So You Do It Alone

Loneliness.

One of the more painful realities of this life turned upside down.

It's burned into your heart the longer time passes and the more you watch friends out on date nights and vacations and holidays with the ones they love.

It's sandpaper to the soul to watch others achieve their happy moments and to know that you can't be as happy for them as you should.

So because the loneliness won't go away...I suppose I just need to accept that I do this Life thing alone. I was blessed to find my 1-in-a-million. I hit the jackpot in meeting and loving my soulmate, even if we never got enough time.

My Least Favorite Idioms

My "Stages" of Grief

Everyone grieves differently, everyone experiences grief on different levels and experiences their range of emotions in a unique way. Example: My mother-in-law told me she sat in the room less than a month later yelling "How could you do this to me?!?!" I have not ever done this. I have felt anger toward a lot of people but not once toward Ryan. Maybe I will one day. Maybe I won't. I've read books where the author's expressed a wide range of emotions toward their loved one after death.

They're allowed.

We're all allowed.

 
Perhaps that's why idioms are so dangerous. In general, it seems, these short quips of "knowledge"/"comfort" were not coined by people with personal experience. Even if they are, however, with a wide range of emotions that occurs after a loss, it is preferred to take possession of the feelings you express: "When I lost my husband, I remember feeling ______." and to probably not insert your own opinion if you've not stood in those shoes. Our friends that are most helpful support us. They don't weigh in on the event of grief or loss itself. They are there to help with tasks we are struggling to accomplish, they share quality time with us, sitting beside us until we are strong enough to rise. My least favorite idioms below:

"Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem"

The phrase attempts to declare that the action of suicide is on a whim, unprovoked, and spontaneous. Perhaps people say this in an attempt to remove the surviving loved one from any guilt associated with knowing or predicting ahead of time. I'm not sure. Even if this was the attempt I can say from experience that survivor's guilt has been one of my most excrutiating components to grief.

I hate this saying because it overlooks significant mental illness.

It silences the reality that for many people, the suicide itself comes after years of struggling, fighting, pushing through when they are exhausted and hurting. My Sweetheart spent years and years struggling without medication, with little professional support, to fight post-traumatic stress and depression and this massive bundle of demons. That fight will wear you out. His problem wasn't temporary - his battle was chronic and he was a warrior for nearly a decade. I wish only that he had more buddies in his corner helping him fight. I wish he didn't feel like he only had me.

Suicide doesn't take the pain away, it simply transfers it to another. 

I understand the thought behind this: for those that have contemplated or are contemplating suicide, it is intended to serve as a reminder that their choice will hurt others. Whoah, whoah whoah. So we guilt trip those that are struggling? Let's phrase it differently: "You know, if you hadn't come down with pneumonia, we'd be having a good vacation right now..." (*snicker**snort* yeah, ok...) My other problem:

Suicide does take the pain away. My Love no longer suffers. 

I will never be the same. I would not want that.

 
Suicide does create new pain for those still here and there is no meter to assign a fraction of his pain to me or my mother-in-law or other friends and family. Ryan is not responsible for my pain any more than he was responsible for my joy. He has been the object of my joy, love and my pain over the years, though I choose - positive or negative - my own emotions. Currently my pain is simply here, present every day in my life. But to equate the pain of my grief to the pain of my Sweetheart's demons and mental tortures would be impossible. I did not share his demons. We experience different attacks on our mind. I cannot quantify the severity of my grief and I will not pass along the responsibility, though I know for many: it's easier to blame the dead.

My Heroes

Powerwashed into the Concrete. I sent to Ryan.

From the earliest I could remember my Dad was always my hero.

Panama // Desert Shield/Desert Storm // Korea (x3) // Bosnia // Kosovo // Iraq (x?) // Afghanistan (x?)

As a UH-60 maintenance test pilot he spent more years deployed than home in our lives growing up. Yellow Ribbons, Handwritten Letters scrawled on yellow legal notepads sent through no-stamp-needed envelopes, Flags & Poster Board Signs on a parade field or hangar or outside an airline gate (back when you could still do that), acronyms which needed no explanation but belonged to a small club of kids (PX, TDY, PCS, etc.) all of these pieces were our normal. I loved trips to the air field, climbing up in the back or into the cockpit of this crazy piece of equipment. I loved listening to his stories; I loved opening his maps and learning how to read them; I loved the budgeting lessons sitting next to him at the secretary; I loved sitting on the garage floor with the smell of sawdust as he improved our house with his own hands; I loved trips to the range since age 8 for target practice.

Don’t get me wrong: I love my mom also. I am just a mirror image of my father.

I inherited his intelligence (cultivated by a mom who taught professionally and always found time to continue that with her kids at home), his work ethic, his scientifically-inquisitive mind, his stubbornness, his drive to succeed, his no-nonsense approach to others. He was my hero.

From 2001-2011 I lost track of when and where he was going. Those years just jumble together partly because I was in college for half that time and it became hard to separate the years and locations when you’re no longer living at home. Couple that with 3 deployments in 5 years by my oldest brother who went in 18X to the SF-baby program and recycled to llB and was sent to Ft Hood. Another hero of mine: who earned his Purple Heart in 2007 after his first tour in Iraq. He still went back 2 more times, extending his contract the 3rd time just so he would finish out the full tour with his unit.

My brother came back different. There were times where I wondered if I was going to have to be driving up to Killeen to ID his body; I was the only family member in Texas so I would have been the closest physically. He self-described as a “bum” the year after he returned. The country asked both old men and young boys to live through experiences of combat that they should never have to know. My brother lost friends to war and at least 2 other buddies to suicide.

For some reason, it was only on the last tour to Afghanistan that I worried about my father. As a military brat, you know what men in uniform walking up to your front porch means, though it never seemed like that could be our reality. My father seemed indestructible up until his last tour, where brevity of life because much more of an option. With my brother, that option seemed possible every day he woke up in Iraq, for me.

I remember that day in 2009 well…ultimately it was 36 hours before my brother landed back at Ft. Hood. We knew he was on his way back. I was waiting for a call from Maine so I could get an ETA on picking him up when they landed. I hadn’t gotten a call but I saw the headline scroll across every TV… Please no, please don’t let him be back at Hood right now.  

I have an MO, it seems, when it comes to dating. I have stuck with soldiers (incl. prior service) and those in public service. They say women have a thing for guys in uniform – I suppose I have a thing for strong sacrificial men. Some of those ended amicably and others were mistakes that I absolutely chose wrong, they were not men that knew how to treat a woman. In 2011 I met for the first time a man that I felt embodied the qualities of a hero that I saw from my dad and brothers.

Ryan was incredible. I was in awe of his intelligence, his analytical mind, the way he kept in touch with friends and family, the love for his mom that was so evident from day 1; I was amazed by his raw honesty. I appreciated his compassion, his service to others, his affection toward me. He was capable, and he showed me, of a unique level of selflessness. He had taken over the role of the most important Hero in my life.

Watching him practice as a Paramedic, he was my role model for what not just a mediocre but an outstanding EMT I should and could be. I appreciated that he cared more about doing what was right for his patients than what was standard or lazy. I appreciated that he could have all of the book knowledge in the world, but he could look them someone the eyes and tell each one what was best for them. It broke my heart to hear about him being lectured and threatened for treating a patient like a person – for not “selling” the ambulance ride to the hospital to a young mother whose sick child did not need a $1000 EMS bill for an ER trip at 1am, but a visit to the pediatrician the next morning. He was doing his job as a provider and a human being and yet criticized for that.

Compassion took its toll. He would ask me "Just remind me that you need me". I'd sit on his lap and wrap my body around him in silence, kissing his forehead or resting my chin on his shoulder, whispering "I love you; we're going to get through this" on those really bad days. I'd walk up behind him and rub his shoulders when, woken up in the middle of the night to find the space empty beside me, he was sitting at the computer unable to sleep. He'd kiss my hands and promise me "Sleep schedule is just off Baby". You get used to missing holidays and anniversaries, special events and dinner plans. 

You don't ever get used to seeing the other half of your heart broken and hurting, turning to vices to sleep and crushed under the weight of "what if?" Terrified that the compassion they showed, the honesty they gave to their patient would result in losing their job.

My brothers are here. My father is here. The Hero I chose to love is not. For me, this still seems inconceivable. The stigma of suicide among soldiers and by first responders feels, to me, like this gaping silence of heroes forgotten and cast off by the communities and the society that they served. Why?

Grief: The Superpower

I have had a hard time seeing the positivity in a nightmare as fresh as the last 10 months has been. At the same time, I recognize that each day is our only guarantee. The moment in time that we sit and realize, that we only know that we have this current moment in time. Something about this post resonated with me - I read it after I came back from the Save A Life Walk San Diego with Ryan's Mother, Siblings, Aunt, and Grandparents on Saturday. I selected my favorite pieces...
(Adapted from Message In a Bottle: Day 13 by Christina Rasmussen)

YOU ARE A PATH MAKER

If only you knew that within yourself there lives an extraordinary power. 

A power so majestic and brilliant that if you unleashed it…you would find yourself building castles, loving so passionately and living in the present moment so often that you get to expand time. The superpower I speak of is grief. 

If we allowed ourselves to tell the truth we would see how loss is our evolutionary competitive advantage. It is because of our losses that we get to experience a more dimensional life.

However we were taught to see it as the experience that is used to destroy us instead of build us. We have been asked to hide it, bury it and not speak of it.When grief is never unleashed and is never used to create passion and love...it becomes venom. And we suffer quietly. Not just for losing loved ones but for all the losses we taste every day at work, at home and at play. 

If only we looked at our presidents, leaders and path makers.

We would see a common experience.

TRAGEDY. 

That has been their one common trait.

There is a leader in all of us. 

Grief is a superpower.

When not used... it destroys us. 

When used as fuel... it liberates us. 

When used as part of our DNA it is our competitive advantage.

Mid-life crisis does not take place because we are depressed but because we are grieving our unrealized dreams. 

Because we are hiding our grief even from ourselves.

But most of all because we don't know who we were born to be.

Ashamed to grieve. 

Unable to lead our own life towards freedom and happiness.

The secret to happiness and true success is not the law of attraction but our ability to take our tragedies share them with our world and remove the duality of loss so we can build the life we are capable of building.

Good thoughts and good things will happen to us when we stop carrying the unnecessary weight.There is so much passion inside a human who has grieved loves and experiences. So much untapped divinity. So much unearthed humanity and compassion. 

We all become Life Starters every time we experience a life interruption.

I will spend my life telling you that you are here to survive every tragedy, every loss and walk towards your divine self, the part of you that is holding on to that superpower.

Grief: The superpower of your soul. 

UNLEASH IT.

5 Ways to Help Someone Grieving

In the last few months I have alternated between anger and apathy toward people that walked away after Ryan's funeral. The ones that haven't even bothered to reach out. I appreciate so much more the attempt to be helpful, even though it is occasionally hurtful. I do recognize that most people have no idea what to do and we naturally withdraw from uncomfortable situations.

You can find oodles of lists in a quick search. What has been most helpful to me?

1. Checking in

"Just thinking about you."

"How is today?"

I have never experienced such loneliness in my life. I've never felt as abandoned as I have since January. Checking in reminds me that I am valuable to someone. As a widow to suicide, value is not one thing I would attribute to myself, which makes me staying alive so much harder.

2. Anticipating needs

There are many things you don't realize will happen after a loss. I hit my lowest weight (losing 20% of my body weight) at 4 months and 1 day. Underwear doesn't fit when this happens. Clothes obviously fit looser, but it's frustrating to not even have a bra or underwear that is comfortable - it messes with everything. A Victoria's Secret gift card (because underwear shopping hasn't been high on my list of things to do/spend money on) is such a thoughtful and helpful way to notice and lend a hand.

A coworker brought soup in the winter and put it in the fridge for me and another vacuum wrapped and froze smoked turkey breast and brisket and left a card saying "food is in a bag for you in the freezer". I didn't have to think, I didn't have to come up with something that sounded yummy, because honestly, not much sounds yummy nowadays. It was perfect. Just do it. "I'm making extra enchiladas and was going to bring some up tomorrow, ok?"

3. Listening

I am a pariah. I was a contagious vat of Ebola after Ryan died. EVERYONE left. There were times where I'd schedule time with my therapist just so I could talk to someone. I wanted somewhere safe where I could have a person just listen to what I was thinking and feeling without shocked looks in response, without disruption, without judgment. Life is very silent after death - perhaps folks are around to help immediately after and to dote and perhaps they are not. You would be surprised who stays around and who does not and family is not a guaranteed support system. So ask to come over and just sit and hold their hand. They may not be ready to talk. They may be scared about your reaction to what they say. Really listen. Follow up with them in a note that reminds them you heard what they said or you notice them. Nothing is stable after death. Nothing. (related: Please Let Me Have My Meltdowns) A friend that saw a photo I posted (Glitter for the Stupid) sent me a vial of green (my favorite color) glitter with a small unsigned note that said "In case you need it..." I cried. Thank you for listening.

4. Sharing

Please tell me stories about Ryan. "Did you know him?" I've asked people... Please share pieces of his life that you knew. Share your interactions with him. Remind me that he's not forgotten. I remember him every day, but it hurts to feel like others don't.

 5. No Cliches 

There is nothing you can do to "fix this"

This is actually perfect, because it releases you from the obligation to find the "right" things to do or say. The most reflective person on the planet will not draft some great speech that "cures" me of this overwhelming pot of emotions. There are countless places you can go to find the What Not to Say (related: The "Worst" Loss) but it all boils down to: "I do not know what you are going through or what to say, but I love/care about you."  If you have experienced loss and want to share your loss with me, share your personal story. Mine may not look like yours. Remember the "fixing" thing? Expecting my journey to look like yours is a mistake. It may? It may not...

((Hugs))

The Middle Finger

Some days I wake up and it feels like Life is shitting all over me. I crawl into my closet, don my T-shirt and crawl back into bed. I mean this both literally and figuratively. This past weekend was an example. I was not having it...

Fortunately, there are other days, though much fewer and farther between right now, where I wake up at the ass crack of dawn to bust out a run. Where Life is throwing lemons at me and I'm just grabbing them, stomping all over them, drinking vodka straight out the bottle, throwing up my middle finger to everything around me and screaming "EFF all of this!"

These are the days I try to prove something to myself. I try to prove that I can run farther than I thought, I can get out of bed when I don't want to, I can go to work and get done what needs to be done, and I can be good at it again. They are the days when I forget all the bad decisions, all the negative energy over the last many months and I just choose for that morning, or that day, or that week - however long it lasts - I choose to do the absolute best I can to go kick ass.

They are the days when I hold the necklaces around my neck and whisper "Watch me Sweetie. I wish you were here but I'm doing this for you." and I'm proud of what I accomplished instead of exhausted and disappointed by the wrecked individual that I've spent so much time trapped inside. This usually comes when I've had enough. When I've fought flashbacks and day terrors and nightmares all weekend. When I haven't slept well. When another piece of information deals a new blow. I get fed up with it all but instead of retreating, I somehow manage to grasp ahold of hope and struggle forward, even if it's not what I want and even if it's painful.

I am not stronger one day or another. I am not "grieving" or "not grieving"....I will be left with a sore heart, with an ache of what I couldn't ever have with Ryan, for the rest of my life. It's just that for whatever reason, on one day versus another, I find enough energy and resolve to make that day different. Instead of being worn out by another "no" or by another person's silence; instead of being disappointed by another brick wall, instead of hating myself and judging myself and wondering what I did wrong to be discarded by friends and family and strangers --- on these days I remind myself that they don't matter.

And I make my day count.

Planning for What You Can't Know

This morning I woke up and dragged myself out of bed, put on shorts and running shoes, and was downtown on the trail by 5:45am. Tonight I came home and ran hills for 40 minutes. I fucking hate hills. But the burn in my lungs and the vomit reflex in my gut dulled the pain in my heart and finally blurred a mind currently running low on glucose. It’s been a rough week. Yesterday I planned to run – I didn’t. Sunday I acted pretty normal up until I crashed out at 4pm and did nothing the rest of the day. Saturday I finished a 6 mile run before sunrise. That run is the only thing I remember about last week. The rest of what went on was just some chick taking up space on this planet and using oxygen…

Depression is one thing – there’s a uniquely abnormal normalcy to it. Nothing prepares you for cycles within grief. 

It’s fair to say that the last 8 months and 9 days have all been rough; but it’s impossible to plan on the week where you can’t get out of bed or where you crawl back into bed every day as soon as you’re home. When the week before you’d managed 30 miles but today opening your eyes is too much to handle. It’s impossible to plan for a morning which goes so well and something – who knows what – flips a switch in your mind and you zombie it through the rest of the day. When I spend hours fighting thoughts which attempt to intrude. It’s at those times I think: Who is this person? Don’t you want to try? Don’t you want to live?

Yes and No.

The strategy I’ve attempted is to simply back myself into a corner – pay for the sand volleyball league and you’ll be sure to go, buy the chair for reading so you can set it up in the corner and be productive in some way. Treat yourself to a new dress (one that actually fits) to push you to go out for dinner…

The techniques that used to work don’t anymore because the person they worked on is gone. And I have no idea who this new female is that stands in her place. Because the thing is, you can’t plan for literally nothing mattering. 

It’s so hard to decide a course of action when 5 minutes or 2 hours or 1 day or 2 weeks later your feeling will flip and overwhelm you. You can’t expect that even something as standard as feeding the dogs, feeding the cat, or feeding yourself will actually happen. Sometimes it’s because you literally cannot remember. Sometimes it’s because you don’t really care. I feel like I should care, but right now I don’t even feel.

The Questions

How was Ryan any different than the 400 others that he worked with?
Why do those that whine and complain, that are never satisfied, even those that are mean and cruel - why do they still financial stability, happiness, friends and parties, families that love and support them? Why do they get a husband or wife to spoon at the end of the night? Why has everyone forgotten about him? Why do I not matter anymore - why did you lie and tell me I did?

Where did everyone go? 

What did he do to not deserve peace? What did I do to not deserve happily ever after? 

Philosophy Friday: When We Are Fighting Our Hardest

I think it applies to anyone that kindness makes a much bigger difference when someone is at at their lowest -- and perhaps most unlovely -- versus when they're on top -- or easiest to love.

Alternately, on my "good" or "not bad" days, I'm still fighting. It's still exhausting.

I came home today

I came home today.

Traffic was light. I pulled up at 4:48. Turned into our neighborhood and realized

...I am early, but it doesn't matter.

Because he isn't there.

I have 7 hours and 12 minutes left in my day. And no one to spend it with. Because they all left. But even if they were here...the person that I could survive even alone with he isn't here.

I could have spent hours with him, snuggled into bed, made a meal, gone out for dinner or a drink.

Talked. Touched. Smiled.

I don't walk around expecting him to appear. I know that, I learned that, I've lived that for the last 8 months and 5 days. But I still get the heart pangs when something hits me unexpectedly and I realize - it can't go back to the way it was. It will never be the same.

I miss you Sweetheart

When I was Twelve

When I was twelve I wanted a white poufy dress and flowers galore.  I wanted a wedding.
Being a tomboy I wasn't ever the one sitting around picking out wedding colors and floral arrangements and naming all my future kids. But if I thought about it, I knew one day, that the traditional wedding was something I'd get to enjoy. Tomboys can still be Daddy's girls - you look forward to the walking down the aisle moment.

When I was sixteen I wanted kids.
I didn't know how many or when, but similar to the twelve year old, I saw that happening. The last two weeks of my sixteenth year, after dozens of trips to the ER, years of visits to the OB/GYN and a second, 7 hour surgery at Walter Reed, I found out that was not a certainty I could be given. "We'll talk about it when you get to that stage in life" was the answer I'd been left with. I spent the next ten years convincing myself kids weren't necessary for my happiness. If I held onto that dream, it was likely that I would try and fail and putting motherhood on a pedestal seemed like a way to get really hurt down the line.

When I was twenty-two I wanted something small and intimate. I wanted a marriage.
I imagined my future husband and I would be fronting most of the expense and I'd realized watching others marry that the wedding business was a nightmare of dollar signs and more choices than you could imagine. A rustic-chic celebration of hopes and futures with my complement, my partner, my other half. I was still waiting for him.

When I was twenty-six I'd found him and I wanted a union with my best friend.
I wanted to head to Thailand for two weeks to celebrate us, to give us both a much-needed break from life and stress and a temporary escape from all things bearing down. Eloping was the perfect way to wrap up the commitment we'd make and the hard work we'd already put in. It was the icing on the cake - letting him surf as much as he wanted and sit relaxed on a beach; it was me eating as many noodles as I could and trekking into the jungle for adventure and once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Memories we'd review with smiles on our faces decades from that time. It wasn't about show, it wasn't about anyone else's opinions. It was a $200 lace dress, a pair of Toms, and my soulmate. It was the start of trying for babies, even if I failed. It was scary as shit, but He was worth it.

A month and a day before the end of my twenty-sixth year, my most mature vision of committed love was robbed right out of my hands. Violently. An intense weekend of depression visited my kind, intelligent, compassionate, sacrificial, Life-of-the-Party fiance and suicide stole My Every Day right out from under me. He was mine to protect and to care for; he was mine to support and love; but he was gone.

Eight months and 2 days after my soul was crushed, the best idea of the direction I should be taking rests on a new philosophy: not everyone gets Happily Ever After.

What a bullshit lesson. Sometimes it's innocent children, 8 years old, that life teaches that to; others are slammed with that reality at 26 and some wander through life eternally oblivious to this reality. They'll quip "life's not fair" while having never experienced what that actually looks like. I think the most likelihood of surviving this nightmare that I wake up to will only happen if I can stop trying to attain "Happily Ever After". 

I don't like this lesson, I don't want it, I hate it. But it feels like the lesson Life is trying to teach me.

An Assault On Myself By Myself

Maybe I’m remembering this all wrong. Maybe I’m not the person I think I am. I have grasped tightly to the label “widow” as its definition most closely mirrors how I view myself, but is that even wrong? Do I even deserve that? I would have done anything for you, Ryan. We talked about this and I was setting everything up to make that happen because it was best for you – so it was necessary for us.

The abandonment by those around me, the ones who promised when no promise was requested, the ones who never made a promise to begin with, the ones you expected by default to stay and the ones you truly felt would…have they left because I carry a tag they think I do not deserve? Have they made the connections in the string of events, cast their blame, and turned their backs on me because of it? I hate them for doing that but I understand that decision, because I do carry the blame. I have chosen, months later now, to learn from the regrets but am nowhere near forgiveness for the guilt. The bits and pieces that are separated into those 2 piles are very well defined now; I am rational at least, enough to see that. Regrets would not have changed the outcome, they would have simply provided better memories to me, the survivor, and maybe for my Love, though not survived. The horrible details that are placed in the guilt pile are the ones which undoubtedly would have kept him here by my side. I do not wish for them to be in that pile, I do not choose them to be. They simply are. Perhaps then, to others, I am a person so unloveable and painful to be around that removing me entirely is a rational decision I just cannot see for myself. 

Perhaps I an addict to grief and unwilling to admit it.

I know my brain is warped. In a bizarre way it’s almost as if I can feel that I am not just chemically but structurally different.  Feeling physiologically incapable of tasks that you were otherwise competent to perform is so incredibly frustrating.

I want Ryan back. I also want my brain back. I don’t need a diagnosis because I already recognize this environment that I am residing in – one so atypical for me. I sit back as a casual observer wondering who this person is with an obvious aphasia, with anxiety, the woman who cannot retain information, who cannot carry conversations on with multiple people at a time because the conversations in her head cannot be kept separate from those flowing from her lips. Who is that person? This woman who observes herself externally…she studied this, this was her passion, the study of neurobiology put a smile on her face and woke her up for years on early mornings and kept her locked in a dark room late at night to better understand this phenomenal structure that is the mammalian brain.

That woman is now trapped by a mind she cannot escape, by a brain that attacks her when she least expects. Her decisions over the last 7 months and 15 days have not always been logical or appropriate, though she extends to herself forgiveness for those. But how do you continue to wake up when waking up entails constantly fighting yourself to hit a level best described as functional? If struggling for that is the best I’ve got, and if that alone exhausts me, how will I ever expect to hit a plane dubbed successful again? Why, Brain, why are you attacking me? Why, Body, are you so slow to recover and so quick to break down? I am not wallowing, I am fucking trying!

Wordless Wednesdays: Remember You've Survived

And holy fuck have there been some brutally bad days in there...

The Difference Between Losing the Battle & Winning

A friend posted the photo this morning.

I've spent the last 3-4 weeks so busy I'm left exhausted, frustrated, defeated, and mostly numb & empty. I mostly prefer numb to the searing pain that was the weeks before. I have transitioned I think to speak of details of Ryan's death as statements of fact, separated from their emotional connection. I worry how this makes me appear to others (i.e. "insensitive", "crazy", "strong", "detatched") and while I say I don't really care - I do.

My fight is almost exclusively in my mind now. I've packaged up things so well that I am no longer the reactive, teary-eyed person in public that I'm anticipated to be or that people are scared I will turn into. I'm the occasionally screaming, silent tear mourner that lost her Every Day nearly 6 months ago now. The battle remains almost exclusively in private now.

I fear not seeing the year 2016 by my own hand. I fear looking back at 35 and wondering why I am still where I am at. I fear that if I move forward I will be subject to a different level of insensitive comments.

I want to take a trip. I want to challenge my brain and take the MCAT, continuing on with school. I want to crush it on the marathon next year. I want to be the little white lady one day drinking Guinness and telling stories and sharing experiences that leave people's mouths wide open and who then walk away inspired. All of these take day-by-day and even moment-by-moment struggles to challenge the way I can't help but think and the darkness I'd prefer to disappear into.

Just because I want those positives doesn't mean I still don't want Ryan. Running well next year, experiencing another birthday, finding my passions and trying new things doesn't negate the feelings of wishing for him to be there with and for me. It doesn't dull the pain of him not being there; it probably intensifies it. Because I'll look for him and not find him at the finish line, I'll cry for the empty spot on the beach next to me and the seat that won't be filled at graduation.

People are confused at times: "moving forward" = "moving on" they think. Ryan won't ever be forgotten. His memory brings me JOY, not pain! My Sweetheart won't ever not be loved, mourned, and missed. He was my first choice - robbed from me not by my own or his wishes. I can still carry him with me, literally and metaphorically, as I search for my own meaning in life and push myself to live in a way that he would be proud of. For now, I wander numb through the house - private tears running down my face searching for enough strength to begin the arduous task of feeding myself or even getting out of bed, hoping for strength to be gifted to me by a stranger or a less-than-handful of friends that didn't lose hope in me.

Oprah's Lesson to Me

As it's the day before July 4th and no traffic was on the road I was running early to work this morning.

I felt compelled to stop at Starbucks to treat myself. While my standard is a skinny vanilla latte or maybe a cappuccino, for one reason or another the Oprah Cinnamon Chai Latte caught my attention....things are getting crazy 'round here.

Got to work, drink still in hand, and hopped onto Facebook to see about putting up a post first thing on my work page. Was logged in to my personal, however, and at the top of my feed was a friend's post which had a Maya Angelou interview from OWN (Oprah Winfrey Network) called "Love Liberates".

I bawled.

A lot.

Being a widow to suicide has been an overwhelming and personally destroying process.

He was mine. To love, to take care of, to support. We had no children yet so every last ounce of attention and nurturing and every last drop of care that I had was poured into him. I cannot yet forgive myself for losing him. The last minute of the video just twist the knife so deep into my gut this morning.

"If you need permission to go, I liberate you...You see love liberates, it doesn't bind....Love says I love you...I would like to be near you; I'd like to have your arms around me; I'd like to hear your voice in my ear. But that's not possible now, so I love you. Go."

His first words to me in our last conversation were "I have to let you go." He asked what I thought about us and I said "Sweetie, sometimes things are rough and sometimes nothing can go wrong, but it doesn't matter what's going on outside because I love you either way." I repeated "I love you" perhaps 50-60 times in the 9 minutes I was on the phone with him.

I cannot let him go. Her words are so beautiful and as awful as it is to say, I've thought to myself multiple times "At least he isn't hurting any longer." It's so shameful to think because I know the stress and the frustration and the thoughts flooding over his mind were things that could be managed, mitigated, or removed entirely from their grasp on him. That the pain could have subsided and we would shift into more carefully and intensely managing his needs. I don't understand this concept. I want him released from hurt but not like this.

I imagine, though it is so far off it's inconceivable, that one day I can reach the point where I not only forgive myself but where I say to him "Ryan, Sweetie, I love you and I liberate you."