As you reap
It is Christmas eve, and I am feeling sorry for myself, and a little angry. In the last 2 days, I have been offered friendship by two different widows, and I would very much like to take them up on that. But having decided to be extra careful about my anonymity with this blog and at the board, I end up keeping the veil up when I’d like nothing better than to drop it.
My unorthodox circumstances as a “widow” have made this seem like the prudent course of action; I don’t want to deal with others’ censure and rejection. This has been hard enough without that, too. I am scarred by the rejection notice I received from the first online grief group for widows I attempted to join; I explained my situation honestly to them, and was told there was no room for me. I haven’t made that same mistake again, and the only place I have had to express myself honestly is here, and even here, I am careful.
But what is prudent is not what I want. I want to live in an understanding and open-minded world where my reality is as acceptable as anyone else’s. And yet, my inability to trust new people with old information has isolated me when what I want most is connection with people who understand, and who are not tired of hearing about it. I can only lean on E so much, and while he’s been an incredible support, there are limits. There are limits for everyone, and even the most sympathetic probably wish I didn’t have to talk about my loss so much still. We’re even; I wish I didn’t have a loss to talk about so much.
My friends have moved on. His friends and family have moved on from me and I have forced myself, however reluctantly, to do the same. And the same issues that have plagued me since he died continue to do so. When he was still here, it didn’t matter; now, it seems to matter a whole lot.
I guess I have no one to blame but myself, and should stop bemoaning my fate. If I choose to live unconventionally, I bear the burden of the consequences of that. That means, in my case, that I can only tell parts of my story, depending on the audience. I resent that, and yet perhaps it is immature to expect otherwise; it’s no different for anyone else. We all tailor who we are to the situation and people at hand. That said, I think that we all harbor a deep desire to be seen wholly and uncensored and without fear on either our own parts or the viewer’s. I suppose there are some people in our lives we can share like that with, and when we can, we call it, accurately I think, “love.” And maybe it bugs me so much now because I’ve lost one of the people I loved, one whom I trusted with all of me.
God, I miss you, Sweetie.
Assuming that I am one of the two widows, my offer of friendship has no expiration date.
Obviously, I don’t know your story or why you feel you wouldn’t fit in or have the need to isolate yourself. I do know, however, that the road we walk is brutal and that knowing I don’t walk it alone has at times made it easier to keep my feet moving.
Grief is grief. The death of your beloved is the death of part of your soul. Anguish is anguish.
I get that. And if you would ever care to break bread or drink coffee with someone who gets at least part of what you are enduring, you know where to reach me.
I am sorry you have been made to feel as though you can’t share who you are and what you feel. Some widows are hidebound in their perceptions and don’t believe in coloring outside the lines or tolerating those who do.
I was happy to find your blog (through Alicia’s site). You are a wonderful writer.
Take care!
Thanks, Annie, on all counts.