Image by Tanya Dawn via FlickrInitially, I began this piece, thinking that it would be just one entry. However, as I got going, I realized that while it is continually a topic consuming my thoughts as I endlessly attempt to understand it, I have never actually written about in depth until now. Due to its complexity and deeply personal challenge, I decided to do it in parts - much as I would if tackling a vexing puzzle like Rubik's Cube. Though, since I cannot cheat and peel the matching colors away from their originally designated spaces, placing them deceptively together on each side, without every actually solving the puzzle, I decided I'd rather not short circuit my brain's fragile axons, dendrites, and synapses on this activity alone. No, on the contrary, I'm fairly sure these vital cognitive workhorses will be needed for other activities surfacing tomorrow...and the next day...and the next day. And as such, should be treated with the utmost care. So with that, here we go...part one of the series:
Yesterday a friend confided in me that she was struggling over her lack of personal sadness from the recent loss of a family member. She came to me knowing that as her friend, I would listen without judgment and would help her make sense of things in a practical way; but also, she came to me because she knew that grief and I are unfortunately well acquainted. In order to shed light on my approach to the advice I gave to my friend, it may help the reader if I explain a little about my own experience with loss...
Nearly four years ago, my husband died suddenly. He was in his late 20's, active, smart, and in perfect health...or so it seemed. Little did we know at the time, that my husband's heart had a deadly congenital defect, which would eventually take his life without warning. I'd like to say that the grief I have experienced since he passed has been simple, linear, predictable, and convenient...however, in truth it has been anything but. Instead of being rooted merely in sadness, as someone blissfully unaffected by loss themselves might expect, my responses have been cluttered - running the gamut from anger, soul erupting rage, sadness, major depression, anxiety, panic, total mental numbness, crippling guilt, confusion and believe it or not...plain old peace and acceptance - sometimes…nay, often - all occurring at once. However, his life being taken abruptly was in truth, the second assault on any illusion of permanence that I previously believed existed in my life. The first, occurring two weeks before his passing, when my husband unexpectedly confessed to having engaged in an extramarital indiscretion.
Brought up at random, one Saturday night (four years to the day, as I write this), after asking him what he wanted for dinner, he felt so inclined to clear his conscience. His words sent my mind into a tailspin. Instead of telling me he wanted spaghetti for dinner as I expected, he said flatly, "we have to talk," then turned off the TV. My heart sank. He never wanted just to "talk." Talking, in his mind, was pedestrian, dull, and generally beneath him; so intuitively, I already knew what he was about to say next. I braced myself like a helpless passenger on a doomed flight. And on impact, responded like an injured survivor might - fighting through the shock, confusion, fear, pain, and anger as I wrestled to get my mind around what just happened. Each autonomic continuum of ‘fight or flight’ took full effect inside me at once. I yelled, cussed, cried, threw things, paced, slammed doors, and told him every-single hurtful thing I could muster, in an attempt to retrieve even an ounce of personal restitution for his deliberate selfishness.
Lord knows…I wasn't perfect, but I was honest and I upheld my wedding vows, even though he was emotionally distant and difficult to live with oftentimes. Instead of revering my loyalty and returning the favor though, he spat on it callously. And as such, I knew, deep down in my core, that he was not being completely honest in his decision to "come clean." My gut told me there was more than one indiscretion, and I called 'bullshit' so many times that I grew to loathe the sound of my own screaming voice. I was so irate and heartbroken that I felt I might disintegrate. But I didn't.
After a few days, the reality set in and it became clearer and clearer that he was still lying about a lot; there was no intention of him coming completely clean. Accordingly, I had no choice but to get real with myself about my own suppressed feelings. And in doing so, I realized that I was really fucking tired. No longer did I particularly want to be bound in holy matrimony to an emotionless void, with desperately inept social skills, who lacked any fundamental regard for my feelings. I was sick of trying to get him to let me in, to accept me as an equal, and connect with me in the way I craved and rightfully deserved. Separation became the obvious next step. So we did…for one week, while he stayed nearby with family.
During that week, I went about things as usual – never mentioning to friends or colleagues that I was in the midst of marital dissension. Talking about it casually with others was not yet in my repertoire, as I did not have the acceptance needed to reply to small talk such as, “what’s new with you?” honestly or comfortably. All told tough, I was doing pretty okay that week, which reassuringly surprised me . Though moments inevitably crept in at times, making me gloomy over the dissipation of the future I once naively thought I’d have with him. They were not crippling moments though, just melancholy - that is, until the Saturday after he left.
For some reason that day was harder and I missed him more than I had all week. His clothes and belongings were all remaining in the apartment, which on that particular day were impossible to ignore. They were there like ghostly taunting reminders of the deluded marital chimera I had convinced myself of for so long. They mocked me; I hated them, and I wanted them gone. Then it hit me, “Just call him,” I thought. “It's okay to call him if I miss him...If I'm angry, he should know...he's still my husband...I can call him if I want.” “And besides,” I reasoned, “it's not like he's dead or anything.” So I called, and we made plans to visit the next day, Sunday.
