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.