As shocking as it is still to me, I have now lived for 22 months without my husband.
Am I supposed to be further along with this grief than I am? I’m just kind of letting it happen in a way I’ve never allowed anything to just happen ever before in my life. I’ve always grabbed life by the balls and done whatever I could to influence it. I’ve always been passionate about life but, yeah, that feeling is gone. Quite honestly, I’m allowing life to just happen more because I don’t have energy to do anything else. While it’s just happening, I’m going out there and creating a life for myself without him, as I’m supposed to do and as I have to do because here’s the thing. I’m still alive. And, as I’m not going to kill myself, that entails a certain amount of effort to ensure that I have a place to sleep, food to eat and…well, that’s pretty much it for what I’m caring about.
Let me shock and appall the general public with my next statement. I don’t give a flying fuck about life since Chuck died. Quickly, quickly, let me respond to the in- drawn breaths of horror that statement likely invokes, and please take back the anti-depressants you’re holding out to me. Yes, Chuck would want me to be happy. Yes, I know I’m supposed to be grateful for being alive. Yes, I have kids and grandkids I love desperately and that should be enough to make me feel engaged in life. Yes, I know you (that’s a general you) are horrified that I’ve given up (or seem to have given up). Yes, I know you believe that Chuck is everywhere around me. Yes, I know I’m supposed to think positively towards life and not allow negative thoughts in my head. (and I will as soon as someone tells me what is positive about the love of my life dying).
Its’ almost become a humorous thing for me, the degree of grief I feel and the almost instantaneous response I get when I speak of it at times. Because we’re supposed to get on with it, don’t you know? We’re supposed to at least be grateful to be alive! And it discombobulates people when you don’t follow the general life program. Fortunately, those who people my life are supportive (though they have been called enabling by others) and encouraging but holy shit, the stuff I hear from others in grief and what they go through isn’t to be believed.
See, I’m not really here. My body is here, but I’m not. That woman who was deeply in love with her husband, the woman who lived passionately and absorbed and enjoyed the sensuality of life and love…she’s not here any longer and I don’t have a fucking clue who this woman is who wears my body.
Pity is unnecessary and unwelcome. No sympathy needed. Just trying to be honest here.
For god’s sake, go find someone who’s grieving and offer them empathy. Go right now. Pick up your phone and call them. Ask them if they would like to talk about any of this shit and what it’s like for them.
That’s how you can make a difference and, maybe, help them find themselves again~