I woke up feeling wonderful, yesterday, and the feeling stuck. Just as quickly as the ambush occurred, the enemy retreated and I am feeling happy, again.
I have decided to do a solo cabaret show for which I have begun to prepare. The decision is an indication to me that there is truth in the phrase “2 steps forward, one step back.” I have been wanting to perform my own show for a few years, since before Chris died. In fact, he used to get irritated with me for talking about the song list for years and never doing anything to turn the dream into a reality. Since his death, I have pondered the idea a few times but have not been able to commit to the task. Plus, I had been holding onto a concept which included telling the story of what happened to Chris and singing a song or two to support the idea. At this particular moment, it appears as though I may not mention Chris at all. That’s progress. I’m better at comedy that I ever was at tragedy, anyway.
I’m excited. The only time I ever feel absolute absence of all things sad is when I am singing a song, telling a melodic story, disappearing into the subtext and giving everything I have inside of me to an audience who I bring with me, along for the fantastical ride. I’m targeting September for a date. I just have to find a venue, hire some musicians and put my nose to the grindstone.
I’m going to put down my laptop and enjoy the feeling of my body, finally in as much of a relaxed state as its muscles ever get, which is still moderately aroused. Oh well. I’ll take what I can get, just as long as this respite from grief lasts.
Cheers.
Shneed
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
"Dont make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."
Last night, I dreamed Chris proposed to me again, and that we were going to be married. I think I may have had that dream once before since he died. As usual, I felt my entire chest cavity fill to capacity with love, goodness and emotion for which there are no words, just as it did during the time we shared.
I awoke feeling calm, like everything is okay, but even so, I also had to swallow my tears on the bus to Harvard Square.
Lately, I have been prone to grief-meltdowns during the time I spend alone, which is most often at night. I’m still not certain what causes the constant ebb and flow of despair at such a late stage in the game. I only know that my grief is never really gone. The sadness and anger go on hiatus, and consistent cheer and happiness stay for extended visits, but I don’t believe grief ever leaves for good.
While trying to understand what grief feels like for me, one of my friends likened my state to that of a multiple personality disorder or possibly to a “Jekyll and Hyde” story. I corrected her, stating that what little I know about schizophrenia seems more accurate, even though I don’t suffer from the disorder. I, myself, feel like the portrayed character of John Nash in the movie, "A Beautiful Mind." Grief lives alongside me, like the people in his dillusions that he, ultimately chose to ignore. Most of the time, I'm able to ignore my grief and the flashes of images from my experience that try to haunt me. I'm not always effectively able to, though, so I end up collapsing under their weight, like an accused witch being pressed to death.
"You're sad! Admit it!"
"No! I'm not! I'm fine!"
"Admit that you're grief-stricken!"
"No!"
"Admit to your sins!"
"Okay! I'm sad! I'm still sad!"
But I get nothing for having admitted to my sadness, except a crushing meltdown that either leaves me shaking on the sofa or passed out from sheer exhaustion.
The character, David Banner, from the 70's show, "The Incredible Hulk" (“Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”) is another good analogy. He, like I, spent his days searching for the scientific answers and the antidote that will end his transformations into the beast he becomes and allow him to return to a normal life.
I don’t feel like two different people. Instead, I feel like a person who is constantly sitting, standing and/or walking next to a black storm-cloud filled with what happened. The cloud, pregnant with images, memories, despair and un-granted wishes floats next to me. My course of action has been to try to ignore its presence and keep on moving.
Anyone who has experienced soreness in a muscle or an extremity and kept touching or moving the injured body part to see if the pain was still there, can understand how I can end up, repeatedly, floating into the cloud and into the pain.
This latest onset of repeat-grief is particularly menacing. As I have mentioned before, I may have ended my therapy in haste. I don’t want to return to Clay. His job is one well done.
I may begin to try to work with a woman psychologist I have found who specializes in loss, cognition and behavior, and hypnosis. I have never talked with a professional whose specialty has been grief. Every time I found those credentials in someone, I was told I was too far out in my grief process or not far out enough. I was even told by a grief-counselor I met with (she also lost her husband many years earlier – seemed a perfect match for my plight) that I could expect to receive some literature from her in the mail and that she would call me to set up another appointment. She did neither. I’m not sure of the reason(s), but she never contacted me.
Still, every ounce of help I have received has made a difference for the better. I don’t pretend that my situation is an easy one to help. I give kudos to any therapist who attempts to lend an ear.
So, I suppose I’ll make the phone call and begin, once again, to tell my story. I need to tell my story, repeatedly. There is healing in the telling.
And if healing is my goal, then I suppose I ought to begin retelling.
I awoke feeling calm, like everything is okay, but even so, I also had to swallow my tears on the bus to Harvard Square.
Lately, I have been prone to grief-meltdowns during the time I spend alone, which is most often at night. I’m still not certain what causes the constant ebb and flow of despair at such a late stage in the game. I only know that my grief is never really gone. The sadness and anger go on hiatus, and consistent cheer and happiness stay for extended visits, but I don’t believe grief ever leaves for good.
While trying to understand what grief feels like for me, one of my friends likened my state to that of a multiple personality disorder or possibly to a “Jekyll and Hyde” story. I corrected her, stating that what little I know about schizophrenia seems more accurate, even though I don’t suffer from the disorder. I, myself, feel like the portrayed character of John Nash in the movie, "A Beautiful Mind." Grief lives alongside me, like the people in his dillusions that he, ultimately chose to ignore. Most of the time, I'm able to ignore my grief and the flashes of images from my experience that try to haunt me. I'm not always effectively able to, though, so I end up collapsing under their weight, like an accused witch being pressed to death.
"You're sad! Admit it!"
"No! I'm not! I'm fine!"
"Admit that you're grief-stricken!"
"No!"
"Admit to your sins!"
"Okay! I'm sad! I'm still sad!"
But I get nothing for having admitted to my sadness, except a crushing meltdown that either leaves me shaking on the sofa or passed out from sheer exhaustion.
The character, David Banner, from the 70's show, "The Incredible Hulk" (“Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”) is another good analogy. He, like I, spent his days searching for the scientific answers and the antidote that will end his transformations into the beast he becomes and allow him to return to a normal life.
I don’t feel like two different people. Instead, I feel like a person who is constantly sitting, standing and/or walking next to a black storm-cloud filled with what happened. The cloud, pregnant with images, memories, despair and un-granted wishes floats next to me. My course of action has been to try to ignore its presence and keep on moving.
Anyone who has experienced soreness in a muscle or an extremity and kept touching or moving the injured body part to see if the pain was still there, can understand how I can end up, repeatedly, floating into the cloud and into the pain.
This latest onset of repeat-grief is particularly menacing. As I have mentioned before, I may have ended my therapy in haste. I don’t want to return to Clay. His job is one well done.
I may begin to try to work with a woman psychologist I have found who specializes in loss, cognition and behavior, and hypnosis. I have never talked with a professional whose specialty has been grief. Every time I found those credentials in someone, I was told I was too far out in my grief process or not far out enough. I was even told by a grief-counselor I met with (she also lost her husband many years earlier – seemed a perfect match for my plight) that I could expect to receive some literature from her in the mail and that she would call me to set up another appointment. She did neither. I’m not sure of the reason(s), but she never contacted me.
Still, every ounce of help I have received has made a difference for the better. I don’t pretend that my situation is an easy one to help. I give kudos to any therapist who attempts to lend an ear.
So, I suppose I’ll make the phone call and begin, once again, to tell my story. I need to tell my story, repeatedly. There is healing in the telling.
And if healing is my goal, then I suppose I ought to begin retelling.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
The Lynching
I know the dangers of studying psychology - a student’s tendency to diagnose herself with a new disorder with each passing chapter. Still, I suffered from anxeity long before I began studying anxiety disorder. So which came first? My anxiety, or my psychology text book?
I have to admit, reading about post-traumatic stress disorder, last week, caused me to lose traction in my treck upward. Even though nobody seems to think I suffer from PTSD, I could have been reading about myself in my text for all of the similarities between the pages in my book and the pages in my own personal story.
For example, in talking with my brother on the phone last night, after a very slight (by comparison to clinically-diagnosed folk) panic attack that began at the mall (even though I’m usually ashamed to admit that I even set foot into a mall -- but Macy’s, man, y’know?) I popped the cork on some pent up angst I had been experiencing for the better part of a week.
I have spent the past three weeks preparing for and then working, day and night, at a conference, attending marathon rehearsals for the show I’m doing (which is opening this Satruday evening), studying for and taking two psychology exams and then scrambling to continue my reading so as to not fall behind for the next two upcoming exams, plus managing to get in three workouts a week, all while working full-time.
I’m never one to admit that I have taken on too much. Usually my friends think I have, even though my capacity to handle many activities at once is unbreakable. I have been practicing and thriving on such a schedule for many, many years. However, since Chris died, I find that when I don’t leave myself time to think about him, grief begins vying for the spotlight, pushing its ugly head up, up, up, competing for its place on the stage.
Yesterday, as panic set in, I began to feel completely exposed, fat, sloppy and unattractive. I needed to get out of the mall and get home as fast as possible. Because I identified the anxiety, I wasn’t freaked out by the symptoms. I began breathing and walking to the train station, telling myself everything is okay.
What happened then is what makes me think I have some semblance of PTSD-like symptoms. In the middle of telling myself, “Everything is okay,” my chest completely bottomed-out and I lost my breath. My very next thought was, “Except that Chris is still dead.” In one-second’s time, my brain unscrambled the message,”If everything is okay...and Chris is still dead...then what I’m essentially saying is that it’s okay that Chris is dead.” and my thoughts formed a cord that wrapped around my neck and instantly strangled me.
What happened? A flashback? A typical grief-reaction? Exhaustion? I’m not really sure. I’m not a person who is controlled by anxiety, but I was yesterday.
I don’t know what my next course of action will be. Maybe I was hasty in ending my therapy. I may benefit from talking with somebody new and trying to change some of my cognitions about life and death and about how much I deserve to be “okay” without “okay” meaning I have forgotten about Chris.
I have to admit, reading about post-traumatic stress disorder, last week, caused me to lose traction in my treck upward. Even though nobody seems to think I suffer from PTSD, I could have been reading about myself in my text for all of the similarities between the pages in my book and the pages in my own personal story.
For example, in talking with my brother on the phone last night, after a very slight (by comparison to clinically-diagnosed folk) panic attack that began at the mall (even though I’m usually ashamed to admit that I even set foot into a mall -- but Macy’s, man, y’know?) I popped the cork on some pent up angst I had been experiencing for the better part of a week.
I have spent the past three weeks preparing for and then working, day and night, at a conference, attending marathon rehearsals for the show I’m doing (which is opening this Satruday evening), studying for and taking two psychology exams and then scrambling to continue my reading so as to not fall behind for the next two upcoming exams, plus managing to get in three workouts a week, all while working full-time.
I’m never one to admit that I have taken on too much. Usually my friends think I have, even though my capacity to handle many activities at once is unbreakable. I have been practicing and thriving on such a schedule for many, many years. However, since Chris died, I find that when I don’t leave myself time to think about him, grief begins vying for the spotlight, pushing its ugly head up, up, up, competing for its place on the stage.
Yesterday, as panic set in, I began to feel completely exposed, fat, sloppy and unattractive. I needed to get out of the mall and get home as fast as possible. Because I identified the anxiety, I wasn’t freaked out by the symptoms. I began breathing and walking to the train station, telling myself everything is okay.
What happened then is what makes me think I have some semblance of PTSD-like symptoms. In the middle of telling myself, “Everything is okay,” my chest completely bottomed-out and I lost my breath. My very next thought was, “Except that Chris is still dead.” In one-second’s time, my brain unscrambled the message,”If everything is okay...and Chris is still dead...then what I’m essentially saying is that it’s okay that Chris is dead.” and my thoughts formed a cord that wrapped around my neck and instantly strangled me.
What happened? A flashback? A typical grief-reaction? Exhaustion? I’m not really sure. I’m not a person who is controlled by anxiety, but I was yesterday.
I don’t know what my next course of action will be. Maybe I was hasty in ending my therapy. I may benefit from talking with somebody new and trying to change some of my cognitions about life and death and about how much I deserve to be “okay” without “okay” meaning I have forgotten about Chris.
Friday, May 2, 2008
41.
41 today. Chris has been gone for three and a half years. He would have been 37, but according to God’s plan, Chris is forever 34.
What’s different this year, from last year? First of all, I’m the one who designed the celebration and invited my friends to dinner, this year. As far as my birthday goes, grief is nonexistent.
I have a wish. Six, or so, of the courses I have taken at school have been taught by the same professor. I like his classes because his life experience in his work is extremely fascinating. The man works at Dana Farber Cancer Institute, which he announces at the beginning of each class, as was the case the first time I ever took one of his classes.
The second he announced his employment, I experienced a fusion in my mind. He was there, working, at the same time I was getting the news that my husband was dying.
I’m not sure what that means. Something psychological happened and I’d like to understand what that something is. Transference? I don’t know. I’m not opposed to asking him, as long as I can do so sans emotion. A simple e-mail would take care of that end of things. His job, in my world, is professor, not therapist. The trouble is that because he is a therapist outside of his teaching job, I keep feeling a pull toward him. I suppose there are worse things in life than recruiting my professor to lend a little bit of his day-life expertise to me. He offered his help in the past when I asked about missing class to attend a grief-support group.
That’s my very simple wish, easily granted if I choose to request.
Beyond that, my grief is manageable. The guilt I feel about my grief being manageable causes me 2nd-tier grief...or should I say 2nd “tear” grief.
Happy Birthday Me
What’s different this year, from last year? First of all, I’m the one who designed the celebration and invited my friends to dinner, this year. As far as my birthday goes, grief is nonexistent.
I have a wish. Six, or so, of the courses I have taken at school have been taught by the same professor. I like his classes because his life experience in his work is extremely fascinating. The man works at Dana Farber Cancer Institute, which he announces at the beginning of each class, as was the case the first time I ever took one of his classes.
The second he announced his employment, I experienced a fusion in my mind. He was there, working, at the same time I was getting the news that my husband was dying.
I’m not sure what that means. Something psychological happened and I’d like to understand what that something is. Transference? I don’t know. I’m not opposed to asking him, as long as I can do so sans emotion. A simple e-mail would take care of that end of things. His job, in my world, is professor, not therapist. The trouble is that because he is a therapist outside of his teaching job, I keep feeling a pull toward him. I suppose there are worse things in life than recruiting my professor to lend a little bit of his day-life expertise to me. He offered his help in the past when I asked about missing class to attend a grief-support group.
That’s my very simple wish, easily granted if I choose to request.
Beyond that, my grief is manageable. The guilt I feel about my grief being manageable causes me 2nd-tier grief...or should I say 2nd “tear” grief.
Happy Birthday Me
Saturday, April 12, 2008
My Wish
Wow. A month has gone by since my last post.
I’m running 6.5 miles these days, and doing another show. School is in full swing and I am within 9 classes of my degree in Psychology.
My life is good. I’m lonely, but my life is good. I have been dating, and dating still makes me sad because it reminds me of my Chris and all that happened.
I do wonder if I will ever be free of my sadness -- sadness that comes and goes, but sadness that comes, nonetheless.
Dating is hard. The age of online dating has brought with it a breed of people who decide, in advance, every minute detail they want in place before they will even consider each other as partners. What difference does it make whether a person has brown hair or is no taller than 5’3” and no heavier than 130 pounds? What ever happened to personality and charm? In the age of online dating, they’re less important than physicality.
What I would like most in the world is to meet a kind, patient man who will empathize with what I have been through and treat me with patience and understanding, and love me, despite how sad I can get at times. I mean, everybody gets sad at times, right? It’s not that bad an affliction.
I feel as though I have had the daylights scared out of me, forever. The fear that comes along with a loved one’s cancer diagnosis, battle and death are insurmountable.
I’m not going to give up. There’s another man out there for me and I know that if I keep dating, we'll find each other.
I don't want to be alone, anymore.
Tripped-up, again, but otherwise wonderful,
Shneed
I’m running 6.5 miles these days, and doing another show. School is in full swing and I am within 9 classes of my degree in Psychology.
My life is good. I’m lonely, but my life is good. I have been dating, and dating still makes me sad because it reminds me of my Chris and all that happened.
I do wonder if I will ever be free of my sadness -- sadness that comes and goes, but sadness that comes, nonetheless.
Dating is hard. The age of online dating has brought with it a breed of people who decide, in advance, every minute detail they want in place before they will even consider each other as partners. What difference does it make whether a person has brown hair or is no taller than 5’3” and no heavier than 130 pounds? What ever happened to personality and charm? In the age of online dating, they’re less important than physicality.
What I would like most in the world is to meet a kind, patient man who will empathize with what I have been through and treat me with patience and understanding, and love me, despite how sad I can get at times. I mean, everybody gets sad at times, right? It’s not that bad an affliction.
I feel as though I have had the daylights scared out of me, forever. The fear that comes along with a loved one’s cancer diagnosis, battle and death are insurmountable.
I’m not going to give up. There’s another man out there for me and I know that if I keep dating, we'll find each other.
I don't want to be alone, anymore.
Tripped-up, again, but otherwise wonderful,
Shneed
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Return to Me
I am in a nice, relaxed mood and I am feeling quite happy, sitting in my living room, enjoying some downtime and daydreaming about sleeping. As James Brown so melodically screamed, “I feel good.”
My life, over the past few weeks, has...it has...illuminated. I don’t know how else to explain the difference in lighting. My world looks different, again, just like it looked different after Chris’ death.
After his death, my perception of the world was one that painted a picture of a model city, a model world. Grey, ominous structures towered over me, and rows and rows of contiguous constructions kept me trapped in the middle on a course I didn’t want to take. I could feel myself from the inside out, but not from the outside. My skin felt numb and inpetetrable. My emotions were first frozen and then broken. My brain sent signals to my body to feel, but the signals never reached my senses.
Today, about a month after ending my 2.5-year grief-therapy with Clay, I am surprised that I have cried less than a handful of times, since. Mostly, I’m happy. The world looks beautiful to me, which is, in part, due to the fact that my world begins in Cambridge each day. I am partial to the city. My skin absorbs the warmth of the sun, now, and I feel more healed now than I have ever before. I want to be out because I love socializing. I want to be in because I feel reflective and protective of my fledgling spirit. I no longer want to be in because I am hiding and I no longer want to be out because I am running, running, running from my reality. My reality is changed.
Saturday, I ran 4.5 miles, in the freezing rain, with a headcold and when I returned home, every symptom was gone. Not surprisingly, on Sunday every symptom had returned. I ran another 4.5 miles, this time in the freezing sun, alongside the Chalres River, and when I returned home, I felt tired and completely fulfilled. Monday, again not surprisingly I was too sick to go to work, and Tuesday I walked 3 miles at lunchtime and then after work, I set off on foot from the Longfellow Bridge almost to Fresh Pond, a 5.5 mile stretch. Almost, because one of my friends scooped me up just outside Longfellow’s mansion on Brattle Street, since my hands were in the grips of the sundown freeze. I received and accepted an i nvitation to a ride for the last half-mile of my journey. Today, I had planned to head over to the boxing gym after my manicure, but alas, my knee flipped me the byrd and refused to carry me one step further than my apartment. Touche.
Perhaps the changing season is playing a role in my most recent emergence from the hole. I know what I hope, but my hope is still fragile, so I’m not asking any questions or making any decisions. Instead, I am enjoying every moment of goodness, serenity and peace that floats my way. I deserve this most recent respite, a return to the me I was before I ever met Chris, a resurrected me who I thought was dead forever.
My life, over the past few weeks, has...it has...illuminated. I don’t know how else to explain the difference in lighting. My world looks different, again, just like it looked different after Chris’ death.
After his death, my perception of the world was one that painted a picture of a model city, a model world. Grey, ominous structures towered over me, and rows and rows of contiguous constructions kept me trapped in the middle on a course I didn’t want to take. I could feel myself from the inside out, but not from the outside. My skin felt numb and inpetetrable. My emotions were first frozen and then broken. My brain sent signals to my body to feel, but the signals never reached my senses.
Today, about a month after ending my 2.5-year grief-therapy with Clay, I am surprised that I have cried less than a handful of times, since. Mostly, I’m happy. The world looks beautiful to me, which is, in part, due to the fact that my world begins in Cambridge each day. I am partial to the city. My skin absorbs the warmth of the sun, now, and I feel more healed now than I have ever before. I want to be out because I love socializing. I want to be in because I feel reflective and protective of my fledgling spirit. I no longer want to be in because I am hiding and I no longer want to be out because I am running, running, running from my reality. My reality is changed.
Saturday, I ran 4.5 miles, in the freezing rain, with a headcold and when I returned home, every symptom was gone. Not surprisingly, on Sunday every symptom had returned. I ran another 4.5 miles, this time in the freezing sun, alongside the Chalres River, and when I returned home, I felt tired and completely fulfilled. Monday, again not surprisingly I was too sick to go to work, and Tuesday I walked 3 miles at lunchtime and then after work, I set off on foot from the Longfellow Bridge almost to Fresh Pond, a 5.5 mile stretch. Almost, because one of my friends scooped me up just outside Longfellow’s mansion on Brattle Street, since my hands were in the grips of the sundown freeze. I received and accepted an i nvitation to a ride for the last half-mile of my journey. Today, I had planned to head over to the boxing gym after my manicure, but alas, my knee flipped me the byrd and refused to carry me one step further than my apartment. Touche.
Perhaps the changing season is playing a role in my most recent emergence from the hole. I know what I hope, but my hope is still fragile, so I’m not asking any questions or making any decisions. Instead, I am enjoying every moment of goodness, serenity and peace that floats my way. I deserve this most recent respite, a return to the me I was before I ever met Chris, a resurrected me who I thought was dead forever.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
The Corners Report or I Turned One
After mourning the loss of my still-living former therapist for a day and a half, I was surprised to find that I had begun to experience a rebirth, of sorts.
Saying good-bye to Clay was a horribly sad event for me, resembling a much smaller-scale death than the death of Chris. I left his office that evening, went home, fell apart and remained in pieces on my bedroom floor for a day and a half.
Then something remarkable happened.
I began to feel better -- not just better than I felt since bidding him farewell – better than I have felt in three years. My mood lifted. The sun came out in my overcast sub-cortex. Letting go of Clay was like the “big” letting go, in training. I knew I would still miss seeing and talking with him, but I felt as though I was going to be okay.
Then I found out my insurance still covers his services, and although I called him under the pretense of wanting to gain retro-coverage for that last session for which I am being charged his full, uninsured fee, the truth (as much as I hate to admit it) is that my call served as a means of letting him know that the possibility of my returning for therapy exists, or at least it did when I made the call.
I didn’t know that a simple return phone call from Clay was going to have such a profound effect on my grieving progress. He called and we talked a bit about my returning to him and agreed that he should call me when he returns from vacation.
That was the start of a whole new world for me.
Saying goodbye to Chris was devastating. Saying goodbye to Clay was small-scale devastating, but devastating, no less. Hearing Clay on the other end of the phone, after I had let him go, filled me with joy, celebration, euphoria and nearly brought me to tears. It was so nice to hear his voice and know that he was still around.
I experienced a very powerful epiphany, realizing that for the past three years, the term “good-bye” has meant “death” and “finality” in my life, which is why “breaking up” with Clay was so painful. What I also realized is that most good-byes are not final. Hearing Clay’s voice and walking away with the knowledge that he is still here and I can still talk to him if I need him has armed me with a still greater euphoria than that which I felt after hanging up the phone, last week. I haven’t cried since the occurrence of that phone call. He’s here. He’s not gone, and at the moment, I’m not feeling an urgency to grab hold of him and pull him back into my world.
Death is final. Good bye is a whole other thing.
Saying good-bye to Clay was a horribly sad event for me, resembling a much smaller-scale death than the death of Chris. I left his office that evening, went home, fell apart and remained in pieces on my bedroom floor for a day and a half.
Then something remarkable happened.
I began to feel better -- not just better than I felt since bidding him farewell – better than I have felt in three years. My mood lifted. The sun came out in my overcast sub-cortex. Letting go of Clay was like the “big” letting go, in training. I knew I would still miss seeing and talking with him, but I felt as though I was going to be okay.
Then I found out my insurance still covers his services, and although I called him under the pretense of wanting to gain retro-coverage for that last session for which I am being charged his full, uninsured fee, the truth (as much as I hate to admit it) is that my call served as a means of letting him know that the possibility of my returning for therapy exists, or at least it did when I made the call.
I didn’t know that a simple return phone call from Clay was going to have such a profound effect on my grieving progress. He called and we talked a bit about my returning to him and agreed that he should call me when he returns from vacation.
That was the start of a whole new world for me.
Saying goodbye to Chris was devastating. Saying goodbye to Clay was small-scale devastating, but devastating, no less. Hearing Clay on the other end of the phone, after I had let him go, filled me with joy, celebration, euphoria and nearly brought me to tears. It was so nice to hear his voice and know that he was still around.
I experienced a very powerful epiphany, realizing that for the past three years, the term “good-bye” has meant “death” and “finality” in my life, which is why “breaking up” with Clay was so painful. What I also realized is that most good-byes are not final. Hearing Clay’s voice and walking away with the knowledge that he is still here and I can still talk to him if I need him has armed me with a still greater euphoria than that which I felt after hanging up the phone, last week. I haven’t cried since the occurrence of that phone call. He’s here. He’s not gone, and at the moment, I’m not feeling an urgency to grab hold of him and pull him back into my world.
Death is final. Good bye is a whole other thing.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Warming Up to Goodbye
My first session with the new therapist was this past Monday evening. I gave him a brief overview of my experiences and their aftermath. One thing I mentioned to him was how much I miss the me I used to be, before I met Chris and even during the initial stages of our relationship.
I told him I used to be able to stay home on a weekend night, pour myself a glass of wine, put on music and rehearse showtunes for the sheer joy of knowing I would be prepared, come the next audition. I loved those evenings, getting tipsy all alone, singing and just being nice to myself. I haven’t had one of those evenings for the past seven years, or so, since Chris and I moved to Los Angeles.
Tonight is one of those nights. I’m feeling light and happy. I had a glass of wine with my friend, Robby, after work (after much coercing on my part -- he was “too tired to come out”, but guess what...he did!) and then hopped back on the train, rode one stop to Porter Square, ordered the delicious super carnitas burrito from Anna’s Tacqueria that I had been craving since I woke up this morning, hopped back on the train to Harvard Square and rode home on a bus. I changed into jeans and a t-shirt, planted myself on my living room sofa and devoured my regale.
I began to become aware of my natural high on my walk from the bus stop to my apartment, when the thought occured to me that tonight is a celebration, a gala of sorts.
Saying goodbye to Clay, last night, devastated me...for a day and a half. A day and a half is a substsantial amount of time to grieve a loss when the person being grieved is alive and well.
The real deal is that, tonight, I stepped outside of my past, and Clay is one of the last shreds of that past. In letting him go, I released myself from the grip of last night’s anguish. I didn’t become aware of the positive aspects of my having mustered up the courage to release him until this evening.
I am sitting on my sofa digesting my burrito, which is nicely absorbing some of the wine from my system. I feel happy.
I don’t know whether this feeling will last, or not, but I know that I am not going to take the gift for granted. If there’s one thing I have learned in the past four years, it's that grief has a way of seeming linear at times, but that a grief-surge can ambush a person from behind when she’s least expecting the attack.
I never thought I could say goodbye to Clay. I never thought I, all by myself, could ask for a raise, be refused, and kick off a nine-month job search that would result in my getting a better job, where I fit in completely, love the work and can wear jeans anytime I choose. I never thought I could afford to live in Cambridge by myself. I never thought I could recapture the eurphoria of being home alone, enjoying myself, drinking wine and eating delectible food in the complete absense of anxiety...but tonight I am doing just that.
Just four hours ago, I was not able to think about Clay without becoming teary-eyed and choked-up, and now I feel quietly serene. Letting go of Clay was my launching pad, and I am overwhemled with thoughts of everything else I can accomplish.
I feel good, tonight. I feel free, happy and -- although I hesitate to speak so soon -- I feel peaceful.
Shneed
I told him I used to be able to stay home on a weekend night, pour myself a glass of wine, put on music and rehearse showtunes for the sheer joy of knowing I would be prepared, come the next audition. I loved those evenings, getting tipsy all alone, singing and just being nice to myself. I haven’t had one of those evenings for the past seven years, or so, since Chris and I moved to Los Angeles.
Tonight is one of those nights. I’m feeling light and happy. I had a glass of wine with my friend, Robby, after work (after much coercing on my part -- he was “too tired to come out”, but guess what...he did!) and then hopped back on the train, rode one stop to Porter Square, ordered the delicious super carnitas burrito from Anna’s Tacqueria that I had been craving since I woke up this morning, hopped back on the train to Harvard Square and rode home on a bus. I changed into jeans and a t-shirt, planted myself on my living room sofa and devoured my regale.
I began to become aware of my natural high on my walk from the bus stop to my apartment, when the thought occured to me that tonight is a celebration, a gala of sorts.
Saying goodbye to Clay, last night, devastated me...for a day and a half. A day and a half is a substsantial amount of time to grieve a loss when the person being grieved is alive and well.
The real deal is that, tonight, I stepped outside of my past, and Clay is one of the last shreds of that past. In letting him go, I released myself from the grip of last night’s anguish. I didn’t become aware of the positive aspects of my having mustered up the courage to release him until this evening.
I am sitting on my sofa digesting my burrito, which is nicely absorbing some of the wine from my system. I feel happy.
I don’t know whether this feeling will last, or not, but I know that I am not going to take the gift for granted. If there’s one thing I have learned in the past four years, it's that grief has a way of seeming linear at times, but that a grief-surge can ambush a person from behind when she’s least expecting the attack.
I never thought I could say goodbye to Clay. I never thought I, all by myself, could ask for a raise, be refused, and kick off a nine-month job search that would result in my getting a better job, where I fit in completely, love the work and can wear jeans anytime I choose. I never thought I could afford to live in Cambridge by myself. I never thought I could recapture the eurphoria of being home alone, enjoying myself, drinking wine and eating delectible food in the complete absense of anxiety...but tonight I am doing just that.
Just four hours ago, I was not able to think about Clay without becoming teary-eyed and choked-up, and now I feel quietly serene. Letting go of Clay was my launching pad, and I am overwhemled with thoughts of everything else I can accomplish.
I feel good, tonight. I feel free, happy and -- although I hesitate to speak so soon -- I feel peaceful.
Shneed
A Sad Parting of Minds
I said goodbye to Clay, last night, after two and a half years of working with him to combat the after-effects of my tragedy. I brought him a small gift and we talked about my reasons for moving on and about my feelings toward him, in general. I told him I feel like I love him. I do feel like I love him, but I know those feelings aren’t true. Clay knows just about everything there is to know about me and I know next-to-nothing about him, which is the way of the psychotherapy world.
Clay sat in his chair and listened to everything I had to say, providing me with patience and understanding and a simulated friendship I have grown to love and which I already miss tremendously. Without him, I would be lost, navigating the lanes of Devastation Highway with no GPS to guide me along my way.
I cried and told him I didn’t want to leave, but that I have to if I’m going to prevail over the dragon that continues to breathe fire in my direction on a daily basis. I could continue to visit Clay and talk to him week after week, but the truth is that I wish we were friends. I like Clay. He’s a nice man (I think…again, I don’t really know him.). I miss him, already. I had an all-out Clay-meltdown when I arrived home, last night, crying, falling apart and curling up on the couch to cry some more. When I was finished, I felt as though I had completed a rite of passage from the world of asking for help into the world of helping myself.
So I began working with another man, and I think this partnership in mental health is going to be most beneficial to me. We will be working on relaxation techniques and thought and behavior modification, which is really what I need now. I have talked about what happened, ad nauseam, and my work with Clay has been extremely helpful, but now it’s time to begin changing the thoughts and eliminating the painful and intrusive image flashbacks I have been experiencing (PTSD?), and begin to try letting go of the guilt I feel each time I find myself feeling happy.
So my plan is in place. Whether I succeed, or not, is yet to be seen.
Clay said I can come back anytime I want to, and I suppose the notion brings me comfort, but this phase in my life is over and letting go of Clay, in some ways, is going to help me let go of many other things in my life. This year is about saying goodbye; goodbye to a company for which I hated working, goodbye to a city in which I hated living, goodbye to a therapist (and a friend) whom I feel as though I love.
Life is a series of goodbyes.
-Shneed
Clay sat in his chair and listened to everything I had to say, providing me with patience and understanding and a simulated friendship I have grown to love and which I already miss tremendously. Without him, I would be lost, navigating the lanes of Devastation Highway with no GPS to guide me along my way.
I cried and told him I didn’t want to leave, but that I have to if I’m going to prevail over the dragon that continues to breathe fire in my direction on a daily basis. I could continue to visit Clay and talk to him week after week, but the truth is that I wish we were friends. I like Clay. He’s a nice man (I think…again, I don’t really know him.). I miss him, already. I had an all-out Clay-meltdown when I arrived home, last night, crying, falling apart and curling up on the couch to cry some more. When I was finished, I felt as though I had completed a rite of passage from the world of asking for help into the world of helping myself.
So I began working with another man, and I think this partnership in mental health is going to be most beneficial to me. We will be working on relaxation techniques and thought and behavior modification, which is really what I need now. I have talked about what happened, ad nauseam, and my work with Clay has been extremely helpful, but now it’s time to begin changing the thoughts and eliminating the painful and intrusive image flashbacks I have been experiencing (PTSD?), and begin to try letting go of the guilt I feel each time I find myself feeling happy.
So my plan is in place. Whether I succeed, or not, is yet to be seen.
Clay said I can come back anytime I want to, and I suppose the notion brings me comfort, but this phase in my life is over and letting go of Clay, in some ways, is going to help me let go of many other things in my life. This year is about saying goodbye; goodbye to a company for which I hated working, goodbye to a city in which I hated living, goodbye to a therapist (and a friend) whom I feel as though I love.
Life is a series of goodbyes.
-Shneed
Thursday, January 31, 2008
The Lift
I love, love, love my new job. I love how technical the work is. I’m learning so much about...well, so much. I feel alive, alive alive!
Having said that, I will now say that I can’t believe I couldn’t see the stress I was under at my old job. I became very depressed and thought I was disinterested in most of the things that I love, but the truth is that the damn job was draining me of every ounce of energy I had.
Tonight I visited the boxing gym and had the most incredible, physically challenging, unstoppable, crazy workout I have had in a long time. I was there for two hours, all of which was spent working out.
I just feel awesome and it’s because I removed myself from a horrible situation.
This week I’m finally going to thank Clay for all of his support and stop my therapy with him. He has been wonderful for me these past couple of years and I’m going to miss him, greatly. Last time I saw him, I expressed that to him and he said he would miss me, too. It has been time for me to let go of Clay for at least a year and I’m going to do it, now, solely because he doesn’t take my new insurance, a blessing in disguise, really. I would stay if he took my new insurance. I guess money (or potential lack thereof) really is a great motivator. I don’t want to pay his full fee. I hate goodbye. Goodbye, to me, conjures up suppressed thoughts of death.
What I am going to do is begin to meditate, hopefully with a different therapist who also specializes in cognitive-behavioral therapy. I have become aware that I am completely reluctant to let go of my grief and I need someone to help move me through this final (hopefully) difficult stage.
This semester, I have been studying stress and it’s management, which includes meditation and guided imagery. Our text book includes examples, and our professor guided us through a meditation last night. What I have found is that when I completely relax my body, my mind relaxes, and my grief and any guilt I normally feel and my reluctance to let go are virtually nonexistent. But the mental block I am experiencing causes me to resist all of these wonderful methods of relaxation, and so I need somebody else to require and help me to push through, in much the same way a personal trainer requires a client to perform at his highest level of functioning.
I have changed my life drastically in the past year. I began seriously pushing myself physically, I moved to a city I have always wanted to live in, I fulfilled a promise to my husband and left the job I took to support us...the “cancer-job” as it were., at the “death-company. “ My home is different. My workplace is different, I am in the best physical shape of my life. It’s my brain’s turn, now. Choosing to continue to allow myself to experience the levels of sadness and grief I have been feeling is putting me at physical risk for heart disease, a heart attack, cancer and all those diseases that feed on stress.
So, there it is. I’m not quite sure how to proceed. Bravely, I guess.
In the meantime, I’m just going to enjoy the lift of these past few days, the absence of tears, my hope for a happy future that is void of guilt.
Having said that, I will now say that I can’t believe I couldn’t see the stress I was under at my old job. I became very depressed and thought I was disinterested in most of the things that I love, but the truth is that the damn job was draining me of every ounce of energy I had.
Tonight I visited the boxing gym and had the most incredible, physically challenging, unstoppable, crazy workout I have had in a long time. I was there for two hours, all of which was spent working out.
I just feel awesome and it’s because I removed myself from a horrible situation.
This week I’m finally going to thank Clay for all of his support and stop my therapy with him. He has been wonderful for me these past couple of years and I’m going to miss him, greatly. Last time I saw him, I expressed that to him and he said he would miss me, too. It has been time for me to let go of Clay for at least a year and I’m going to do it, now, solely because he doesn’t take my new insurance, a blessing in disguise, really. I would stay if he took my new insurance. I guess money (or potential lack thereof) really is a great motivator. I don’t want to pay his full fee. I hate goodbye. Goodbye, to me, conjures up suppressed thoughts of death.
What I am going to do is begin to meditate, hopefully with a different therapist who also specializes in cognitive-behavioral therapy. I have become aware that I am completely reluctant to let go of my grief and I need someone to help move me through this final (hopefully) difficult stage.
This semester, I have been studying stress and it’s management, which includes meditation and guided imagery. Our text book includes examples, and our professor guided us through a meditation last night. What I have found is that when I completely relax my body, my mind relaxes, and my grief and any guilt I normally feel and my reluctance to let go are virtually nonexistent. But the mental block I am experiencing causes me to resist all of these wonderful methods of relaxation, and so I need somebody else to require and help me to push through, in much the same way a personal trainer requires a client to perform at his highest level of functioning.
I have changed my life drastically in the past year. I began seriously pushing myself physically, I moved to a city I have always wanted to live in, I fulfilled a promise to my husband and left the job I took to support us...the “cancer-job” as it were., at the “death-company. “ My home is different. My workplace is different, I am in the best physical shape of my life. It’s my brain’s turn, now. Choosing to continue to allow myself to experience the levels of sadness and grief I have been feeling is putting me at physical risk for heart disease, a heart attack, cancer and all those diseases that feed on stress.
So, there it is. I’m not quite sure how to proceed. Bravely, I guess.
In the meantime, I’m just going to enjoy the lift of these past few days, the absence of tears, my hope for a happy future that is void of guilt.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Two Halves of a Person
Friday was my last day at work. I got a great new job that pays more and that matches my personality more closely than my former company. I’m beginning day one of this new job by gettng on an airplane and flying to Arizona for their annual sales meeting. To say that the days leading up to this trip have been stressfull is a gross understatement. I’m nervous as can be.
Beyond that, and because my blog is the only entity that doesn’t judge me for still feeling the hit from my husband’s death, this change has illicited yet another grief reaction. Just when I thought I had done absolutely evertying in my life at least once since Chris died, here I am standing at the gate of another first. When will it end?
Six years ago, when I left company #1 for the first time after being there for nine years, I swore to God and to Chris that I would never walk through it’s doors again. Since we can never know what curve balls life will hand us, I left on a good note in the event that I should ever need to return. I did need to return. I took back my old job when Chris got sick because I knew it paid enough to enable me to support the two of us so Chris could quit his job and focus on getting well. Company #1 took me back in a heartbeat.
Chris wasn’t happy about my return because he knew that job wasn’t the best fit for me and he made me promise to leave it as soon as he was healhty, again. He never got healthy again, and even though I thought I would leave immediately after his death, years would go by before I, myself, felt well enough to make a move. I made that move this past Friday.
Today, I’m boarding a flight to Arizona where I will meet all of my coworkers for the first time. How scary is that? I’m nervous, but happy.
I fulfilled another promise to my husband, which doesn’t bring me too much satisfaction, since he’s not here to share my joy and sense of accomplisment. Still, a promise is a promise.
These days I seem to be a walkiing, breathing (barely) grief-reaction and I don’t know how much longer I can remain in this state of sadness. Am I destined to be two halves of a person, forever? The happy half and the grief-stricken, panicked half?
The next few days will be wonderful. Getting to know people is a strength for me and I’m so very happy to not be returning to the stringent constraints of a workplace where textiles precede over intelect.
I’m off to the airport in jeans, a blouse and a sweater, and nobody at this new job is going to judge or chide me for that.
Chris would be very proud of me, today.
Shneed
Beyond that, and because my blog is the only entity that doesn’t judge me for still feeling the hit from my husband’s death, this change has illicited yet another grief reaction. Just when I thought I had done absolutely evertying in my life at least once since Chris died, here I am standing at the gate of another first. When will it end?
Six years ago, when I left company #1 for the first time after being there for nine years, I swore to God and to Chris that I would never walk through it’s doors again. Since we can never know what curve balls life will hand us, I left on a good note in the event that I should ever need to return. I did need to return. I took back my old job when Chris got sick because I knew it paid enough to enable me to support the two of us so Chris could quit his job and focus on getting well. Company #1 took me back in a heartbeat.
Chris wasn’t happy about my return because he knew that job wasn’t the best fit for me and he made me promise to leave it as soon as he was healhty, again. He never got healthy again, and even though I thought I would leave immediately after his death, years would go by before I, myself, felt well enough to make a move. I made that move this past Friday.
Today, I’m boarding a flight to Arizona where I will meet all of my coworkers for the first time. How scary is that? I’m nervous, but happy.
I fulfilled another promise to my husband, which doesn’t bring me too much satisfaction, since he’s not here to share my joy and sense of accomplisment. Still, a promise is a promise.
These days I seem to be a walkiing, breathing (barely) grief-reaction and I don’t know how much longer I can remain in this state of sadness. Am I destined to be two halves of a person, forever? The happy half and the grief-stricken, panicked half?
The next few days will be wonderful. Getting to know people is a strength for me and I’m so very happy to not be returning to the stringent constraints of a workplace where textiles precede over intelect.
I’m off to the airport in jeans, a blouse and a sweater, and nobody at this new job is going to judge or chide me for that.
Chris would be very proud of me, today.
Shneed
Friday, January 11, 2008
Low Key, High Spirits
The train boarded mid-November, as it does each year, and after Thursday, I will have reached my destination at Wedding Anniversary Depot, after which I will place Grief-Relapse 2008 (GR-08) into the archives along with GR-04 through GR-07.
Anybody who says grief gets easier with time has probably never lost a spouse.
My tears no longer remain round-the-clock, nor do they flow as often, but when they flow, they flow with the same intensity as when this crazy train-ride began, on November 19, 2003. The moment I sat with Chris in the examination room, fighting the stream of information coming from his doctor’s mouth, will forever be embedded in the crack within my fractured brain, spackled over with plaster-of-denial. Each year, I need to perform preventative maintenance to keep the sadness, horror and panic of that day and the year and a half that followed packed into the crack where it remains contained well enough to allow me to live my life without Chris.
I have been hailed by many since that day, honored with words such as “courageous”, “brave”, “strong”, “amazing” and the like. Those who hail me only see what I show. Those verbal medals of honor don’t stick when I close the door behind me upon my return from work each evening.
My very busy and enjoyable life keeps me acutely aware of the emotional benefits of a change in cognition. Since Chris died, I have sought, found and earned two new jobs, each more rewarding than the last. I have performed in four stage productions, began boxing, worked my jogging distance up to seven miles, moved to two apartments in two cities, again each nicer and more befitting to me than the last.
Forward movement has never been a problem for me, and for that I have my father to thank. That man never stops moving forward. Despite my adolescent misdiagnosed hatred toward him (It was really just anger. Who knew?), we share the same genetic makeup. Whenever I feel limited, in any way, I remember that my father returned to school and earned his masters degree at age 62, and then nailed a management position at 64. Who am I to deny that anything is possible?
So, even though I returned home from work last night and paced around my apartment, and ate more than I should have in an attempt to push my grief back down into the black depths, anguish enveloped me and dragged me down...but only for a few moments. I patted my tears dry, changed my shoes and headed out for another audition, where I got to stand on stage and sing in front of a panel of auditors (my favorite thing to do). Case in point: changed cognition changed the course of my evening, if only for a while. I rode the high for a few hours before the undercurrent returned and dragged me under for another hour. Sleep came to my rescue and I awoke to a new day and now the rain is outside my window instead of inside my mind and body.
God, the rain outside my Dickens-esque windows is far too beautiful for me to believe. This morning’s plan is to take a nice, long run around the Charles River in that rain, read for my psychology class, study some computer code for my new job and head out for a haircut.
Low key high spirits is today’s motto. I know enough about my emotional rubble by now to understand that “today” is as far in advance as I can plan.
That’s good enough for me, as long as I get to feel happy sometimes.
Anybody who says grief gets easier with time has probably never lost a spouse.
My tears no longer remain round-the-clock, nor do they flow as often, but when they flow, they flow with the same intensity as when this crazy train-ride began, on November 19, 2003. The moment I sat with Chris in the examination room, fighting the stream of information coming from his doctor’s mouth, will forever be embedded in the crack within my fractured brain, spackled over with plaster-of-denial. Each year, I need to perform preventative maintenance to keep the sadness, horror and panic of that day and the year and a half that followed packed into the crack where it remains contained well enough to allow me to live my life without Chris.
I have been hailed by many since that day, honored with words such as “courageous”, “brave”, “strong”, “amazing” and the like. Those who hail me only see what I show. Those verbal medals of honor don’t stick when I close the door behind me upon my return from work each evening.
My very busy and enjoyable life keeps me acutely aware of the emotional benefits of a change in cognition. Since Chris died, I have sought, found and earned two new jobs, each more rewarding than the last. I have performed in four stage productions, began boxing, worked my jogging distance up to seven miles, moved to two apartments in two cities, again each nicer and more befitting to me than the last.
Forward movement has never been a problem for me, and for that I have my father to thank. That man never stops moving forward. Despite my adolescent misdiagnosed hatred toward him (It was really just anger. Who knew?), we share the same genetic makeup. Whenever I feel limited, in any way, I remember that my father returned to school and earned his masters degree at age 62, and then nailed a management position at 64. Who am I to deny that anything is possible?
So, even though I returned home from work last night and paced around my apartment, and ate more than I should have in an attempt to push my grief back down into the black depths, anguish enveloped me and dragged me down...but only for a few moments. I patted my tears dry, changed my shoes and headed out for another audition, where I got to stand on stage and sing in front of a panel of auditors (my favorite thing to do). Case in point: changed cognition changed the course of my evening, if only for a while. I rode the high for a few hours before the undercurrent returned and dragged me under for another hour. Sleep came to my rescue and I awoke to a new day and now the rain is outside my window instead of inside my mind and body.
God, the rain outside my Dickens-esque windows is far too beautiful for me to believe. This morning’s plan is to take a nice, long run around the Charles River in that rain, read for my psychology class, study some computer code for my new job and head out for a haircut.
Low key high spirits is today’s motto. I know enough about my emotional rubble by now to understand that “today” is as far in advance as I can plan.
That’s good enough for me, as long as I get to feel happy sometimes.
Monday, December 31, 2007
With Creej's Help
I just came from the Ellis Paul concert. Ellis was a tradition for me and Chris, one that my friends have helped me to keep up even after Chris' death.
Something very special happened.
I was sitting listening to Ellis and feeling a surge of sadness and tears coming on. Then my thoughts suddenly weren't my own. It was like I was having a conversation with Chris, like, he visited my head and talked to me.
I thought to myself, "Don't cry, little Shneed." and then I thought "I'm trying not to Creej. Help me to not cry." At that very second, one of Ellis' strings snapped, mid-song, and I laughed out loud.
That's it. I felt like Chris and I had that conversation and like he helped me to not cry.
I would give everything I own just to hug him again, to feel him hugging me, and to feel special to somebody again. The weight of the world is a feather's when somebody thinks you're special.
One more anniversary for me after this one. The wedding one. Then I'm free for another year.
Something very special happened.
I was sitting listening to Ellis and feeling a surge of sadness and tears coming on. Then my thoughts suddenly weren't my own. It was like I was having a conversation with Chris, like, he visited my head and talked to me.
I thought to myself, "Don't cry, little Shneed." and then I thought "I'm trying not to Creej. Help me to not cry." At that very second, one of Ellis' strings snapped, mid-song, and I laughed out loud.
That's it. I felt like Chris and I had that conversation and like he helped me to not cry.
I would give everything I own just to hug him again, to feel him hugging me, and to feel special to somebody again. The weight of the world is a feather's when somebody thinks you're special.
One more anniversary for me after this one. The wedding one. Then I'm free for another year.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Christmas Day. Three years later.
I have heard others in my position say that the anticipation is always worse than the arrival of an anniversary day. I agree with that philosophy.
I just woke up and I’m already tired. I also just got off the phone with my friend, Meira, who lost her mother a couple years ago and she said, “I’ll just be happy when today is over.” I am also in agreement with that sentiment. The day is never as bad as I anticipate, yet, nevertheless, I’ll be happy when it’s over.
I know I won’t be a curmudgeon once I get out into the world, today (not that my friend is one -- I always judge myself harder than others). I just mapped out a 3-mile run that I plan to begin sometime in the next hour, after which I will get ready to head over to my father’s house for the holiday. My brother is coming from out of town and I have invited Meira to join us in the spirit of suppression. Ah, what would I do without sweet suppression?
Last night I was plagued by parralell-thinking. I got caught in a destructive (or maybe it was constructive -- opinions vary.) cycle of play-by-play ‘what-was-happening-in-my-life-three-years-ago-this-very-moment?’ Pain was happening. Sadness was happening. Chaos was happening. This kind of thinking confirms for me that I need to launch a nationwide search (or citywide, at least) for a good cognitive behavioral therapist. I told Clay I would probably be leaving him, shortly. I told him the only reason I come to him, nowadays, is because I like him and I’d miss him if I didn’t come. I suppose that’s as good a reason as any to see a therapist, but it’s a better reason to see a friend, which Clay is not. I need somebody to hold me accountable for the sometimes counterproductive thought patterns I exhibit. Monitoring my own thoughts and invoking change are easier said, than done.
Today will be fun. Hanging out with my family usually is fun. Food is always fun. And I’m so looking forward to my run, now that the temperature seems to be hovering around 40 degrees. I am not going to let this small window of outdoorsie-opportunity escape me.
Merry Christmas.
Shneed
I just woke up and I’m already tired. I also just got off the phone with my friend, Meira, who lost her mother a couple years ago and she said, “I’ll just be happy when today is over.” I am also in agreement with that sentiment. The day is never as bad as I anticipate, yet, nevertheless, I’ll be happy when it’s over.
I know I won’t be a curmudgeon once I get out into the world, today (not that my friend is one -- I always judge myself harder than others). I just mapped out a 3-mile run that I plan to begin sometime in the next hour, after which I will get ready to head over to my father’s house for the holiday. My brother is coming from out of town and I have invited Meira to join us in the spirit of suppression. Ah, what would I do without sweet suppression?
Last night I was plagued by parralell-thinking. I got caught in a destructive (or maybe it was constructive -- opinions vary.) cycle of play-by-play ‘what-was-happening-in-my-life-three-years-ago-this-very-moment?’ Pain was happening. Sadness was happening. Chaos was happening. This kind of thinking confirms for me that I need to launch a nationwide search (or citywide, at least) for a good cognitive behavioral therapist. I told Clay I would probably be leaving him, shortly. I told him the only reason I come to him, nowadays, is because I like him and I’d miss him if I didn’t come. I suppose that’s as good a reason as any to see a therapist, but it’s a better reason to see a friend, which Clay is not. I need somebody to hold me accountable for the sometimes counterproductive thought patterns I exhibit. Monitoring my own thoughts and invoking change are easier said, than done.
Today will be fun. Hanging out with my family usually is fun. Food is always fun. And I’m so looking forward to my run, now that the temperature seems to be hovering around 40 degrees. I am not going to let this small window of outdoorsie-opportunity escape me.
Merry Christmas.
Shneed
Monday, December 24, 2007
Grief has me by the throat.
I stopped wearing my ring, yesterday. I just did it. Just as with all of the other milestones I have reached throughout these past three years, there was no warning, and all of the imagined plans leading up to the “big decision” were not present. I simply suddenly decided not to wear it, anymore. I have hidden it somewhere special, in a place that makes sense to me…and to Chris.
The absence of a ring on my hand conjures up feelings of anxiety, loss and nakedness – a feeling of the removal of training wheels. The ring is absent, and I’m walking by myself, upright, albeit wobbly.
I don’t want it on my hand, anymore. For all of the comfort it has brought me these past three years, it now invokes in me a feeling of loneliness and begs the question, “Why do I wear it?” I don’t have an answer to that question, anymore.
This past weekend was the first one in four months that I had nothing but free, unstructured time. My three classes ended last weekend and I am finally able to sit on my couch and relax without the weight of a homework assignment or final exam hanging over my head. I like it.
The thing about unstructured time and me, however, is that when I have it, I’m lost. I was very productive this weekend and bragged to my friends about all that I was able to accomplish. What I didn’t realize is that I accomplished as a means of suppressing an onslaught of grief, as per usual.
Once I stopped accomplishing, I was overcome with anger, anxiety, impatience and grief. I didn’t want to go to dinner with my two friends, last night, but it was our third annual Holiday dinner and we had planned it for weeks. I had a hard time laughing it up, last night, but I feel that I kept myself under a reasonable amount of control.
The moment I dropped them off, I exploded into meltdown that began in the car and ended an hour and a half later when I could no longer stay awake long enough to grieve.
Three years ago, today, my husband was writhing in pain, swallowing five Oxycodones at a time and, I’m sure, beginning to have an inkling that he was going to die. Three years ago tomorrow, I drove him to Brigham and Womens Hospital’s emergency room and watched, as the orderly took him away in a wheel chair, telling me not to worry and promising me that they would take good care of him. We spent the entire day in the emergency room that Christmas day.
Eight days later, Chris was dead.
Last night, those memories broke me and they’re threatening to break me again, today. They will, partially because they’re very sad memories and partially because I know no other to pay tribute to Chris than with my grief. For that, I apologized to him, last night.
What difference does it make? He wasn’t there to hear me, anyway.
The absence of a ring on my hand conjures up feelings of anxiety, loss and nakedness – a feeling of the removal of training wheels. The ring is absent, and I’m walking by myself, upright, albeit wobbly.
I don’t want it on my hand, anymore. For all of the comfort it has brought me these past three years, it now invokes in me a feeling of loneliness and begs the question, “Why do I wear it?” I don’t have an answer to that question, anymore.
This past weekend was the first one in four months that I had nothing but free, unstructured time. My three classes ended last weekend and I am finally able to sit on my couch and relax without the weight of a homework assignment or final exam hanging over my head. I like it.
The thing about unstructured time and me, however, is that when I have it, I’m lost. I was very productive this weekend and bragged to my friends about all that I was able to accomplish. What I didn’t realize is that I accomplished as a means of suppressing an onslaught of grief, as per usual.
Once I stopped accomplishing, I was overcome with anger, anxiety, impatience and grief. I didn’t want to go to dinner with my two friends, last night, but it was our third annual Holiday dinner and we had planned it for weeks. I had a hard time laughing it up, last night, but I feel that I kept myself under a reasonable amount of control.
The moment I dropped them off, I exploded into meltdown that began in the car and ended an hour and a half later when I could no longer stay awake long enough to grieve.
Three years ago, today, my husband was writhing in pain, swallowing five Oxycodones at a time and, I’m sure, beginning to have an inkling that he was going to die. Three years ago tomorrow, I drove him to Brigham and Womens Hospital’s emergency room and watched, as the orderly took him away in a wheel chair, telling me not to worry and promising me that they would take good care of him. We spent the entire day in the emergency room that Christmas day.
Eight days later, Chris was dead.
Last night, those memories broke me and they’re threatening to break me again, today. They will, partially because they’re very sad memories and partially because I know no other to pay tribute to Chris than with my grief. For that, I apologized to him, last night.
What difference does it make? He wasn’t there to hear me, anyway.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Bang a Nail in the Wall, Hang it Up and Move On
Last night, I dreamed about cancer.
Chris and I were very distant with each other. We both had cancer and I was trying to connect with him in some way. I came across his Woody Woodpecker pajamas (In life, he had Underdog pajamas.) and I wanted to give them to him, but couldn’t figure out if doing so would trigger anger and fear in him or bring him comfort.
As is usually the case in my dreams, he was mad at me.
As my morning progressed, I must have suppressed whatever emotions would have surfaced as a result of my cinematic slumber, so when I was hanging pictures up and came across our wedding picture, I completely fell apart.
I was married, once, to a man with whom I fit completely and wholly. I don’t get to be with him anymore.
I retreated to my bedroom, hammer still in hand, and dropped onto my bed, embracing the picture and crying.
As I lay there sobbing, I had a poetic (albeit macabre) vision as though from above my own body, of me lying on the bed with my arm around the picture, bleeding from my head of a self-induced beating with the hammer.
There’s so much rage buried within my psyche.
Sometimes I just want to go to sleep and find him, and never come back.
I don’t know where to hang our wedding picture. Somehow I feel as though it shouldn’t be the first thing I see every time I come home. I feel like it shouldn’t be in my bedroom. I also feel like it doesn’t belong in the bathroom or the office or the kitchen, or the hallway.
I’m stuck. At the moment, it’s on my lap getting rained on by my tears. But I can’t sit here forever, so I have to bang a nail in the wall, hang it up and move on.
Chris and I were very distant with each other. We both had cancer and I was trying to connect with him in some way. I came across his Woody Woodpecker pajamas (In life, he had Underdog pajamas.) and I wanted to give them to him, but couldn’t figure out if doing so would trigger anger and fear in him or bring him comfort.
As is usually the case in my dreams, he was mad at me.
As my morning progressed, I must have suppressed whatever emotions would have surfaced as a result of my cinematic slumber, so when I was hanging pictures up and came across our wedding picture, I completely fell apart.
I was married, once, to a man with whom I fit completely and wholly. I don’t get to be with him anymore.
I retreated to my bedroom, hammer still in hand, and dropped onto my bed, embracing the picture and crying.
As I lay there sobbing, I had a poetic (albeit macabre) vision as though from above my own body, of me lying on the bed with my arm around the picture, bleeding from my head of a self-induced beating with the hammer.
There’s so much rage buried within my psyche.
Sometimes I just want to go to sleep and find him, and never come back.
I don’t know where to hang our wedding picture. Somehow I feel as though it shouldn’t be the first thing I see every time I come home. I feel like it shouldn’t be in my bedroom. I also feel like it doesn’t belong in the bathroom or the office or the kitchen, or the hallway.
I’m stuck. At the moment, it’s on my lap getting rained on by my tears. But I can’t sit here forever, so I have to bang a nail in the wall, hang it up and move on.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
I Guess
I didn’t have much fun at my father’s house this Thanksgiving. The holiday was Chris’ favorite and it weighs heavy on me. His birthday is tomorrow.
Both of my step-sisters got married this year and they and their husbands were each at dinner, today. One of them married a man who reminds me of my Chris. The two of them remind me of how Chris and I were and I know that he and Chris would have liked each other. I get really sad that I’ll never get to see the relationship between them. Being in the same room with them caused my heart to sink a little bit. I want that interaction, again. Actually, I want Chris back.
I don’t believe that I’m going to be over my loss anytime soon, and if I share that with anybody, I could find myself emotionally out in the cold, because nobody is really going to understand that I still feel sad and that I still yearn and that there is still a part of me that is kicking myself for letting Chris slip through my fingers even though that isn’t what happened.
I want what I had with Chris with a new man. I want the intimacy. I want the partnership. I want to be a second half, again.
But now is not the time.
I guess.
Both of my step-sisters got married this year and they and their husbands were each at dinner, today. One of them married a man who reminds me of my Chris. The two of them remind me of how Chris and I were and I know that he and Chris would have liked each other. I get really sad that I’ll never get to see the relationship between them. Being in the same room with them caused my heart to sink a little bit. I want that interaction, again. Actually, I want Chris back.
I don’t believe that I’m going to be over my loss anytime soon, and if I share that with anybody, I could find myself emotionally out in the cold, because nobody is really going to understand that I still feel sad and that I still yearn and that there is still a part of me that is kicking myself for letting Chris slip through my fingers even though that isn’t what happened.
I want what I had with Chris with a new man. I want the intimacy. I want the partnership. I want to be a second half, again.
But now is not the time.
I guess.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
The Present Moment
I moved into my new apartment fifteen days ago and I haven’t stopped running, running, running since. Running is my way of suppressing and for the first thirteen days, I didn’t shed a tear. In fact, I felt euphoric and as though I was completely done grieving. However, I have enough experience with grief at this point to know that when I feel like that, I can pretty much thank the universe and know that the end of grief will never arrive. My crashes become fewer and farther between, but I am learning that sadness is just a part of my story – our story – and I need to learn to welcome my retreats into despair with and open mind and open arms.
The third anniversary of the death of my husband is almost upon me. November 19 is when we received his diagnosis, and try as I might to be unaffected by the past, I find myself regressing into fetal position on my living room chair wondering why this tragedy befell Chris and why his death befell his loved ones. I’m okay, though. I want to cry when I’m crying. There is no relief – only the cloak of sleep that claims me each night when I’m all cried out and void of any ability what-so-ever to bring myself back up.
By day, I’m quite cheerful, working alongside a group of people whose company I cherish. We’re a fun cluster of folk, working and passing the day with good humor and camaraderie. The gym continues to keep me uplifted, albeit in considerable pain.
I had a proud evening Monday. I left work knowing that I wasn’t going to go one step in the direction of the gym. I felt horrible. I had almost allowed myself to revel in my sad, angry, self-pitying state of mind. My anger had reached such levels that I felt like kicking in doors and smashing my possessions. The impulses became too much for me to bear, so I thought I would stop by City Sports on my way home and buy some new workout clothes, which is a very effective way for me to get myself through the gym doors. I found two lovely pieces for less than forty dollars and headed toward home to see if I could coax myself out my door and into the gym. Caught between not wanting to go to the gym and not wanting to stay home, I finally erupted into a pool of tears, which is really what I needed to do in order to let go of the pain and anxiety that had amassed. Once the wave passed, I picked myself up, got dressed and headed to the gym where I had a very tough, very challenging workout. My anger did not begin to dissipate until two hours in.
For a while, I have been telling myself either that I want a boyfriend or that I don’t want a boyfriend. There is a discrepancy with the black and white nature of that thought pattern. The truth is that I do want a man in my life. The truth is also that I am not ready for a relationship with another man. I’m beginning to believe the popular 5-year guideline perspective. For now, I am going to stop thinking and have some faith that I will someday be able to love another man. I have to believe that. The alternative suggests that my golden years will be spent sitting in front of my living room window, gazing out over the landscape, hurting, reflecting, and yearning for my lost love.
I don’t want to be that person and I have a feeling that I have more control over my life than I am willing to entertain at the present moment.
The third anniversary of the death of my husband is almost upon me. November 19 is when we received his diagnosis, and try as I might to be unaffected by the past, I find myself regressing into fetal position on my living room chair wondering why this tragedy befell Chris and why his death befell his loved ones. I’m okay, though. I want to cry when I’m crying. There is no relief – only the cloak of sleep that claims me each night when I’m all cried out and void of any ability what-so-ever to bring myself back up.
By day, I’m quite cheerful, working alongside a group of people whose company I cherish. We’re a fun cluster of folk, working and passing the day with good humor and camaraderie. The gym continues to keep me uplifted, albeit in considerable pain.
I had a proud evening Monday. I left work knowing that I wasn’t going to go one step in the direction of the gym. I felt horrible. I had almost allowed myself to revel in my sad, angry, self-pitying state of mind. My anger had reached such levels that I felt like kicking in doors and smashing my possessions. The impulses became too much for me to bear, so I thought I would stop by City Sports on my way home and buy some new workout clothes, which is a very effective way for me to get myself through the gym doors. I found two lovely pieces for less than forty dollars and headed toward home to see if I could coax myself out my door and into the gym. Caught between not wanting to go to the gym and not wanting to stay home, I finally erupted into a pool of tears, which is really what I needed to do in order to let go of the pain and anxiety that had amassed. Once the wave passed, I picked myself up, got dressed and headed to the gym where I had a very tough, very challenging workout. My anger did not begin to dissipate until two hours in.
For a while, I have been telling myself either that I want a boyfriend or that I don’t want a boyfriend. There is a discrepancy with the black and white nature of that thought pattern. The truth is that I do want a man in my life. The truth is also that I am not ready for a relationship with another man. I’m beginning to believe the popular 5-year guideline perspective. For now, I am going to stop thinking and have some faith that I will someday be able to love another man. I have to believe that. The alternative suggests that my golden years will be spent sitting in front of my living room window, gazing out over the landscape, hurting, reflecting, and yearning for my lost love.
I don’t want to be that person and I have a feeling that I have more control over my life than I am willing to entertain at the present moment.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Way to Pull Me out of My Own Head
Yesterday was a tough day for me.
I knew that, with my move, I would eventually need to venture into the storage closet and take out all of my Chris-mementos. I had managed to avoid the task for the past three weeks, but with time running out, I needed to face my demons.
Controlling my tears was not an option, for they flowed like flood waters out of my eyes and onto my carpet, as I laid eyes on possessions I hadn’t looked at since the anniversary of our 1st wedding anniversary.
I moved my hand toward one of the boxes, accidentally knocking its cover off and there, exposed, was the picture of Chris I hate most of all. He sits at the table with no shirt on, head down, writing in his calendar book, completely bald. I hate that depiction of him. That photo gets behind me and shoves me out of my denial with the force of the impact of an eighteen-wheeler striking me from behind. I lost my breath and then I lost my ability to maintain my composure.
I then came across tapes and tapes of documentaries that Chris made while he was in school. I entered a meltdown, crying and screaming, “I don’t want these anymore! I don’t want these!” I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want them and I didn’t want to discard them as though they held no meaning for me, when they always will. I felt trapped.
The two events winded me so that I could no longer see how I was going to take the drive to the Salvation Army with my donations. I only had forty-five minutes to get there and I couldn’t reign the grief back in. I decided to push.
I ran up and down my five flights of stairs five times, carrying arms full of worthy provisions for those who can benefit. I backed my car into the driveway and began loading, using strength derived from all of the anger I continue to suppress. Anger does come in handy. I managed to squeeze boxes, bags and an entire vanity, complete with mirror and bench into my tiny, yet magnificent Pontiac Sunfire. Go Arthur (That’s his name.)!
I continued to choke back tears all the way and when I got there, I pulled up to the front door, turned on my hazard lights and began to unload when a woman began yelling at me for parking there, saying that I was endangering lives. Sigh. I looked at her and very calmly said, “I’ll be out of here in a minute.” My resign softened the blow I would have delivered in her direction.
I began loading my stuff into the building, when a man in his 60s came over and said, “I was looking at your pictures. I hope you don’t mind," to which I replied, “Of course not! Would you like them?” His face beamed and after making certain I was okay with him taking them, he thanked me and went on his way.”
So I donated clothing, furniture and other household items and managed to save this man the price of having to buy my pictures, which sent him off with a smile on his face.
How could I not smile, myself?
When I returned home, I called Bonnie to chat for a while. I mentioned to her that I had been considering leaving Chris’ tapes “on the curb” and asked her if she wanted me to hold onto them, instead. She did. So I did. Sometimes, taking the feelings of others into consideration is the way out of my own feelings.
Now I can’t even remember why I didn’t want to take them with me.
Shneed
I knew that, with my move, I would eventually need to venture into the storage closet and take out all of my Chris-mementos. I had managed to avoid the task for the past three weeks, but with time running out, I needed to face my demons.
Controlling my tears was not an option, for they flowed like flood waters out of my eyes and onto my carpet, as I laid eyes on possessions I hadn’t looked at since the anniversary of our 1st wedding anniversary.
I moved my hand toward one of the boxes, accidentally knocking its cover off and there, exposed, was the picture of Chris I hate most of all. He sits at the table with no shirt on, head down, writing in his calendar book, completely bald. I hate that depiction of him. That photo gets behind me and shoves me out of my denial with the force of the impact of an eighteen-wheeler striking me from behind. I lost my breath and then I lost my ability to maintain my composure.
I then came across tapes and tapes of documentaries that Chris made while he was in school. I entered a meltdown, crying and screaming, “I don’t want these anymore! I don’t want these!” I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want them and I didn’t want to discard them as though they held no meaning for me, when they always will. I felt trapped.
The two events winded me so that I could no longer see how I was going to take the drive to the Salvation Army with my donations. I only had forty-five minutes to get there and I couldn’t reign the grief back in. I decided to push.
I ran up and down my five flights of stairs five times, carrying arms full of worthy provisions for those who can benefit. I backed my car into the driveway and began loading, using strength derived from all of the anger I continue to suppress. Anger does come in handy. I managed to squeeze boxes, bags and an entire vanity, complete with mirror and bench into my tiny, yet magnificent Pontiac Sunfire. Go Arthur (That’s his name.)!
I continued to choke back tears all the way and when I got there, I pulled up to the front door, turned on my hazard lights and began to unload when a woman began yelling at me for parking there, saying that I was endangering lives. Sigh. I looked at her and very calmly said, “I’ll be out of here in a minute.” My resign softened the blow I would have delivered in her direction.
I began loading my stuff into the building, when a man in his 60s came over and said, “I was looking at your pictures. I hope you don’t mind," to which I replied, “Of course not! Would you like them?” His face beamed and after making certain I was okay with him taking them, he thanked me and went on his way.”
So I donated clothing, furniture and other household items and managed to save this man the price of having to buy my pictures, which sent him off with a smile on his face.
How could I not smile, myself?
When I returned home, I called Bonnie to chat for a while. I mentioned to her that I had been considering leaving Chris’ tapes “on the curb” and asked her if she wanted me to hold onto them, instead. She did. So I did. Sometimes, taking the feelings of others into consideration is the way out of my own feelings.
Now I can’t even remember why I didn’t want to take them with me.
Shneed
Monday, October 22, 2007
Playing Hostage
I’m feeling sad tonight. Not sad enough to drive in front of the 101 bus as it made it’s way down Mystic Ave in Medford when I was turning off of Route 38, but sad, nonetheless.
I feel frustrated when people don’t understand, or don’t try to understand that I have been forever affected by Chris’ death, forever affected by losing my best friend, my love, my husband. Beyond my own loss, I witnessed some very disturbing events, such as the deterioration of my sweet husband’s body, his faith and his life. I looked into his eyes and knew he would never look at me with the same recognition and love with which he looked at me from our first date, on. I don’t hesitate to say that I have been disturbed ever since and I do believe I will be for the remainder of my life.
I miss him. I always will. I love him. I always will.
The good news is that I haven’t written in quite a while, and my writings are fewer and farther between than they once were. I tend to write when I’m sad, and my life has been feeling nice, lately. I feel happy. I still feel sad, but at the same time, I now feel happy.
I still have anger, though. It’s there. I can feel it, I just can’t get to it. Even at the gym, I can’t seem to get to my anger. What I can do, though, is exhaust myself with my workouts to the point that my anger retreats into remission for a while.
The small part of me that houses the anger, fear, anxiety and sadness is insulated from the rest of my world. I wish I could go there and wrap my arms around that part of me, fill the black hole with love and then wind up and bowl it right down the alley into my past.
I’m too scared, though, and playing hostage is easier for the time being.
Shneed
I feel frustrated when people don’t understand, or don’t try to understand that I have been forever affected by Chris’ death, forever affected by losing my best friend, my love, my husband. Beyond my own loss, I witnessed some very disturbing events, such as the deterioration of my sweet husband’s body, his faith and his life. I looked into his eyes and knew he would never look at me with the same recognition and love with which he looked at me from our first date, on. I don’t hesitate to say that I have been disturbed ever since and I do believe I will be for the remainder of my life.
I miss him. I always will. I love him. I always will.
The good news is that I haven’t written in quite a while, and my writings are fewer and farther between than they once were. I tend to write when I’m sad, and my life has been feeling nice, lately. I feel happy. I still feel sad, but at the same time, I now feel happy.
I still have anger, though. It’s there. I can feel it, I just can’t get to it. Even at the gym, I can’t seem to get to my anger. What I can do, though, is exhaust myself with my workouts to the point that my anger retreats into remission for a while.
The small part of me that houses the anger, fear, anxiety and sadness is insulated from the rest of my world. I wish I could go there and wrap my arms around that part of me, fill the black hole with love and then wind up and bowl it right down the alley into my past.
I’m too scared, though, and playing hostage is easier for the time being.
Shneed
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