A letter to my love, five years later...

Hey Baby,

Tonight is the eve of our last day together, five years ago. I am stunned by both the brevity of time and the distance between that night and now, as I sit in the bed we once shared. Our sweet puppy, almost 7 now, sleeping next to me as I write.

This is my least favorite time of year. As people are setting resolutions and hopes for the new year, I am reminded of all the birthdays and dreams you will never make. I am reminded that your life ended, along with 3 others, leaving broken hearts and hopes on that marshy shoreline—“sweet dreams and flying machines, in pieces on the ground.”

It feels like my resolution continues to be “survive.”

I am still learning how to shoulder the weight of your absence. I thought deployments had taught me how to live without you. It’s the aching, wistful hope that you will return that still breaks my heart. 

Physically, I am fighting my way through some of the worst pain I have experienced since breaking my arm as a kid. My left shoulder is a mess. And somehow it feels just, given the time of year. A small manifestation of your shattered body-- like a heart attack from an already broken heart. I keep fighting the pain, trying to find a way to move or stretch that eases the discomfort, driven to tears and anger in the process. In the end, I lie awake at night, just trying to breathe as the pain pulsates. If grief had nerve endings, it must feel like this.

I think shouldering the weight of your absence has taken it’s toll.

You once told me “strong is what you are when you get knocked down.” I’ve been trying to get back up for the last five years. I’ve run, I’ve learned, I’ve tried. Gravity is a heavy force, pulling me downward, despite my better efforts. My shoulder, and my heart find it hard to withstand. To love as deeply as I loved you is a steep climb back to ground zero. I am uncertain what “up” looks like at this point.

I find it impossible to hold faith in God or heaven after January 7th, but I believe in physics (largely because of you). A life force as great as yours must continue somewhere in this universe, though your form has changed. I find small comforts in that idea. A piece of you is in every snowflake, and rainbow. You are in the hoppy, malty, bubbly goodness of a beer. Your amber eyes echo on in Schrodinger in an impossible and uncanny way. 

Although I know you exist in spaces in this world, I still wish I could roll over in the morning and kiss your back, stealing those last moments of simplicity and holding peace that everything will be okay. Hope and peace crumbled on that beach beside you. 

Instead, I sleep on your side of the bed because it makes the space less empty. That's the best I have for now. 

Five years later, I love you. I miss you. Have fun, fly safe.

Invisible

This weekend offered an opportunity to share Chris’s story with the media for special segment that will be featured on Thanksgiving day. Talking about Chris and sharing his legacy with others is a beautiful privilege, but it is also difficult. I am both grateful to represent Chris and completely wrecked by the experience. Part of me survives by packing up those memories in a place where I do not think about what I am missing all of time. That seems to be how grief works for me as a military widow, packing part of myself away, playing a very invisible role in the midst of missing the person who saw me at the most intimate levels.

I recently read a post entitled “I wish you knew,” written by a widow discussing what it’s like after losing her husband. It struck me how much we long to be understood, but often struggle with sharing ourselves enough to be understood. It’s a really lonely place to be, and I imagine it doesn’t take being a widow to feel isolated or unseen. Our culture implies that only the weak need affirmation—being strong is about not caring what other people think.

From a military widow perspective, I wish people understood how lonely and insignificant it feels to be the invisible person in the room. I am not a person, I am a symbol of someone who mattered far more than me. I am only seen when I am meant to represent someone else, my value is relative to my relationship with a hero. (In many ways, that is as it should be. Chris was a remarkable man, and his legacy is something I hope to carry forward as best I can.)

I wish people knew what it’s like to serve as the commemorative element in ceremonies—the person who is meant to gracefully appease the discomfort of others who are pausing from their lives to remember Chris is gone. To quell the guilt, temper the pity, and offer assurances that everything will be okay. To be the person whose presence is a pardon and whose silence is a blessing as others pay tribute.

I wish people knew what it’s like to smile for the camera, talk about Chris, recall his importance in the world, then walk away from the din of the crowd to sit in the back of a crowded room, alone and devastated.

I wish people knew what it’s like to walk into a chapel service to honor his memory, bow to pray to a God you don’t believe in, and stand alone as the sound of Taps rips your heart out. To walk out swiftly and silently back to the car before despair unleashes itself.

If only people knew what it was like to forget to be happy. To be reminded that being sad is a sign of your ineffective effort to move forward. That strong people find ways to be happy, and therefore you are not strong. To be told that if you are just a little more grateful or try a little harder that your life will get better. I wish people understood how trauma reduces hope to an illusion.

I wish people knew how complicated it feels to recall the most beautiful memories, reliving joy and experiencing tremendous loss all at once. To struggle through holidays and anniversaries as the odd person out—the pity guest and perpetual third wheel.

I wish people understood how complex it is to want to be both invisible and noticed at the same time. To not want pity, while being acknowledged for how hard the work is. To want to be seen for something more than being a widow, but always measured by that status.  To have others decide what is best for me or display ambivalence rather than just ask me what I need.

I wish people understood what it’s like to make plans to die alone. When you are widowed without children, that is the cold truth of the future.

It feels like people want the heroic story without ever knowing the price. They want the beauty but not the destruction—which means the ugly, broken parts of me exist only in the shadows.

I am not the remarkable widow. I have no special talents. I am not a successful business woman asking people to lean in. I am not a motivational speaker or inspiring athlete. I am not the beautiful, melancholy widow someone is hoping to rescue. Nor am I the tenacious, engaging widow surrounded by droves of friends. I have never been those things, neither before nor after losing Chris. I happen to be a very average person who married a very incredible man. Being pulled into the spotlight often reinforces that truth. As much I as I want to believe there is something special about me that Chris loved, the reality is, he loved me because of how special he was.

Trying to build a career, join communities, and find a new relationship have reminded me that I never quite belong. I am not a part of the Air Force community any longer. I am not a military spouse. I am not a mother swapping tips with my friends. I am not the dynamic, skilled clinician whose opinion holds merit. I am not the veteran, and therefore cannot understand military experience.

I am just the quiet, average person in the back of the crowd. Trying not to be too awkward.

It’s hard to fit anywhere when part of you goes unseen. And maybe that is how it is supposed to be post loss, living in a world where nothing fits no matter how hard you try.

This is what it’s like for me, being the military widow. The one who just cannot seem to move forward, missing the person who offered safety, acceptance, and belonging. Without safety and belonging, self-efficacy is just a pipe dream.

Cumulative Effect

In marathon training, the process of training to and through fatigue is known as the cumulative effective. This process prepares the body over an extended period of time to withstand the physical (and mental) demands of the race itself. Growth does not happen on the easy days, the real training starts when the body wants to give up. Learning to push through the pain is part of learning to run the distance.

The cumulative effective feels like the perfect metaphor for the past four years of my life. I’ve been training and testing my strength and resiliency in the midst of fatigue, questioning if I have what it takes to go the distance. Running has been my steady companion through so much of my grieving process, literally and figuratively helping me move forward past the day that brought my entire world to it’s knees.

Similar to making the decision to tackle a marathon, my decision to pursue a career in counseling was a bit impulsive and naive, though well-intentioned. And perhaps I jumped a little faster off the start line than was wise... I’ve never been good at pacing myself. However, in the swirling shit storm of early grief, I do believe I saw a glimpse of the potential Chris saw in me when I choose this path. He believed in my ability to help others long before I considered my own strength. I realize, in hindsight, how clearly he saw my potential when I could not. (He was also the one to cheer on a BQ time before I ever crossed my first marathon finish line.)

Having a goal helped me get through the first stretch. In the first year, I expected things to be difficult. As life goes, there were ups and downs. I questioned myself and isolated, believing I could piece myself back together without anyone noticing the mess. But I gave myself permission to be a "beginner." Like starting a new training plan, every day was struggle. I learned to live with the pain a little more each day until it wasn’t so sharp.

I believed hitting milestones would change how I felt. Hitting the first year marker. Getting through that first set of anniversaries and holidays. Getting an internship, graduating. These were all signs of moving forward. Progress… if only for progress’s sake. Until I plateaued. 

In running, endurance and strength are two elements that make up the training process. Running the miles builds endurance. Tackling hills, repetition, resistance help build strength. In grieving, I had to learn to tackle the resistance, not just tolerate the mileage. The last year has been a period of resistance in my life, the place where I “hit the wall” and struggled to regain my stride.

What has been most difficult during this period has been internalizing the struggle as a flaw within me. I’ve taken the steep climbs and pitfalls as evidence that I am not strong enough or resilient enough. I’ve compared myself to other people, feeling that both my process and progress have fallen short far too often. I’ve blamed myself for being tired, for just wanting to coast for a change instead of fighting.

When the narrative in my head has become more than I can handle, I’ve complained on Facebook. Probably not the best way to ask for support, but I’ve been grateful for the cheering section nonetheless. I’ve needed that external voice to remind me that I’ve come farther than I can see in the moment.

In one of my most recent periods of frustration and anxiety over not moving fast enough, my counselor asked me to take a look behind me-- to see all the miles I have covered over time, not just how far I have to go. The distance was humbling. It stopped me with greater force than Schrodie when he has to pee mid-run.

As much as I cannot run from grief, I’ve come a long way. Milestones or not, I have been in the process of constructing a new life from scratch. New state, new home, new degree, new friends, new career- navigating new hoops and terrain, trying to date again. At altitude no less. And I’m still moving, some days better than others.

One of my many flaws is a tendency to push other people away when I am in pain. I am afraid of letting others experience the messy version of me, the one who is limping along. I am, with sad honesty, likely to internalize well intentioned cheers as pity. Running solo only gets me so far-- I am growing into the place where I feel I can bring less than my best to a community of supporters. I have struggled with knowing how to ask for help, and yet I’ve had the best cheering section along the way. To a woman who lost her number one fan, the support has meant so much. More than I have words to express.

All the encouragement has seen me through a particularly difficult stretch in this journey. After four years, I can finally say I am fully licensed counselor! I’ve thought about quitting more than once in this process. I’ve questioned myself constantly, but I’ve had people pushing me along the way to stay on track and I am ever so grateful.

As much as this accomplishment is meaningful to me, I am realizing how little it defines me. When I started this process, I thought becoming a counselor was part of a meaning making experience for me. Helping others gives me purpose in a way that matters, but I am growing into the realization that it does not define who I am. 

The last four years have been about building a sense of identity in the face of loss, when the plans and dreams I held were stripped away. I am slowly building that future, and learning more about what it takes to have strength in the process. I am learning to lean into the hills and attack them when I feel like walking away. I am learning that I’d rather go hard and fall flat than never risk going for it at all.

I’ve also learned that I am not the person who settles for “at leasts.” In that sense, I carry so much of Chris in my heart-- I loved his fearlessness and willingness to try. I am finally starting to see that perhaps I carry those traits with me too.

All of this insight has come with challenges, setbacks, uphill climbs, face plants, and finding a way to get back up again. However painful, awkward, or comical it may be. A marathon is not a race, it is the accumulation of training and time to overcome the distance.

As far as I’ve come, there are still miles and miles left on the journey. I wish I could say the days of comparison and self-pity were behind me. The struggle is still there, I am simply adjusting to the reality that I am not the hills and harsh climbs. I am the force of nature that breezes over them.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, for all the love, grace, and support that have fueled me in the process.

Welcome to the Gaslight District…

Four years ago I was finalizing plans to move to Colorado—I had been accepted into my top choice for graduate programs and made an offer on a house where I could begin the next chapter of my life. I left for Colorado chasing the belief that I could turn my grief into something meaningful. I believed that I could build a new life for myself and help others discover their resiliency. In the early days of grief, I needed to hold on to the hope that things could get better.

I believed that if I worked hard enough, things would get better. I was afraid to experience all of the anger I felt inside, and fearful of standing still. I thought I could keep moving and not get stuck. I was wrong. Resiliency takes more than personal will power.

When I speak with clients about trauma, I often describe a traumatic event as a moment of chaos that fractures our understanding of the world as a just and fair place. In the aftermath of trauma, we are left trying to collect the pieces of what we once knew and reassemble meaning out of the sharp, painful shards left behind. Realistically, that healing process is slow and difficult. It is reasonable and expected to encounter setbacks. These are all things I know rationally, and emotionally. I don’t expect fair.

From a clinical perspective, when we look at healing in the wake of trauma, research shows us that resiliency is strongly influenced by social support networks that attend to the reality of trauma,  normalize grief, and promote healing. Noticeably missing from this environment are shame, blame, and dismissing how a person feels.

But what happens when a person tries to heal in toxic systems that thrive on blame and invalidation?

This question has been swirling in my convoluted mind for a while, trying to sort through my experiences and observations. What I see culturally mirrors my own experience in dealing with toxic people and environments. At the center of these toxic situations is gaslighting—a process of psychological manipulation that makes the recipient of abuse question his or her sanity. From my perspective, gaslighting feels like a rampant part of our culture—a culture in which many people are trying to heal from devastating life events while facing blame and invalidation.

Personally, my grieving process feels tangled in toxic snares. I feel like I am trying to build strength and hope while I’m being torn apart. I feel discredited before I am ever considered worthy. As I imagine so many others feel as well. My best attempts to move forward and make more of my life have been met with challenges that are deeply painful. I keep thinking I should be in a better place emotionally by now, and yet I only seem to feel more and more depressed. The more depressed and ashamed I feel, the more I “hustle for worthiness” (a term coined by Brene Brown). This hustle makes me a solid target for toxic behaviors.

Most of my life I have been taught to think about what others think and feel. To be kind and considerate. I used to think those were good attributes. Every asset has its liabilities-- being concerned with what others think and feel has often meant stifling what is real for me. In grieving, I have been afraid to own my story for fear of making others uncomfortable or pitying me. I distance myself so other people don’t have to deal with my pain and depression. I struggle to admit my anger. And I question myself when someone tells me not to feel that way.

Gaslighting is a blame game. One that assigns responsibility to the person who is hurting. I am so tired of blaming myself and being told it’s not okay for me to be angry or sad. I have made plenty of mistakes in the last four years chasing my idea of healing. I have experienced disappointment, after disappointment. I have been told over and over again by people I thought I could trust that I am too much (or not enough), that I ask for unreasonable things, and that what I need does not matter. This has been a pattern in my life since arriving in Colorado.

One of my first experiences in my graduate program was to be manipulated, insulted, and emotionally abused by a faculty member. This person told me listening to me speak was a “mind fuck” and continually criticized my inability to meet expectations that were ill-defined. The feedback I received at the end of the semester was that I lacked empathy and that I had, at best, the ability to be a good counselor, but never a great counselor. When I asked another faculty member for help understanding how to handle the situation, I was told my reaction was the problem—that essentially it was all in my head.

That is the subtle art of gaslighting--- to cause you pain while also assigning you the blame. The damaging party never takes ownership.

I spent the next year trying to prove that I could be a great counselor—if only I hustled hard enough. I agonized over taking comprehensive exams and achieving a score high enough to show the faculty I wasn’t worthless. I still question if I am good at being a counselor—rational or not, those experiences haunt how I see my performance.

Another key function of gaslighting is creating high expectations while withholding the resources to meet those expectations. It sets up impossible scenarios in which you fail no matter what you do. At the VA, we were given 30 minute appointment slots, told we could not be late while simultaneously expected to provide due diligence and care to clients in crisis. (It takes more than 30 minutes to assist a suicidal client, in case you are wondering). This is just one of many examples of the unethical and paralyzing practices that made client care impossible. And yet, when I left the VA I blamed myself for not being strong enough to meet those expectations.

In both examples, the reality of what I experienced was overshadowed and refuted by an illusion of expertise that is grossly unearned. Gaslighting places the sins of those in power on the people without power—then tells them they are crazy for being angry, upset, or confused over the incongruence.

What I have learned in the last four years is that there are few places in our culture where gaslighting is not a part of the norm. I encountered some of the most painful manipulation in places focused on mental health care. Finding supportive environments is the exception rather than the rule. Advocating for basic respect and support has meant standing alone more often than not.

Systemically, movements like MeToo and Black Lives Matter are met with contention and alienation by those with privilege. The arguments against these movements are gaslighting at its finest. They turn reality on its head and label rational requests as emotional and unfounded. People are asking to not be hurt anymore while those with power claim they have the inalienable right to hurt others

So perhaps the reality of healing is marred by infectious, toxic wounds that fester rather than fade. 

Personally and systemically, I am done with the manipulation and blame. And I think I get to be angry every time I trip over the bullshit. I think other people have that right too. I keep trying to be worthy in a world where everything I do is never enough to matter and I am exhausted.

Until someone else knows what it means to stand alone at the grave of a man who died too young. Until you wake up alone every morning. When you’ve lost the dream of having children. When people deceive you, hurt you, then throw you away. When you don’t have a job. When you offer people hope you don’t have. When you watch peoples’ eyes glaze over with boredom and disconnection every time you talk. When you keep trying to do better, despite everything… and you are doing it alone… maybe then I’ll consider any arguments about why I can’t be angry and tired.

I’ve never wanted pity or coddling, I’ve simply wanted to be valued for being willing to show up and try. Like most humans, I have just wanted to be seen for the reality of who I am without being told it’s too much, or not enough. I felt that with Chris. Every time I hit an obstacle, the pain of missing him resurfaces. I’ll never know if I was ever enough for him, and that scares me.

If I could heal the world, I would take away the place where we use such painful measures to hurt each other. I hope enough of us get tired of living in such toxic spaces that we stop participating in the crap. I hope we can stop seeing other peoples’ emotions as a threat and start acknowledging the dysfunction where it exists. Imagine what a healing world we could create.  

I’ll be waiting, with my running shoes on, if anyone cares to join me.

The Intersectional World of Grief and Depression

When I started to blog three and a half years ago, I wanted a forum for articulating grief outside the typical social media format and away from the appearance of pandering for sympathetic responses. I wanted to talk about the reality of what grief is like for me, to not create a façade or portray grief as overly gracious in any way. In some ways, I think I have allowed the blog to be a place where I can express an authentic viewpoint. In other ways I have failed to really own what the experience has been like, for fear of judgment or sympathy.

Vulnerability can be a struggle for me, and grief has brought out some of the worst, inauthentic pieces in me when it comes to owning up to said vulnerability. Especially when it comes to depression.

One of the things I clung to in the days after Chris died was running. It was something we shared and it has always been a way for me to process what I am thinking and feeling. Running is a safe space for me—metaphorically I have been trying to run ahead of my grief, away from the depression and confusion.

I’ve been clawing at ways to rebuild my life since January 7^th, 2014. Literally and figuratively running towards goals that I have hoped would lead me toward healing. But the depression remains, and sometimes compounds. It’s lonely, having a dug a hole, not realizing I have just been running in place, wearing out the ground underneath me.

What is challenging is that the depression is a complicated matter. It’s not just one hole really, it’s a series of wormholes that are interconnected and entangled with loss.

For me, a starting point in the “self-imposed pity party” is comparison. Between my expectations and my reality, as well as benchmarking myself against the world. As Brene Brown wisely states: “Comparison kills creativity and joy.” That absence of joy and creativity feel like depression.

Intellectually, I am acutely aware that I am not alone in feeling like my life is far from what I hoped it could be. Which is why I think it’s important to own this less than perfect part of my life. Sometimes living in a world of Instagram-filtered reality and epic Facebook updates leaves me feeling like a failure. Comparing other people’s best moments to my everyday reality creates a mental world where I am living less of a life.

In many ways reality matches what my depressed thinking says—I am living less of a life. Where most 30 somethings I know are starting or growing families and/or establishing themselves in careers, I’ve been licking my wounds. Not only am I grieving the loss of Chris, I am grieving the loss of the family we will never have. I have lost out on the opportunity to have a family of my own—and quite possibly will never find another spouse. And that is a painful reality I have to face.

I‘ve also struggled to adequately invest time in new friendships because grief has taken up more energy that my introverted self has time to spare. The expense of grief has meant losing pieces of myself that feel fun and worthwhile to be around in the first place. I am self aware enough to know I am difficult to understand, and that often my liabilities precede my assets in friendships. I can come across as cold, or condescending without intending to do so. Trying to find that goofy, carefree part of myself that feels likable in the first place has been a self-imposed hurdle. Instead of cultivating community, I’ve been isolating to heal. Now that I am starting to move outside my protective shell, it’s a pretty lonely place and I am responsible for that loneliness.

As much as I take joy in seeing my friends thrive in life, it can be hard to be the one left behind. Even among the amazing women I have walked this widow journey with, I am behind in my healing. I know that trying to circumnavigate my depression has played a role in falling behind. I also know that life is far from fair, what I want out of life doesn’t really matter. These are the cards I have been dealt and my only choice is to play them as best I can.

I’ve tried reading books to gain insight and self-awareness, to challenge my attitude and growth process. Books like Rising Strong, Wild, and The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, have been meaningful in encouraging me to live a more authentic, value centered life. Other books have not meshed well with my sense of perfectionism—reading a book on mindfulness left me feeling like a raging failure for not being able to lay aside the anxious and depressive voices. The irony is not lost on me. Where Chris used to temper my perfectionism, I have tried to find ways to tell myself “enough is enough” in this grieving process. When I am not able to calm that voice, depression rears it’s ugly head.

Beyond the scope of my self-indulgent sorrows, I am torn apart by all the hatred, injustice, and violence I see in our world. The last year, in particular, has brought out a strong sense of powerlessness in me. I know I am not alone in this feeling either. I desperately wish to put good things into this world, like so many other people I know. Through depression’s filter, it feels like those efforts matter very little. Like salmon losing the fight to a much stronger current. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as I question what exactly people are losing their lives over. What are we even fighting for? What gives us the right to hurt each other?

I’ve tried my best to not place responsibility on others for managing my depression or grief. I imagine my distance or silence at times have not been constructive. There are times where I just don’t know what to say or do, and I know no one else can change that for me. I once had a counselor (years ago) challenge me on pushing others away. It’s what I do to keep things safe. Like many others who deal with depression, I often isolate to not be a burden on others. (Even though I would challenge clients on using this technique.) I am deeply ashamed of my depression because it makes me less than perfect. And I fear that less than perfect makes me less than worthwhile. By owning this vulnerability, I hope that others can relate (not pity) and feel less lonely through their struggles.

None of us has it easy. Right now my “not easy” feels very lonely and sad. It’s a place where I really miss having a teammate. I feel very fortunate for the few years that Chris and I had together. I used to think that marrying such a funny, intelligent, kind person meant that maybe I wasn’t so terrible either. In the least year, I have questioned how true that story is. I feel selfish and silly for being depressed at all. And I also feel like a delusional failure for not getting this grieving thing right (even when I know there is not a right way). Depression is fundamentally a place that doubts all good.

One of the hardest things that I have learned about grief has come from understanding depression. It’s not about just one emotion, it’s about being so overwhelmed by emotion that your system is functionally depressed by the intensity of those feelings. As much as grief is an echo of loving and missing someone truly special, the sad, angry, lonely pieces of me turn grief into depression. My depressed self is insecure and constantly doubts who I am or how I’m doing. It’s not a version of myself that I think Chris would be proud of, and that is difficult to digest.

The silver lining is that depression doesn’t stop me.  I think that is an important distinction. I’ve been able to hide behind school, work, home improvement projects, and running as ways of distracting myself. Sometimes those distractions are necessary—the grief and sadness will subside in due course. I still shower, and take Schrodie for walks. I clean my house, and organize things. I feel purposeful in the work I do. I am trying to be better about making social plans.

I’m trying to build a future for myself, and working on having patience with the process. Patience is not my strength. Not moving quickly enough, both on a race course and in life, contribute to feeling depressed. I think part of me hoped that I would somehow have a qualifying time when it came to grieving—that’s just not the case.

Again, my hope with this post is create a conversation around reality—to own how perfectionism hinders my life and how I’ve been holding myself back in the process. I can only imagine the extent to which I am not alone in this battle. Maybe owning up to it helps someone else feel a little less lonely too.

Crazy

The inglorious world of being a widow... where trying to move forward is messy and confusing. Dating and grief are a very odd combination.

I recently made the mistake of picking up a book called “Why Men Love Bitchs.” I was curious, to say the least. Curiosity quickly gave way to shame and a sense of disgust. If being a “bitch” is the game, I am not sure I want to play. Instead of identifying a sense of empowerment, I felt like too much of the wrong things, and not enough of the good. This trope is a painful one for me. Too tall, too smart, too sad. Not enough whimsy.

I think most of us learn our greatest lessons painfully, by experience. Before I met Chris, I learned a valuable lesson in dating from someone who treated me poorly and left me feeling miserable. I promised myself I would never date someone who treated me like an accommodation. Tolerable but not enough.

One of my more vulnerable qualities in dating is that I am too trusting—I naively believe that people say what they mean. Why would anyone possibly wish to swindle me with embellishments? For someone who is reasonably intelligent, I can be pretty stupid at times. I have had several men dupe me, telling me they think communication is really important to a relationship and then follow up with aloofness and passive-aggressive silent treatment. They say they don't want drama, then prove that it's what they thrive upon.

With Chris, I was lucky. He was sincere, his words matched his efforts. Falling in love was a reckless whirlwind. Was I annoying and probably too needy at times, absolutely. But I was also kind and genuine, I treated him with respect. Chris showed me the same. We had our disagreements. I did not have to agree with Chris all the time or constantly appease his ego—he actually enjoyed pushing my buttons. I think he loved me for my passion and conviction. I did not have to be someone else to be valued. I didn’t have to tamp down my kindness or affection, hold back on my opinions or concerns, to be appreciated. I had my boundaries but I did not feel a need to hold myself back either.

On a fundamental level, I believe “Why Men Love Bitchs” is trying to highlight the importance of having solid boundaries. Not every guy is a good guy you can recklessly fall for. To a certain extent, it encourages women to set limits and not over-accommodate. Admirable points.

What I find disturbing about the book, and dating culture in general, is that it assigns women the responsibility of being “perfect” in order to get the guy. Be cool. Don’t talk about your bad days. Don’t overtly challenge your partner lest his ego should crumble. Be subtle in order to get your way. If you are generous, don’t be… he’ll come to expect it. Set the tone early by holding back who you are. Basically: do not have needs because it is unacceptable for a man to experience your humanity. I think this notion is degrading to both men and women.

The book also perpetuates an impossible standard for women: don’t be needy, but show him he is needed. In others words, be able to fulfill your own emotional needs, but don’t be self-sufficient enough to take out the trash, change a flat tire, or remove a spider from your home. Be unable to sustain yourself in practical ways, but practice self-efficacy. Someone needs to brush up on Maslow’s Hierarchy.

I believe we teach people how to treat us—both in action and through feedback. Show compassion if you wish to receive it. If something is not working, the easiest course is to say it. Ask for what matters. Or so I thought. Apparently open communication is needy. It’s far better to be manipulative, indirectly state what you want so the other person thinks it’s his/her idea. Or, if you are a man, you get to be passive-aggressive, let the frustration build to boiling temperature and then blame your partner for not being able to read your mind or appropriately understand your avoidant behavior. And then call her crazy for feeling confused and angry.

Frankly, It’s privileged bull shit. I’ve watched men who complain about the “everyone gets a trophy” mentality turn into entitled, offended whiners who unravel when challenged—It’s all fun and games until it isn’t their way.

I fear we are too culturally complicit in saying that relationships should work according to a man’s game only-- however dysfunctional that game may be. According to the book, it’s in a man’s nature to be competitive, once he feels he has a woman, he will subsequently become disinterested. And that becomes the woman’s problem.  It is the woman’s responsibility to remain a constant enigma and keep him captivated. (Sounds a little like the logic that says it’s a woman’s responsibility to not get herself raped?)

What happened to a sense of mutual responsibility? Women are told to take a page from the man’s playbook in order to gain a successful relationship: be aloof, make it a competition, keep him guessing. Perhaps I am missing the part where secrecy and scarcity build intimacy and vulnerability? And yet, dominant cultural guidelines tell men that vulnerability is unacceptable, emasculating. How demeaning. I watch how that cultural myth has literally broken men in my office.

I think there is strength in how women relate to one another. We do not build friendships through competition and aloofness, we build lasting connection through compassion and giving. We’ve been given the privilege of being able to express emotion to a greater extent than our male partners. But we’ve also been taught that nurturing means taking on the lion’s share of responsibility. Research in human development suggests that women develop both cognitively and ethically within the context of relationships (see Gilligan, Belenky, et al). While these theories do not encapsulate every woman per se, they highlight the powerful context of community. Our goodness/morality are often defined in terms of our relationships and service to others.

So where is the middle ground? Women are supposed to unlearn a lifetime of acculturation to earn the heart of a man by accommodating patriarchal mores? Am I hallucinating to think that perhaps both parties have something to gain from seeking a happy medium? And that maybe femininity offers some valuable insight into connected, meaningful relationships? (I realize I am speaking in vastly heteronormative terms right now. This is the experience I know.)

What happened to the idea that two people with unique perspectives and talents create a team? Where the real magic is being able to meet a challenge and stand together at the end of it. Like putting together IKEA furniture. Or having that first vulnerable disagreement. I feel like the courage to really engage is lacking in the dating pool I am now encountering. It’s maddening.

In my confusion, I read a book that turns out to be a manual in the many ways I am completely unworthy of finding a partner (in part because I carry this insane notion that being kind and nice is important to me). I am unworthy because I cook meals for people, and foolishly offer compassion because I am far from perfect and hope at some point to receive some grace myself.

At the end of the day, I am left confused. I feel like I am wrong to want to want a Chapter Two. 

Maybe that is greedy, or makes me selfish. Frankly, it is heartbreaking to always be the odd person out. To be the single rider at family functions, where everyone else has their little piece of a family.

It would be nice to rest in the comfort of knowing that if I died in my sleep, someone would prevent Schrodie from starving (I worry about these things). It would be lovely to count on someone to walk Schrodie when I am too sick to stand up—because that is a very real part of being alone.

Maybe I am not “whole enough” for wanting a partnership—but there are ways that going it alone just doesn’t work. Can I do it? Sure. Being a military spouse guarantees ample alone time and independence. I’ve got that part nailed down. But all of it feels like so much less after having gained so much before.

I am probably wrong for feeling hurt and angry—I suppose it’s my own sense of entitlement that brings me down. I am choosy. I want the full package-- after Chris, how do I settle for less? But you don’t get the full package when you are damaged goods.

In the end, I’d rather be me and single. Lonely and painful as it might be. Even nice girls can be bitches when pushed too far. If that makes me crazy, I’ll take my straight jacket in a small, extra length in the sleeves.

(For the record, I realize I am writing in broad generalizations, there are plenty of good men in this world. Most of those men have already found love and are happily yoked to incredible woman.  What is hurtful is navigating a dating culture that encourages narcissism in men and inherently gaslights women in the process.)

Acceptance

Nearly three years ago, I remember walking through the cemetery near Chris’s grave, glancing at headstones as I passed. I saw one from 2004 and thought “how am I going to do this for 10 years?” I was so tired, and the feeling so permanent. How does life move forward?

Yet somehow it does. 

Each day, week, month is filled with a multitude of lessons. Some lessons are powerful and hope-filled, as I become aware of my own resiliency. Others are more challenging.

Lately I have wrestling with acceptance. When I met Chris I found a place where I felt valued and accepted. Imperfections and all. Losing Chris meant losing that piece of safety. Grieving has meant having to wrestle with how to understand acceptance of myself—in all my fully flawed glory.

As someone who has always seen her value in this world as attached to an ability to give and perform, my inability to fully perform over the last few years has been challenging. I am not always the family member I hope to be. I could be a better friend in many ways. I could be a better parent to my dog. I could be a better therapist. And yet, I fail constantly in all of these areas. There is a deep humility in that failure.

I am slowly learning that my performance does not fully embody my ability to have worth.

I am still navigating what it means to have needs in this world without Chris. For someone who fears imposing on other people, expressing my needs feels like an act of vulnerability. I give people the power to reject or accept me. The rejection cuts deeply.

In the beginning it was easier not to need—to insulate myself and be self-sufficient. But that independence only heals so much. As creatures of this world, we are hard-wired for a sense of connection and belonging. We need to feel accepted. I need to feel accepted.

The rub is learning to accept the acceptance. To own my worthiness.

Over the past several months I have been willing to open myself up to connection. Establishing new friendships has been important, establishing a sense of community. Starting to date again has been a trial. I keep laying hope on the line, taking the chance to voice my needs, finding rejection. The process has been difficult to integrate into understanding how my needs might have a place.

Then I remember Chris, and all the times I told him what I needed. That I need reciprocity—someone who is willing to make an effort. Not leaving things unsaid. Being intentional in how we treated each other. Cultivating a friendship in a romance. I needed to feel like it was safe to be me.

The beauty of our relationship is that I was able to be a little messy, have emotions, and still be loved. I can look to my close friends and experience this same humbling acceptance as well.

I need to learn how to accept my messy self, to own my insecurities in the process, and not look to others to validate an acceptance I am unwilling to give myself. I can’t be perfect. I tried for years, and just ended up tired and hungry. I am left with a choice to either hold back that messy self and never feel seen, or face rejection in order to discover possibilities for connection and belonging.

Standing at that gravestone, I felt so alone and hopeless. Learning to open up to hope, inspite of all the rejection is a journey I am still stumbling through. The best I have is to try. I know that is something Chris would tell me.