The Moments, that are all my Moments~

Do I dare say it aloud?  Knowing what the response will be, do I dare say it?  The responses will come from the heart, I know that.  The responses will come from the love so many have for me.  I get it, I honor it.   But I’ll say it because if nothing else, I’m honest.

I don’t want to do this anymore.  This grief.

Don’t panic, please.  No, I’m not going to kill myself.  I’m not going to harm myself in any way, unless you count harming myself as eating too much chocolate and drinking aspartame  (I seldom call it diet pepsi anymore.  I know what’s in it and I know it’s cancer causing and I can’t quite bring myself to the point of caring.  I need the caffeine).  No, I’m not going to slash my wrists or drive into traffic or do any of a thousand things that would kill me.  I don’t even want to do those things.  I just don’t want to live any longer like this and I’ve done and am doing every fucking thing I can think of to not live like this any longer and you know what?  Not one fucking thing I’ve done has changed the level of emotional pain I feel in every fucking part of my body/heart/soul that is the missingness of my husband.  I can’t even refer to him as Handsome Husband as I write this.  That’s an alias I  gave him here in a humorous attempt at maintaining his anonymity.  But this is too personal now, too painful.

I know all the words to counter my words and thoughts-words that are true, from people who love me and care about me. That I need to live for my children, that my children need me, that Chuck wouldn’t want me to suffer like this, he would want me to live and love again and enjoy life.  That I have a yet unfulfilled purpose to my life so I need to keep on.  I don’t know-you fill in the blank of what I must think of and do to keep me wanting to live.

I have done, and continue doing, all the fucking things my mind and heart can conspire to do to engage in life, to be a part of, to live again.  I’m continually reaching out in every creative way I can.  I’m verbalizing, I’m not hiding my grief, I’m involving myself with social activities, I’m talking with others who have been or who are going through my similar grief, I’m remembering the good times he and I had, I’m allowing myself space and time, I’m not just doing, I’m being.

I’m told so often how brave I am.  I so appreciate all the love you give me.  I feel it.  I appreciate the words of encouragement.  They come from your heart to mine.  And yet, they do nothing to diminish the pain the same way everything and nothing that I’ve done in the last 7 months since Chuck died has changed the pain in my heart.   It’s not for lack of love or trying, folks, and please don’t stop.  I don’t know why nothing is getting through, not my efforts or yours.

It’s generally not socially acceptable to own up to such depths of feeling and a lack of will to continue on, is it?  Not even to me.  I’m not a quitter.  I know all the things I’m supposed to know about going on, keeping on, continuing on in spite of.  Never give up and all that.  Stiff upper lip.

I don’t know why this grief hasn’t killed me yet.  Apparently it isn’t going to, at least physically.  Which is amazing to me, because I’m eating like shit and not exercising.  Yeah, I know.  Long term effects and all that.  It will come back to haunt me.  Whatever.  That’s the least of my worries.  Its my insides that are showing what’s really going on.  My heart, my soul, the part of me that seized life and love and joy and made every minute count?  It’s gone.  I miss that part as much as I miss Chuck.  Picture raw meat, seeping  and dripping blood.  A graphic show of my insides since he died.

Chuck would want me to be happy.  I get that.  I would like me to be happy.  I know my kids want that for me.  Everyone who loves me wants that for me. Fuck, I want that for me.  The question is, how do I get from here where I am to there and the happy?  Had I died, yes, I would want Chuck to find a measure of peace again.  I daresay, however, that it would be a struggle for him too.  You can’t fucking spend 24 years with someone, be in a loving marriage with that person deeply and passionately and just easily get back on the horse when they’re ripped from your life.

I’m suiting up and showing up every day, every minute of every day.  Possibly, if feelings follow actions, at some point my insides won’t be as shredded as they are now.   My outsides are so much at odds with my insides.  Outside is dressed decently, makeup on (though I haven’t shaved my legs for some time.  It’s cold weather and what does it matter anyways?) a smile occasionally on my lips.  My insides?   Hollow and pain-filled.  Driving all over the country, using maps, using GPS, and yet completely lost.  Dislocated.  Disoriented.  Unsure.  Wandering.  The dichotomy of grief.

No reassurance necessary here.  I don’t need  reassurances of a future that is out there waiting for me.  My future means nothing to me because I can’t see it.  I can barely see to noon-time and that sucks every bit of energy out of me.  I’m not really seeing much of anything.  I’m doing what needs to be done, making plans, extending myself, engaging with family and friends and strangers.  I’m talking and I’m writing.  My outsides are doing.  Doing. Doing. Doing.

And yet.

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14 thoughts on “The Moments, that are all my Moments~

  1. Chin up my friend im sorry you hurt and it seems so unfair. I dont know how to tell you to get back to life and normalcy without HH but maybe all the reading and reaching out will someday help. I hope so my dear and do you want me to count how many times you wrote F…..??? Lmao that just cracks me up when you cuss. I send all my love and hope to you Pink lady. :-))) I think your great and your “Thriving” but dont realize it yet Love Melissa Lacewell

    • It’s funny, Melissa, that you mention me dropping the F bomb. Chuck used to say to me that I ought not to write that as often as I do because it could offend people. My response was that, if people are offended, they don’t need to read my blog. Because, honestly, I don’t use it in an angry way, just as an adverb that expresses in an undiluted way the intensity of whatever I might be writing about at the time. I write as I speak and there is never any disrespect intended, so….I’m glad it make you crack up. We all need to do that as often as possible, don’t we?

      I appreciate your words of affirmation regarding my thriving. I hope I am. Right now my insides are at war with my outsides. Which is kind of what grief is all about too~

      hugs and more hugs,
      alison

  2. It’s way too early. Six months is not long enough for you to be out of terrible pain. It wasn’t for me.. You need more time .. I think you may be expecting too much of yourself.. Hang on.. You will get better., or it will not be as painful after a while.. Each persons grief is different.. But six months or so is still very raw. Much love to you.. Much!

  3. I would like for you to try and give us one paragraph in your writings of how the T@B and pink magic are going and where or what you are doing with them. What new thing have you learned with them or what stupid thing have you done with them. It’s a start in a different conversation and life in general. We can all then say Chuck is getting a kick out of this new life you are trying to live, cause you know he’s watching this all.

    Keep moving on girl.

    Doug

  4. We like to think that everything is fixable. That if we do the right things, and keep moving, that we can somehow control the tsunami of grief that hits after someone dies. That we’ll adapt, and adjust to the most terrifying reality that anyone can imagine. That we will find a new meaning in life, and find some kind of peace. Fuck that. Unless you are living it, you have no idea. Get copies of “Comfort: A Journey Through Grief” by Ann Hood and “The Year of Magical Thinking” by Joan Didion to read about others who share our state of pain. And please call me if you need to vent. I’m still in such a state of numbness that I could probably lose a limb and not notice….

  5. It’s only been 7 months … please don’t be so tough on yourself. That first year is hard, no getting around it. Perhaps you need to stop the ‘doing, doing, doing’ for awhile. I know you say it isn’t your personality … but grief changes everything. Create some space in your life for the grieving. It’s ok. Take a time out. Reassure your friends & family that you’re ok but that you just need to disengage from life for awhile. Don’t answer the door. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t write in your blog. Don’t do any of the things we find ourselves feeling we HAVE to do …. for others mostly. Be selfish. Find some peace in the quiet. I referred to it as ‘cocooning’ … like a caterpillar before it changes into a butterfly. It made a difference.

    I’ve just passed the 3 year mark after a wonderful 41 year marriage. I still miss him. I always will. I still give myself time outs whenever I need them – wedding anniversary, his birthday, his death day – with no excuses. I don’t want to date or remarry … I’m closing in on retirement from my job … but I’ve been able to move forward, feeling him right alongside me … experiencing the new things, cheering me on when I try something way outside my comfort zone, helping me get comfortable with this new alone life. Am I happy? Well, ‘happy’ has a different definition for me now but, yes, some days I can say I’m happy. Do I still put on ‘the act’? Sure, I do. And I actually don’t resent it now like I did early on. Time … hate to use that old cliche … but it’s true that time does make a difference.

  6. Thank you for writing this. I stumbled across your blog from a Facebook pat, and you wrote almost exactly what I feel. I’m over feeling like this, but when I share that people think I want to hurt myself. I don’t, I just want to stop hurting. I’m not glad someone else feels like this, but it hps to know I’m not alone.

  7. Allison,
    It was an honor that you shared your story with me this weekend. (at a gas station in Westborough, MA no less). I’ll be following you and rooting for you.

    • Valerie,
      Meeting you confirmed for me that I need to embrace even the moments of travel that seem to have gone wrong. I thought something was wrong with Pink Magic, which is why I stopped at that particular exit. Which led me to that particular gas station, which led to your path and mine crossing. And meeting you got me through the next part of my travels without falling apart.

      I’m so blessed~
      alison
      1/2 of Happily Homeless

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