Grief is open-ended. The more I live it, the more I know it.
One of my co-workers came up with a way to yell my name which is similar to the way Mr. Spacely, of The Jetsons fame yelled George Jetson’s name (“JetSON!!”) so he’s been calling me “BurRAGE!!”, raising the pitch toward the end for effect.
Hearing my name out loud, with the emphasis on the last syllable caused me to keep repeating my own name over and over until it no longer sounded familiar. If you have ever done that, you already know that you end up feeling like you don’t really know why you’ve done it.
Burrage didn’t used to be my last name. I didn’t take Chris’ name when we got married. I didn’t want to change my name at first, and then I became confused by all of my options. I could change names completely, hyphenate my name or not change my name at all. I didn’t take Chris’ name until after he died. Once he was gone, I became aware that I wanted to carry him with me throughout my life, and taking his name was a very visible, deliberate way of doing so. I dropped my middle name, slid my maiden name (Orloff) into its place and snapped Burrage onto the end.
I remember Robin Orloff, but I can’t quite relate to who she was, anymore. That girl is long gone and somebody so much better; so much more patient, understanding and giving; and so much richer has replaced her. Robin Orloff was shallow, needy, attention-craving, a little self-centered and lacking in perspective.
Since Chris had to die, I may as well be happy about the positive changes that took place within me as a result. Without having to say, I would obviously rather be shallow, needy, attention-craving, self-centered, perspective-lacking Robin Orloff, but since she died along with Chris, I choose to be nice, giving, caring and happy Robin Burrage.
Grief is open-ended. I cried for an hour and a half last night because I want Chris to come back and be my husband, again. My journey has bypassed the two-and-a-half-year mark. I just read, in my Adult Development & Aging textbook, that widowed people report having grieved up to and beyond eight years! I laugh when I remember thinking “I don’t have a whole year to grieve!” when Chris first died. Oh the things I didn’t know, one of which was that I was living a virtually pain-free life up until his death. Nothing really ever went wrong in my life. I complained a lot and screamed enough to make the most avid nay-sayer believe my life was a turbulent cesspool of unfairness, but the truth is that I used to cry regularly if I wasn’t cast in the leading role of a community theater production for which I had auditioned.
The lessons I have learned and those I have yet to learn.
Janus: In Roman mythology, Janus was the god of gates, doors, doorways, beginnings, and endings. His most apparent remnants in modern culture are his namesakes, the month of January and the caretaker of doors and halls: Janitor.
Janus was frequently used to symbolize change and transitions such as the progression of future to past, of one condition to another, of one vision to another, the growing up of young people, and of one universe to another. He was also known as the figure representing time because he could see into the past with one face and into the future with the other.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
Christopher/Kristofer
Tonight was the last class of my Infancy & Childhood Development course. For the past four weeks I, along with a group of other students, navigated through 12 weeks worth of intensive information about children and how they develop physically, cognitively and socially.
The class opened my eyes and my heart to the possibility of becoming a parent, giving of myself to a small person who depends on my love, guidance and knowledge in order to grow into a productive, functioning, loving member of society. Class left me with a spark of desire to have a child of my own, someday. Physiologically, I have a few years left to make that happen if that’s what I choose to do.
After class, I chatted for a while with a fellow student. I told her I thought I’d like to have a child. She began encouraging me, telling me that I could do it. “You don’t even have to be married,” she said. “You can do it single.”
She had no idea. She assumed (I’m assuming) that I am “that single, outgoing, independent woman of the oughts”…or maybe I projected that assumption onto her. At any rate, I needed to let her know. I told her about Chris and how he died and then I told her a truth that I have been suppressing for while.
“I never wanted kids. Neither of us did,” I said. “But now that I want to have a child of my own, I wish he was here to have one with.” The tide inside of me began to rise. I could feel tightness constricting my throat, but nonetheless, I kept a stiff upper lip.
I do wish Chris could father my child. In a way, he will father my child. If I do become a mother, I will be teaching my son or daughter all of the things Chris taught me, like love, patience, acceptance…and, of course, microbrews. No child of mine is going to drink the leading brand..
I’m not the type of person who feels sorry for herself or who feels that life is unfair. I don’t mope around. I get things done. I move forward. I help others and I love as much as I can. But last night I was so overcome with self-pity and anger that I wanted to put my fist through the train window, the escalator, a parked car, some trees and my front door.
Last night, I welcomed a brand new aspect of grief into my life. I’m not quite sure what to call this latest surge. A post-grief backlash? Anger rewound? Sadness about something I can never go back and get? I was grieving about something I never wanted when Chris was alive. He has been dead for two years and seven months at this point, so having his baby is so impossible that I can’t believe I have entered this state of sadness. It won’t last, but it sure hurts right now.
Ever since Chris began chemo and the doctors told us he would be sterile, I had maintained that I didn’t care, that I just wanted him to live. Babies meant very little to me and next to Chris getting well, they were demoted to “nothing’ status. I had become so accustomed to suppressing, that I told myself over and over I had no regrets, that we didn’t want children together, so the fact that we never had kids simply was not a regret of mine. Last night, I got blindsided by my admission that I wish I had our child, that I wish we had put Chris’ sperm into a sperm bank before he was poisoned with chemo. Then I got double-blindsided by the reality that a child of Chris’, without Chris here to enjoy that child, would always make me sad.
The woman I was talking with after class said to me, “You always bring him with you.” I already know that, and even though I was thankful to her for talking to me and not running away, I suspected that she really didn’t have a true understanding of what it feels like to say that’s true only because you have nothing else left. I told her of my plan to name my child Christopher (boy) or Kristofer (girl). I want to honor him that way. It felt really nice to say that out loud to somebody so caring and open to talking with me.
And now I’m sitting on the orange line train on my way home, writing this, choking back the same old tears I smothered behind the cover of Stephen King’s “Desperation” back in November of 2001, as I sat on the green line trolley, in the grips of terror at the thought that Chris might die. His death was only a possibility back then.
Grief doesn’t get better. It gets different. Clay has said it again and again. My experience is that grief remains painful and maintains its ability and natural tendency to ambush at the most inopportune moments, like after a 3-hour class, when I’m alone on campus, at night, at Ruggles station, where the most warmth I can find is the T official smiling through the window of the steel-gray, bullet proof (I assume) information booth.
I’m okay. I just need to see Clay.
The class opened my eyes and my heart to the possibility of becoming a parent, giving of myself to a small person who depends on my love, guidance and knowledge in order to grow into a productive, functioning, loving member of society. Class left me with a spark of desire to have a child of my own, someday. Physiologically, I have a few years left to make that happen if that’s what I choose to do.
After class, I chatted for a while with a fellow student. I told her I thought I’d like to have a child. She began encouraging me, telling me that I could do it. “You don’t even have to be married,” she said. “You can do it single.”
She had no idea. She assumed (I’m assuming) that I am “that single, outgoing, independent woman of the oughts”…or maybe I projected that assumption onto her. At any rate, I needed to let her know. I told her about Chris and how he died and then I told her a truth that I have been suppressing for while.
“I never wanted kids. Neither of us did,” I said. “But now that I want to have a child of my own, I wish he was here to have one with.” The tide inside of me began to rise. I could feel tightness constricting my throat, but nonetheless, I kept a stiff upper lip.
I do wish Chris could father my child. In a way, he will father my child. If I do become a mother, I will be teaching my son or daughter all of the things Chris taught me, like love, patience, acceptance…and, of course, microbrews. No child of mine is going to drink the leading brand..
I’m not the type of person who feels sorry for herself or who feels that life is unfair. I don’t mope around. I get things done. I move forward. I help others and I love as much as I can. But last night I was so overcome with self-pity and anger that I wanted to put my fist through the train window, the escalator, a parked car, some trees and my front door.
Last night, I welcomed a brand new aspect of grief into my life. I’m not quite sure what to call this latest surge. A post-grief backlash? Anger rewound? Sadness about something I can never go back and get? I was grieving about something I never wanted when Chris was alive. He has been dead for two years and seven months at this point, so having his baby is so impossible that I can’t believe I have entered this state of sadness. It won’t last, but it sure hurts right now.
Ever since Chris began chemo and the doctors told us he would be sterile, I had maintained that I didn’t care, that I just wanted him to live. Babies meant very little to me and next to Chris getting well, they were demoted to “nothing’ status. I had become so accustomed to suppressing, that I told myself over and over I had no regrets, that we didn’t want children together, so the fact that we never had kids simply was not a regret of mine. Last night, I got blindsided by my admission that I wish I had our child, that I wish we had put Chris’ sperm into a sperm bank before he was poisoned with chemo. Then I got double-blindsided by the reality that a child of Chris’, without Chris here to enjoy that child, would always make me sad.
The woman I was talking with after class said to me, “You always bring him with you.” I already know that, and even though I was thankful to her for talking to me and not running away, I suspected that she really didn’t have a true understanding of what it feels like to say that’s true only because you have nothing else left. I told her of my plan to name my child Christopher (boy) or Kristofer (girl). I want to honor him that way. It felt really nice to say that out loud to somebody so caring and open to talking with me.
And now I’m sitting on the orange line train on my way home, writing this, choking back the same old tears I smothered behind the cover of Stephen King’s “Desperation” back in November of 2001, as I sat on the green line trolley, in the grips of terror at the thought that Chris might die. His death was only a possibility back then.
Grief doesn’t get better. It gets different. Clay has said it again and again. My experience is that grief remains painful and maintains its ability and natural tendency to ambush at the most inopportune moments, like after a 3-hour class, when I’m alone on campus, at night, at Ruggles station, where the most warmth I can find is the T official smiling through the window of the steel-gray, bullet proof (I assume) information booth.
I’m okay. I just need to see Clay.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
This too shall pass.
I just got the oddest urge to ask Chris if he knew he was dying before he was actually told he was dying. One thing about the death of a loved one is that the feeling that the person is still reachable…by phone, by e-mail…never really goes away.
There are so many things I would ask him if I could. Did he know? Was he hiding truths from me and Bonnie? How did he survive fourteen months if he knew the outcome? Did he love me? Does he still love me? Does he know my pain in the way that a spirit can know the pain of others without actually feeling that pain?
My dating life has been very fun for the past couple of months. I wonder if my rediscovered feelings of joy in the realm of romance have anything to do with the recent return of my memories of the hospital and from Christmas Day, on.
Monday evening, on my way to pick up my car from the garage, I remembered something Chris used to do to me. I’m not the most focused person, especially when I’m having fun with my friends. Completely losing track of where I’m going and/or what I’m doing is not out of the ordinary for me. If Chris and I were walking and talking, on the street, in the supermarket or elsewhere, and I forgot myself, I would quite often walk right past our target destination, yip-yapping the entire time. Chris never said a word. Without missing a beat, he simply placed both hands on my upper arms and turned my body in the direction I should be heading, placing me back on track. Also without missing a beat, I always simply said, “Thanks.” Nothing lost.
I remembered that about us and then my immediate task became choking back the surge of grief rising in me like a flash flood.
I arrived at the garage, only to be told my car wasn’t ready, yet, and then walked the fifteen minutes home concentrating to keep my breakdown at bay. Once inside, I let go and didn’t catch hold of myself again for two hours, when my mechanic called to tell me my car was ready.
My co-worker, Marc, who looks, sounds, talks and could be a 99% personality carbon-copy of my Chris told me he feels “smooshy” about me. Chris used that word all the time. In fact, for a short while, my nickname was Smoosher and then it became Smoosh. With no knowledge of my past nicknames, Marc just IMd me, saying he would call me “Smoosh” from now on. Seeing his message appear on my computer screen made me feel like the message came from Chris. Same demeanor, same creativity, same everything.
Yesterday, I became very dizzy at work, to the point that I couldn't walk down the hallway. I assumed I was experiencing an anxiety attack, so I just drank some water and willed it gone.
I’m fragile, again. Happy, no less, but very fragile. It’s okay. This too shall pass.
There are so many things I would ask him if I could. Did he know? Was he hiding truths from me and Bonnie? How did he survive fourteen months if he knew the outcome? Did he love me? Does he still love me? Does he know my pain in the way that a spirit can know the pain of others without actually feeling that pain?
My dating life has been very fun for the past couple of months. I wonder if my rediscovered feelings of joy in the realm of romance have anything to do with the recent return of my memories of the hospital and from Christmas Day, on.
Monday evening, on my way to pick up my car from the garage, I remembered something Chris used to do to me. I’m not the most focused person, especially when I’m having fun with my friends. Completely losing track of where I’m going and/or what I’m doing is not out of the ordinary for me. If Chris and I were walking and talking, on the street, in the supermarket or elsewhere, and I forgot myself, I would quite often walk right past our target destination, yip-yapping the entire time. Chris never said a word. Without missing a beat, he simply placed both hands on my upper arms and turned my body in the direction I should be heading, placing me back on track. Also without missing a beat, I always simply said, “Thanks.” Nothing lost.
I remembered that about us and then my immediate task became choking back the surge of grief rising in me like a flash flood.
I arrived at the garage, only to be told my car wasn’t ready, yet, and then walked the fifteen minutes home concentrating to keep my breakdown at bay. Once inside, I let go and didn’t catch hold of myself again for two hours, when my mechanic called to tell me my car was ready.
My co-worker, Marc, who looks, sounds, talks and could be a 99% personality carbon-copy of my Chris told me he feels “smooshy” about me. Chris used that word all the time. In fact, for a short while, my nickname was Smoosher and then it became Smoosh. With no knowledge of my past nicknames, Marc just IMd me, saying he would call me “Smoosh” from now on. Seeing his message appear on my computer screen made me feel like the message came from Chris. Same demeanor, same creativity, same everything.
Yesterday, I became very dizzy at work, to the point that I couldn't walk down the hallway. I assumed I was experiencing an anxiety attack, so I just drank some water and willed it gone.
I’m fragile, again. Happy, no less, but very fragile. It’s okay. This too shall pass.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Arrested Social Interaction
I’m still studying. My book came an entire week after the intensive 4-week Prenatal and Neonatal Development class began, so I began this weekend playing a hefty game of catch-up. I am now reading chapter five of the seven chapters I have to catch up on before I take today’s test. I’m actually making good time. Class material is fascinating and exciting so the material should stick. Even though the exam is online, my professor asked the class to close our books and notes when we take the test. I have to respect her instruction. Anybody can ace a test with an open book. I prefer an open mind.
I do plan on getting on my bike (hopefully) and taking a 20-mile ride today, just for fun. I totally deserve to release myself from Textbook Penitentiary.
This class is making me want to have a child of my own. Chris and I never wanted children of our own and we were both quite happy with that decision. I think my feelings changed after having taken care of Chris while he was ill. I didn’t know I had the capacity to care about somebody else more than I care about myself before that. I think I would make a tremendous mom. I have a lot to give, a lot to teach and an enormous amount of patience, understanding and acceptance ability. I hope I get the chance to experience motherhood, whether I make the child (my own pregnancy) or take the child (adoption). I don’t want to raise a child in a one-parent home, though. I’d like for my kid to have both parents present and I would also like to have some help raising him/her.
I feel so much better today. I think my “test-prep captivity” was messing with my mind, yesterday. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel today and I feel good about this test. I also feel good about the realization that this test is important to me. It’s nice to know that I care about things. Proving my engagement in my own life takes the edge off of my periodic grief-eruptions and makes me know that I’m not as depressed and hopeless as I may feel during those moments.
I’m off to finish serving my two-day sentence, which will culminate in my online test parole board meeting. I have confidence that I will be able to leap back into life on the outside quite easily, a more humble, more educated me.
Shneed
I do plan on getting on my bike (hopefully) and taking a 20-mile ride today, just for fun. I totally deserve to release myself from Textbook Penitentiary.
This class is making me want to have a child of my own. Chris and I never wanted children of our own and we were both quite happy with that decision. I think my feelings changed after having taken care of Chris while he was ill. I didn’t know I had the capacity to care about somebody else more than I care about myself before that. I think I would make a tremendous mom. I have a lot to give, a lot to teach and an enormous amount of patience, understanding and acceptance ability. I hope I get the chance to experience motherhood, whether I make the child (my own pregnancy) or take the child (adoption). I don’t want to raise a child in a one-parent home, though. I’d like for my kid to have both parents present and I would also like to have some help raising him/her.
I feel so much better today. I think my “test-prep captivity” was messing with my mind, yesterday. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel today and I feel good about this test. I also feel good about the realization that this test is important to me. It’s nice to know that I care about things. Proving my engagement in my own life takes the edge off of my periodic grief-eruptions and makes me know that I’m not as depressed and hopeless as I may feel during those moments.
I’m off to finish serving my two-day sentence, which will culminate in my online test parole board meeting. I have confidence that I will be able to leap back into life on the outside quite easily, a more humble, more educated me.
Shneed
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Shame
I wrote this and then didn’t want to post it and then thought that I probably ought to. I have been honest in all of my posts from the start and I don’t want to start concealing the truth now.
I’m very, very, very, very depressed. I studied for a test all day today and I need to continue my efforts all day tomorrow. Even so, I managed to get out and take a 5.5 mile run and do fifty pushups. I’m good.
I miss Chris so much that it hurts me physically.
I’ve moved on while holding on. I can’t let go. I can’t want to let go, and I’m ashamed, on top of being sad. I should be able to not cry anymore, but I I'm not able to stop.
The truth is that I ran 5 miles because I stopped in the middle and walked part of the way. Then I started running, again. When I turned into my driveway, my tears just came and they wouldn’t stop. That happens, sometimes, when I tax myself physically. And it doesn’t help to wish Chris was upstairs waiting for me.
I’m tired and I little panicked over this most recent resurgence of grief. I’m tired of it. I want it to stop, but it doesn’t, and I can’t begin to explain to anybody why that is.
I’m seeing Clay, my therapist, on Wednesday and I’m even ashamed to tell him that I'm still grieving. My therapist. What is wrong with me?
People just don’t know how long this lasts. It’s like the statute of limitations on my grief has runs it’s course and everybody thinks everything is a-okay with me. That isn’t their fault. I don’t tell anyone that I’m still sad.
I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I just want somebody to hold me, again. If I asked any one of my friends to do that for me, they would do it in a heartbeat.
I’m very, very, very, very depressed. I studied for a test all day today and I need to continue my efforts all day tomorrow. Even so, I managed to get out and take a 5.5 mile run and do fifty pushups. I’m good.
I miss Chris so much that it hurts me physically.
I’ve moved on while holding on. I can’t let go. I can’t want to let go, and I’m ashamed, on top of being sad. I should be able to not cry anymore, but I I'm not able to stop.
The truth is that I ran 5 miles because I stopped in the middle and walked part of the way. Then I started running, again. When I turned into my driveway, my tears just came and they wouldn’t stop. That happens, sometimes, when I tax myself physically. And it doesn’t help to wish Chris was upstairs waiting for me.
I’m tired and I little panicked over this most recent resurgence of grief. I’m tired of it. I want it to stop, but it doesn’t, and I can’t begin to explain to anybody why that is.
I’m seeing Clay, my therapist, on Wednesday and I’m even ashamed to tell him that I'm still grieving. My therapist. What is wrong with me?
People just don’t know how long this lasts. It’s like the statute of limitations on my grief has runs it’s course and everybody thinks everything is a-okay with me. That isn’t their fault. I don’t tell anyone that I’m still sad.
I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. I just want somebody to hold me, again. If I asked any one of my friends to do that for me, they would do it in a heartbeat.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Sweet Frozen Treats
Up until Sunday night, I had forgotten about the popsicles.
During Chris’ last few days alive, his brain became very childlike, due to the morphine in his system. He was cute, but the experience is still a very sad one.
I didn’t want him to go. In some ways, I’m just beginning to realize that, now. Back then, I was so intent on giving him what he needed, and leaving his life is exactly what he needed, that I never stopped to think about how his impending departure from my life would make me feel.
Sunday night, I sat on my sofa half-enjoying a root beer flavored popsicle, all the while distracted by the frozen dessert’s tastelessness. I contemplated throwing the remainder of the treat into the trash, rather than continuing to half-delight in its watered-down, sub-par sweetness. Suddenly, and without warning, I was taken by a memory of Chris, sitting on the bed in his hospital johnny, enjoying a lime popsicle, the excitement of a five-year-old on his face. That expression of happiness on his face each time he tasted the frozen citrus filled me exactly halfway with joy and exactly halfway with sadness. He had become a small boy in so many ways. He was incapable of taking care of himself. He became incapable of eating anything other than popsicles and yogurt. Actually, he had even stopped eating yogurt, and if the hospice care giver who visited and bathed him hadn’t sternly fed it to him, he would have gone to the other side hungry.
I remember the hospice care provider talking to Chris, telling him to believe in God. “You must believe in God.” he kept saying. I listened on the other side of the door, knowing full-well that Chris didn’t believe in God, that he fancied himself an atheist. I wanted to run in and shush the caregiver, but just my anxiety had taken over, it began to dissipate as I started to think that maybe my husband had decided, in the last three days, to believe in God. Maybe something had changed. Maybe he needed to believe. He wasn’t fighting the man, in fact, I remember having a sense that he felt saved by this man, taken care of by this man and thankful to have a man help him get nourishment in his last couple days of life.
I was deeply in tune with Chris’ needs and I believe his opinion had changed during his last few days on earth. I think he finally knew the fight was over and that he could guiltlessly give up knowing that the time had come. I don’t remember witnessing any anger on his part during those days. He seemed happy…and ready.
The popsicles make me sad, though.
During Chris’ last few days alive, his brain became very childlike, due to the morphine in his system. He was cute, but the experience is still a very sad one.
I didn’t want him to go. In some ways, I’m just beginning to realize that, now. Back then, I was so intent on giving him what he needed, and leaving his life is exactly what he needed, that I never stopped to think about how his impending departure from my life would make me feel.
Sunday night, I sat on my sofa half-enjoying a root beer flavored popsicle, all the while distracted by the frozen dessert’s tastelessness. I contemplated throwing the remainder of the treat into the trash, rather than continuing to half-delight in its watered-down, sub-par sweetness. Suddenly, and without warning, I was taken by a memory of Chris, sitting on the bed in his hospital johnny, enjoying a lime popsicle, the excitement of a five-year-old on his face. That expression of happiness on his face each time he tasted the frozen citrus filled me exactly halfway with joy and exactly halfway with sadness. He had become a small boy in so many ways. He was incapable of taking care of himself. He became incapable of eating anything other than popsicles and yogurt. Actually, he had even stopped eating yogurt, and if the hospice care giver who visited and bathed him hadn’t sternly fed it to him, he would have gone to the other side hungry.
I remember the hospice care provider talking to Chris, telling him to believe in God. “You must believe in God.” he kept saying. I listened on the other side of the door, knowing full-well that Chris didn’t believe in God, that he fancied himself an atheist. I wanted to run in and shush the caregiver, but just my anxiety had taken over, it began to dissipate as I started to think that maybe my husband had decided, in the last three days, to believe in God. Maybe something had changed. Maybe he needed to believe. He wasn’t fighting the man, in fact, I remember having a sense that he felt saved by this man, taken care of by this man and thankful to have a man help him get nourishment in his last couple days of life.
I was deeply in tune with Chris’ needs and I believe his opinion had changed during his last few days on earth. I think he finally knew the fight was over and that he could guiltlessly give up knowing that the time had come. I don’t remember witnessing any anger on his part during those days. He seemed happy…and ready.
The popsicles make me sad, though.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Fallen Love
Lately, I have been having trouble remembering my dreams, which is not characteristic of me at all. I wake up every morning with a sense that everything is going wrong. My evenings are peppered with stress-dreams, from a basic inability to leave work for the day, to experiencing more loss.
This morning, my eyes popped open an hour before my alarm was set to sound. I visited the ladies room – there are no men in my apartment – actually, even if there were, I would make him/them call it the ladies room – I digress…
I woke up at 5:00, visited the lavatory, crawled back into bed and succumbed to yet, another grief-induced tear-fest, the kind that typically leaves me feeling completely deflated and defeated. I finally fell asleep about twenty minutes later and when I awoke at 6:00, I felt better.
Moving forward comes easy to me. Letting go does not. I have proven that a person can move forward while still hanging on. So far, I have not been able to free myself from the thought that Chris should still be here. We should still be meeting after work and enjoying conversation over a tall beer at the Pourhouse. Café China should never have gone out of business. That was our place. It’s gone now, replaced with what I may always believe to be a sub-par sandwich shop. I suppose I ought to go there and try to enjoy a sandwich with one of my friends. Doing so may help me clear the cobwebs covering the windows that have become haunted within the confines of my memory. Chris and I dined within those windows many times, but that was before Café China closed its doors, becoming yet another ghost in my heart.
Los Angeles is another ghost. I have friends there whom I would enjoy visiting, but so far I have not been able to set foot in that city since Chris died. I always thought we would talk to each other about how we missed Boston and about our experiences in LA. There’s nobody for me to talk to about any of that, now. Chris and I were the only two people who knew our experience there. That era is a part of me that feels forever censored. Nobody would ever know what I mean as well as Chris would have.
I’ll go back there when I can go back there without crying, and when visiting all of the old haunts like our apartment, Plummer Park, that movie theater in Silver Lake, Studio City and Century City are choices for me, and not compulsions that leave my heart feeling hollow. How can I drive on Sunset Boulevard from Hollywood all the way to Pacific Palisades without feeling like our return to Boston, Chris’ illness and his death were all part of a horrible dream? For all my hatred for the city of angels, I would welcome the chance to wake up there and realize my nightmare was just that.
I can still see and feel him so clearly. The only difference now is that I can’t communicate with him. I can’t call him. I can’t smile at him or give my love to him. My love radiates outward, reaching out to him but stops at the veil and falls to the floor.
This morning, my eyes popped open an hour before my alarm was set to sound. I visited the ladies room – there are no men in my apartment – actually, even if there were, I would make him/them call it the ladies room – I digress…
I woke up at 5:00, visited the lavatory, crawled back into bed and succumbed to yet, another grief-induced tear-fest, the kind that typically leaves me feeling completely deflated and defeated. I finally fell asleep about twenty minutes later and when I awoke at 6:00, I felt better.
Moving forward comes easy to me. Letting go does not. I have proven that a person can move forward while still hanging on. So far, I have not been able to free myself from the thought that Chris should still be here. We should still be meeting after work and enjoying conversation over a tall beer at the Pourhouse. Café China should never have gone out of business. That was our place. It’s gone now, replaced with what I may always believe to be a sub-par sandwich shop. I suppose I ought to go there and try to enjoy a sandwich with one of my friends. Doing so may help me clear the cobwebs covering the windows that have become haunted within the confines of my memory. Chris and I dined within those windows many times, but that was before Café China closed its doors, becoming yet another ghost in my heart.
Los Angeles is another ghost. I have friends there whom I would enjoy visiting, but so far I have not been able to set foot in that city since Chris died. I always thought we would talk to each other about how we missed Boston and about our experiences in LA. There’s nobody for me to talk to about any of that, now. Chris and I were the only two people who knew our experience there. That era is a part of me that feels forever censored. Nobody would ever know what I mean as well as Chris would have.
I’ll go back there when I can go back there without crying, and when visiting all of the old haunts like our apartment, Plummer Park, that movie theater in Silver Lake, Studio City and Century City are choices for me, and not compulsions that leave my heart feeling hollow. How can I drive on Sunset Boulevard from Hollywood all the way to Pacific Palisades without feeling like our return to Boston, Chris’ illness and his death were all part of a horrible dream? For all my hatred for the city of angels, I would welcome the chance to wake up there and realize my nightmare was just that.
I can still see and feel him so clearly. The only difference now is that I can’t communicate with him. I can’t call him. I can’t smile at him or give my love to him. My love radiates outward, reaching out to him but stops at the veil and falls to the floor.
Monday, June 25, 2007
The File Project
My new file cabinet is causing me some anxiety. I bought the file-keeper last week and carried the old one, the one Chris and I bought, down to the curb before I had a chance to think too much. The trash truck came Friday morning, which was the last time I saw the old, putty-colored, used and beaten container. The new one sits in its place.
Chris kept meticulously organized files on absolutely everything. I still have piles of the folders he kept because I just can’t seem to bring myself to go through them, yet. He filed his ideas for audio documentaries, plays we wrote, ideas he had, stories he authored and other hopeful creative projects, in addition to bill stubs and other such important papers. In a lot of ways he lives in those folders and in a lot of ways I’m too scared to dive into the folders of his mind.
My new cabinet is empty, save for the new, colorful file folders I placed into its drawers yesterday. I have a lot of organizing to do. I suppose keeping his files wouldn’t be a crime. It’s possible that Bonnie would store them in her basement with his other belongings I couldn’t be around, but also couldn’t ever, ever throw away. I can’t ever throw any part of my Chris away.
There’s a storm-a-brewin’. I’m safe for the moment, but soon I will throw myself into the "file project", the eye of the storm, and the violent winds and rain will whip my soul around, again.
I’m not brave enough, yet.
Chris kept meticulously organized files on absolutely everything. I still have piles of the folders he kept because I just can’t seem to bring myself to go through them, yet. He filed his ideas for audio documentaries, plays we wrote, ideas he had, stories he authored and other hopeful creative projects, in addition to bill stubs and other such important papers. In a lot of ways he lives in those folders and in a lot of ways I’m too scared to dive into the folders of his mind.
My new cabinet is empty, save for the new, colorful file folders I placed into its drawers yesterday. I have a lot of organizing to do. I suppose keeping his files wouldn’t be a crime. It’s possible that Bonnie would store them in her basement with his other belongings I couldn’t be around, but also couldn’t ever, ever throw away. I can’t ever throw any part of my Chris away.
There’s a storm-a-brewin’. I’m safe for the moment, but soon I will throw myself into the "file project", the eye of the storm, and the violent winds and rain will whip my soul around, again.
I’m not brave enough, yet.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Half Bulemic
I remember feeling as though my widowhood was a horrible dream. I used to wake up every morning feeling relieved that I was only dreaming. For a few seconds each morning, I felt happy that Chris was right by my side. Then I would think, “My husband is dead.”, and open up the anxiety floodgates.
Sometimes I feel self-imposed pressure to stop grieving. I feel like nobody can really understand that I still suffer from anxiety as a direct result of Chris’ illness and death. I still feel the aftershocks. I think I always will.
I live in fear that my doctor will stop prescribing Ativan for me, that she’ll think I’m in danger of becoming an addict, which is so completely absurd. My last prescription of 30 pills took me six months to consume. I just take half a pill whenever I can’t control my nervousness in other ways, which is pretty rare. I run, bike, box, sing, study and take Ativan to control my anxiety and each of the activities work very well. Oh yeah, and sometimes I eat, nonstop, which, in psychology, would be considered maladaptive behavior. Delicious maladaptive behavior, but maladaptive, no less. Even so, my idea of nonstop eating is pretty low-cal. I mean, I binge on steamed broccoli, cauliflower and pickles, all considered to have zero Weight Watchers points, which I am quite thankful for, since I never really got the hang of purging, anyway.
My nerves are wreaking havoc tonight. I’m generally okay, but nervous. I have been missing Chris a lot and crying again at night. I don’t help it. Notice my careful choice of the word “don’t.” Not helping it is a choice. I’m still petrified at the thought of letting go. How do you let go of a person when you feel like you just spent all day yesterday with him? Time is all over the place. Time is nonexistent, really, at least over there.
Yes, my grief has subsided significantly since day one. I almost never cry now. I cried all day long, every day, for so long that dehydration became my way of life.
I’m going to see Clay every other week, again. I needed time away to organize my thoughts and now I see the importance of his presence in my life. I do still need to talk about it. I do still need somebody to be okay with me talking (and/or crying) about it. I need permission to still be grieving, even if other people are tired of my story or don’t fully understand that breathing still doesn’t come easy for me. It comes, though. There was a time when it didn’t.
Well, I’m not done overeating tonight. I’m going to forage through my trash barrel. (Just kidding!) I am going to forage through my cabinets and refrigerator, though. I can almost taste the crunchy peanut butter from here.
Beyond grief, work is good, my friends are good, life is good.
Shneed
Sometimes I feel self-imposed pressure to stop grieving. I feel like nobody can really understand that I still suffer from anxiety as a direct result of Chris’ illness and death. I still feel the aftershocks. I think I always will.
I live in fear that my doctor will stop prescribing Ativan for me, that she’ll think I’m in danger of becoming an addict, which is so completely absurd. My last prescription of 30 pills took me six months to consume. I just take half a pill whenever I can’t control my nervousness in other ways, which is pretty rare. I run, bike, box, sing, study and take Ativan to control my anxiety and each of the activities work very well. Oh yeah, and sometimes I eat, nonstop, which, in psychology, would be considered maladaptive behavior. Delicious maladaptive behavior, but maladaptive, no less. Even so, my idea of nonstop eating is pretty low-cal. I mean, I binge on steamed broccoli, cauliflower and pickles, all considered to have zero Weight Watchers points, which I am quite thankful for, since I never really got the hang of purging, anyway.
My nerves are wreaking havoc tonight. I’m generally okay, but nervous. I have been missing Chris a lot and crying again at night. I don’t help it. Notice my careful choice of the word “don’t.” Not helping it is a choice. I’m still petrified at the thought of letting go. How do you let go of a person when you feel like you just spent all day yesterday with him? Time is all over the place. Time is nonexistent, really, at least over there.
Yes, my grief has subsided significantly since day one. I almost never cry now. I cried all day long, every day, for so long that dehydration became my way of life.
I’m going to see Clay every other week, again. I needed time away to organize my thoughts and now I see the importance of his presence in my life. I do still need to talk about it. I do still need somebody to be okay with me talking (and/or crying) about it. I need permission to still be grieving, even if other people are tired of my story or don’t fully understand that breathing still doesn’t come easy for me. It comes, though. There was a time when it didn’t.
Well, I’m not done overeating tonight. I’m going to forage through my trash barrel. (Just kidding!) I am going to forage through my cabinets and refrigerator, though. I can almost taste the crunchy peanut butter from here.
Beyond grief, work is good, my friends are good, life is good.
Shneed
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Trying to hang onto him
I have been talking about Chris a lot lately. I just had dinner with two friends who have been in love for almost a year. They both enjoy hearing my Chris stories and I must have forgotten myself because I allowed myself to feel as though Chris was home waiting for me to return from dinner.
Things began to get sketchy in my head after I dropped them off. I was certain I was going to cry. Then I told myself, “No. There are plenty of things to be happy about tonight.” and I turned it around and began doing homework, whcih I enjoy very much.
My memories are so real that I feel like they just happened yesterday and that we couldn’t have been living in L.A. five years ago. How can it be that we drove away from Massachusetts six years ago? How can that be? How could he have been diagnosed four years ago? How could he be dead for two and a half years? I feel very confused about time sometimes. Time seems fluid these days, as though each day, things that happened in the past have jumped around. My sense of time is not the same. It never will be.
Sometimes I think I can take a new picture of Chris. Sometimes I feel saddened by his absense and sometimes I feel blessed with the experience of his death. I feel guilty about that.
I would hold onto him forever, if I could, just grab him and hold onto him and apologize to him that he had to get cancer.
He’s leaving. And I’m scared. And my future is going to be a happy one. And that makes me sad. And happy. And tired.
Things began to get sketchy in my head after I dropped them off. I was certain I was going to cry. Then I told myself, “No. There are plenty of things to be happy about tonight.” and I turned it around and began doing homework, whcih I enjoy very much.
My memories are so real that I feel like they just happened yesterday and that we couldn’t have been living in L.A. five years ago. How can it be that we drove away from Massachusetts six years ago? How can that be? How could he have been diagnosed four years ago? How could he be dead for two and a half years? I feel very confused about time sometimes. Time seems fluid these days, as though each day, things that happened in the past have jumped around. My sense of time is not the same. It never will be.
Sometimes I think I can take a new picture of Chris. Sometimes I feel saddened by his absense and sometimes I feel blessed with the experience of his death. I feel guilty about that.
I would hold onto him forever, if I could, just grab him and hold onto him and apologize to him that he had to get cancer.
He’s leaving. And I’m scared. And my future is going to be a happy one. And that makes me sad. And happy. And tired.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
I’ll take it.
Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. Phew. That was quite a dip back into the depths of grief. I am happy to be able to announce to myself that I feel so much better today, thank goodness.
I had just forgotten myself and in doing so, I completely stopped reminding myself of various truths. First, I am full of love. Secondly, there are no mistakes. The universe is a perfect place and everything happens exactly the way it is supposed to happen. Thirdly, I am here for a reason and when my work is done, I will be allowed to leave. Earth is merely a learning ground where we come to exist in human form for a period of time before we get to shed our constraints and live as the spirits that we truly are.
Yesterday, I switched from drinking roughly four cups of coffee a day (mugs, really) to drinking only one cup of caffeinated and the rest all decaffeinated. Toward the end of the day, my head started hurting and I didn't make the connection at first but then this morning, I was in so much pain that I couldn't even lift my head off the pillow. I brewed and poured my morning coffee took a few sips, and lo and behold...no headache.
Interestingly enough, and even though I endured an intense grief meltdown, I had very little anxiety last night...and I practically and single-handedly keep anxiety employed.
I feel better. I’m so glad I feel better, even if it’s just until the next meltdown.
I’ll take it.
Shneed
I had just forgotten myself and in doing so, I completely stopped reminding myself of various truths. First, I am full of love. Secondly, there are no mistakes. The universe is a perfect place and everything happens exactly the way it is supposed to happen. Thirdly, I am here for a reason and when my work is done, I will be allowed to leave. Earth is merely a learning ground where we come to exist in human form for a period of time before we get to shed our constraints and live as the spirits that we truly are.
Yesterday, I switched from drinking roughly four cups of coffee a day (mugs, really) to drinking only one cup of caffeinated and the rest all decaffeinated. Toward the end of the day, my head started hurting and I didn't make the connection at first but then this morning, I was in so much pain that I couldn't even lift my head off the pillow. I brewed and poured my morning coffee took a few sips, and lo and behold...no headache.
Interestingly enough, and even though I endured an intense grief meltdown, I had very little anxiety last night...and I practically and single-handedly keep anxiety employed.
I feel better. I’m so glad I feel better, even if it’s just until the next meltdown.
I’ll take it.
Shneed
Monday, June 4, 2007
Regression to Depression
The adolescent in me wants me to say that I hate my life. I don’t, though. I’m just having another hard time.
Yesterday’s date brought up all kinds of grief-related anger and today after work, I was zapped of energy to do anything other than cry and cry and wish Chris could be here. And then I actually, just for a split second, thought he was here.
I’m waterlogged and my head and neck hurt. And my heart hurts.
I am clearly depressed.
I can’t believe this happened.
Regressed,
Shneed
Yesterday’s date brought up all kinds of grief-related anger and today after work, I was zapped of energy to do anything other than cry and cry and wish Chris could be here. And then I actually, just for a split second, thought he was here.
I’m waterlogged and my head and neck hurt. And my heart hurts.
I am clearly depressed.
I can’t believe this happened.
Regressed,
Shneed
Wishing and Coping
I had a hard night, last night. I suppose my date once again kicked off my grief.
The date was fine. I feel ambivalent about the man, though. I guess I’ll wait and see if we continue to write of if all of the buildup of writing to each other since March wanes into oblivion. I may find it in me to speak up and tell him I didn’t feel a connection, or maybe, if the opportunity arises, I’ll accept a second date. I hate the stupid future and how I can’t know about it until it becomes the present, dammit.
When I got home, I felt like the task of finding somebody for whom I can feel the level of love I felt for Chris was impossible. I still want somebody to fit into Chris’ mold. I suppose that means I’m still actively grieving and actively coping. I wish I could stop.
The good news is that I feel like I can date again. I may try one of those speed-dating events. I’m pretty social, so talking to many people in a one-on-one situation doesn’t scare me.
I just need to stay focused on all of the other activities in my life. There are many, many, many other activities.
For now, the tape that perpetually plays in my head states the obvious.
I wish Chris didn’t die.
I don’t know how to lose the anger that burns within me.
The date was fine. I feel ambivalent about the man, though. I guess I’ll wait and see if we continue to write of if all of the buildup of writing to each other since March wanes into oblivion. I may find it in me to speak up and tell him I didn’t feel a connection, or maybe, if the opportunity arises, I’ll accept a second date. I hate the stupid future and how I can’t know about it until it becomes the present, dammit.
When I got home, I felt like the task of finding somebody for whom I can feel the level of love I felt for Chris was impossible. I still want somebody to fit into Chris’ mold. I suppose that means I’m still actively grieving and actively coping. I wish I could stop.
The good news is that I feel like I can date again. I may try one of those speed-dating events. I’m pretty social, so talking to many people in a one-on-one situation doesn’t scare me.
I just need to stay focused on all of the other activities in my life. There are many, many, many other activities.
For now, the tape that perpetually plays in my head states the obvious.
I wish Chris didn’t die.
I don’t know how to lose the anger that burns within me.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
The Second "First Date"
I have been undergoing hypnosis for a phobia I have been experiencing for years. I only mention my treatment because although, so far, I have not become less afraid of the centipedes that sometimes tread and tread and tread the gray, industrial carpeting that covers most of the floors in my apartment, I have noticed that my grieving habits have been affected.
Two sessions into my hypnosis, I noticed I was feeling pretty happy over a six-week period, which leads me to believe that I am undergoing hypnosis under the guise of bug-induced turmoil, when in reality, but quite subconsciously, I am really dealing with my grief, looking for a way out of the darkness. I plan to talk with the hypnotist to find out if switching gears and admitting to dealing with grief makes more sense. After all, what is fear, but anxiety, anyway and what has Chris’ death and my grief caused me? Anxiety.
Mostly over the past few weeks, I have been uncomfortably aware that I have been suppressing all of my grief, which is not the outcome I desire. I don’t want somebody to wave a magic wand and make my sadness vanish. What I really want is for somebody to wave a magic wand and make me give myself permission to let go and move on. There’s an imp within my soul who prevents me from allowing myself that luxury. Hypnosis may have nothing to do with my suppression. Yesterday was the exact two and a half year anniversary of Chris' death, which is likely the real culprit.
I haven’t written in a long time, because I haven’t been able to bring any of my thoughts and feelings to the forefront of my brain. I have been experiencing powerful depression, which almost stopped me from living my life. I quit the show I was singing in and my schoolwork has fallen four weeks behind. So, once again, I have increased my Zoloft dosage and I have begun to eek back up to a state of synthetic emotional stability. I suppose that one day I will be pouring a few bottles of Zoloft into my white, blue-rimmed breakfast bowl, adding soy milk and eating up. That's the aftermath of grief, I guess.
For anyone who doesn’t understand what type of hypnosis I am undergoing, I will explain that I am not receiving hypnotic suggestion from this man. Instead, I am traveling through time, backwards, through my life, landing on memories of times in my life when I felt the same terror I feel when I see a centipede. The hypnotist never asks me specifics about what I am remembering. He only asks how old I am, if I am in lightness or darkness and whether I am alone or with people. Since he doesn’t ask for details beyond those, my brain is prone to wandering and I’m beginning to suspect that I have somehow turned “centipede” into a metaphor for “grief.” Pretty sneaky, huh? I didn’t go to him for grief, but grief, as usual, is running the show.
I’m not sure what to do at this point. I have choices. I can either continue to go and make a concerted effort to think about centipedes throughout my treatment, I can decide to deal completely with grief, or I can stop going. I have lots of choices.
Tomorrow, I am finally meeting face-to-face with man I have been e-mailing with since March. I like him. We seem to have a lot in common and tomorrow, we are meeting for lunch and a drink to finally say hello to each other in person. I’m excited.
I am aware of the differences between now and a year ago, when I first began dating, again. I feel ready, now. I’m still scared and I still feel some guilt, but my loneliness has actually become instrumental in raising my awareness that I may need to push myself up and over the hill and around the bend in order to give myself happiness, again.
This man knows nothing about my situation, not even that I was once married. I feel good about that. If he asks me, I’ll tell him the truth (or some of it), but I’m hoping for more lighthearted conversation on our first date, which is another difference from a year ago when I felt the need to inform anyone who would listen that my husband died.
This will be my second "first date."
I’m nervous, in a nice kind of way. And I feel hopeful.
Two sessions into my hypnosis, I noticed I was feeling pretty happy over a six-week period, which leads me to believe that I am undergoing hypnosis under the guise of bug-induced turmoil, when in reality, but quite subconsciously, I am really dealing with my grief, looking for a way out of the darkness. I plan to talk with the hypnotist to find out if switching gears and admitting to dealing with grief makes more sense. After all, what is fear, but anxiety, anyway and what has Chris’ death and my grief caused me? Anxiety.
Mostly over the past few weeks, I have been uncomfortably aware that I have been suppressing all of my grief, which is not the outcome I desire. I don’t want somebody to wave a magic wand and make my sadness vanish. What I really want is for somebody to wave a magic wand and make me give myself permission to let go and move on. There’s an imp within my soul who prevents me from allowing myself that luxury. Hypnosis may have nothing to do with my suppression. Yesterday was the exact two and a half year anniversary of Chris' death, which is likely the real culprit.
I haven’t written in a long time, because I haven’t been able to bring any of my thoughts and feelings to the forefront of my brain. I have been experiencing powerful depression, which almost stopped me from living my life. I quit the show I was singing in and my schoolwork has fallen four weeks behind. So, once again, I have increased my Zoloft dosage and I have begun to eek back up to a state of synthetic emotional stability. I suppose that one day I will be pouring a few bottles of Zoloft into my white, blue-rimmed breakfast bowl, adding soy milk and eating up. That's the aftermath of grief, I guess.
For anyone who doesn’t understand what type of hypnosis I am undergoing, I will explain that I am not receiving hypnotic suggestion from this man. Instead, I am traveling through time, backwards, through my life, landing on memories of times in my life when I felt the same terror I feel when I see a centipede. The hypnotist never asks me specifics about what I am remembering. He only asks how old I am, if I am in lightness or darkness and whether I am alone or with people. Since he doesn’t ask for details beyond those, my brain is prone to wandering and I’m beginning to suspect that I have somehow turned “centipede” into a metaphor for “grief.” Pretty sneaky, huh? I didn’t go to him for grief, but grief, as usual, is running the show.
I’m not sure what to do at this point. I have choices. I can either continue to go and make a concerted effort to think about centipedes throughout my treatment, I can decide to deal completely with grief, or I can stop going. I have lots of choices.
Tomorrow, I am finally meeting face-to-face with man I have been e-mailing with since March. I like him. We seem to have a lot in common and tomorrow, we are meeting for lunch and a drink to finally say hello to each other in person. I’m excited.
I am aware of the differences between now and a year ago, when I first began dating, again. I feel ready, now. I’m still scared and I still feel some guilt, but my loneliness has actually become instrumental in raising my awareness that I may need to push myself up and over the hill and around the bend in order to give myself happiness, again.
This man knows nothing about my situation, not even that I was once married. I feel good about that. If he asks me, I’ll tell him the truth (or some of it), but I’m hoping for more lighthearted conversation on our first date, which is another difference from a year ago when I felt the need to inform anyone who would listen that my husband died.
This will be my second "first date."
I’m nervous, in a nice kind of way. And I feel hopeful.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Maybe a Push
I want to write about my feelings, but my brain won’t let them come to its forefront. I seem to have entered a strange suppression zone where, although I want to write, I can’t seem to hold onto my thoughts.
Last night, I cried on my way home from the gym. I felt hugged. I’m not sure what I mean by that. I suppose the way I’m treated by some of the men that I know leaves me feeling hugged, which is such a nice way to feel. I didn’t know mere kindness and genuine affection could have that effect. I cried tears of relinquishment; Relinquishment of control, of heart-stopping anxiety, relinquishment of the idea that I am one half of a sweet, caring abundant relationship and relinquishment of scream-inducing rage and sleep-thwarting denial. I finished crying by the time I got home.
I feel as though love is on the way. I’m waiting. I’m available. I want to be special for somebody, again. I want a soul/soul connection and unfaltering camaraderie.
I’m all fogged-over, just like Dorothy was in the field when the wicked witch of the west performed her poppy spell. I feel vaguely hypnotized, as though my memories are forgetting themselves without my help, which, ironically, is very helpful.
The tragedy is over. There will never be another event in my life as shocking as finding out that my Chris was going to be dead in four days.
I feel like I am beginning to consider testing the “letting go” waters, although with much trepidation.
Reassurance is what I need. Reassurance is what I have always needed.
And maybe a push.
Last night, I cried on my way home from the gym. I felt hugged. I’m not sure what I mean by that. I suppose the way I’m treated by some of the men that I know leaves me feeling hugged, which is such a nice way to feel. I didn’t know mere kindness and genuine affection could have that effect. I cried tears of relinquishment; Relinquishment of control, of heart-stopping anxiety, relinquishment of the idea that I am one half of a sweet, caring abundant relationship and relinquishment of scream-inducing rage and sleep-thwarting denial. I finished crying by the time I got home.
I feel as though love is on the way. I’m waiting. I’m available. I want to be special for somebody, again. I want a soul/soul connection and unfaltering camaraderie.
I’m all fogged-over, just like Dorothy was in the field when the wicked witch of the west performed her poppy spell. I feel vaguely hypnotized, as though my memories are forgetting themselves without my help, which, ironically, is very helpful.
The tragedy is over. There will never be another event in my life as shocking as finding out that my Chris was going to be dead in four days.
I feel like I am beginning to consider testing the “letting go” waters, although with much trepidation.
Reassurance is what I need. Reassurance is what I have always needed.
And maybe a push.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Hopeful Hurt
I’m all tied up inside. My body is holding my thoughts captive, just beneath my cousciousness. I feel strange, but I cannot unearth the root of my anxiety. Or I will not unearth the root of my anxiety. I keep telling myself I’ll be seeing Clay in just two more weeks. I can schedule a session with him anytime I need to (I think), but I don’t want to. I can wait. My anxiety will keep.
I have been experiencing stressful dreams, the subject matter of which I do not remember upon awakening. I have been waking up nervous, tired and feeling as though I wish I could stay in bed.
I suppose I should call my doctor and tell her I’m depressed. Maybe I can switfch from Zoloft to some other drug that’s geared more toward anxiety. I could add that drug and keep taking Zoloft. I’m just thinking in bytes.
I have been missing Chris very much lately. The changing seasons affect me significantly. These past few days of summer-like weather have brought me back to the days of walks to coffee shops, walks to the corner mailbox together to mail a letter, coffee on benches in the park, hugging his arm as we walked down the street. His voice. The warmth in his eyes before morphine snuffed the glimmer. I suppose that same morphine snuffed the glimmer in my own eyes, to an extent.
My heart hurts.
But it also hopes.
I have been experiencing stressful dreams, the subject matter of which I do not remember upon awakening. I have been waking up nervous, tired and feeling as though I wish I could stay in bed.
I suppose I should call my doctor and tell her I’m depressed. Maybe I can switfch from Zoloft to some other drug that’s geared more toward anxiety. I could add that drug and keep taking Zoloft. I’m just thinking in bytes.
I have been missing Chris very much lately. The changing seasons affect me significantly. These past few days of summer-like weather have brought me back to the days of walks to coffee shops, walks to the corner mailbox together to mail a letter, coffee on benches in the park, hugging his arm as we walked down the street. His voice. The warmth in his eyes before morphine snuffed the glimmer. I suppose that same morphine snuffed the glimmer in my own eyes, to an extent.
My heart hurts.
But it also hopes.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Valley Girl
I have hit another snag. I suppose the decline in my level of cheer is apparent when I look back over the past few entries I have posted. I have come to respect the valleys within the grief process along with the mountains, and I just keep marching forward.
Mostly, I feel heavy-hearted. Once again, I have begun losing interest in doing anything. Up until yesterday, when I spent eight hours catching up on the schoolwork I had let fall by the wayside, I had pretty much stopped doing everything. I feel as though I don’t enjoy singing, but I know grief so well these days that I know it isn’t true. I’m just depressed, again. I have plans tonight and I don’t want to go, but I know I’ll be sad if I stay in.
I went to the gym last night and worked out vigorously. On the way home I began crying, as I sometimes do after an evening of pushing my mind and body past their limits. At the gym, I looked at the trainer and wondered what it’s like for him to know he has a wife to go home to. I wondered what it’s like for her to be eagerly awaiting his return. I remember feeling that way every time Chris was out. When I begin to think in those patterns I become very sad and lonely for Chris, and I cry.
Once home, I sat on my sofa in front of the TV, laptop in lap, chamomile tea in hand and a red delicious apple, sliced into chips, on the coffee table waiting to be devoured. I began to feel better.
When I got tired enough to turn in, I moved the party (of one) into the bedroom and fell asleep. An hour later, I awoke with a start. I thought of Chris and the fact that he died and I instantly cried out, “No.” I had to shake my head a few times to get the image of his illness out of my mind. It returned for a follow-up ambush. I sat up. My tears came, and I sat atop my bed in the darkness pining for Chris to come back.
I thought I felt his essence around me and the words, “I’m right here.” entered my mind as though they were not my own, and I took comfort in them. The words, I decided, were Chris’ words to me, calming me, loving me, assuring me that this life is not forever, that we will not always be separated.
Mostly, I feel heavy-hearted. Once again, I have begun losing interest in doing anything. Up until yesterday, when I spent eight hours catching up on the schoolwork I had let fall by the wayside, I had pretty much stopped doing everything. I feel as though I don’t enjoy singing, but I know grief so well these days that I know it isn’t true. I’m just depressed, again. I have plans tonight and I don’t want to go, but I know I’ll be sad if I stay in.
I went to the gym last night and worked out vigorously. On the way home I began crying, as I sometimes do after an evening of pushing my mind and body past their limits. At the gym, I looked at the trainer and wondered what it’s like for him to know he has a wife to go home to. I wondered what it’s like for her to be eagerly awaiting his return. I remember feeling that way every time Chris was out. When I begin to think in those patterns I become very sad and lonely for Chris, and I cry.
Once home, I sat on my sofa in front of the TV, laptop in lap, chamomile tea in hand and a red delicious apple, sliced into chips, on the coffee table waiting to be devoured. I began to feel better.
When I got tired enough to turn in, I moved the party (of one) into the bedroom and fell asleep. An hour later, I awoke with a start. I thought of Chris and the fact that he died and I instantly cried out, “No.” I had to shake my head a few times to get the image of his illness out of my mind. It returned for a follow-up ambush. I sat up. My tears came, and I sat atop my bed in the darkness pining for Chris to come back.
I thought I felt his essence around me and the words, “I’m right here.” entered my mind as though they were not my own, and I took comfort in them. The words, I decided, were Chris’ words to me, calming me, loving me, assuring me that this life is not forever, that we will not always be separated.
Monday, May 7, 2007
A Perfect Score
I turned 40 last week. I have finally achieved a perfect score. I apparently don’t look my age, which is so nice to hear from person after person after person. I have had guesses from 22 to 32 and back to 26. I’ll take all of them! My ego certainly hasn’t suffered any.
I felt some sadness during the days leading up to the big day, of course, when I remembered morning birthday cards Chris left on the table for me, sometimes accompanied by a box of four Godiva chocolates (which I always split with him), sometimes not. Chocolates are delicious, but the truth is that I never cared the years the card sat alone, awaiting my excited gasp as I emerged from our bedroom, another year older…but not much wiser. Wisdom wasn’t born in me until after Chris’ death.
I missed him last Wednesday. I tortured myself with the numbers game and other such imaginings. He would have been 36 by now. We would have been married almost three and half years. We might have owned a home. We would probably be out toasting to another year of life for me, another year of togetherness for us. He would have told me he was proud of me, just for turning another year. Chris was constantly proud of me for all the little nothings I accomplished. I’m forty. I’m carrying on. There is no doubt in my mind that he’s proud.
Carol and Robby had planned to take me to dinner on Friday evening to celebrate my passage into the next decade. As Friday neared, I began to become very moody, wanting to go one minute and wanting to cancel, the next. Admittedly, they were driven crazy by my anxiety. “Pain in the ass” is the verbiage they used to describe my onset of seemingly dissipating enthusiasm. They were acting weird, though, and their secrecy was throwing me off. I began to feel nervous and experience even more anxiety about the evening’s events. My friends were a bit baffled by the distrust I seemed to be displaying.
Nonetheless, Carol picked me up at 6:45 at my house and drove to Tamarind House in Porter Square. As we approached the doors, much to my surprise and delight, I recognized Meira through the glass window. I was glad she came. I thought that was it, but my friends kept delaying the food ordering. The fact that the three of us were seated at a table for six, along my natural talent for sleuthing, told me we were expecting others. They weren’t talking, though, so we sat, I sipped wine, we devoured appetizers and before long, my friend Linda walked through the doors and not long after that, Rodney appeared before me. Six of us sat and ate dinner, laughing, talking and enjoying the food and drink. I love my friends and I felt loved by all of them.
The next day, in an effort to understand my reaction to the surprise, specifically my inability to sit back and allow my friends to design the celebration, I realized that what bothered me about not knowing what the evening held was a basic lack of control I felt. Then I realized that the last time I felt out of control was during and after Chris’ illness and death. And one by one, as each friend appeared in the restaurant before me, I realized the similarities between my birthday celebration and my and Chris’ wedding day. Meira even bought the cake, just as she did for our wedding dinner. And just like on my wedding day, I felt I endured a self-imposed responsibility to keep everyone entertained
I haven’t really celebrated my birthday since Chris died. Not really. Not like I used to. This year I did really celebrate, with the help of my friends. The same old grief-fog faded in and out throughout the course of the evening. The anxiety I had felt before and during dinner was nothing more than a grief-reaction, come back to haunt me.
I guess “firsts” can come even after two and a half years. All things considered, my birthday celebration with my friends has been the best first, yet.
I’m a lucky woman.
I felt some sadness during the days leading up to the big day, of course, when I remembered morning birthday cards Chris left on the table for me, sometimes accompanied by a box of four Godiva chocolates (which I always split with him), sometimes not. Chocolates are delicious, but the truth is that I never cared the years the card sat alone, awaiting my excited gasp as I emerged from our bedroom, another year older…but not much wiser. Wisdom wasn’t born in me until after Chris’ death.
I missed him last Wednesday. I tortured myself with the numbers game and other such imaginings. He would have been 36 by now. We would have been married almost three and half years. We might have owned a home. We would probably be out toasting to another year of life for me, another year of togetherness for us. He would have told me he was proud of me, just for turning another year. Chris was constantly proud of me for all the little nothings I accomplished. I’m forty. I’m carrying on. There is no doubt in my mind that he’s proud.
Carol and Robby had planned to take me to dinner on Friday evening to celebrate my passage into the next decade. As Friday neared, I began to become very moody, wanting to go one minute and wanting to cancel, the next. Admittedly, they were driven crazy by my anxiety. “Pain in the ass” is the verbiage they used to describe my onset of seemingly dissipating enthusiasm. They were acting weird, though, and their secrecy was throwing me off. I began to feel nervous and experience even more anxiety about the evening’s events. My friends were a bit baffled by the distrust I seemed to be displaying.
Nonetheless, Carol picked me up at 6:45 at my house and drove to Tamarind House in Porter Square. As we approached the doors, much to my surprise and delight, I recognized Meira through the glass window. I was glad she came. I thought that was it, but my friends kept delaying the food ordering. The fact that the three of us were seated at a table for six, along my natural talent for sleuthing, told me we were expecting others. They weren’t talking, though, so we sat, I sipped wine, we devoured appetizers and before long, my friend Linda walked through the doors and not long after that, Rodney appeared before me. Six of us sat and ate dinner, laughing, talking and enjoying the food and drink. I love my friends and I felt loved by all of them.
The next day, in an effort to understand my reaction to the surprise, specifically my inability to sit back and allow my friends to design the celebration, I realized that what bothered me about not knowing what the evening held was a basic lack of control I felt. Then I realized that the last time I felt out of control was during and after Chris’ illness and death. And one by one, as each friend appeared in the restaurant before me, I realized the similarities between my birthday celebration and my and Chris’ wedding day. Meira even bought the cake, just as she did for our wedding dinner. And just like on my wedding day, I felt I endured a self-imposed responsibility to keep everyone entertained
I haven’t really celebrated my birthday since Chris died. Not really. Not like I used to. This year I did really celebrate, with the help of my friends. The same old grief-fog faded in and out throughout the course of the evening. The anxiety I had felt before and during dinner was nothing more than a grief-reaction, come back to haunt me.
I guess “firsts” can come even after two and a half years. All things considered, my birthday celebration with my friends has been the best first, yet.
I’m a lucky woman.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Still, Again
Last night, I had a horrible meltdown. I guess my grief had been
simmering all day long and I should have known that as soon as I got
too tired to stay awake, I would lose control of my emotions.
Sometimes I think about how much time has passed since I have been
held by somebody. Years have gone by since my last romantic hug.
Years. Developing infatuations for men that I meet is not an uncommon
occurrence for me. Last night, I found myself thinking about the men
I have met since Chris died, unavailable men, and how at one time or
another I have wished each one of them would wrap their arms around
me and tell me everything is going to be okay. Isn’t that what
everybody wants?
But alas, they’re married or involved or gay or uninterested or I
imagine that they would never, in a billion years, put up with the
fact that I sometimes fall apart at night when I think about
everything that happened and all of the ways my Chris lost his
freedom and ultimately his life. Who would put up with that? I know
somebody will eventually, but not unitl I stop believing that my
grief is unacceptable.
I need to stand my ground and maintain that grief is part of who I am
now and anybody who has trouble accepting that is not as open-minded
and accepting as I am, and as a result, he will not be a good match
for me. Emotion is a part of everybody’s life.
I want to be loved, again. And I want to love back.
And I still hurt tremendously.
simmering all day long and I should have known that as soon as I got
too tired to stay awake, I would lose control of my emotions.
Sometimes I think about how much time has passed since I have been
held by somebody. Years have gone by since my last romantic hug.
Years. Developing infatuations for men that I meet is not an uncommon
occurrence for me. Last night, I found myself thinking about the men
I have met since Chris died, unavailable men, and how at one time or
another I have wished each one of them would wrap their arms around
me and tell me everything is going to be okay. Isn’t that what
everybody wants?
But alas, they’re married or involved or gay or uninterested or I
imagine that they would never, in a billion years, put up with the
fact that I sometimes fall apart at night when I think about
everything that happened and all of the ways my Chris lost his
freedom and ultimately his life. Who would put up with that? I know
somebody will eventually, but not unitl I stop believing that my
grief is unacceptable.
I need to stand my ground and maintain that grief is part of who I am
now and anybody who has trouble accepting that is not as open-minded
and accepting as I am, and as a result, he will not be a good match
for me. Emotion is a part of everybody’s life.
I want to be loved, again. And I want to love back.
And I still hurt tremendously.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Visiting the Dead
Last night, I had a horrible nightmare.
Chris and I and many of my family members and friends were imprisoned in a concentration camp during the Holocaust. We were all dressed in beige and gray rags. The Nazis were announcing who was going to be extinguished and who was going to remain alive.
Since my emotions in my dreams are gleaned from my waking-state experiences, I identified the level of stress, horror, panic and dread in my dream as being the same stress, horror, panic and dread I felt for fourteen months straight while I worked, hoped and prayed harder than I ever had before to make Chris’ life as bearable as possible under the circumstances. During my slumber, my brain made the association between my level of horror and assigned the Holocaust to it.
None of us knew whether we would be selected to die or live and we all waited and listened to announcements blaring over prison yard loud speakers, awaiting our fates.
I found out I was not chosen to die but I was unable to let go of the panic and dread I felt because I didn’t know which, if any, of my loved ones were slotted for death.
Nobody I loved was chosen to die. I felt the panic drain from my soul and I felt I could drop to my knees expressing thankfulness. I was so thankful.
I found Chris, wrapped my arms around his neck, held onto him and said, “Thank you so much for loving me.”
I woke up feeling nauseous and I held onto my dream all day long until now because I felt too afraid to call it into my consciousness. My reunion with Chris was very powerful and I needed tonight to process.
I can’t imagine the horrors of Holocaust survivors and non-survivors. I have only read horrifying true accounts and watched documentaries on the subject. How can a person have that experience, all of the senseless cruelty and sadness stored in their memory and still continue on with life?
Even though I miss Chris with everything I have, I am well aware that my experience doesn’t come close to that which was endured in the death camps.
Tonight, I am feeling so very sorry for all of the people that died and watched their loved ones die at the hands of the Nazis.
I have a friend who believes that when we dream, we are actually visiting the afterlife, that our dreams are a portal through the veil.
I feel like I went to visit Chris last night and thank him. His love changed my life and that moment in my dream felt unbelievably and powerfully real. If humans can visit the spirit world, last night was my first visit.
Chris and I and many of my family members and friends were imprisoned in a concentration camp during the Holocaust. We were all dressed in beige and gray rags. The Nazis were announcing who was going to be extinguished and who was going to remain alive.
Since my emotions in my dreams are gleaned from my waking-state experiences, I identified the level of stress, horror, panic and dread in my dream as being the same stress, horror, panic and dread I felt for fourteen months straight while I worked, hoped and prayed harder than I ever had before to make Chris’ life as bearable as possible under the circumstances. During my slumber, my brain made the association between my level of horror and assigned the Holocaust to it.
None of us knew whether we would be selected to die or live and we all waited and listened to announcements blaring over prison yard loud speakers, awaiting our fates.
I found out I was not chosen to die but I was unable to let go of the panic and dread I felt because I didn’t know which, if any, of my loved ones were slotted for death.
Nobody I loved was chosen to die. I felt the panic drain from my soul and I felt I could drop to my knees expressing thankfulness. I was so thankful.
I found Chris, wrapped my arms around his neck, held onto him and said, “Thank you so much for loving me.”
I woke up feeling nauseous and I held onto my dream all day long until now because I felt too afraid to call it into my consciousness. My reunion with Chris was very powerful and I needed tonight to process.
I can’t imagine the horrors of Holocaust survivors and non-survivors. I have only read horrifying true accounts and watched documentaries on the subject. How can a person have that experience, all of the senseless cruelty and sadness stored in their memory and still continue on with life?
Even though I miss Chris with everything I have, I am well aware that my experience doesn’t come close to that which was endured in the death camps.
Tonight, I am feeling so very sorry for all of the people that died and watched their loved ones die at the hands of the Nazis.
I have a friend who believes that when we dream, we are actually visiting the afterlife, that our dreams are a portal through the veil.
I feel like I went to visit Chris last night and thank him. His love changed my life and that moment in my dream felt unbelievably and powerfully real. If humans can visit the spirit world, last night was my first visit.
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