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.