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.
