Invisible

This weekend offered an opportunity to share Chris’s story with the media for special segment that will be featured on Thanksgiving day. Talking about Chris and sharing his legacy with others is a beautiful privilege, but it is also difficult. I am both grateful to represent Chris and completely wrecked by the experience. Part of me survives by packing up those memories in a place where I do not think about what I am missing all of time. That seems to be how grief works for me as a military widow, packing part of myself away, playing a very invisible role in the midst of missing the person who saw me at the most intimate levels.

I recently read a post entitled “I wish you knew,” written by a widow discussing what it’s like after losing her husband. It struck me how much we long to be understood, but often struggle with sharing ourselves enough to be understood. It’s a really lonely place to be, and I imagine it doesn’t take being a widow to feel isolated or unseen. Our culture implies that only the weak need affirmation—being strong is about not caring what other people think.

From a military widow perspective, I wish people understood how lonely and insignificant it feels to be the invisible person in the room. I am not a person, I am a symbol of someone who mattered far more than me. I am only seen when I am meant to represent someone else, my value is relative to my relationship with a hero. (In many ways, that is as it should be. Chris was a remarkable man, and his legacy is something I hope to carry forward as best I can.)

I wish people knew what it’s like to serve as the commemorative element in ceremonies—the person who is meant to gracefully appease the discomfort of others who are pausing from their lives to remember Chris is gone. To quell the guilt, temper the pity, and offer assurances that everything will be okay. To be the person whose presence is a pardon and whose silence is a blessing as others pay tribute.

I wish people knew what it’s like to smile for the camera, talk about Chris, recall his importance in the world, then walk away from the din of the crowd to sit in the back of a crowded room, alone and devastated.

I wish people knew what it’s like to walk into a chapel service to honor his memory, bow to pray to a God you don’t believe in, and stand alone as the sound of Taps rips your heart out. To walk out swiftly and silently back to the car before despair unleashes itself.

If only people knew what it was like to forget to be happy. To be reminded that being sad is a sign of your ineffective effort to move forward. That strong people find ways to be happy, and therefore you are not strong. To be told that if you are just a little more grateful or try a little harder that your life will get better. I wish people understood how trauma reduces hope to an illusion.

I wish people knew how complicated it feels to recall the most beautiful memories, reliving joy and experiencing tremendous loss all at once. To struggle through holidays and anniversaries as the odd person out—the pity guest and perpetual third wheel.

I wish people understood how complex it is to want to be both invisible and noticed at the same time. To not want pity, while being acknowledged for how hard the work is. To want to be seen for something more than being a widow, but always measured by that status.  To have others decide what is best for me or display ambivalence rather than just ask me what I need.

I wish people understood what it’s like to make plans to die alone. When you are widowed without children, that is the cold truth of the future.

It feels like people want the heroic story without ever knowing the price. They want the beauty but not the destruction—which means the ugly, broken parts of me exist only in the shadows.

I am not the remarkable widow. I have no special talents. I am not a successful business woman asking people to lean in. I am not a motivational speaker or inspiring athlete. I am not the beautiful, melancholy widow someone is hoping to rescue. Nor am I the tenacious, engaging widow surrounded by droves of friends. I have never been those things, neither before nor after losing Chris. I happen to be a very average person who married a very incredible man. Being pulled into the spotlight often reinforces that truth. As much I as I want to believe there is something special about me that Chris loved, the reality is, he loved me because of how special he was.

Trying to build a career, join communities, and find a new relationship have reminded me that I never quite belong. I am not a part of the Air Force community any longer. I am not a military spouse. I am not a mother swapping tips with my friends. I am not the dynamic, skilled clinician whose opinion holds merit. I am not the veteran, and therefore cannot understand military experience.

I am just the quiet, average person in the back of the crowd. Trying not to be too awkward.

It’s hard to fit anywhere when part of you goes unseen. And maybe that is how it is supposed to be post loss, living in a world where nothing fits no matter how hard you try.

This is what it’s like for me, being the military widow. The one who just cannot seem to move forward, missing the person who offered safety, acceptance, and belonging. Without safety and belonging, self-efficacy is just a pipe dream.

Cumulative Effect

In marathon training, the process of training to and through fatigue is known as the cumulative effective. This process prepares the body over an extended period of time to withstand the physical (and mental) demands of the race itself. Growth does not happen on the easy days, the real training starts when the body wants to give up. Learning to push through the pain is part of learning to run the distance.

The cumulative effective feels like the perfect metaphor for the past four years of my life. I’ve been training and testing my strength and resiliency in the midst of fatigue, questioning if I have what it takes to go the distance. Running has been my steady companion through so much of my grieving process, literally and figuratively helping me move forward past the day that brought my entire world to it’s knees.

Similar to making the decision to tackle a marathon, my decision to pursue a career in counseling was a bit impulsive and naive, though well-intentioned. And perhaps I jumped a little faster off the start line than was wise... I’ve never been good at pacing myself. However, in the swirling shit storm of early grief, I do believe I saw a glimpse of the potential Chris saw in me when I choose this path. He believed in my ability to help others long before I considered my own strength. I realize, in hindsight, how clearly he saw my potential when I could not. (He was also the one to cheer on a BQ time before I ever crossed my first marathon finish line.)

Having a goal helped me get through the first stretch. In the first year, I expected things to be difficult. As life goes, there were ups and downs. I questioned myself and isolated, believing I could piece myself back together without anyone noticing the mess. But I gave myself permission to be a "beginner." Like starting a new training plan, every day was struggle. I learned to live with the pain a little more each day until it wasn’t so sharp.

I believed hitting milestones would change how I felt. Hitting the first year marker. Getting through that first set of anniversaries and holidays. Getting an internship, graduating. These were all signs of moving forward. Progress… if only for progress’s sake. Until I plateaued. 

In running, endurance and strength are two elements that make up the training process. Running the miles builds endurance. Tackling hills, repetition, resistance help build strength. In grieving, I had to learn to tackle the resistance, not just tolerate the mileage. The last year has been a period of resistance in my life, the place where I “hit the wall” and struggled to regain my stride.

What has been most difficult during this period has been internalizing the struggle as a flaw within me. I’ve taken the steep climbs and pitfalls as evidence that I am not strong enough or resilient enough. I’ve compared myself to other people, feeling that both my process and progress have fallen short far too often. I’ve blamed myself for being tired, for just wanting to coast for a change instead of fighting.

When the narrative in my head has become more than I can handle, I’ve complained on Facebook. Probably not the best way to ask for support, but I’ve been grateful for the cheering section nonetheless. I’ve needed that external voice to remind me that I’ve come farther than I can see in the moment.

In one of my most recent periods of frustration and anxiety over not moving fast enough, my counselor asked me to take a look behind me-- to see all the miles I have covered over time, not just how far I have to go. The distance was humbling. It stopped me with greater force than Schrodie when he has to pee mid-run.

As much as I cannot run from grief, I’ve come a long way. Milestones or not, I have been in the process of constructing a new life from scratch. New state, new home, new degree, new friends, new career- navigating new hoops and terrain, trying to date again. At altitude no less. And I’m still moving, some days better than others.

One of my many flaws is a tendency to push other people away when I am in pain. I am afraid of letting others experience the messy version of me, the one who is limping along. I am, with sad honesty, likely to internalize well intentioned cheers as pity. Running solo only gets me so far-- I am growing into the place where I feel I can bring less than my best to a community of supporters. I have struggled with knowing how to ask for help, and yet I’ve had the best cheering section along the way. To a woman who lost her number one fan, the support has meant so much. More than I have words to express.

All the encouragement has seen me through a particularly difficult stretch in this journey. After four years, I can finally say I am fully licensed counselor! I’ve thought about quitting more than once in this process. I’ve questioned myself constantly, but I’ve had people pushing me along the way to stay on track and I am ever so grateful.

As much as this accomplishment is meaningful to me, I am realizing how little it defines me. When I started this process, I thought becoming a counselor was part of a meaning making experience for me. Helping others gives me purpose in a way that matters, but I am growing into the realization that it does not define who I am. 

The last four years have been about building a sense of identity in the face of loss, when the plans and dreams I held were stripped away. I am slowly building that future, and learning more about what it takes to have strength in the process. I am learning to lean into the hills and attack them when I feel like walking away. I am learning that I’d rather go hard and fall flat than never risk going for it at all.

I’ve also learned that I am not the person who settles for “at leasts.” In that sense, I carry so much of Chris in my heart-- I loved his fearlessness and willingness to try. I am finally starting to see that perhaps I carry those traits with me too.

All of this insight has come with challenges, setbacks, uphill climbs, face plants, and finding a way to get back up again. However painful, awkward, or comical it may be. A marathon is not a race, it is the accumulation of training and time to overcome the distance.

As far as I’ve come, there are still miles and miles left on the journey. I wish I could say the days of comparison and self-pity were behind me. The struggle is still there, I am simply adjusting to the reality that I am not the hills and harsh climbs. I am the force of nature that breezes over them.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, for all the love, grace, and support that have fueled me in the process.

Welcome to the Gaslight District…

Four years ago I was finalizing plans to move to Colorado—I had been accepted into my top choice for graduate programs and made an offer on a house where I could begin the next chapter of my life. I left for Colorado chasing the belief that I could turn my grief into something meaningful. I believed that I could build a new life for myself and help others discover their resiliency. In the early days of grief, I needed to hold on to the hope that things could get better.

I believed that if I worked hard enough, things would get better. I was afraid to experience all of the anger I felt inside, and fearful of standing still. I thought I could keep moving and not get stuck. I was wrong. Resiliency takes more than personal will power.

When I speak with clients about trauma, I often describe a traumatic event as a moment of chaos that fractures our understanding of the world as a just and fair place. In the aftermath of trauma, we are left trying to collect the pieces of what we once knew and reassemble meaning out of the sharp, painful shards left behind. Realistically, that healing process is slow and difficult. It is reasonable and expected to encounter setbacks. These are all things I know rationally, and emotionally. I don’t expect fair.

From a clinical perspective, when we look at healing in the wake of trauma, research shows us that resiliency is strongly influenced by social support networks that attend to the reality of trauma,  normalize grief, and promote healing. Noticeably missing from this environment are shame, blame, and dismissing how a person feels.

But what happens when a person tries to heal in toxic systems that thrive on blame and invalidation?

This question has been swirling in my convoluted mind for a while, trying to sort through my experiences and observations. What I see culturally mirrors my own experience in dealing with toxic people and environments. At the center of these toxic situations is gaslighting—a process of psychological manipulation that makes the recipient of abuse question his or her sanity. From my perspective, gaslighting feels like a rampant part of our culture—a culture in which many people are trying to heal from devastating life events while facing blame and invalidation.

Personally, my grieving process feels tangled in toxic snares. I feel like I am trying to build strength and hope while I’m being torn apart. I feel discredited before I am ever considered worthy. As I imagine so many others feel as well. My best attempts to move forward and make more of my life have been met with challenges that are deeply painful. I keep thinking I should be in a better place emotionally by now, and yet I only seem to feel more and more depressed. The more depressed and ashamed I feel, the more I “hustle for worthiness” (a term coined by Brene Brown). This hustle makes me a solid target for toxic behaviors.

Most of my life I have been taught to think about what others think and feel. To be kind and considerate. I used to think those were good attributes. Every asset has its liabilities-- being concerned with what others think and feel has often meant stifling what is real for me. In grieving, I have been afraid to own my story for fear of making others uncomfortable or pitying me. I distance myself so other people don’t have to deal with my pain and depression. I struggle to admit my anger. And I question myself when someone tells me not to feel that way.

Gaslighting is a blame game. One that assigns responsibility to the person who is hurting. I am so tired of blaming myself and being told it’s not okay for me to be angry or sad. I have made plenty of mistakes in the last four years chasing my idea of healing. I have experienced disappointment, after disappointment. I have been told over and over again by people I thought I could trust that I am too much (or not enough), that I ask for unreasonable things, and that what I need does not matter. This has been a pattern in my life since arriving in Colorado.

One of my first experiences in my graduate program was to be manipulated, insulted, and emotionally abused by a faculty member. This person told me listening to me speak was a “mind fuck” and continually criticized my inability to meet expectations that were ill-defined. The feedback I received at the end of the semester was that I lacked empathy and that I had, at best, the ability to be a good counselor, but never a great counselor. When I asked another faculty member for help understanding how to handle the situation, I was told my reaction was the problem—that essentially it was all in my head.

That is the subtle art of gaslighting--- to cause you pain while also assigning you the blame. The damaging party never takes ownership.

I spent the next year trying to prove that I could be a great counselor—if only I hustled hard enough. I agonized over taking comprehensive exams and achieving a score high enough to show the faculty I wasn’t worthless. I still question if I am good at being a counselor—rational or not, those experiences haunt how I see my performance.

Another key function of gaslighting is creating high expectations while withholding the resources to meet those expectations. It sets up impossible scenarios in which you fail no matter what you do. At the VA, we were given 30 minute appointment slots, told we could not be late while simultaneously expected to provide due diligence and care to clients in crisis. (It takes more than 30 minutes to assist a suicidal client, in case you are wondering). This is just one of many examples of the unethical and paralyzing practices that made client care impossible. And yet, when I left the VA I blamed myself for not being strong enough to meet those expectations.

In both examples, the reality of what I experienced was overshadowed and refuted by an illusion of expertise that is grossly unearned. Gaslighting places the sins of those in power on the people without power—then tells them they are crazy for being angry, upset, or confused over the incongruence.

What I have learned in the last four years is that there are few places in our culture where gaslighting is not a part of the norm. I encountered some of the most painful manipulation in places focused on mental health care. Finding supportive environments is the exception rather than the rule. Advocating for basic respect and support has meant standing alone more often than not.

Systemically, movements like MeToo and Black Lives Matter are met with contention and alienation by those with privilege. The arguments against these movements are gaslighting at its finest. They turn reality on its head and label rational requests as emotional and unfounded. People are asking to not be hurt anymore while those with power claim they have the inalienable right to hurt others

So perhaps the reality of healing is marred by infectious, toxic wounds that fester rather than fade. 

Personally and systemically, I am done with the manipulation and blame. And I think I get to be angry every time I trip over the bullshit. I think other people have that right too. I keep trying to be worthy in a world where everything I do is never enough to matter and I am exhausted.

Until someone else knows what it means to stand alone at the grave of a man who died too young. Until you wake up alone every morning. When you’ve lost the dream of having children. When people deceive you, hurt you, then throw you away. When you don’t have a job. When you offer people hope you don’t have. When you watch peoples’ eyes glaze over with boredom and disconnection every time you talk. When you keep trying to do better, despite everything… and you are doing it alone… maybe then I’ll consider any arguments about why I can’t be angry and tired.

I’ve never wanted pity or coddling, I’ve simply wanted to be valued for being willing to show up and try. Like most humans, I have just wanted to be seen for the reality of who I am without being told it’s too much, or not enough. I felt that with Chris. Every time I hit an obstacle, the pain of missing him resurfaces. I’ll never know if I was ever enough for him, and that scares me.

If I could heal the world, I would take away the place where we use such painful measures to hurt each other. I hope enough of us get tired of living in such toxic spaces that we stop participating in the crap. I hope we can stop seeing other peoples’ emotions as a threat and start acknowledging the dysfunction where it exists. Imagine what a healing world we could create.  

I’ll be waiting, with my running shoes on, if anyone cares to join me.