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.
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