Conflicting emotions

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of Jon’s proposal. I’m not even shitting you.

That’s an inside joke to those who knew of Jon’s out of the ordinary proposal!

The day brought back so many memories, all of them good ones. I could feel the emotion of that night like it was yesterday. The shock when I watched him get down on one knee almost flashing everyone within eye shot because he was wearing a kilt. The hesitation because I couldn’t believe he was actually asking. The excitement that followed and draining both of our cell phone batteries calling everyone we knew. Verifying to the family the next day that, yes, we got engaged. Shopping for my ring because his sister said it was absolutely unacceptable that I didn’t get one (even though I didn’t care for one.) I could remember the smell in the air on Baltimore Harbor. I could remember the way the breeze felt, the way his lips felt when we shared our first kiss as an engaged couple. These memories were all so fresh and close to my mind that for a moment, I thought Jon would come walking out of the bedroom in that kilt and an overgrown and worn t-shirt.

It doesn’t take the anniversary of something important to remember things so vividly. All of the love we shared in our years together is still very much there and it hasn’t faded in the slightest. But each and every day, I get more and more antsy to have those feelings again. I don’t necessarily want to move on – I don’t think I ever really will – but I find myself day dreaming about that amazing feeling that washes over you when you kiss someone for the first time. I find myself caring what I look like when I go out and more, wanting to go out more often. I find myself slipping into this mindset that I want to go on with my life the way Jon told me I needed to.

It’s only been two months and I don’t know if those feelings are appropriate or not. I’ve been told we all move at our own pace and what is normal for one person may not be for me. This is meant as a reassurance that if someone asks me out on a date, it’s ok if I say yes. Maybe that’s true, but it’s still a conflicting urge that is difficult to describe. How can you love someone so much, but hope to meet someone else? And is it even real to want to meet someone else or is it a desperate search for a distraction? Maybe a little of both? How do you know what is real or not; what is healthy or unhealthy?

When I’m out and about in the world whether it’s work related or personal, I used to groan over any positive attention I got from men. It seemed so presumptuous of these people to make comments about the way I looked or spoke or well, whatever. The compliments were unwelcomed unless they came from Jon. Now, I am flattered by even the most vulgar of comments. If someone had shouted, “hey baby” at me two months ago, I would have rolled my eyes and possibly thrown up in my mouth a little bit. I might have even made a snide comment back. Now, I blush, grin and keep walking because what the hell else do you do? Then, heaven forbid someone say something genuine, I turn into a ball of muddled words and trip all over myself like a school girl. This is not who I am.

I’ve dated before. I’ve been single. Before Jon, I would have described myself as a girl who played it cool. I wouldn’t have been tripped up by an attractive guy having a reasonable conversation with me. So why now am I suddenly unable to communicate without sounding like an idiot?

Then there are movies. You’d be hard pressed to find many films that don’t contain some form of love story. Comedies have them. Tragedies too. Drama, of course. Science Fiction even. Television shows have romances. And what they all tend to have in common is a completely unrealistic depiction of what actually happens in real life. But yet I watch these plots unfold, no matter how big or small, and I get starry eyed and filled with a sense of longing. Jon and I had a romance that was made for a movie. So, I know it exists. Now I want it back and since I can’t have him back, it’s left me searching other avenues.

I doubt very seriously anything will happen for me anytime soon because as much as I think about these things, I still have built something of a wall around myself. And, of course, I’m 24/7 mom so I don’t really even have time for that part of my life anyway. I don’t even want something serious, just someone to spend time with every once and a while. I suspect that if an opportunity were to present itself to me, I’d probably take it and I don’t know how I feel about that.

I worry, perhaps too much, what people would think. Jon’s friends. My friends. Jon’s family. Would it make it seem like I somehow loved Jon less to open that door? I know in my heart that’s not what it means. I know Jon would understand. But what would they all think. I guess it shouldn’t matter, but it does to me. I don’t want to feel like I have to explain myself to anyone, but I would inevitably feel like I did.

In the meantime, I guess I’ll just keep living precariously through fake lives on television.

Loneliness is bullshit

The entirely shitty day

Seven weeks ago my husband died. A week ago my grandmother died. My life sucks.

I knew today was going to be hard. I knew I would need an army of people by my side to get me through the day. Where was the army? They certainly weren’t here. Instead, the army was out and about enjoying their lives. Looking forward to a future I lost. Babies I would never have. Homes I would never buy – at least not the ones I thought.

**********

 

I wrote these few sentences while I was in the heat of an overpowering bout of emotion. In my slightly less clouded state, I can look back and realize that I responded to reactions that night with way more contention than was necessary. I can also defend my “army.” My friends. My family. They all have lives – lives that simply cannot be put on hold to babysit me every day. And if I really need something, I can ask. The answer is sometimes no and I don’t like it, but I can ask and I can know that the people who care about me will do everything they can to not say no, but all of this rational thinking, though very much true, doesn’t really matter. Why? Because I feel like I’ve been forgotten.

The invitations to “get out of the house” have all but stopped. I don’t get text messages anywhere near as frequently. Other than work, I don’t see adults. I can’t go anywhere because I have the kids 24/7. And all I want is for the revolving door that was my house during the first few weeks to swing open maybe just a little bit. It doesn’t have to be every day, but a couple times a week would be nice. Hell, when Jon was here we had more company than I have now.

You take for granted the value of adult interaction – that time after lights out for the kids when you can talk about inappropriate things or watch inappropriate shows and just know you’re not the only body in the room. I can tolerate sleeping alone now. I’ve forgotten, for the most part, that I miss sex. But I can’t get over the sense of solitude that sweeps over me each night after I put my kids to bed. For the most part, I’m fine until that moment when I sit down and realize I have no one to talk to. Watching TV helps, but it’s not talking to me even if I talk to it. Writing is a great tool, but it’s still so quiet other than the clacking of my keys.

Wine tastes better when it’s shared. Show’s are funnier when someone is laughing along with you. And the day seems fuller when you have someone to tell about it. Today I tried to talk about my day, but no one was listening. Loneliness is bullshit.

A letter to my beloved

Every day that goes by there are things that I want to tell you. I want to tell you when I’m sad, tell you when I’m mad and most of all tell you when I’m happy. I’ve had so much of all of the above this week. I tell you, but I wonder if you hear. And I know you can’t answer.

Some nights I roll over in the middle of the night, not quite asleep, but not quite awake and for a split second you are there. That instant feels so good. But then it goes away and I’m left with a longing I can’t describe. Some days when I pull up in the driveway and see your car I think for an instant that I will walk through the door to find you playing video games in the living room and all will be right with the world, but you’re not there. I talk to you, but you don’t answer. I call for you, but you don’t come. I do things I know would make you proud, but you don’t tell me.

I’m struggling every day to make right of this wrong. I ask myself what you would want. We share your stories and we remember you the way you deserve to be remembered, but do you really know we are doing it? Does it matter?

I can’t help but to think back on our lives. I remember all of the good and none of the bad. I realize more each and every day how blessed we were to have you. But then I remember all the times I ever got mad at you. At the time it seemed so significant, but now those times seem so unimportant. I used to get mad at you for not being “romantic” enough. On Valentine’s day you bought me flowers from a vendor who came straight to your door. That wasn’t enough for me. You didn’t have to try. On anniversaries you didn’t shower me with romantic gestures, but instead waited for an opportunity for adventure. But all I could think was, why didn’t you do something sooner? On my birthday you pampered me and took me on a surprise adventure, but you drank too much and I was mad.

I wish I could take away all those times I was displeased over what now seem so silly. All you ever wanted was to make me happy and I made that an impossible feat. And what I never told you, but suspect you knew, was that everything you did made me happy. I was doing the dishes last night after cooking the first meal I’ve cooked in our kitchen since you were taken from us, I felt you creep up behind me and wrap your arms around me. I felt you rocking me back and forth and whispering in my ear to stop for just a moment to share it with you instead. I remember when you would do that and I remember being almost annoyed – I had a job to do and you were interrupting it. What I wouldn’t give for you to interrupt every single job I ever have again! I come home some days tired and stressed and I remember you wrapping your arms around me, shh-ing me. So many days you insisted that we have that moment and it was so calming. I wonder if I will ever have anything to calm me the way that only you could ever again. I rock in bed at night imagining you behind me moving in rhythm. You’re not there, but I can feel you so strongly in my imagination that you might as well be.

Baby, if you were here, I would tell you I loved you with all that I have to give. I would tell you that you were the best thing that ever happened to me. I know that I have said all of those things to you while you were here and I know that you already knew, but I would tell you again anyway. I’m so lost without you babe. I miss you more than words could ever describe. But you left a mark on our lives that could never be erased. Everyone you ever touched is better for it, especially the girls and I. They miss you so much honey. Lexi has a hard time concentrating at school. Lilli is acting out and Zoe just doesn’t really talk. I don’t think you knew how much they loved you.

I bought a new couch today. You would like it. I used to give you crap about feeling like I live in a dorm room. Well, our living room finally feels like a living room! And babe, you would be so proud of me. I attempted to do it all by myself. That’s not what would make you proud. When I realized I was in over my head after getting the shitty futon stuck in the doorway, I called my dad for help. Then when I had to lug the first piece of the couch out of the van and almost killed myself in the process, I called him back again. But after he helped get it in the house, I did everything else on my own. I figuratively knocked down walls the way you said I always did.

I miss you so much, Jon. I love you more than words can describe. I always will. Come to me in my dreams tonight baby, I’d love to see you. Infinity plus one baby. Forever.

Slacking off on writing

There are two reasons this happens. First, there is simply too much else going on. Second, you might actually be feeling OK. My lapse in the blogging that has brought me so much comfort has been a combination of both. On one hand, I have taken some time off of work to dig myself out of this overwhelming hole I’ve found myself between dealing with the necessary evils of losing a partner and also of losing yet another loved one. On the other, I’ve been able to pamper myself a bit.

Over the past week I have sorted through and boxed all of Jon’s clothes save for a few I’ve kept for myself – t-shirts to sleep in when I need to, they replaced my own sleep shirts, his kilt, the shirt he was wearing the day we first started dating, some of his dress shirts that look quite good over a maxi dress and, of course, his kilt. I’ve cleaned my refrigerator only to realize I really need to go grocery shopping. I’ve started cleaning my room up from the mess he made it with his pack rat tendencies. I’ve reconnected with a few friends, some with more success than others. I’ve gotten a pedicure, a manicure and gone shopping which is obviously the best therapy. I’ve laughed with my kids. I’ve had dinner with friends. I’ve slept in almost every day by going back to bed after the kids have been taken to school. I spoke in a college class to rave reviews. All in all, I’ve felt pretty good about myself.

But despite the seemingly increasing number of good days and growing periods of time in between “meltdowns” I still find this black hole of emptiness in my life left. First of all, Jon is still not here and I’d really like for him to be. I wake in the middle of the night sometimes and for a split second, I think he’s there lying in bed with me. Every once and a while I come home and see his car and get excited only to remember, the car hasn’t moved much over the past month and half.

I was cleaning today and stumbled across a grocery bag filled with clothes. Upon closer investigation I realized it was the bag our best friends had frantically packed the morning he died after I climbed into the ambulance with him hoping for a miracle. I went through it piece by piece. There were two outfits each for Jon and I. Pants, shirts, underwear, all of the comfortable, hospital friendly persuasion. I took note of the fact that even at 2 in the morning, our friends were mindful to grab the right things. Then I got to the bottom of the bag and found Jon’s medicines. None of this made me cry, just think. I added Jon’s clothes to a box of items to donate. I put mine away. I tossed his underwear and a shirt with a hole in it into a basket full of his clothes that couldn’t be donated. But I looked at the meds inquisitively. What in the hell do I do with them? I can’t just throw them away, that’s a no-no right? So I just put them back in the medicine cabinet and haven’t given it much thought since.

A couple of days ago I found his ponytail. When he was getting ready for his interview with the job he had recently earned, the one that made him feel so full of pride and contentment, he decided that his best chance of getting the position was to lop off his mass of hair the girls and I so dearly loved. That hair defined him. The Jew Fro we called it. Once, while he was growing it out, I braided it into corn rows. When my middle daughter came out and saw it, she literally burst into tears. “No!!!!!” she shouted. “Jon-Jon, I hate you, put back your puffy hair!” Of course, we very quickly undid the damage and revealed that the fro was still, in fact, there. Prior to that dramatic bathroom haircut that required me making a late night trip to CVS for clippers to finish the job, Jon walked around with a hair band constantly on his wrist. He used as much shampoo and conditioner as me. You could hear the brush struggling to make its way through his hair from across the room. I have a video of the haircut and all you can hear is my saying, “Oh, no, Babe!!!!” And now that little three inch ponytail of curly golden brown hair is all I have left of his physical being. But even that didn’t make me cry.

I know I miss him. I certainly know I love him every bit as much as I did the day he died. But I don’t cry anymore. And I don’t think about it as much. And I find myself actually wanting to move on. And I know that would make him glad.

So that brings me to the other dilemma.

I have this severely handicapped ability to maintain any sort of social life.

I’ll start with our best friends. I love them and they love me. They want to help. And they do. But they are this giant connection to Jon second only to our girls. As much as I love being around them, it hurts. It’s not the same. We were coupled up and now we’re a trio. I thought that would be ok, and for the most part it is, but it just isn’t the same. Jon was the glue that held us all together. Now things that I used to find endearing, I just get bothered by. Not because they bother me, but because I don’t have him to turn to and be like, “see!” I can’t joke about our quirks. And they’re so happy and I’m so happy for them, but I’m jealous. They had more going for them, from a financial perspective, than we did, but that never made me jealous. Now I’m wracked with it. So, I’ve decided that, even though they will always be the most important friends in my life, I need to have people who aren’t a constant reminder of Jon to spend time with when I can’t handle it or just need a break. But in doing that, I’ve realized that it’s a full time fucking job.

Before Jon, my girls’ father lived here. I had two nights a week and every other Saturday when they spent the night with him. Those were mommy’s nights. I scheduled my social life around them and there were few times when I needed to arrange a babysitter. Even if a social event was happening on a night when I was on mom duty, I lived in a neighborhood where I could just ship them off to the neighbor’s until I got home. But now, oh no. That is most definitely not the situation. Their father lives out of state. My mother, several hours away.  My father works crazy hours and has never really had to be solely responsible for them for more than 15 minutes at a time. My friends offer, but their lives are full and hectic. My sister wants to help when she can. It turns into a three ring circus of text messages trying to figure out who I will inconvenience the most by getting away for just a couple of hours. And, not that I need to stay out until late, but before Jon they were gone until the next evening. So, I could if I wanted. Now I’m constantly watching the clock thinking, “gosh, I don’t want to be a bother.” And they would say not to worry about it, have a good time. But what kind of mom would not worry?

So, let’s say I want to date. Who in their right mind would want a part of that? I’m 30-years-old with three children. If that weren’t enough baggage, I now have this Scarlett Letter silently announcing I’m a widow. I am damaged goods. No matter how hard I try, I feel like I will always be in a situation where people look at me with pity or think, “yeah, I’ll pass on the instant family.”

Jon didn’t. When we first started dating, he didn’t know what he thought about that situation. We had a lengthy discussion about how he felt about the fact that I had not one, not two, but three children. He answered quite honestly that he had no idea whether he could handle it. The confession terrified me. Would I lose this amazing man because he may eventually realize it was too much? His parents even cautioned him. But I had no choice but to take that chance. At first he maintained a very distant part of their lives. He started out “mommy’s friend.” Then he was mommy’s boyfriend who was just kind of there. But eventually, he fell as in love with them as he was with me and slowly but surely he became a partner in parenting. By last summer he took on the role of disciplinarian – to the point it sometimes made me mad. We had many an argument about him being too hard on them. But we split everything fifty-fifty. Their father had moved out of state and raising them was our primary job. Jon never, ever assumed he was more important than their father and we were careful to involve both my ex-husband and their step-mother in important decisions and even if we didn’t all agree, we were all a part of the decision-making process. I try to think of Jon’s progression through that process with hope; that there is a person compatible with me out there who will be able to assume this very important role the way he did. But it seems so hopeless now because the beginning of any new relationship I have won’t be the same as it was with Jon and I. We had those alone days to build our relationship. Now it is all I can do to steal away for an hour. How does a single mother of a 12, 10 and 6 year old overcome that in addition to the eventual admission that I am a widow who will always love her husband and you’re just going to have to understand that?

I know that the day Jon died my heart got bigger. Because it is completely impossible to remove him from my heart, it just made room for someone else too. I don’t know who that person will be and I’m not really looking for someone to fill the position, but it makes me terribly uneasy to think of the inevitable rejection I’ll get when people realize that I, one, have three kids and two, will always love someone else. The only thing that gives me comfort is the fact that whoever that ends up being is going to have to be one hell of a man. I’m not a religious person, but I’d like to think that maybe Jon, having been so adamant that I move on with my life, is maybe pointing me in the right direction. But for right now, all I want is to be able to have at least one night a week to just get out into the world and remind myself that there is a world outside of mom. I got that tonight and I am thankful to my bestest buds in the whole world for giving it to me. I love you guys, you know who you are.

Clearing out the closet

This one challenge was placed on a pedestal by those who have endured this process before me. I was told it would be one of the hardest steps in my ever evolving journey. While there is something inherently sad about looking at all this empty space in my closet, it was not, to me, all that hard. This step was a bullet point on my to-do list and I just did it the same I would washing my dishes and doing my laundry.

As I made trip after trip to the closet and then to the bed to remove Jon's clothing from hangers and place them into neatly organized piles, I handled each individual item with care. Most of his clothes were outdated garments I had never even seen him wear. He gave me so much grief over my own wardrobe, complaining that I never got rid of anything. I had to laugh as I realized that he was the one who never got rid of anything! When I did come across something of particular importance, I had to make a decision - which pile do you belong? Does it get donated to a charity to help young men find work? Does it go to a thrift store with the likes of Jon's t-shirts and shorts? Or do I keep it for myself as something to hold onto? I found myself being reminded over and over to be careful of what I hold onto. Too much and I'm not moving forward, but too little and I'm trying to move too fast.

In the end, I decided to keep a handful of t-shirts to sleep in, one to actually wear (it says, "you don't scare me, I have three daughters" which is relevant to me too.) I also kept a couple of Jon's button up dress shirts because, it seems, I rock them with maxi dresses. I also kept the shirt he was wearing the night we had our first date. Now I have three giant boxes full of the clothes Jon once wore. They are going to good causes, what Jon would have wanted, and that gives me strength. But now there is this gaping hole in the room where his things once were. Empty drawers I cannot fill, at least not right now. And it's strangely significant in that it represents this awkward void in my heart.

The boxes destined for donation are not what bothers me. It's the items that can't be donated - underwear, socks and undershirts - that bother me. They are all piled into a mound in a laundry basket. Their destiny is the garbage. It just doesn't seem right to throw anything away of his because in doing so, I'm throwing away a part of him. In the pile of undergarments to be thrown away are a mass of underwear with little to no meaning. But then there's the ones that do have meaning. A couple years back the girls and I concocted an April Fool's Day joke for Jon. We went to a craft store and bought as many iron-on appliques as possible, all of them as girly as possible. So now there are about a half dozen pairs of underwear and a couple of under shirts which have bedazzled emblems with tiarras and sayings like, "little princess." And Jon, being the Jon that he is, didn't throw those away. He didn't even avoid wearing them. He wore them with pride. Because we did that. His family did that. And now I'm supposed to just throw them in the garbage? I know they are just things and what could I possibly do with saved underwear? But how do I let them end up in a landfill?