. I am so afraid I will never know love again.
I think I made a good choice when I let my Match.com membership run out. I need to refocus my lens and gear my thoughts toward the things in my life which I can control. I want to stop pressuring myself to meet somebody. If I can forget about love for a while, I will feel better, I think.
I did have a date with a forensic psychologist (I know!) Friday night. He’s a very nice man and we had a very nice time. We both decided to see each other again, but unfortunately, people don’t always follow through with their intentions. He’s currently pursuing his Ph.D. in Psychology, so he’s very busy, as am I. He is my last ditch effort with Match and if he doesn’t call me, I’m just going to focus on other things for a while.
Everybody at Russian Christmas had a boyfriend or a husband and I wanted so badly to be sitting there with Chris.
Going to the party was really tough, since I hadn’t ever gone without Chris before. I’m so tired of being tough, going places on my own and having people tell me how brave I am. I’m not brave. I’m tired and I want my husband back. I had to walk to my car alone afterwards and everybody else went home with their partners. All of the men were so funny and nice and sweet and I kept thinking that Chris fit right in with all of them when he was here.
I hate this. This is so unfair. I want him back.Why did he have to die? I don’t want to be alone anymore, but I don’t want to date. I just want to find myself suddenly falling in love the way I did with Chris. I felt like loser sitting there without him.
Carol has a boyfriend and she’s talking about marriage. Robby has his husband. I’m feeling so alone and I’m feeling like I have become the single person I never wanted to be, again. I’m her again and now I have to start from the beginning and I DON’T WANT TO!
He should have been there with me.
I’m not going to try anymore. It’ll happen. It has to.
I don't know why I have been left alone. I feel as though I have been punished and I feel as though I just don't deserve the kind of love I shared with Chris.
I keep thinking about the way we met and how unassuming we both were and how naturally our relationship progressed. Neither of us expected to meet and neither of us knew we would fall in love and get married. Everything happened so naturally and since I don’t know how I found love the first time, I don’t know how to meet and fall in love with someone again. I am lonely these days and I want to be close with somebody, but I can’t imagine ever being close to anybody in the same way I was close to Chris. I am so afraid I will never know love again.
I think I made a good choice when I let my Match.com membership run out. I need to refocus my lens and gear my thoughts toward the things in my life which I can control. I want to stop pressuring myself to meet somebody. If I can forget about love for a while, I will feel better, I think.
I did have a date with a forensic psychologist (I know!) Friday night. He’s a very nice man and we had a very nice time. We both decided to see each other again, but unfortunately, people don’t always follow through with their intentions. He’s currently pursuing his Ph.D. in Psychology, so he’s very busy, as am I. He is my last ditch effort with Match and if he doesn’t call me, I’m just going to focus on other things for a while.
Everybody at Russian Christmas had a boyfriend or a husband and I wanted so badly to be sitting there with Chris.
Going to the party was really tough, since I hadn’t ever gone without Chris before. I’m so tired of being tough, going places on my own and having people tell me how brave I am. I’m not brave. I’m tired and I want my husband back. I had to walk to my car alone afterwards and everybody else went home with their partners. All of the men were so funny and nice and sweet and I kept thinking that Chris fit right in with all of them when he was here.
I hate this. This is so unfair. I want him back.Why did he have to die? I don’t want to be alone anymore, but I don’t want to date. I just want to find myself suddenly falling in love the way I did with Chris. I felt like loser sitting there without him.
Carol has a boyfriend and she’s talking about marriage. Robby has his husband. I’m feeling so alone and I’m feeling like I have become the single person I never wanted to be, again. I’m her again and now I have to start from the beginning and I DON’T WANT TO!
He should have been there with me.
I’m not going to try anymore. It’ll happen. It has to.
Russian Christmas
I just had a wonderful time celebrating Russian Christmas with a friend of mine who celebrates every year by inviting a handful of friends over and serving up hors d’oeuvres and home-made borsht, along with good wine and shots of vodka, which we all consume while engaging in witty, humorous discourse. It was fun, but now I’m feeling a little sad.
The first time I attended Russian Christmas was in 2000, when Chris invited me. My friend, Annemarie, was Chris’ boss at the time and Chris was the “real” invited guest, but he invited me along. We went to the party together for two years, 2000 and 2001. Then we moved to Los Angeles for the latter part of 2001 through the latter part of 2003 and then Chris got sick, so although we were invited in 2004, we did not attend. Then Chris was gone and I could not attend without him in 2005 or 2006, but this year I decided to attend.
Annemarie never excludes me from the invitation, and that very generous, very thoughtful gesture touches me very deeply. I feel as though most people would have given up on me by now.
What I love about Annemarie is that she isn’t afraid to talk about Chris out loud in a room full of jovial party guests. She nonchalantly mentioned the time that she and Chris attended a Red Sox game together in the rain. She’s not the least bit uncomfortable. She included Chris and she included me. I wish Chris could have been there with me tonight.
I drove myself there, found a parking space on Boylston Street and walked over to Park Drive on my own. I was nervous about finding parking and nervous about leaving the party alone and walking to my car, but I made myself proud by doing both of those things, tonight. Chris would have been proud of me.
I was the first one to leave the party. I don’t really like being out really late at night, so when the clock neared 11:30I felt a little bit of panic set in and I felt compelled to leave.
I’m home now and I already feel as though I can’t sleep, so I’m not even going to try. Eventually, the gravity of exhaustion will take me.
Good night.
The first time I attended Russian Christmas was in 2000, when Chris invited me. My friend, Annemarie, was Chris’ boss at the time and Chris was the “real” invited guest, but he invited me along. We went to the party together for two years, 2000 and 2001. Then we moved to Los Angeles for the latter part of 2001 through the latter part of 2003 and then Chris got sick, so although we were invited in 2004, we did not attend. Then Chris was gone and I could not attend without him in 2005 or 2006, but this year I decided to attend.
Annemarie never excludes me from the invitation, and that very generous, very thoughtful gesture touches me very deeply. I feel as though most people would have given up on me by now.
What I love about Annemarie is that she isn’t afraid to talk about Chris out loud in a room full of jovial party guests. She nonchalantly mentioned the time that she and Chris attended a Red Sox game together in the rain. She’s not the least bit uncomfortable. She included Chris and she included me. I wish Chris could have been there with me tonight.
I drove myself there, found a parking space on Boylston Street and walked over to Park Drive on my own. I was nervous about finding parking and nervous about leaving the party alone and walking to my car, but I made myself proud by doing both of those things, tonight. Chris would have been proud of me.
I was the first one to leave the party. I don’t really like being out really late at night, so when the clock neared 11:30I felt a little bit of panic set in and I felt compelled to leave.
I’m home now and I already feel as though I can’t sleep, so I’m not even going to try. Eventually, the gravity of exhaustion will take me.
Good night.
Monday, January 1, 2007
Two Years of a Two-Year Sentence Served
When I think about the fact that Chris died two whole years ago, I feel scared. How can two years have passed? How can my life be piecing itself back together? How can I get through my days more easily and not be crying as much as I used to? Finally, how can I ever be free, completely free, from the guilt of moving on? No amount of logic seems to alleviate the guilt-generated nervousness in the pit of my stomach.
I can already feel that 2007 is going to be a good year for forward movement in my life. I have one more two-year anniversary date to get through, my wedding anniversary, before I am past the year of seconds, which in no way means I have finished experiencing the last of the firsts.
At the urging of one of my friends, I attended the Ellis Paul concert at Club Passim last night. My decision to attend came too late for me to order tickets to the late show, but nonetheless, Ellis rocked...or “folked” as it were. I guess he “folk rocked.”
Focusing on the music was a challenge last night as my mind peridocially wandered back in time throughout the evening. I missed entire blocks of the music set, remembering how Chris and I met, how he introduced me to the world of folk music and how we enjoyed romantic evenings out at venues similar to Passim. The festive holiday lights which regularly ornament the walls of the room reminded me of Chris. The view out the windows brought me back to a time when I was one-half of an “us.” Ellis’ lyrics messed with my moods, causing me to toggle back and forth between elation and destruction.
I was home by ten and in bed by eleven-thirty.
Today’s rain lent an entirely appropriate backdrop to the anniversary of the worst period of my life. I was happy to see the dismal weather system looming outside the panes of my living room window. Maybe by this time next year I will be ready for the sun.
I am trying. I still have to try. Nothing comes naturally, yet.
Last night, I donned Chris’ brown cordorouy jacket, my fabric hug, and I curled up on my bed and cried, telling him I love him, that I always have and that I wish he hadn’t died. I wore the embrace for a while before I sat up, and then I returned the textile remnant of my husband to its hanger along with his pajama bottoms, boxer shorts, ties, Red Sox t-shirt and stripey “Australian girlfriend” jersey. Those are the clothes I kept for myself as remembrances of the deepest love I have ever felt.
The year 2007 is going to be all about courage. Courage to move forward, courage to find love again, and courage to fully engage in my life, grounded in the truth that this is, indeed, my life and no longer a life I share with Chris.
This past Saturday, I took an introductory boxing lesson at a boxing club and absolutely loved my session. I am now gearing up for membership. Nothing, to date, has alleviated my anger and anxiety more than punching a bag and hitting the mits in the ring while I followed the trainer’s shoulted commands, “One! Two, one! One, two, three!”, concentrating on form, footwork and cardio endurance. I arrived home with the usual endorphin rush, amplified by the most pronounced feeling of relaxation I have ever experienced before and after Chris.
2007 is going to bring change and my life is going to become beautiful, again. I am going to punch my way out of prison this year.
I can already feel that 2007 is going to be a good year for forward movement in my life. I have one more two-year anniversary date to get through, my wedding anniversary, before I am past the year of seconds, which in no way means I have finished experiencing the last of the firsts.
At the urging of one of my friends, I attended the Ellis Paul concert at Club Passim last night. My decision to attend came too late for me to order tickets to the late show, but nonetheless, Ellis rocked...or “folked” as it were. I guess he “folk rocked.”
Focusing on the music was a challenge last night as my mind peridocially wandered back in time throughout the evening. I missed entire blocks of the music set, remembering how Chris and I met, how he introduced me to the world of folk music and how we enjoyed romantic evenings out at venues similar to Passim. The festive holiday lights which regularly ornament the walls of the room reminded me of Chris. The view out the windows brought me back to a time when I was one-half of an “us.” Ellis’ lyrics messed with my moods, causing me to toggle back and forth between elation and destruction.
I was home by ten and in bed by eleven-thirty.
Today’s rain lent an entirely appropriate backdrop to the anniversary of the worst period of my life. I was happy to see the dismal weather system looming outside the panes of my living room window. Maybe by this time next year I will be ready for the sun.
I am trying. I still have to try. Nothing comes naturally, yet.
Last night, I donned Chris’ brown cordorouy jacket, my fabric hug, and I curled up on my bed and cried, telling him I love him, that I always have and that I wish he hadn’t died. I wore the embrace for a while before I sat up, and then I returned the textile remnant of my husband to its hanger along with his pajama bottoms, boxer shorts, ties, Red Sox t-shirt and stripey “Australian girlfriend” jersey. Those are the clothes I kept for myself as remembrances of the deepest love I have ever felt.
The year 2007 is going to be all about courage. Courage to move forward, courage to find love again, and courage to fully engage in my life, grounded in the truth that this is, indeed, my life and no longer a life I share with Chris.
This past Saturday, I took an introductory boxing lesson at a boxing club and absolutely loved my session. I am now gearing up for membership. Nothing, to date, has alleviated my anger and anxiety more than punching a bag and hitting the mits in the ring while I followed the trainer’s shoulted commands, “One! Two, one! One, two, three!”, concentrating on form, footwork and cardio endurance. I arrived home with the usual endorphin rush, amplified by the most pronounced feeling of relaxation I have ever experienced before and after Chris.
2007 is going to bring change and my life is going to become beautiful, again. I am going to punch my way out of prison this year.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
His Legacy
This morning, I have been reading a lot of the stuff Chris wrote in the year and a half before he died. I think I am going to publish all of his writings in my book, along with my own writings from before he died, beginning with the diagnosis.
Last night, I dropped a delicious Ativan for the first time in a little while. Zoloft has been doing the trick for me, so I haven’t needed too much Ativan. However, I do love the stuff. I had forgotten that even though I have been taking it periodically, I have only been taking half of a pill, so last night I very hastily dropped an entire pill down my throat and before I knew what was happening, I had been relaxed into a state I can only remember from a time long before cancer ever entered our picture.
I must be feeling the anniversary. Last night, on two separate occasions, I actually got that old feeling that I could call Chris and ask him something. That hasn’t happened in a very long time. First, I was trying to find the boxing gym I am going to today. I know it’s near the Paradise on Commonwealth Avenue, but for a split second, I thought, “Chris will know. I’ll just ask him where the....oh....I can’t do that.” and then later in the evening, I was watching “Taxi Driver” and I couldn’t figure out whether Robert DiNero’s character was a taxi driver or a cop. I thought, “Chris knows. I’ll ask him...oh.” I always freak myself out when I do that. At my appointment with Clay the other night, and then again on the phone with Robby last night, I referred to Chris in the present tense. “Chris has a...blah blah blah.” and then I corrected myself with the past tense form of the verb.
When I read Chris’ stories, I feel like he’s right here in the room with me. His writing is every bit who he was, a nice reminder for me on those days when my memory of him feels clouded by the passage of time.
We had fun, Chris and I. Home was a silly place to be, and an emotionally safe place for me to land for the first time in my life. Family life was peaceful for the first time. I had a best friend living with me, existing with me in the same emotional and spiritual space and I loved that we shared that space, physically and emotionally.
I suppose if I am serious about finding the meaning in my life as a means for growth, I would have to begin by believing that Chris primed me for life and love and that I am now fully equipped with everything I need to bring that gift to somebody else and share life with him. I have to believe that perhaps the meaning in my life lies in bringing meaning into the lives of others and that maybe I can start by bringing to others all that Chris gave to me.
After all, I have become Chris in my own way. He lives on within me and if I choose, I have the power to show everybody who he was by projecting Chris’ beauty onto them.
Life would be better if Chris could have continued to project his beauty, himself, but as always, I’m happy to help. Even though Chris was sick and in danger of dying, my life held the most meaning and happiness when I knew I was helping him.
Last night, I dropped a delicious Ativan for the first time in a little while. Zoloft has been doing the trick for me, so I haven’t needed too much Ativan. However, I do love the stuff. I had forgotten that even though I have been taking it periodically, I have only been taking half of a pill, so last night I very hastily dropped an entire pill down my throat and before I knew what was happening, I had been relaxed into a state I can only remember from a time long before cancer ever entered our picture.
I must be feeling the anniversary. Last night, on two separate occasions, I actually got that old feeling that I could call Chris and ask him something. That hasn’t happened in a very long time. First, I was trying to find the boxing gym I am going to today. I know it’s near the Paradise on Commonwealth Avenue, but for a split second, I thought, “Chris will know. I’ll just ask him where the....oh....I can’t do that.” and then later in the evening, I was watching “Taxi Driver” and I couldn’t figure out whether Robert DiNero’s character was a taxi driver or a cop. I thought, “Chris knows. I’ll ask him...oh.” I always freak myself out when I do that. At my appointment with Clay the other night, and then again on the phone with Robby last night, I referred to Chris in the present tense. “Chris has a...blah blah blah.” and then I corrected myself with the past tense form of the verb.
When I read Chris’ stories, I feel like he’s right here in the room with me. His writing is every bit who he was, a nice reminder for me on those days when my memory of him feels clouded by the passage of time.
We had fun, Chris and I. Home was a silly place to be, and an emotionally safe place for me to land for the first time in my life. Family life was peaceful for the first time. I had a best friend living with me, existing with me in the same emotional and spiritual space and I loved that we shared that space, physically and emotionally.
I suppose if I am serious about finding the meaning in my life as a means for growth, I would have to begin by believing that Chris primed me for life and love and that I am now fully equipped with everything I need to bring that gift to somebody else and share life with him. I have to believe that perhaps the meaning in my life lies in bringing meaning into the lives of others and that maybe I can start by bringing to others all that Chris gave to me.
After all, I have become Chris in my own way. He lives on within me and if I choose, I have the power to show everybody who he was by projecting Chris’ beauty onto them.
Life would be better if Chris could have continued to project his beauty, himself, but as always, I’m happy to help. Even though Chris was sick and in danger of dying, my life held the most meaning and happiness when I knew I was helping him.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Finding the Meaning in my Life
Sometimes, the word of a trained professional is all I need. Clay confirmed for me, by expressing his opinion, that I probably had the flu because typically, with anxiety-induced psychosomatic symptoms, a person will feel as though she needs to vomit, but probably will not actually do so. A tremendous weight of fear and shame has been lifted from my shoulders.
I talk a big game when it comes to my ability to handle adversity and suffering in a constructive and forward-moving manner, but the truth is that sometimes I doubt that ability. Lately, I have found myself stuck right smack in the middle of the road, wanting to let go of Chris and the horrors surrounding his illness and demise, yet not entirely consciously being unwilling to release my grip on my grief. I still cannot articulate what purpose my grief serves me, but I believe I am getting something out of my reluctance to let go, otherwise, letting go would not feel so impossible.
In his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, Victor Frankl talks about the healing power of finding meaning for one’s suffering, a meaning in life. This very thought-provoking book has prompted me to question the meaning in my own life. I thought my life had meaning, but what I am realizing is that while people in my life have meaning to me, and while activities in which I participate have meaning to me, I am not aware of the actual meaning of my life, itself. When I ponder the answer to the question, I come up short.
I care about people and I want to use that quality more. I am studying psychology in order to give myself the proper tools to help others, but learning an official skill set will take time, so I am a work in progress.
Why did Chris suffer and why did I suffer Chris’ suffering and why, for that matter, do I continue to suffer the loss of my sweet husband? There are valid answers to all of these questions and there are reasons for all of the suffering of all people.
Answering that question with regard to Chris’ suffering hardly seems fair. He is no longer alive and cannot benefit from his own suffering, unless there really is another place the soul goes after life on earth. Did Chris suffer so I could learn how to give myself entirely to somebody else? That answer feels narcissistic, which shames me, but if the answer is true, it is not just true for me, but for everybody who has been hurt by Chris’ death. We have all learned and the lessons are plenty, even endless. We learned what disease looks like close up. We saw a real-life demo on how a person deals with being diagnosed with disease. We learned medical terms we never thought we would need to know. We learned, some of us for the first time, how losing a loved one feels. We learned we can go on living, and that suicide, although entertaining, is not the best option. We lost old friends we thought we would know forever and gained new ones throughout the ordeal. The lessons just go on and on and probably will for as long as we are able to learn.
My next course of action is dissecting my life, my thoughts, my beliefs and my aspirations in an attempt to uncover the meaning my life holds. There is meaning, of that I am certain. I may not be able to precisely identify that meaning at this point in time, but Victor Frenkl has opened a door for me which leads into the proverbial “great unknown.”
There is where I am headed. There is where we are all headed.
I talk a big game when it comes to my ability to handle adversity and suffering in a constructive and forward-moving manner, but the truth is that sometimes I doubt that ability. Lately, I have found myself stuck right smack in the middle of the road, wanting to let go of Chris and the horrors surrounding his illness and demise, yet not entirely consciously being unwilling to release my grip on my grief. I still cannot articulate what purpose my grief serves me, but I believe I am getting something out of my reluctance to let go, otherwise, letting go would not feel so impossible.
In his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, Victor Frankl talks about the healing power of finding meaning for one’s suffering, a meaning in life. This very thought-provoking book has prompted me to question the meaning in my own life. I thought my life had meaning, but what I am realizing is that while people in my life have meaning to me, and while activities in which I participate have meaning to me, I am not aware of the actual meaning of my life, itself. When I ponder the answer to the question, I come up short.
I care about people and I want to use that quality more. I am studying psychology in order to give myself the proper tools to help others, but learning an official skill set will take time, so I am a work in progress.
Why did Chris suffer and why did I suffer Chris’ suffering and why, for that matter, do I continue to suffer the loss of my sweet husband? There are valid answers to all of these questions and there are reasons for all of the suffering of all people.
Answering that question with regard to Chris’ suffering hardly seems fair. He is no longer alive and cannot benefit from his own suffering, unless there really is another place the soul goes after life on earth. Did Chris suffer so I could learn how to give myself entirely to somebody else? That answer feels narcissistic, which shames me, but if the answer is true, it is not just true for me, but for everybody who has been hurt by Chris’ death. We have all learned and the lessons are plenty, even endless. We learned what disease looks like close up. We saw a real-life demo on how a person deals with being diagnosed with disease. We learned medical terms we never thought we would need to know. We learned, some of us for the first time, how losing a loved one feels. We learned we can go on living, and that suicide, although entertaining, is not the best option. We lost old friends we thought we would know forever and gained new ones throughout the ordeal. The lessons just go on and on and probably will for as long as we are able to learn.
My next course of action is dissecting my life, my thoughts, my beliefs and my aspirations in an attempt to uncover the meaning my life holds. There is meaning, of that I am certain. I may not be able to precisely identify that meaning at this point in time, but Victor Frenkl has opened a door for me which leads into the proverbial “great unknown.”
There is where I am headed. There is where we are all headed.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Physically or Spiritually Ill?
Marc and I ended up riding the train to Copley Square and walking to the top of Newbury Street to the North Face to pick up his jacket.
As he searched the racks, my well-being progressively became not-so-well. I grew weak and began sweating profusely and had to sit on the steps inside the store while I waited for him to chat with the salesman. I finally stood and said, “I’m going to wait outside for you. It’s really warm in here.”
As I exited the store, a strange and familiar feeling washed over me. I knew I was about to faint and I panicked and by the time I got outside, all I could do was hold onto the railing and try to stay on my feet. My lights were going out and I knew if I let go of the railing I was going down. I have only almost fainted one other time in my life. The feeling is very strange, as though someone is turning a light dimmer down. Everything looks the same, except that suddenly, the world appears less colorful, more gray and dim. I wanted to call for help, but my voice wouldn’t work, nor would my normal capacity to form words. I could see a bench about ten feet away, but I just could not let go of the railing without falling to the ground.
After a few minutes, Marc came out and asked me if i was okay. I couldn’t really answer him. I could barely shake my head back and forth to indicate “No.” He rubbed my back, which made me feel so cared about and reminded me of how Chris made me feel all of those years. Marc asked me if I wanted to sit down on the bench and once again, I could not answer him. I shook my head again. Then I said to him, “I think I’m going to throw up.” and he said, “You do?” and then it happened. Right there, in public, in broad daylight, I vomited against the wall of the North Face while excited holiday consumes bustled about spending gift cards and returning unwanted gifts. I could not have cared less. Embarrassment was the last thing on my mind.
I felt better instantly, except for the aching muscles in my legs, arms, back and head. Marc helped me over to the rain-soaked bench where I sat with my head down for about ten minutes. He offered to hail a cab for me and give me the money to get home, but remembering the ideals of my fabulous husband, I said, “No. I am NOT giving my money to the man. I can get home by train.” After a few moments, I stood and we slowly walked to the subway station. Marc returned to work and I went home.
With the help of Advil PM, I slept from 8:30 last night until 2:00 today. My aches are gone, as is my nausea. I have not eaten a morsel in twenty-nine and a half hours and I’m not hungry at all. Way to jump right back on Weight-Watchers, right?
The thought that all of this may have been brought on by the anniversary of Chris’ final hospital stay and his final days on earth scares and amazes me. I really don’t know what the cause of my sudden illness was. I suppose it could have been psychosomatic. Aside from my physical ailments, I don’t feel sick. I don’t have a cold. I just experienced a bizarre breakdown of my ability to function. I don’t know if a person can have the flu for a few hours, or not. I really don’t know what happened. I only know that I feel so much more able to function in the safety of my apartment today and I am a little nervous about my return to the real world tomorrow.
I can do it, especially knowing that I have an appointment with Clay after work.
Beaten,
Shneed
As he searched the racks, my well-being progressively became not-so-well. I grew weak and began sweating profusely and had to sit on the steps inside the store while I waited for him to chat with the salesman. I finally stood and said, “I’m going to wait outside for you. It’s really warm in here.”
As I exited the store, a strange and familiar feeling washed over me. I knew I was about to faint and I panicked and by the time I got outside, all I could do was hold onto the railing and try to stay on my feet. My lights were going out and I knew if I let go of the railing I was going down. I have only almost fainted one other time in my life. The feeling is very strange, as though someone is turning a light dimmer down. Everything looks the same, except that suddenly, the world appears less colorful, more gray and dim. I wanted to call for help, but my voice wouldn’t work, nor would my normal capacity to form words. I could see a bench about ten feet away, but I just could not let go of the railing without falling to the ground.
After a few minutes, Marc came out and asked me if i was okay. I couldn’t really answer him. I could barely shake my head back and forth to indicate “No.” He rubbed my back, which made me feel so cared about and reminded me of how Chris made me feel all of those years. Marc asked me if I wanted to sit down on the bench and once again, I could not answer him. I shook my head again. Then I said to him, “I think I’m going to throw up.” and he said, “You do?” and then it happened. Right there, in public, in broad daylight, I vomited against the wall of the North Face while excited holiday consumes bustled about spending gift cards and returning unwanted gifts. I could not have cared less. Embarrassment was the last thing on my mind.
I felt better instantly, except for the aching muscles in my legs, arms, back and head. Marc helped me over to the rain-soaked bench where I sat with my head down for about ten minutes. He offered to hail a cab for me and give me the money to get home, but remembering the ideals of my fabulous husband, I said, “No. I am NOT giving my money to the man. I can get home by train.” After a few moments, I stood and we slowly walked to the subway station. Marc returned to work and I went home.
With the help of Advil PM, I slept from 8:30 last night until 2:00 today. My aches are gone, as is my nausea. I have not eaten a morsel in twenty-nine and a half hours and I’m not hungry at all. Way to jump right back on Weight-Watchers, right?
The thought that all of this may have been brought on by the anniversary of Chris’ final hospital stay and his final days on earth scares and amazes me. I really don’t know what the cause of my sudden illness was. I suppose it could have been psychosomatic. Aside from my physical ailments, I don’t feel sick. I don’t have a cold. I just experienced a bizarre breakdown of my ability to function. I don’t know if a person can have the flu for a few hours, or not. I really don’t know what happened. I only know that I feel so much more able to function in the safety of my apartment today and I am a little nervous about my return to the real world tomorrow.
I can do it, especially knowing that I have an appointment with Clay after work.
Beaten,
Shneed
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Shell Shock
I have returned to work, today, after my three-day holiday weekend and I am feeling quite nauseous. I have no proof, but a strong suspicion that depression has taken me by the leg and is threatening to wash over my entire body and soul. I feel tired, sad, sick and completely unmotivated.
This morning, on the news, the anchorwoman made mention of the Asian Tsunami of 2004. I missed that entire event because I was in the hospital getting the news that the doctors were going to stop Chris’ treatment and send him home for “comfort care”, which has always translated to “death” for me.
The body is an amazing organism. I truly believe that the nausea I feel is depression trying to get me to pack up and go home. I can do that if I want to and nobody would blink twice. I can go home sick. All I really want to do is crawl under my covers and cry for a few hours. I am not capable of focusing on anything else, today.
Marc and I are going out in a little while to pick up a jacket he bought on Newbury Street. I don’t want to go. I just want to cry.
Five minutes later…
I just returned from the ladies room where I spent the last five minutes in tears. I finally gave in. I wonder how many more times this is going to happen, today.
I’m going to try to feel better, but if that doesn’t happen, I am definitely going home sick.
-Shneed
This morning, on the news, the anchorwoman made mention of the Asian Tsunami of 2004. I missed that entire event because I was in the hospital getting the news that the doctors were going to stop Chris’ treatment and send him home for “comfort care”, which has always translated to “death” for me.
The body is an amazing organism. I truly believe that the nausea I feel is depression trying to get me to pack up and go home. I can do that if I want to and nobody would blink twice. I can go home sick. All I really want to do is crawl under my covers and cry for a few hours. I am not capable of focusing on anything else, today.
Marc and I are going out in a little while to pick up a jacket he bought on Newbury Street. I don’t want to go. I just want to cry.
Five minutes later…
I just returned from the ladies room where I spent the last five minutes in tears. I finally gave in. I wonder how many more times this is going to happen, today.
I’m going to try to feel better, but if that doesn’t happen, I am definitely going home sick.
-Shneed
Monday, December 25, 2006
Seven Stops on the Grief Express
I had the most magnificent day, yesterday, hosting a Christmas Eve celebration (even though we’re Jewish) at my apartment with my family. Yesterday marks the first time I have ever hosted such a family event and I feel as though the festivity was a screaming success. There was no room for grief in my day. I am truly blessed to be able to see the other people in my life whom I love and who love me.
Still, the moment all of the “good-byes” were said and I found myself standing alone in the middle of my living room, loss came to pay a visit, which made me bizarrely happy. I still need my grief as proof that I love Chris and at the present moment, I am not quite sure how to be certain of that love without tears and crushing despair. Even in the midst of my despair, I accepted an invitation to have dinner with a friend and her family so I picked myself up, brushed myself off and indulged in a Christmas Eve Chinese food binge, which elongated the cheerful day in which I was already ensconced.
The plan was to leave the restaurant, drive around and look at Christmas lights and leave adorable wooden reindeer on random cars as a gesture of holiday cheer. I agreed to accompany my friends but when the time came to leave, I needed to dash home and deal with my feelings. I think I cried for about seven minutes before I opened my laptop and pushed through a class assignment, once again proving that engaging in responsible actions alleviates my sadness. Go me.
I am moments away from leaving, with my brother, to visit my sister’s family and then to visit my father and his wife. Today will also be filled with cheer. I am doing what I have set out to do. I am having a happy holiday season, peppered with grief, but happy, nonetheless.
I got through Thanksgiving, Chris' birthday, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day so far, even though I have lived in parrallells along the way, noting what was happening two years ago to the day, every step of the way. Four down, three to go. New Years Eve, New Years Day and my wedding anniversary are the final stops on this year’s grief express.
Choo-choo!
-Shneed
Still, the moment all of the “good-byes” were said and I found myself standing alone in the middle of my living room, loss came to pay a visit, which made me bizarrely happy. I still need my grief as proof that I love Chris and at the present moment, I am not quite sure how to be certain of that love without tears and crushing despair. Even in the midst of my despair, I accepted an invitation to have dinner with a friend and her family so I picked myself up, brushed myself off and indulged in a Christmas Eve Chinese food binge, which elongated the cheerful day in which I was already ensconced.
The plan was to leave the restaurant, drive around and look at Christmas lights and leave adorable wooden reindeer on random cars as a gesture of holiday cheer. I agreed to accompany my friends but when the time came to leave, I needed to dash home and deal with my feelings. I think I cried for about seven minutes before I opened my laptop and pushed through a class assignment, once again proving that engaging in responsible actions alleviates my sadness. Go me.
I am moments away from leaving, with my brother, to visit my sister’s family and then to visit my father and his wife. Today will also be filled with cheer. I am doing what I have set out to do. I am having a happy holiday season, peppered with grief, but happy, nonetheless.
I got through Thanksgiving, Chris' birthday, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day so far, even though I have lived in parrallells along the way, noting what was happening two years ago to the day, every step of the way. Four down, three to go. New Years Eve, New Years Day and my wedding anniversary are the final stops on this year’s grief express.
Choo-choo!
-Shneed
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Mountains and Smaller Mountains
Clay said I sound different, that I have been describing the events of the past three years in more detail than I have in the past. I hated him for delivering that message because in conveying his thoughts to me, I feel as though he has relayed to me that I am “getting over” Chris’ death. I should tell him that’s the effect I experienced. Clay’s been pretty good in the past shouldering my displaced hatred toward him. Clay’s a rock...the soft kind of rock that other rocks bounce off of.
Therapy is a strange and mysterious phenomenon. The human mind is a strange and mysterious phenomenon. I wanted to quit going to Clay because I thought I was finished talking about my experiences. A common belief among therapists is that clients will end their treatment if they are afraid of facing pain or tapping into a memory or feeling that seems too powerful to acknowledge. As a client, myself, I feel hatred toward all therapists who may believe that notion, but that’s probably because the notion is true and as the old adage dictates, “The truth hurts.” What I mean to say is that now that I have decided to remain Clay’s client for a while, I have begun to talk with him about the most painful part of my ordeal, Chris’ actual illness, the symptoms, his pain, the deterioration of his freedom, quality of life and lastly, his very body. This aspect of my nightmare is so painful to talk about that I can already feel all of the thoughts connected to it squashing back down into the depths of my psyche where I can hide them from myself. I don’t really want to talk about those thoughts, but I need to get them out into the air. When I imagine myself telling my story to Clay I come up, once again, hating him. Poor Clay. But what can I say? I didn’t decide that he should become a therapist. I am the innocent in all of this.
Ah, now that all of my black thoughts are sufficiently suppressed, I can begin to get ready for my trek to Beth’s house today to visit with my in-laws, whom I love more than I can ever convey with mere words.
I have been reading a book entitled, Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl, a man who survived Auschwitz and not only lived to tell about the ordeal, but transformed his experience into a meaningful manifesto written to deliver hope and an explanation for human suffering. In the book’s pages, I continue to find solid ground to stand on and to continue my recently reluctant march forward. There is much pain in this world, but there is beauty as well, and love, and humor, and kindness.
My heart bleeds for Victor Frankl and all others who have experienced similar horrors and I am so very thankful to people like him who share their stories, because these are the people who clearly demonstrate that horror, trauma and sadness can be overcome. My own horror pales in comparison to any death camp memoir. That thought, alone, helps me see my experience as a mountain that I can climb with relative ease.
-Shneed
Therapy is a strange and mysterious phenomenon. The human mind is a strange and mysterious phenomenon. I wanted to quit going to Clay because I thought I was finished talking about my experiences. A common belief among therapists is that clients will end their treatment if they are afraid of facing pain or tapping into a memory or feeling that seems too powerful to acknowledge. As a client, myself, I feel hatred toward all therapists who may believe that notion, but that’s probably because the notion is true and as the old adage dictates, “The truth hurts.” What I mean to say is that now that I have decided to remain Clay’s client for a while, I have begun to talk with him about the most painful part of my ordeal, Chris’ actual illness, the symptoms, his pain, the deterioration of his freedom, quality of life and lastly, his very body. This aspect of my nightmare is so painful to talk about that I can already feel all of the thoughts connected to it squashing back down into the depths of my psyche where I can hide them from myself. I don’t really want to talk about those thoughts, but I need to get them out into the air. When I imagine myself telling my story to Clay I come up, once again, hating him. Poor Clay. But what can I say? I didn’t decide that he should become a therapist. I am the innocent in all of this.
Ah, now that all of my black thoughts are sufficiently suppressed, I can begin to get ready for my trek to Beth’s house today to visit with my in-laws, whom I love more than I can ever convey with mere words.
I have been reading a book entitled, Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl, a man who survived Auschwitz and not only lived to tell about the ordeal, but transformed his experience into a meaningful manifesto written to deliver hope and an explanation for human suffering. In the book’s pages, I continue to find solid ground to stand on and to continue my recently reluctant march forward. There is much pain in this world, but there is beauty as well, and love, and humor, and kindness.
My heart bleeds for Victor Frankl and all others who have experienced similar horrors and I am so very thankful to people like him who share their stories, because these are the people who clearly demonstrate that horror, trauma and sadness can be overcome. My own horror pales in comparison to any death camp memoir. That thought, alone, helps me see my experience as a mountain that I can climb with relative ease.
-Shneed
Monday, December 18, 2006
Out of My Mind
Tonight, I visited an assisted-living home and, along with a host of other singers and walked the hallways singing Christmas carols to the residents. People stood in their doorways smiling and singing with us. We crammed into one woman’s room (She’s 96 years old!) and sang O Holy Night to her. Her excitement was a gift.
We also sang to alzheimers patients. I was nervous, at first, but then I reminded myself that the woman who took care of my husband was me and I wasn’t scared to help Chris then, and I’m not scared to help others now. The residents loved the music and I felt as though we all spread so much happiness tonight.
Afterwards, I went to the Whole Foods Chris and I used to go to when we lived in Brighton. I used to not be able to go there. Tonight, the pain was not as great as it was in the past. I drove through the same intersection that sent me into a three-hour breakdown last week, but this week I did not cry at all. I still feel sadness in that neighborhood and I can still feel how I felt when I used to walk up the sidewalk to our apartment. I can still feel Chris waiting upstairs for me and I can still feel us making plans to have breakfast at the Brighton Cafe.
Tonight, the memories did not hurt me because I took myself outside of my own mind for a couple of hours and gave of myself to others.
I want to give to others more often.
We also sang to alzheimers patients. I was nervous, at first, but then I reminded myself that the woman who took care of my husband was me and I wasn’t scared to help Chris then, and I’m not scared to help others now. The residents loved the music and I felt as though we all spread so much happiness tonight.
Afterwards, I went to the Whole Foods Chris and I used to go to when we lived in Brighton. I used to not be able to go there. Tonight, the pain was not as great as it was in the past. I drove through the same intersection that sent me into a three-hour breakdown last week, but this week I did not cry at all. I still feel sadness in that neighborhood and I can still feel how I felt when I used to walk up the sidewalk to our apartment. I can still feel Chris waiting upstairs for me and I can still feel us making plans to have breakfast at the Brighton Cafe.
Tonight, the memories did not hurt me because I took myself outside of my own mind for a couple of hours and gave of myself to others.
I want to give to others more often.
Push
I don’t want to go to work. I wish I could stay home.
Operation “Having a Happy Holiday Season” is going pretty well. I have been out holiday shopping, which is something I really haven’t done in a while. Giving makes me feel better.
Last night I went out with two of my closest friends for our annual holiday outing. I had fun, but I still felt detached, almost not even present. The part of me that was present felt bland, fogged over, and I had to remind myself, even as I sat laughing with my friends, that I was out having fun. The threat of returning home to my Chris-less apartment and to my life as the single person I should not be, always looms.
Carol talked about funny things Josh said. Robby talked about funny things Gene said. I talked about funny things Chris said, aware that their partners are alive and well and mine is no longer with me. All of the funny things Chris said ended two years ago. His humor stopped at age 34, but Robby, Carol, Josh, Gene and my humor continues to mature. Chris is now five years younger than me and over time, the gap in our ages will increase. We should have been three and a half years apart forever.
I didn’t want to wake up this morning, despite my new prescription for Zoloft. I suppose PMS has a way with squelching whatever benefits an antidepressant can offer me.
A pattern I have become aware of is that on weekdays, when I have to be at work, all I want to do is stay home and get stuff done, but on weekends, when I typically have nothing scheduled, I can’t seem to get moving. That sounds like depression to me.
Still, I managed to go out and be at least partially present for a holiday outing last night. I will visit my in-laws on Saturday, I’m having my mother and siblings over on Sunday and I will be at my father’s house on Monday, Christmas day, the day I rushed Chris to the hospital 2 years ago. Maybe I will be too busy to think about any of the difficult stuff.
Operation “Having a Happy Holiday Season” is going pretty well. I have been out holiday shopping, which is something I really haven’t done in a while. Giving makes me feel better.
Last night I went out with two of my closest friends for our annual holiday outing. I had fun, but I still felt detached, almost not even present. The part of me that was present felt bland, fogged over, and I had to remind myself, even as I sat laughing with my friends, that I was out having fun. The threat of returning home to my Chris-less apartment and to my life as the single person I should not be, always looms.
Carol talked about funny things Josh said. Robby talked about funny things Gene said. I talked about funny things Chris said, aware that their partners are alive and well and mine is no longer with me. All of the funny things Chris said ended two years ago. His humor stopped at age 34, but Robby, Carol, Josh, Gene and my humor continues to mature. Chris is now five years younger than me and over time, the gap in our ages will increase. We should have been three and a half years apart forever.
I didn’t want to wake up this morning, despite my new prescription for Zoloft. I suppose PMS has a way with squelching whatever benefits an antidepressant can offer me.
A pattern I have become aware of is that on weekdays, when I have to be at work, all I want to do is stay home and get stuff done, but on weekends, when I typically have nothing scheduled, I can’t seem to get moving. That sounds like depression to me.
Still, I managed to go out and be at least partially present for a holiday outing last night. I will visit my in-laws on Saturday, I’m having my mother and siblings over on Sunday and I will be at my father’s house on Monday, Christmas day, the day I rushed Chris to the hospital 2 years ago. Maybe I will be too busy to think about any of the difficult stuff.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Zoloft and a Plan
Lately, I have been feeling as though Chris is around me. I feel his embrace, but in a different kind of way. I feel comforted. Yesterday morning, right before I woke up, the very last image my brain produced was that of a frame of Chris wearing the biggest, most wonderful smile I have ever seen. I just feel like he is here, guiding me out of the hole into which I have sunken. Maybe the Zoloft is helping...or maybe the Zoloft is helping clear a path for Chris to reach me, now. Maybe both.
I'm still shaky and I don't really trust that my grief will dissipate and I am on guard against every peak and valley. I am filled with anxiety when I think about the goings-on of 2 years ago today, but I can't not think about it. I am still frightened by the magnitude of what happened and I am afraid that it will happen again with whomever I meet next. And I still want to get off this crazy ride. And I still want to prevail.
There will be no Ellis Paul concert for me this New Years Eve. I did that, already and proved to myself that I could be there, but Ellis doesn't hold the same magic for me as he did when Chris was alive and enjoying the music with me.
My Match.com account is expiring in two weeks and after that I am just going to coast for a while and hope and try to meet somebody on my own. But my priorities will be school, exercise and performance for a while. Once I become focused on those three activities, I feel as though the rest of my life will begin to come together.
I'm still shaky and I don't really trust that my grief will dissipate and I am on guard against every peak and valley. I am filled with anxiety when I think about the goings-on of 2 years ago today, but I can't not think about it. I am still frightened by the magnitude of what happened and I am afraid that it will happen again with whomever I meet next. And I still want to get off this crazy ride. And I still want to prevail.
There will be no Ellis Paul concert for me this New Years Eve. I did that, already and proved to myself that I could be there, but Ellis doesn't hold the same magic for me as he did when Chris was alive and enjoying the music with me.
My Match.com account is expiring in two weeks and after that I am just going to coast for a while and hope and try to meet somebody on my own. But my priorities will be school, exercise and performance for a while. Once I become focused on those three activities, I feel as though the rest of my life will begin to come together.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
UPdownUPdownUPdown
Each morning when I wake up, for a couple of seconds I lay still wondering whether, or not, I am going to cry. On my way up the five flights of stairs leading to my apartment, I wonder the same thing.
I have been crying for so long that I can’t remember what life was like before I cried every single day. Tears have become a norm in my daily routine. I cry in the morning, laugh throughout the day, cry when I get home, laugh before bed and cry under the comfort of my blankets. There are so many different types of tears that I never noticed before I became an expert: angry tears, soul-crushing tears, tears of complete and utter resign. I know which ones I am crying each time.
Last night on my way home from the audition, I passed through the neighborhood Chris and I lived in when we came home from Los Angeles. I didn’t really plan to come home that way, but something inside of me kept pulling me in that direction.
Last night’s tears began as I sat at a red light at the intersection of Washington and Commonwealth Avenue. I glanced across the street toward the Brighton Café, a favorite breakfast place of mine and Chris’, and closed my eyes for a few seconds. Suddenly I was inside, sitting across from Chris three years ago, smiling at him. The memory was so real I forgot I was in my car. I could feel him. The realization that I was merely dreaming came back like a cruel arctic frost, hardening over my joy and freezing time at 2005.
That part of town does it to me every time. I continue to pass through in some effort to understand and accept what has transpired over the past couple of years.
I cried from the time I arrived in that intersection until I arrived beneath the covers in my bed, taking a fifteen minute break only to eat some Edy’s slow-churned caramel swirl ice cream and cool whip. There’s nothing sad about Edy’s slow-churned caramel swirl ice cream and cool whip.
Before turning in for the night, I prayed to Chris and to God to send me a man who is just like Chris.
What I really want is to be with a man who is just like Chris.
I have been crying for so long that I can’t remember what life was like before I cried every single day. Tears have become a norm in my daily routine. I cry in the morning, laugh throughout the day, cry when I get home, laugh before bed and cry under the comfort of my blankets. There are so many different types of tears that I never noticed before I became an expert: angry tears, soul-crushing tears, tears of complete and utter resign. I know which ones I am crying each time.
Last night on my way home from the audition, I passed through the neighborhood Chris and I lived in when we came home from Los Angeles. I didn’t really plan to come home that way, but something inside of me kept pulling me in that direction.
Last night’s tears began as I sat at a red light at the intersection of Washington and Commonwealth Avenue. I glanced across the street toward the Brighton Café, a favorite breakfast place of mine and Chris’, and closed my eyes for a few seconds. Suddenly I was inside, sitting across from Chris three years ago, smiling at him. The memory was so real I forgot I was in my car. I could feel him. The realization that I was merely dreaming came back like a cruel arctic frost, hardening over my joy and freezing time at 2005.
That part of town does it to me every time. I continue to pass through in some effort to understand and accept what has transpired over the past couple of years.
I cried from the time I arrived in that intersection until I arrived beneath the covers in my bed, taking a fifteen minute break only to eat some Edy’s slow-churned caramel swirl ice cream and cool whip. There’s nothing sad about Edy’s slow-churned caramel swirl ice cream and cool whip.
Before turning in for the night, I prayed to Chris and to God to send me a man who is just like Chris.
What I really want is to be with a man who is just like Chris.
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