I should be sorted by now, right? Chris died over 18 months ago and time heals all wounds, doesn't it? I mean, that first year was difficult but I should be flying by now, yes?
Rhetorical questions, all. Grief is a tricksy sod and time really doesn't mean anything. I am often far too hard on myself in the quest to be OK and 'back to normal' (as if that even exists anymore anyway). It's so deceptive though - the adrenaline that kept me going for so long helped me believe I had conquered my feelings. Then I hit a bit of a pothole and have felt like I'm floundering.
The past few weeks have been difficult. I have struggled over feelings of loss and anger for a number of reasons and in a number of situations. My biggest feelings of anger have been directed at myself because I feel I have got things wrong and let myself down. I really wish I could just get over myself or that I could wipe my head like an etch-a-sketch and shrug off some of the things that seem to be laying far too heavy on me, but it's a bit of a struggle.
My Uncle died a few weeks ago and his funeral was held at the same place as Chris'. His body was also kept at the same funeral home. Revisiting those places - both physically and mentally - has taken its toll. On the day of Chris' funeral I was carried through it all in a haze of adrenaline and the protective bubble of shock that descended on the morning he died. This time, everything was in sharp focus. I felt a physical urge to run from the funeral home as fast as I could (I pretty much did, in fact. I stumbled home, crying in the street and left my mum to make my apologies).
I spent the bulk of the day before my Uncle's funeral in bits. I was scared at having to relive Chris' funeral without the protective numbness, I was remembering things I had not thought about for a long time and I felt guilty that all my sorrow would not be for my uncle. He did not deserve tears meant for somebody else.
Since the funeral, I have been in a bit of a fog. I have spent a lot of time thinking about Chris and still trying to come to terms with the fact that he is gone. I grieve so much for the friend I lost; for all those shared memories that are now just mine. When you love someone and they die, it's as if half of those memories are gone forever. It sometimes feels as though I am making up past happiness as the person who was there to share it no longer exists. Normally when a relationship ends, you can eventually reflect on past happiness and know that the other person is out there, somewhere, still carrying that shared gift too. My happy memories feel like emotional culs-de-sac to rattle around in.
It's the flipping from one perspective to another that is so tiring. Just when I thought I was moving forwards and coping with a good balance of pragmatism and hope, it all seems to have swirled away in another direction. I hate the feeling of not being in control but I know the only way to get through it is to let it wash over me and remain confident that I won't drown. I know how to swim by now.
Thursday, 16 February 2012
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
... and sing till I run out of words
2011 was a much-looked-forward-to year; primarily because it was not 2010. Each day of 2011 would see 2010 getting further and further away from me in the rear view mirror. 2010 was the worst year of my life and I thought - at the time - it was the most transformative.
Paddling in the shallows of 2012 and looking at the year that's just gone before, I can see that 2011 was the most transformative. I have spent the last 12 months reacting, reflecting and rebuilding after the violent slash of death, exhaustion, pain and loss ripped through my life. As people said I would, I moved forward in a lot of ways but in some areas of my life, I completely changed the road I was on.
2011 was the first year of my own life in which Chris did not exist. At its start, I was clinging on to his memory and feeling so numb in my own life. I continued in routines I found soothingly reassuring but which were very definitely holding patterns until I could feel my energy coming back. I was impatient to start living again, feeling the heavy weight of responsibility for being the one who was still alive and healthy, still reasonably young and with opportunities ahead. I moved forward because I felt I had to but I didn't really think too much about what I was going to do.
As the year unfurled, I found myself learning new things and moving in directions in which I'd never have travelled previously. There were new beginnings and a lot of emotional upheaval over building and rebuilding relationships, but there was a sense of urgency and panic to a lot of the year which left me feeling exhausted. I felt I should be moving *somewhere* faster, but I hadn't really thought about where.
Christmas and New Year 2011 found me doing a lot of thinking. My Christmas was filled with noise and love and the kind of friends who will carry you through when you can't quite manage it by yourself. Christmas Eve is my wedding anniversary and I reflected on the difference between that day in 2010 and 2011. This Christmas Eve I found myself smiling at happy memories without the sickening twist of pain in the pit of my stomach I'd grown so used to. It felt good and I didn't feel guilty.
The transition to the New Year has never really had much of an effect on me, but 2010/2011 and 2011/2012 were different. The former for reasons already explained and the latter because I really am looking forward to this new, clean year. There are things I was hanging on to in 2011 that were draining me and I want to let them go. I can see how my changing has affected some of the people around me. There are some who support me with love and others who have confused me with their anger. I have spent time under a self-imposed cloud, wishing for people to act differently, but I know it's dead energy. This new year prompts in me the urge to shake the mud from my feet, wriggle my shoulders and just relax and enjoy the sunshine for a bit.
My future feels excitingly unplotted (and a bit scary as a result). I have a new business I want to work to make a success, treasured friendships I want to nurture and hopes for new beginnings and adventures. I feel less driven by an urge to move forward for the sake of moving forward and more likely to stop and think about what it is I truly want. I'm looking forward to it.
Paddling in the shallows of 2012 and looking at the year that's just gone before, I can see that 2011 was the most transformative. I have spent the last 12 months reacting, reflecting and rebuilding after the violent slash of death, exhaustion, pain and loss ripped through my life. As people said I would, I moved forward in a lot of ways but in some areas of my life, I completely changed the road I was on.
2011 was the first year of my own life in which Chris did not exist. At its start, I was clinging on to his memory and feeling so numb in my own life. I continued in routines I found soothingly reassuring but which were very definitely holding patterns until I could feel my energy coming back. I was impatient to start living again, feeling the heavy weight of responsibility for being the one who was still alive and healthy, still reasonably young and with opportunities ahead. I moved forward because I felt I had to but I didn't really think too much about what I was going to do.
As the year unfurled, I found myself learning new things and moving in directions in which I'd never have travelled previously. There were new beginnings and a lot of emotional upheaval over building and rebuilding relationships, but there was a sense of urgency and panic to a lot of the year which left me feeling exhausted. I felt I should be moving *somewhere* faster, but I hadn't really thought about where.
Christmas and New Year 2011 found me doing a lot of thinking. My Christmas was filled with noise and love and the kind of friends who will carry you through when you can't quite manage it by yourself. Christmas Eve is my wedding anniversary and I reflected on the difference between that day in 2010 and 2011. This Christmas Eve I found myself smiling at happy memories without the sickening twist of pain in the pit of my stomach I'd grown so used to. It felt good and I didn't feel guilty.
The transition to the New Year has never really had much of an effect on me, but 2010/2011 and 2011/2012 were different. The former for reasons already explained and the latter because I really am looking forward to this new, clean year. There are things I was hanging on to in 2011 that were draining me and I want to let them go. I can see how my changing has affected some of the people around me. There are some who support me with love and others who have confused me with their anger. I have spent time under a self-imposed cloud, wishing for people to act differently, but I know it's dead energy. This new year prompts in me the urge to shake the mud from my feet, wriggle my shoulders and just relax and enjoy the sunshine for a bit.
My future feels excitingly unplotted (and a bit scary as a result). I have a new business I want to work to make a success, treasured friendships I want to nurture and hopes for new beginnings and adventures. I feel less driven by an urge to move forward for the sake of moving forward and more likely to stop and think about what it is I truly want. I'm looking forward to it.
Monday, 12 December 2011
It's cloud illusions I recall
I often get the urge to write, but then it passes. I carry half-formed drafts around in my head and know that if they want to come out, they will. Writing here has been a way to work through pain in my own head; to reach some sort of acceptance and understanding of things I've found difficult but inescapable. However, I can't always make enough sense of things to finish them on the page.
My life has changed completely in the last few years and so much of my looking forward is pinned to the past. Sometimes I'm happy to have that grounding and sometimes I feel weary as I wonder if I'm hiding in my past as an excuse.
The last year has passed at frightening speed, it seems to me. I can remember how I felt last Christmas; dreading my first widowed wedding anniversary and the whole of the festive period. I spent it surrounded by love but I felt detached from my own life at that time. Everything had sharp edges and I was very conscious of being the girl whose husband had died a few months earlier. You see people looking at you with sympathy and imagining how awful it would be if they were in your shoes. I don't blame them; I sometimes wondered how I was managing to stay 'normal' in my own shoes.
A year later and a lot has changed and softened and moved forward and blossomed in my life. It's as though normality has reabsorbed (most of) me. I realise that I'm different but really no wiser for having gone through such a transformative experience. I haven't suddenly become patient and calm and reflective about everything. I get frustrated over things I can't control and if I'm in a situation I find painful or difficult, my urge is to walk away if I can't find an immediate and acceptable resolution. I spend a lot of time feeling like an emotional mess, but the difference is I'm a lot more accepting of myself than I once was. Being a widow has not made me a saint (not that I ever assumed it would). I'm not always proud of myself, I think I'm quite selfish and I still find myself crying tears of frustration over stupid things. I don't spend nearly as much time calmly thinking of 'the bigger picture' as I thought perhaps I might. I'm ok with all of this.
Sometimes the more you scrutinise things, the more confused you get. Letting go can be difficult but untethering yourself - even if it scares you shitless - is sometimes the only way to find your new stability. I'm feeling pretty good about just getting on with it.
My life has changed completely in the last few years and so much of my looking forward is pinned to the past. Sometimes I'm happy to have that grounding and sometimes I feel weary as I wonder if I'm hiding in my past as an excuse.
The last year has passed at frightening speed, it seems to me. I can remember how I felt last Christmas; dreading my first widowed wedding anniversary and the whole of the festive period. I spent it surrounded by love but I felt detached from my own life at that time. Everything had sharp edges and I was very conscious of being the girl whose husband had died a few months earlier. You see people looking at you with sympathy and imagining how awful it would be if they were in your shoes. I don't blame them; I sometimes wondered how I was managing to stay 'normal' in my own shoes.
A year later and a lot has changed and softened and moved forward and blossomed in my life. It's as though normality has reabsorbed (most of) me. I realise that I'm different but really no wiser for having gone through such a transformative experience. I haven't suddenly become patient and calm and reflective about everything. I get frustrated over things I can't control and if I'm in a situation I find painful or difficult, my urge is to walk away if I can't find an immediate and acceptable resolution. I spend a lot of time feeling like an emotional mess, but the difference is I'm a lot more accepting of myself than I once was. Being a widow has not made me a saint (not that I ever assumed it would). I'm not always proud of myself, I think I'm quite selfish and I still find myself crying tears of frustration over stupid things. I don't spend nearly as much time calmly thinking of 'the bigger picture' as I thought perhaps I might. I'm ok with all of this.
Sometimes the more you scrutinise things, the more confused you get. Letting go can be difficult but untethering yourself - even if it scares you shitless - is sometimes the only way to find your new stability. I'm feeling pretty good about just getting on with it.
Thursday, 20 October 2011
That's not my name
Being a widow feels absurd, often comedically so. I find I'm increasingly cheerful about the fact that despite having been 'a widow' for 16 months now, it feels less and less like a title that fits. It's something I have to be for the purposes of certain paperwork and administrative procedures, but beyond that I eschew it.
I am not someone who is 'less than', or missing something, or permanently bereft. I refuse to continue my life being defined by loss. I loved someone who died. I shared my life and my plans for the future with a person who suddenly didn't exist anymore. That is very difficult to adjust to and I still struggle some days but I feel so much stronger now and find myself stubbornly refusing to be diminished by it.
For me, labelling myself as a widow just feels wrong. I've been through an experience that has shaped me into the person I am now, but that person has lots of positive additions as well as a story of grief and loss and misery. Getting married and then finding out within six months that Chris had a terminal illness was obviously incredibly stressful, frightening and hideous, but a lot of amazing things happened too. I took a huge amount of strength from Chris' stoic refusal to crumble. He remained as he always had been and his huge appetite for life continued, enhanced by the knowledge that he had a lot less time to live it. He truly was a lionheart and he continues to inspire me. I know he always will.
For myself, I found - and still find - the whole experience had a lot to teach me. I've learned that I can cope with the most horrendous absolute *because* it's an absolute. It's uncertainty that leaves me a gibbering wreck. If I can know what the worst possible outcome might be, I can prepare myself for it and deal with it quite calmly. To pilfer from the serenity prayer, it's knowing the things you can change, the things you can't and the best way to deal with them. I never felt I could do that before.
As I continue with my life, frequently looking at the past as well as the future, I don't feel I've lost anything. I will always be sad that Chris is not living his life anymore and he will always have a significant place in my heart and my head, but I don't feel I'm missing anything as a person in my own right. I've changed and I can't possibly know what I'd be like now if Chris hadn't died. I don't see the benefits of imagining parallel universes and Sliding Doors moments - maybe I'll be more philosophical about it in the future, but I think accepting responsibility for me and my feelings and the place they currently inhabit is really important and actually the only chance I have of continuing to move on.
Maya Angelou said: 'When you know better, you do better'. It's clean and simple. No recriminations or regrets, no attaching yourself to the past to apologise for the future. I've been through something that has shaped me and left me different, but not 'less than'. I may be a widow on paper, but in real life I'm Claire. I'm a whole person and I am working on leading a whole life.
I am not someone who is 'less than', or missing something, or permanently bereft. I refuse to continue my life being defined by loss. I loved someone who died. I shared my life and my plans for the future with a person who suddenly didn't exist anymore. That is very difficult to adjust to and I still struggle some days but I feel so much stronger now and find myself stubbornly refusing to be diminished by it.
For me, labelling myself as a widow just feels wrong. I've been through an experience that has shaped me into the person I am now, but that person has lots of positive additions as well as a story of grief and loss and misery. Getting married and then finding out within six months that Chris had a terminal illness was obviously incredibly stressful, frightening and hideous, but a lot of amazing things happened too. I took a huge amount of strength from Chris' stoic refusal to crumble. He remained as he always had been and his huge appetite for life continued, enhanced by the knowledge that he had a lot less time to live it. He truly was a lionheart and he continues to inspire me. I know he always will.
For myself, I found - and still find - the whole experience had a lot to teach me. I've learned that I can cope with the most horrendous absolute *because* it's an absolute. It's uncertainty that leaves me a gibbering wreck. If I can know what the worst possible outcome might be, I can prepare myself for it and deal with it quite calmly. To pilfer from the serenity prayer, it's knowing the things you can change, the things you can't and the best way to deal with them. I never felt I could do that before.
As I continue with my life, frequently looking at the past as well as the future, I don't feel I've lost anything. I will always be sad that Chris is not living his life anymore and he will always have a significant place in my heart and my head, but I don't feel I'm missing anything as a person in my own right. I've changed and I can't possibly know what I'd be like now if Chris hadn't died. I don't see the benefits of imagining parallel universes and Sliding Doors moments - maybe I'll be more philosophical about it in the future, but I think accepting responsibility for me and my feelings and the place they currently inhabit is really important and actually the only chance I have of continuing to move on.
Maya Angelou said: 'When you know better, you do better'. It's clean and simple. No recriminations or regrets, no attaching yourself to the past to apologise for the future. I've been through something that has shaped me and left me different, but not 'less than'. I may be a widow on paper, but in real life I'm Claire. I'm a whole person and I am working on leading a whole life.
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
The same, but different.
This week is quite difficult. There are a few things I'm struggling with, some to do with new developments in my life, some to do with family but one of the dominant issues is an event so suffused with the spirit of Chris that it's impossible not to scrutinise my feelings, my thoughts and my progress in the whole area of 'being widowed'.
A beer festival takes place annually in the town in which I live. It's the 18th one this year and it's an event that Chris was instrumental in starting. He was always the bar manager and would take great pleasure each year in sourcing an amazing selection of beers which he was always very proud of. Like everyone else who is involved with the festival, his time was given freely (well, payment was in beer) and he absolutely loved it. He was hugely passionate about it and most people identified the festival with him.
Last year's festival took place just over two months after Chris died. It was an incredibly emotional experience as so many people who knew and loved Chris really put in the extra effort to ensure it was a success. We all came together to celebrate him and something he had held so dear. It was amazing but I was a mess. I remember sitting in the main hall and crying as I could see him there so vividly in my mind's eye, but I knew he'd never be there again.
Suddenly, a whole year has passed and it's time for the festival again. I have been putting off getting involved too much in the lead up - it's just too hard on the emotions. Also, I am trying very hard to move forwards and have been putting a lot of time and energy into new ventures lately. Yesterday I spent the afternoon with the festival team as it was time for the annual tasting. It was great fun but it was also exhausting. It's impossible not to remember all the years when Chris would have been there, coordinating everyone, masterminding procedures and laughing long and hard with his mates.
It's also very emotional for a lot of his friends and I see that. Toasts were raised to him on the first and last beers, as the tasting went on I received hugs from people in quiet corners as they murmured about missing Chris and how well I was doing. Other members of the group are currently dealing with their own recent bereavements or serious illnesses of loved ones. I chat to them about it and hope that my face does not give too much away. I find it very hard not to show complete devastation for them and to let my own feelings dominate as discussion covers home assessments by the local hospice, palliative care, funeral readings and other things which are still so fresh in my mind. They need my support, not my own self-indulgent misery.
Chris and I were together for 7 years and I worked at the festival for each of those. I've always enjoyed them immensely and I'm looking forward to spending the next three days with some lovely people who make me laugh until beer comes out of my nose. However, the festival just *is* Chris, still. Being there makes me very aware that he is not here anymore. That may sound daft because it's not like I ever forget he's dead, but the festival still has a very prominent Chris-shaped hole and involves people who had been his friends since he was a kid. I wouldn't miss it for the world, but it requires drawing on reserves of emotional strength.
I'm still just trying to find my way in all of this. I know time softens the edges of everything but it also brings new challenges which radiate from the original pain. When you lose someone you love, you will feel that loss forever. Accepting that and letting it sit within you can be very, very hard. Instinct tells you to run from it or to try to hide to protect your emotions but that is delaying the inevitable. Grief is like being hit full in the face by a huge wave. It will blind you, panic you, maybe knock you off your feet but it will subside and you may even feel an odd sense of invigoration and exhilaration. Just as death is part of life, grieving is part of living.
A beer festival takes place annually in the town in which I live. It's the 18th one this year and it's an event that Chris was instrumental in starting. He was always the bar manager and would take great pleasure each year in sourcing an amazing selection of beers which he was always very proud of. Like everyone else who is involved with the festival, his time was given freely (well, payment was in beer) and he absolutely loved it. He was hugely passionate about it and most people identified the festival with him.
Last year's festival took place just over two months after Chris died. It was an incredibly emotional experience as so many people who knew and loved Chris really put in the extra effort to ensure it was a success. We all came together to celebrate him and something he had held so dear. It was amazing but I was a mess. I remember sitting in the main hall and crying as I could see him there so vividly in my mind's eye, but I knew he'd never be there again.
Suddenly, a whole year has passed and it's time for the festival again. I have been putting off getting involved too much in the lead up - it's just too hard on the emotions. Also, I am trying very hard to move forwards and have been putting a lot of time and energy into new ventures lately. Yesterday I spent the afternoon with the festival team as it was time for the annual tasting. It was great fun but it was also exhausting. It's impossible not to remember all the years when Chris would have been there, coordinating everyone, masterminding procedures and laughing long and hard with his mates.
It's also very emotional for a lot of his friends and I see that. Toasts were raised to him on the first and last beers, as the tasting went on I received hugs from people in quiet corners as they murmured about missing Chris and how well I was doing. Other members of the group are currently dealing with their own recent bereavements or serious illnesses of loved ones. I chat to them about it and hope that my face does not give too much away. I find it very hard not to show complete devastation for them and to let my own feelings dominate as discussion covers home assessments by the local hospice, palliative care, funeral readings and other things which are still so fresh in my mind. They need my support, not my own self-indulgent misery.
Chris and I were together for 7 years and I worked at the festival for each of those. I've always enjoyed them immensely and I'm looking forward to spending the next three days with some lovely people who make me laugh until beer comes out of my nose. However, the festival just *is* Chris, still. Being there makes me very aware that he is not here anymore. That may sound daft because it's not like I ever forget he's dead, but the festival still has a very prominent Chris-shaped hole and involves people who had been his friends since he was a kid. I wouldn't miss it for the world, but it requires drawing on reserves of emotional strength.
I'm still just trying to find my way in all of this. I know time softens the edges of everything but it also brings new challenges which radiate from the original pain. When you lose someone you love, you will feel that loss forever. Accepting that and letting it sit within you can be very, very hard. Instinct tells you to run from it or to try to hide to protect your emotions but that is delaying the inevitable. Grief is like being hit full in the face by a huge wave. It will blind you, panic you, maybe knock you off your feet but it will subside and you may even feel an odd sense of invigoration and exhilaration. Just as death is part of life, grieving is part of living.
Monday, 29 August 2011
If this is an answer
Here's a gift in widowhood: I don't know what is going to happen in my future and I'm relatively OK with that. Since I was a child I always felt I knew certain things were going to happen and so never questioned them. I would, of course, do well at school because I was bookish and quiet and conscientious and well-behaved. I would be responsible and sensible and not get into trouble or disappoint my parents. I would go to university and then get a job and do well. I didn't know if I would get married but I knew I would look to settle down and then probably have a family. I would lead a quiet life underpinned with a certain stability and I was happy with that. I completely shunned risk.
Hurricane brain tumour put the kibosh on that quiet certainty. I was funnelled into adopting a new attitude and daily reality that really was at odds with the way I'd been previously. Suddenly the only certainty I had was that Chris was going to die. I now find I largely enjoy having no real certainties, though it's occasionally frightening and lonely. For two years I got up every day knowing we were one day closer to a hideous and inevitable outcome. I tried to focus on positives and that did help but knowing that death is looming is nothing but shitty, whichever way you look at it.
Being set adrift on the sea of widowhood is a solitary experience. Yes, there are other people who've experienced similar losses and other people who have great empathy and lots of people who love me and want to offer support, but it's my grief. I have talked to people at great length and found immense comfort in it, but I am always alone with my thoughts and feelings. Ironically, they often feel like one of the only things on which I can rely.
Anyone who has had to live through great change and reassess their future knows it's both frightening and exhilarating. Sometimes you have no choice in the change, sometimes you are the instigator. Always, you are responsible for your own response and how you choose to move forward. Some days I get tired and wish I could stop having to find the momentum to keep going. Then I stop stressing, realise that sometimes you just have to let go of things and that as long as I take responsibility for myself, I will be happy with my choices. Chris has gone, the devastation has happened and I am doing the best I can to move forward.
So what now? I don't know but nobody really does, do they?
Hurricane brain tumour put the kibosh on that quiet certainty. I was funnelled into adopting a new attitude and daily reality that really was at odds with the way I'd been previously. Suddenly the only certainty I had was that Chris was going to die. I now find I largely enjoy having no real certainties, though it's occasionally frightening and lonely. For two years I got up every day knowing we were one day closer to a hideous and inevitable outcome. I tried to focus on positives and that did help but knowing that death is looming is nothing but shitty, whichever way you look at it.
Being set adrift on the sea of widowhood is a solitary experience. Yes, there are other people who've experienced similar losses and other people who have great empathy and lots of people who love me and want to offer support, but it's my grief. I have talked to people at great length and found immense comfort in it, but I am always alone with my thoughts and feelings. Ironically, they often feel like one of the only things on which I can rely.
Anyone who has had to live through great change and reassess their future knows it's both frightening and exhilarating. Sometimes you have no choice in the change, sometimes you are the instigator. Always, you are responsible for your own response and how you choose to move forward. Some days I get tired and wish I could stop having to find the momentum to keep going. Then I stop stressing, realise that sometimes you just have to let go of things and that as long as I take responsibility for myself, I will be happy with my choices. Chris has gone, the devastation has happened and I am doing the best I can to move forward.
So what now? I don't know but nobody really does, do they?
Sunday, 14 August 2011
... the time was neither wrong nor right
Grief is an erratic constant. It will swell and twist and flicker and pulse and make demands of you that you do not think you have a shred of strength left to deal with, but it will never leave you alone. When I am in the right frame of mind, I am accepting of this but occasionally I just want to scream at it to fuck off.
Grief is exhausting, bone-achingly, mind-bendingly exhausting. I can understand how some people just take to their beds and hide from the world. There are days when good humour deserts me and I feel like I'm behind a plexiglass screen, looking quizzically at people who just don't understand. Then I am thankful that they don't understand, because it would mean they'd been through what I've been through and the fewer people that happens to, the better. Some of the people I am closest to have unfortunately experienced a similar, wrenching loss. We talk about grief and how it has affected us, how it makes all your persepctives grey rather than black or white, how we continue to make it part of our lives and how the future might look.
I feel like a part of me will always be numb and I am never wholly engaged in anything. This upsets me because I feel like I've given up on something but I can't quite define what it is. It's confusing because at the same time, I feel more captivated by life than ever. There's so much I want to do and I am excited by the potential of what's out there. I just get exasperated at myself and the ricocheting I seem to do from high to low to a steady constant. When will I settle, I wonder?
Lately, I've felt myself champing at the bit to move forward. I have felt panicked at knowing there is so much I need to do to get where I want to be and then feeling like I have to do it all RIGHT NOW! Friends have gently pointed out to me that I'm being hard on myself and that I've come so far already and done so much. I have listened to them and reflected on that and realised that maybe they are right. To watch Chris die, to deal with my emotions, to navigate life feeling so bewildered and broken and still be here a year later looking to the future and not lying in my bed day after day is actually something I'm proud of. Things are happening naturally as I feel ready to tackle them. Knowing that grief will be with me every day, but not necessarily knowing how it will feel is something I have to allow myself the space and energy to deal with. So I will.
Socrates famously said 'The unexamined life is not worth living'. I think finding the right balance of examination is the key though, or you can so easily get frozen in the headlights of your own indecision. I was very pleased to find Mark Twain's variation: 'The unexamined life may not be worth living, but the life too closely examined may not be lived at all'. I can work with that.
Grief is exhausting, bone-achingly, mind-bendingly exhausting. I can understand how some people just take to their beds and hide from the world. There are days when good humour deserts me and I feel like I'm behind a plexiglass screen, looking quizzically at people who just don't understand. Then I am thankful that they don't understand, because it would mean they'd been through what I've been through and the fewer people that happens to, the better. Some of the people I am closest to have unfortunately experienced a similar, wrenching loss. We talk about grief and how it has affected us, how it makes all your persepctives grey rather than black or white, how we continue to make it part of our lives and how the future might look.
I feel like a part of me will always be numb and I am never wholly engaged in anything. This upsets me because I feel like I've given up on something but I can't quite define what it is. It's confusing because at the same time, I feel more captivated by life than ever. There's so much I want to do and I am excited by the potential of what's out there. I just get exasperated at myself and the ricocheting I seem to do from high to low to a steady constant. When will I settle, I wonder?
Lately, I've felt myself champing at the bit to move forward. I have felt panicked at knowing there is so much I need to do to get where I want to be and then feeling like I have to do it all RIGHT NOW! Friends have gently pointed out to me that I'm being hard on myself and that I've come so far already and done so much. I have listened to them and reflected on that and realised that maybe they are right. To watch Chris die, to deal with my emotions, to navigate life feeling so bewildered and broken and still be here a year later looking to the future and not lying in my bed day after day is actually something I'm proud of. Things are happening naturally as I feel ready to tackle them. Knowing that grief will be with me every day, but not necessarily knowing how it will feel is something I have to allow myself the space and energy to deal with. So I will.
Socrates famously said 'The unexamined life is not worth living'. I think finding the right balance of examination is the key though, or you can so easily get frozen in the headlights of your own indecision. I was very pleased to find Mark Twain's variation: 'The unexamined life may not be worth living, but the life too closely examined may not be lived at all'. I can work with that.
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