Not okay, but that's okay

I am not okay. But that is okay.

This is another one of those posts that contains honesty that has taken me some time to come to terms with personally. Though many of my posts reflect what I am thinking and feeling, they often come through a filter that must somehow “prove” my ability to carry on. At this point, I have to believe my resiliency speaks for itself.

To say I am not okay is to say that I am living with deep pain. That I continue to feel that pain tells me I have not completely lost my ability to feel. I am not numb, and I think that is a good thing. I accept that I am not okay, not because I enjoy feeling this way, but because grief is the cost of loving someone deeply. 

I am not okay because life is not fair. Good people die and some truly awful human beings live flourishing lives. 

This is not me playing the victim-- I cannot control the circumstance, but I can make choices that help me heal. I was never guaranteed happiness, and I had more than my fair share with Chris while he was here. I know I was lucky. Now that he is gone, his absence will never feel warranted, and that is okay.

I am learning the immense power of being able to sit with someone in their pain and not try to rescue them from the intensity of what they feel. There are no words that ultimately make the hurting stop. There are no answers, or promises that will make me feel any better. There is only the intense and devastating loneliness of life without my best friend. That pain is supposed to be ugly. 

I see the goodness of the intentions with which people approach me. The ways they try to make it seem better.  Death is not fixable. This loss is permanent and my pain will always be there… and that is okay. Over time, the pain will look different. It will feel more bearable, but it won’t disappear. What I need more than promises that are vaguely naïve, and sometimes condescending, is acceptance that perhaps what I am feeling is a reality most people my age have yet to experience. I am mourning the death of my life, my future, in the process of grieving for my husband. For all the things the world lost in Chris, I also lost my peace and my acceptance – two gifts he brought into my life. While that may sound immensely selfish, peace and acceptance are two things I miss in this new world where I feel emotionally chaotic, different, and alone.

To negate my reality by doling out “at leasts” or making promises “you will find someone else” is to avoid acknowledging how deeply and viciously Chris’ absence pulls at my soul. It doesn’t make me feel better, it makes the person saying it more comfortable. At this point in my life, I feel like it also insults not only my marriage, but my intelligence. There are not enough at leasts in the world to climb my way to a silver lining. Four lives were lost in a senseless accident.  I realize most people have experienced death, but to fail to acknowledge the uniqueness of losing a spouse so young is ignore the intensity of the loss. 

Let me also say that losing a relationship is not the same as the death of a partner. While painful in it’s own right, ending a relationship is a consequence of something that is no longer working (whether just or not). I am not arguing that betrayal and rejection are not painful, I am saying they are different . I have no reason to not love Chris, and I struggle to know what to do with that love now that he is gone. As a widow, I don’t get to turn my gaze to the next partner to satisfy how lonely I feel— I have to come to peace with my longing for Chris on my own. To seek affirmation in someone else is to violate their heart for the sake of masking my pain. It also dishonors the integrity of what I had with Chris. It would be nice to feel safe again, the way I felt with Chris, but that is a luxury I do not possess. I have to create my own strength—which includes accepting the very real possibility that I will live the rest of my life alone. Being a widow isn’t exactly an attractive feature (especially as a thirty something). It took a long time to find the magic that was Chris and I am doubtful that lightening strikes twice.  Not for someone like me.

I understand this reality and I wish more people could have the courage to honor that truth. My life is broken, but I am still here trying to make something of the pieces. I am learning the power of showing myself some grace and accepting the flawed parts of this process. As much as I would like to grieve with dignity, that isn’t realistic. There are days where I am immensely bitter, but I cannot beat myself up over that bitterness. Other days I am hopeful that I will survive. At times I am immensely angry and sad. Most days I find at least one reason to laugh because I know that is what Chris would want for me. I still cry most days too, and that is okay. I am in progress, and all things considered, I think that is a pretty okay place to be right now.

Nostalgia

Finding beer on our journey... of course.

Cool fall mornings have made me feel nostalgic for a time when I once felt so turbulent: moving overseas and establishing a home in the United Kingdom. A year ago, Chris and I were living in a Transitional Living Facility (TLF) with our dog and cat, praying that our lease would start before we would have to board the animals. We were lucky. The days matched up perfectly. So we moved from a place with furniture and internet to a lovely row house with nothing in it.

 Our house was sparse because we moved to England in camping backpacks. It took us almost five days and three countries (four if you count the U.S.) to tote our beloved furry critters alongside us. In our minds, the animals were the essentials—and it was a hell of a lot cheaper to move them this way. You can imagine how very little ultimately fits in a hiking pack. Despite mailing a few boxes of household items to ourselves, we were without quite a few basic comforts. Especially when our luggage arrived after our household goods.  

Our trip to Dover.

 Most days, it wasn’t bad. We traveled, we took in the country- side. We made good use of our class six cards, and found a new date night tradition: Wednesday trivia at the bar on base. I remember Chris coming home from work one evening to find me sitting on the stairs crying. I told him, “I hate it here.” Even though I didn’t really mean it. I was bogged down that day in all the things we didn’t have. I lost sight of the adventure for a moment. But I had Chris, and I knew everything was going to be ok. 

Chris and Schrodie playing in our empty house.

Thinking back to all the little memories of our autumn in England, I am overwhelmed with longing for even the most frustrating of moments. I miss my best friend so dearly. I miss walking our dog on the soccer pitches, letting him run loose and sniff the chickens that lived in the community garden behind our house. I miss ordering drinks for Chris at Starbucks in the BX—“Do you want a cold Chris or a hot Chris today?”

I miss our friends. There is always that weird moment when moving some place new. Are the new people going to like me? With a squadron it’s different—you get to reunite with “old” friends in the process of making new ones.  People like Sean and Rachel, or Kyle and Kristen … the ones who make you excited to move. You aren’t a complete stranger to everyone. And the people we met in England are amazing. I never thought I would say I miss crud, but I do! Mostly, I miss the lovely women I got to practice with every Tuesday. 

In the midst of all the newness and chaos of figuring a new culture (without pissing anyone off too royally), I had my partner in crime by my side. We made a great team. One of my favorite shared brain moments was when we both ordered hot pink seat covers from Amazon for our beat up 97 Gulf.  I promptly canceled my order. The pink seats were a source of pride—Chris loved having something a little unexpected, just to see how others would react. 

All that is to stay, we kept each other grounded when things were most difficult. Chris had a great way of doing that for me. Despite that day on the stairs, and a few other meltdowns, most days I was so entirely grateful for the chance to live out our dream of living and traveling overseas. And that I had the best travel companion ever. 

The following is from the blog I initially intended to start about our mishaps and travels overseas. In the blog I talk about wanting to regain a sense of normalcy. I have no idea what normal is anymore. It’s amazing how much I would trade to be standing in the galley kitchen of our home, swearing at a coffeemaker before angrily climbing back into bed with Chris so he could tell me it was alright.

The Coffee-Maker

“I kicked a coffee pot the other day. While I realize that kicking the coffee maker was not going to improve its ability to perform, kicking the damn thing seemed like the most satisfying option at the time. Our first Saturday in our new house I was looking forward to the basic creature comfort a cup of coffee can offer. Especially when we have no furniture, no internet, no shoes to protect my feet from the cold. What little we have in the house are the few items we managed to scrounge together at IKEA. Including one lonely coffee mug that I purchased with the foresight that I would soon buy an inexpensive coffeemaker—something that could serve my much needed morning coffee and could be easily parted with in a year or two, should I wear it out. 

What I did not expect was for the coffee maker to wear out so quickly. After a successful maiden brew the morning before, I was greatly anticipating my first cup of Saturday morning coffee. It’s a simple joy to sit with my coffee any day of the week; I especially look forward to a cup on lazy Saturday mornings when the dog has decided 8 a.m. is long enough to wait before waking me (never his father) up. Not to mention when the morning air feels so unusually crisp to my southern-thinned blood after getting up with the dog. 

I filled the coffee maker (still gently smelling like new plastic), and scooped ample amounts of decaf Dunkin Donuts into the filter. The deceptive power switch lit up orange as I turned the machine on. But nothing happened. No water, no heat, no coffee. And no patience from a caffeine freak. Swearing, I tried to persuade the coffee maker into doing something. That didn’t work. So, eventually, I kicked it.  That is, after I had begrudgingly returned the coffee grounds to the bag, and dumped the water out of the reservoir.

An angry morning run, and a few hours later, I eventually procured some coffee on base. The day was not completely lost. What I foolishly did not realize at the time was that the lovely 110 volt coffee maker I so smartly plugged into an adapter had burnt out the heating element after one use. In the UK, appliances are 220 volt. An adapter only converts the plug not, the voltage.

My over-reaction to the coffee maker is just one of many moments in which I have lost my cool over something rather benign in the last few weeks. I knew moving would require patience, I knew we would encounter challenges that would require time, energy, and a new sense of cultural competency. I paid enough attention in my intercultural communications class to know that culture shock is an inevitability, regardless of how excited we are to be here. What surprised me is that dealing with all the big things, like finding a house quickly so we didn’t have to board our animals, or establishing a pound account so we could do anything else, would take up so much energy that when it comes to the small stuff, I have already reached my limit.

While no coffee is often a bad sign for me, what the coffee-maker incident made me realize the most is that I am ready for the move to be over. We are still living in a period of transition. We have enough to get by for a while, which is something for which we can both be grateful. At the same time, we are going on three months of living without the things that make our life feel somewhat normal. Like a cup of coffee. Or the couch that seems to be the center of our home, where our dogs sits patiently and waits for us to come home. The couch, where I sit with our dog and drink my Saturday morning coffee, and appreciate the simple comfort that all three of those things can give an often anxious soul like mine. 

I know our things will get here eventually. Not every day will feel like some uphill journey to center ourselves and our home. In the mean time, I bought a new coffee maker-- a 220 volt 5-cup number. It’s enough to keep me moving without making myself a martyr to the French press that is being held ransom by British customs, along with all of our other household goods. “

Feeling words

“Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in "sadness," "joy," or "regret." Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I'd like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, "the happiness that attends disaster." Or: "the disappointment of sleeping with one's fantasy." I'd like to show how "intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members" connects with "the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age." I'd like to have a word for "the sadness inspired by failing restaurants" as well as for "the excitement of getting a room with a minibar." I've never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I've entered my story, I need them more than ever. ”
― Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex

I love reading quotes that remind me I am not the only one who thinks such things. How does one describe the deep intensity of emotion and experience in tiny little words that can never touch the truth of what is felt? Sadness doesn’t speak of the deeply entrenched scars of loss. Joy doesn’t articulate that spinning elation that makes you so light headed, you think you may explode with all the warmth inside your heart. 

I have been asked, and pushed, to describe how I feel—even though I am not quite sure how I am supposed to articulate what is happening inside me. Words seem so small and inadequate.  A feeling word is simply not enough. I need those “Germanic train-car constructions” to convey what this is like. 

I am lonely like an empty belly, starving, craving, longing for the unquenchable, knowing it will never come in this lifetime. I am making peace with hunger, accepting that I will always ache for something I can no longer have. My heart, so expanded by love, is left with a hole, the size of Chris, that no one can ever fill. Surrounded by the love of others, that longing will remain, even as I appreciate the companionship I still have. 

I am sad with a weight that feels like a boulder smashing into my stomach. It hits so hard, at times, I lose my breath to such a degree that I am not always certain I will find it again. I am physically heavy with despair, knowing our family, his dearest friends, long for him like I do. At times it feels unbearable. 

I feel a sense of injustice and bitterness, like a poorly balanced beer—all bite and no sweetness. It the injustice of finding that perfect treasure, only to lose it to the sea, somewhere so deep no one can touch it.  I feel robbed of the goodness we were building, of the special bond we shared as not only husband and wife, but as best friends. I feel robbed of our future and all the possibilities we held between us. 

I feel like less without the person who brought out the best in me, unsure if I am able to draw all those pieces out on my own. I was more because of my love for Chris, for everything he brought to my life. Without him, I am deflated—a balloon that has contracted back to a wrinkly, withered version of its former self. 

At times, I am angry with an irrational rage that seethes like lava underneath a volcano. There is no one to blame. I can tell the universe, God, that this is not okay, but that does not change what happened. There are no apologies to be had, no way to make this right. While I feel abandoned, this wasn’t Chris’ choice. It seems unfair to fight someone who cannot argue back.

I feel disjointed like a door swinging off its hinges. Between all of these difficult emotions lies the intense love and gratitude that I have for Chris. For who he was, for everything he meant to me. That love is what makes the loss so difficult. One feeling cannot exist without the other, though they seem so far apart. Love expands my heart, loss contracts it. Grief is like a heartbeat- arrhythmic but steady.

Every day is different. Some days I stay with one feeling, other days, I experience a broad range. I don’t often express every feeling out loud because experiencing the emotion is enough work—I don’t need everyone to understand what this is like. I already hate that four other people are burdened with similar journeys. I would rather keep quiet than experience pity or constantly explain my grief. For me, articulating what I feel doesn't validate my experience. Its part of who I am. And sometimes I simply don't find it necessary to explain myself. I want to just be. 

Phoenix Rising

As a kid, I used to love watching X-Men with my brother. I don’t think I realized it at the time, but I think I was drawn to the idea of superheroes who were flawed. The most poetic thing about the X-Men, for me, is that their mutations are part of their exceptionality—though different they are shaped and strengthened by their difference. Reflecting on my childhood, I think I am realizing that I felt like I was on the outside of a lot experiences. I lived in my own head quite a bit, even as a young kid. It made me weird, it made me different in a way that distanced me from peers. But I also think it is something that makes me insightful—and that is something I see as a strength. 

I don’t need everyone to get me. I think there is something to be said for finding a certain amount of resilience in myself and personal acceptance. That’s not to say that I don’t need love and support. If that were the case, I would have never sought the path that led me to Chris. I believed in the possibility that there was somebody in this world who could love me for me. I believed I had something to give. And I found someone who loved my analytical brain, who lovingly teased me, but appreciated me for the complexity of my thoughts. Someone else who could be equally mentally exhausting… in the best sort of way. 

I miss that so much. I miss that shared understanding. I miss the way watching an episode of Walking Dead could lead to an in-depth logistical discussion about surviving a zombie apocalypse. I miss how a beer at a beach bar could lead to a discussion of metaphysics. I miss his ability to separate worry from thinking. I miss his ability to make everything feel like it was going to be okay. As long as we had each other, and the dog, it was always going to be okay. 

But now he is gone. And things are not okay. On top of dealing with my emotions, I find myself frustrated with having to explain my grief and constantly justify how I am coping. Right now, I feel like I am defending my will to meaning because people want me to be angry and sad. The trouble with anger and sadness is, there is no where to put them. Yes, I am angry, but there is no one to confront. There is no one to blame or ask to make it better. I am sad, I will be sad. It’s there all the time like an undercurrent. I trust myself enough to let the sadness rise when it needs to, and then continue with my day. If I let sadness and worry impact my life all the time, I would never have survived that first deployment.

Holding on to the things Chris taught me is part of what brings me healing. Chris always made the most of every opportunity, no matter how shitty the circumstances. I am trying to do that for myself now. Asking me to be sad and angry makes me feel like I am supposed to let go of that part of Chris too, and that is something I am unwilling to do. 

All loss is hard. Losing a spouse too soon is different. I am not comparing levels of sadness or difficulty by saying so. Pain is relative and personal. With a spouse, it’s not just about losing that person, it’s about losing your own future in the process. I would imagine parents who lose a child young must feel a similar loss. It’s not just that I am sad about Chris—that is a big part of it—but I died that day too. My world ended with that helicopter crash. Our last act as a “we” was to lose our future. 

In addition to grieving Chris, I am starting over. Like Jean from X-Men, I am a Phoenix rising out of the ashes. I am changed. I am less naïve. I am scarred. I am forging my own opportunities and meaning, and I am proud of what that looks like so far. It isn’t easy, but I don’t expect it to be. I am trying not to let it make me bitter and jaded. 

There is no real clear set path with what grieving is supposed to look like. Someone (Kubler-Ross) put together these tidy little stages that describe death and dying, but in reality, those stages are messy and complicated. Logic flies out the window in the face of extreme sadness. Bargaining over things you can’t change (like a helo accident) makes no sense. Yet, I still seek blame-- I can find a million reasons to blame myself, and I had absolutely no control over the circumstances. How’s that for a lack of logic? 

With all that mess, I am working through it as I have the strength. Someone asked me today what it would look like to experience the mess as a whole. For me, it would be dying all over again. It would be throwing myself back in the fire. I can’t live in the fire. Taking it step by step is how I can even comprehend rising beyond pain. I am reborn, forged from struggle, and have endless opportunity ahead of me. It’s not fair, it’s not what I want, but I know it’s what Chris would tell me to do. It’s how I can hold on to a part of him that drew me to him in the first place. 

Like Jean, I am the flawed intuitive. As the Phoenix, she is driven by anger and fury. While I can resonate with that emotion at times, that’s not where I want to live. Stepping beyond those feeling is a piece of my former self I can hold on to—the woman who crafted her own happiness, and was lucky enough to do so with the man she loved.