Choosing battles and lattes

I have a serious addiction to a local coffee shop. Lately I have been stopping every day. I either bring my laptop and respond to emails over a frothy latte, or grab a to-go order as I run random errands around town. I generally rotate between three locations to avoid becoming a true regular. I feel a greater sense of whimsy when ordering at a different place each day. On a very logical level, I don’t need to have a latte, but I want one. And that small amount of comfort is something I refuse to beat myself up over indulging. 

Thinking about my daily latte made me realize that grief, just like life, is a matter of choosing my battles. There are just certain things into which it is not worth investing tremendous amounts of effort. My coffee habit, while superficial, is one of those. Indulging in fits of crying is another. While I don’t care much for crying in front of people most of time (tends to lead to explaining and I don’t feel like doing that), I spend plenty of time getting the tears out of my system. The less I fight the sad moments, the more they tend to pass over me and allow newer feelings to emerge. Coffee and crying make me feel better—for very different reasons.

Anger is a newer emotion that I am allowing to settle into my life at the moment. It’s not something I generally feed, but I acknowledge its presence in my grieving. While sadness and anger are not emotions I particularly enjoy, I don’t fight with them because I know they serve a purpose. Sadness and crying are my release from the devastation and loss I feel. Crying allows me to mourn Chris. Anger gives me resiliency. It makes me want to fight back. 

Giving myself some grace is something that I have struggled with my entire life. Chris was my grace in a lot of ways—he was more forgiving and loving of my flaws that I could ever offer myself. Losing him silenced the voice that challenged what really mattered. He had a way of putting everything into perspective.

In keeping him close to my heart, I am trying to reclaim that voice for myself. To honor what I have learned from him by choosing my battles now. Not worrying about my sadness or anger allows me to invest more energy in the places I need it—on finding ways to heal and keeping myself away from negative emotions that prevent that healing process. 

I know it’s very normal to experience a range of emotions when dealing with loss, most of which are inevitably part of process. However, for me personally, there are certain emotions that I feel hinder my ability to be the person I think Chris wants me to be. I invest my energy in creating small moments of joy for myself, like getting a delicious latte, because I do not want to be bitter and mean. I don’t want to face a joyless life (even if my greatest joy is no longer living). I don’t want to begrudge other peoples’ happiness either… which is why seeking my own contentment is important.

Wanting to be happy can feel like a betrayal—even though I know Chris wants me to make the most of life. However, being miserable feels like an even greater betrayal to Chris’ memory, so I am choosing to aim for thriving as best I can. I want the battles I choose to be worth the effort, battles I feel Chris would applaud (like qualifying for Boston). 

Despite my efforts, I am very far from perfect. There is no perfect way to grieve anyway. And even though I try not to beat myself up, it happens from time to time. Old habits die hard. (If only I could have laid those to rest instead). The thought that keeps driving me forward is meeting Chris in heaven one day, and having him be proud of what I was able to do when I wanted to give up the most.

Cloudy with a Chance of Rain

After spending the last two weeks hoping to adequately articulate how strange bereavement can be, I think I may have finally found the most appropriate analogy. Life with Chris was like sunshine. His presence made everything brighter, happier. Grief is like facing a future of overcast days. Some days it rains. Some days are just dull in comparison. Life is still happening—for me it simply lacks the brilliance and warmth it once held. 

As with the sun on an overcast day, I know Chris is still there. He is out of reach, not present in the way I wish, but I know he is there. At times, it brings an element of comedy and laughter into my day. Every time I go to Colorado, it snows. I have to believe Chris thinks that is funny (he knows I don’t really love the cold). Other days, he lends me a sense of ease when I feel so heavy I don’t want to move. Every day he drives me not to give up.

I am so sad and broken every day. But, I also laugh and play, and find ways to fill the day with something that matters. I think that is important for other people to understand. Grief isn’t an either-or phenomenon, it is highly complex. Being sad doesn’t mean I don’t have the capacity to understand joy, or celebrate the happiness I see around me. Being happy for other people brings me outside myself. Is it hard sometimes? Yes. I am not a martyr, I am far from self-less. But I still believe it is important to distinguish the difference between my pain and the world of potential around me. Life goes on. 

This past weekend I had the privilege of watching a dear friend complete a series of road races. Seeing her achieve her goals, and having a little fun surprising her, brought me a great sense of joy. The weekend was about celebrating her accomplishments—I truly enjoyed being a part of that experience. While I can say that I had fun, I also felt moments of tremendous sadness. And that is okay. My life is permeated with reasons I miss Chris, as it should be.

I find it hard to be as authentic as I wish with most people because I find few people are truly comfortable with the complexity of grief. Just because I cry when I hear certain songs on the radio (or every time I hear the National Anthem) doesn’t mean I won’t be okay. Crying doesn’t mean I have forgotten how to smile. I am supposed to be sad, and I have learned to take those moments in stride. I am awful and fine at the same time… and I realize that probably makes very little sense unless you have experienced deep grief. 

The important thing is, my grief isn’t stopping me. Buying a house has been emotional, but it hasn’t stopped me. If I ever qualify for Boston, I will probably have a slight emotional breakdown, but it won’t stop me from going after that dream. I am not afraid of my sadness. Perhaps a little tired of it, but not afraid. The worst already happened anyway, there isn’t much left to fear. 

The bitter reality of loving Chris is that missing him was always going to feel like hell. He was just that beautiful and addictive. During deployments, I would tell Chris that I considered missing him to be a good thing. Even though it sucked—it meant that I loved being with him. That’s generally a good sign when you plan on marrying someone. I am left with the price of missing Chris. I pay it every day. While I do not enjoy sadness, I find some peace in knowing that it is because I have loved (still love) so deeply.